‘Don’t cry, Emma. Please don’t cry, pet.’ A spasm of pain streaked through him like a ripping knife and he flinched, his face ashen and sweating more profusely now. He sighed. ‘All right, then, let them cut it off. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I can take the pain much longer.’ A faint smile touched his white lips. ‘Half a loaf is better than no bread at all, I suppose. You’d better sign the papers and get it over with, Emma.’

‘I already did.’

He mustered a grin. ‘I might have known. Old Miss Bossy Knickers.’

Emma smiled weakly. ‘It’s going to be fine, Winston. I know it is. The doctor is preparing the operating theatre now. In a few minutes the nurses will be coming in to get you ready.’ She stood up. ‘I have to go. The doctor said I must make it brief. Every minute counts now.’

‘Emma-’

‘Yes, love?’

‘Will you-can you wait?’

‘Of course I’ll wait, dear. I wouldn’t dream of leaving until it’s all over.’ She blew him a kiss, not daring to approach the bed again.

Emma gazed out of the window of the waiting room of Chapel Allerton Naval Hospital, her thoughts with Winston, now undergoing surgery. How frightening for him to lose a leg. He who had taken such pride in his good looks, and his virility, who had loved sports and dancing and was so physical by nature. She acknowledged that he would indeed have a number of major readjustments to make, and in many ways he would have to start a new life. But, despite the restrictions the amputation of his right leg would impose, she was thankful he was alive. He had been wounded during a naval battle in the North Sea. His battleship had staggered into Hull half crippled, and it was nothing short of a miracle that the ship had made it to that great Humber port, so fortuitously close to Leeds and the naval hospital. Otherwise he might be dead by now.

Emma leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes. In a few weeks she would be twenty-nine. Only twenty-nine and yet she felt like an old woman, weary and worn out from her responsibilities these days. A nurse thoughtfully brought her a cup of tea and Emma sat down to drink it-and to wait. That seemed to have become one of her chief occupations of late: waiting. Mostly she waited for letters from Paul, feeling crushed and apprehensive when she did not receive one, filled with soaring relief when there was a note, however brief and hastily written.

She took Paul’s last letter out of her handbag and read it again. It was worn from too much handling and some of the words had blurred from her tears. He had returned to France to rejoin Colonel Monash and the Australian Corps in the middle of February. Now it was the beginning of April. But he was still safe and well. When Paul had left he had taken an essential part of her with him and she felt incomplete, only half alive without him.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Almost two hours had passed since Winston had been wheeled down to the operating room. Had something gone wrong? Had they been too late? Quite unexpectedly, just when she thought she was going to scream from frustration, the doctor strode in. He was nodding and smiling. ‘He’s fine, Mrs Lowther.’

Emma closed her eyes and exhaled with relief. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely! He’s a little woozy from the anaesthetic, but he’s young, healthy, and strong. He’ll mend well.’ The doctor’s eyes clouded. ‘There is just one thing-’

‘What?’

‘We had to amputate very high. The gangrene was well above the knee and we had to cut a good four inches above that, to be certain we got it all.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’

‘It means there’s the possibility he might not be able to wear an artificial limb.’

‘My brother’s not going to spend the rest of his life on crutches,’ Emma cried. ‘Or in a wheelchair. He’s going to wear an artificial leg if-if I have to damn well design a special one myself! My brother is going to walk, Doctor!’

And walk he did. But it was a gruelling period for Emma. Winston’s mood swings were erratic and, not unnaturally, highly emotional. He plunged from relief in being alive to depression, from depression to rage, frustration, and self-pity, and then unexpectedly the euphoria returned, but soon to be replaced by foul black moods. Emma cajoled, threatened, screamed, implored, and challenged, using every ruse she knew to shatter the melancholia that engulfed him and lift him out of it, her only tools her stubborn belief in the indomitability of the human spirit and her conviction that anything was possible in life, if the will was strong enough. Slowly she made progress with Winston, badgering him relentlessly, and after several weeks she managed to instil in him the determination to lead a normal life. She gave him strength, and her optimism bolstered his own natural courage.

The Limb Fitting Centre at Chapel Allerton Hospital in Leeds was already renowned throughout England for the remarkable feats of rehabilitation accomplished there since the outset of the Great War. The doctors worked painstakingly with the men, especially those who had lost legs, endeavouring to get them ambulatory in the shortest possible time. Winston was no exception. His flesh healed quickly and within two months the doctors had him moving about on crutches. He was fitted for a leg, released from the hospital, and went to live with Emma during his recuperation period. To Emma’s relief, when the leg arrived he was able to wear it, in spite of the shortness of the stump. All that was required were two extra stump socks to cushion the stump against the metal. Three times a week he was driven to Chapel Allerton Hospital in one of the Harte vans, where he underwent physical therapy and wore the leg for half an hour at a stretch. And so he commenced the long and difficult task of adjustment to the artificial leg and learning to walk with it correctly.

One day in October, eight months after the amputation, Winston literally strolled into Emma’s office, self-confident, smiling, steady on his feet, and in absolute control of the leg, and it was one of the most gratifying moments of her life. His limp was negligible and he had taken her advice, proffered months before, to make the leg an integral part of him.

‘I can’t dance, but there’s not much else I can’t do,’ he informed her proudly. He placed his walking stick on a chair, moved across the room without it, and sat down. ‘I can certainly move with great speed if I have to and I can climb and descend stairs easily. Belive it or not, I can also swim. And now that I have the final release from the hospital I am going to look for a job.’

‘But Winston, I told you months ago you could come and work for me. Why don’t you?’

Winston frowned. ‘Here at the store? But what would I do?’

‘You’ve always liked figures. I could put you in bookkeeping until you get used to things, and then I would like you to become my assistant. I need somebody I can trust implicitly. Don’t forget, I have other businesses, Winston, as well as the store.’ Emma paused, eyeing him carefully, and finished, ‘For instance, there’s the Emeremm Company.’

‘What’s that? You’ve never mentioned it before.’ Winston looked at her with alertness.

‘It’s a holding and acquisition company, which I formed in 1917.’ Emma leaned forward. ‘I financed it myself and I own one hundred per cent of the shares, but it’s run for me by a man called Ted Jones. Apart from Ted, and the other directors, no one else knows I’m behind it. Except for you, now. I want to keep it that way, Winston. Not even Frank knows, so don’t ever discuss it with him.’

‘I would never talk about your business to anyone,’ he said quickly. ‘But why all the secrecy?’

‘Mostly because men don’t like doing business with a woman, especially in areas of high finance. There are other reasons, personal reasons, but they are not important for the moment.’