Hold the Dream

Paula spoke well, recounting the meeting at Aire Communications with precision and careful attention to the smallest detail, and her narration was so graphically descriptive Emma felt as though she had been present herself. Several times she experienced a spurt of anger or annoyance, but not an eyelash flickered, not a muscle moved in her blank, impenetrable face, and not once did she interrupt the flow of words.

Long before Paula came to the retelling of the final scene in the board room, Emma’s mind, so agile and astute, leaped ahead. She knew without having to be told that John Cross had reneged on the deal. For a moment she was as startled as Paula had been earlier in the day, but when this initial reaction passed with some swiftness she realized she was not so surprised after all. And she came to the conclusion that she knew John Cross better than she had believed. Years ago she had spotted him for what he was, an egotist, puffed up with his own self-importance, a foolish man with immeasurable weaknesses. At this time in his life he was between a rock and a hard place, dealing from fear and desperation and propelled by increasing panic, and it was patently clear that he would be capable of just about anything. Even a dishonourable action, for apparently he was a man without scruples. And then there was that disreputable son of his, goading him on. A pretty pair indeed, she thought disdainfully.

Paula came to the end of her story at last, and finished with a tiny regretful sigh, ‘And there you have it, Grandy. I’m sorry it ended in a debacle. I did my best. More than my best.’

‘You certainly did,’ Emma said, looking her fully in the face, proud of her, thinking how she had progressed. A year ago Paula would have blamed herself for the breakdown in the talks. ‘You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, and just chalk this one up to experience and learn from it.’

‘Yes, Grandy, I will.’ Paula regarded her closely. ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked, continuing to study that impassive face in an effort to gauge her grandmother’s feelings about the Cross situation.

‘Why, nothing. Nothing at all.’

Although she was not altogether surprised by this statement, Paula nevertheless felt bound to say, and a bit heatedly, ‘I thought that might be your attitude, but I can’t help wishing you’d give John Cross a piece of your mind, tell him what you think of him. Look at all the effort we put into this deal. He’s not only wasted our valuable time, but played us for a couple of fools.’

‘Played himself for a fool,’ Emma corrected, her voice low and without a trace of emotion. ‘Very frankly, I wouldn’t waste my breath, or the tuppence, on a phone call to him. There’s not much to be gained from flogging a dead horse. Besides, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m put out. There’s another thing … indifference is a mightily powerful weapon, and so I prefer to ignore Mr Cross. I don’t know what his game is, but I won’t be a party to it.’ The look Emma gave Paula was full of shrewdness and her eyes narrowed. ‘It strikes me that he might be using our offer to jack up the price with another company. He won’t succeed, he won’t have any takers.’ A cynical smile glanced across her face, and she laughed quietly to herself. ‘He’ll come crawling back to you, of course. On his hands and knees. And very soon. Then what will you do, Paula? That’s more to the point.’ Settling back against the cushions she let her eyes rest with intentness on her granddaughter.

Paula opened her mouth to speak, then closed it swiftly. For a split second she hesitated over her answer. She asked herself how Grandy would act in these particular circumstances and then dismissed the question. She knew exactly what her course of action was going to be.

In a resolute tone, Paula said, ‘I shall tell him to go to hell. Politely. I know I could hammer him down, get Aire Communications at a much lower figure, because when he does come back to us, and I agree that he will, he’ll be choking. He’ll accept any terms I offer. However, I don’t want to do business with that man. I don’t trust him.’

‘Good girl!’ Emma was pleased with this reply and showed it, then went on, ‘My sentiments exactly. I’ve told you many times that it’s not particularly important to like those with whom we do business. But there should always be an element of trust between both parties in any transaction, otherwise it’s begging for problems. I concur with what you think about Cross and that son of his. Their behaviour was appalling, unconscionable. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot barge pole myself.’

Despite these condemning words and the stern expression lingering on Emma’s face, her overall reaction had been so understated, so mild, Paula was still a trifle puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be much more annoyed than you are, Grandy, unless you’re not showing it. And you don’t seem very disappointed either,’ she said.

‘My initial anger soon changed to disgust. As for being disappointed, well, of course I am in some ways. But even that is being replaced by an enormous sense of relief. As much as I wanted Aire Communications, now, quite suddenly, I’m glad things turned out the way they did.’

‘I am too.’ There was the slightest hesitation on Paula’s part before she remarked quietly, ‘Sebastian Cross has become my enemy, Grandmother.’

‘So what!’ Emma exclaimed in a dismissive tone. ‘If he’s your first, he’s surely not going to be your last.’ As she spoke Emma became aware of the concern reflected in the lovely, deep-violet eyes fastened on hers, and she sucked in her breath quickly. Making an enemy troubles Paula, she thought, and she reached out and squeezed the girl’s arm, adopted a gentler tone. ‘As unpleasant as it may be, you’re bound to make enemies, as I myself did. Very frequently it happens through no fault of ours, that’s the sad part.’ Emma let out a tiny sigh. ‘So many people are jealous and envious by nature, and you will always be vulnerable to that kind, and a target, because you have so much. Wealth and power through me, not to mention your looks, your brains and your immense capacity for work. All very enviable attributes. You must learn to ignore the backbiting, darling, rise above it. As I have always done. And forget Sebastian Cross. He’s the least of your worries.’

‘Yes, you’re right on all counts, as usual, Grandmother,’ Paula said and pushed away the dismaying memory of those hard eyes which had filled with loathing for her that morning. She felt a shiver trickle through her. Sebastian Cross would do her harm if he could. This unexpected thought immediately seemed silly, farfetched and overly imaginative, and Paula laughed silently at herself, and dismissed such an idea.

Rising, she crossed to the fireplace and stood warming her back for a moment or two. Her eyes swept around the lovely old room. It looked so peaceful, so gentle in the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the many windows, with every beautiful object in its given place, the fire crackling merrily in the huge grate, the old carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece as it had for as long as she could remember. She had loved the upstairs parlour all of her life, had found comfort and tranquillity here. It was a room abundant with graciousness and harmony, where nothing ever changed, and it was this timelessness which made it seem so far removed from the outside world and all its ugliness. It’s a very civilized room, she said to herself, created by a very civilized and extraordinary woman. She looked across at Emma, relaxed on the sofa and so pretty in the pale blue dress, and her eyes became tender. Paula thought: she is an old woman now, in her eightieth year, yet she never seems old to me. She could easily be my age with her vigour and strength and zest and enthusiasm. And she is my best friend.

For the first time since she had arrived, Paula smiled. ‘So much for my wheeling and dealing … skirmishing might be a better way to describe it, Grandy.’

‘And so much for my new project. Now that that’s flown out of the window, I’ll have to find another one, or take up knitting.’

Paula could not help grinning. ‘That’ll be the day,’ she retorted, merriment swamping her face. Stepping back to the sofa, she sat down, lifted her cup and took a sip of tea, then remarked casually, ‘I had lunch with Miranda O’Neill today, and – ’

‘Oh dear, that reminds me, I’m afraid I won’t be here for dinner this evening. I’m going out with Blackie and Shane.’

‘Yes, so Merry told me.’

‘My God, can’t I take a breath around here without everyone knowing!’ Emma paused, scanned Paula’s face. ‘Well, you don’t seem too upset, so I presume you don’t mind that I’m trotting off and leaving you to cope with Edwina. Don’t worry, she’ll behave.’

‘I’m not concerned. I was at first, but I decided she’s Jim’s problem. He invited her, so he can entertain her. In any case, Mummy’s always pretty good with Edwina. She knows how to appropriately squelch her, in the nicest possible way too.’ Paula put down her cup and saucer, leaned closer. ‘Listen, Grandy dear, Merry has had an idea, one that might appeal to you. It could be just the project you’re looking for.’

‘Oh, has she. Well then, tell me about it.’

Paula did so, but as she came to the end of her little recital she made a small moue with her mouth, and finished lamely, ‘I can tell you’re not enthusiastic. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’

Emma laughed at her crestfallen expression. ‘Yes, I do. However I’m not interested in taking it on as a personal project. Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pursue the idea and develop it further with Merry. It could be good for the stores. Come back to me when you have it refined. Perhaps we will open the boutiques.’

‘I’ll set up a meeting with her for next week – ’ Paula stopped, peered at Emma. ‘Out of curiosity, why don’t you think it’s a project for you?’

‘There’s no challenge to it. I like tougher nuts to crack.’

‘Oh Lord! And where on earth am I going to find such a thing for you?’

‘I might find my own project, you know.’ Emma’s green eyes twinkled, and she shook her head. ‘You’re constantly trying to mother me these days. I do wish you’d stop.’

Paula joined in Emma’s laughter and admitted, ‘Yes, I am doing that lately, aren’t I. Sorry, Gran.’ She glanced at the clock, swung her eyes back to Emma, said: ‘I think I’d be much better off going home and mothering my babies. If I hurry I’ll get back in time to help the nurse bathe them.’

‘Yes, why don’t you do that, darling. These early years are the most precious, the best really. Don’t sacrifice them.’

Paula stood up and slipped into the magenta jacket, found her handbag, came to kiss Emma. ‘Have a lovely time tonight, and give Uncle Blackie and Shane my love.’

‘I will. And if I don’t see you later, I’ll talk to you in the morning.’

Paula was halfway across the room when Emma called, ‘Oh, Paula, what time do you expect Jim and your parents?’

‘Around six. Jim said he’d be landing at Leeds-Bradford Airport at five.’

‘So he’s flying them up in that dreadful little plane of his, is he?’ Emma pursed her lips in annoyance and gave Paula the benefit of a reproving stare. ‘I thought I’d told the two of you I don’t like you flitting around in that pile of junk.’

‘You did indeed, but Jim has a mind of his own, as you well know. And flying is one of his main hobbies. But perhaps you’d better mention it to him again.’

‘I certainly will,’ Emma said, and waved her out of the room.

CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_584b568d-0bc8-5880-9454-76446eebc6da)

They all said that he was a true Celt.

And Shane Desmond Ingham O’Neill had himself come to believe that the heritage of his ancestors was buried deep in his bones, that their ancient blood flowed through his veins, and this filled him with an immense satisfaction and the most profound pride.

When he was accused by some members of his family of being extravagant, impetuous, talkative and vain, he would simply nod, as if relishing their criticisms as compliments.

But Shane often wanted to retort that he was also energetic, intelligent and creative; to point out that these, too, had been traits of those early Britons.

It was as a very small boy that Shane O’Neill had been made aware of his exceptional nature. At first he had been self-conscious, then confused, puzzled and hurt. He saw himself as being different, set apart from others, and this had disturbed him. He wanted to be ordinary; they made him feel freakish. He had detested it when he had overheard adults describe him as fey and overly emotional and mystical.

Then, when he was sixteen and had more of an understanding of the things they said about him, he sought further illumination in the only way he knew – through books. If he was ‘a curious throwback to the Celts’, as they said he was, then he must educate himself about these ancient people whom he apparently so resembled. He had turned to the volumes of history which depicted the early Britons in all their splendour and glory, and the time of the great High Kings and the legendary Arthur of Camelot had become as real to him, and as alive, as the present.

In the years that followed his interest in history had never waned, and it was a continuing hobby. Like his Celtic forebears he venerated words and their power, for filled with a recklessness and gaiety though he was, he was also a man of intellectual vigour. And perhaps it was this extraordinary mingling of contrasts – his mass of contradictions – that made him so unusual. If his angers and enmities were deep rooted, so his loves and loyalties were immovable and everlasting. And that theatricality, constantly attributed to the Celt in him, existed easily alongside his introspection and his rare, almost tender, understanding of nature and its beauty.

At twenty-seven there was a dazzle to Shane O’Neill, an intense glamour that sprang not so much from his remarkable looks as from his character and personality. He could devastate any woman in a room; equally, he could captivate his male friends with an incisive discussion on politics, a ribald joke, a humorous story filled with wit and self-mockery. He could entertain with a song in his splendid baritone, whether he was rendering a rollicking sea shanty or a sentimental ballad, and poetry flew with swiftness from his tongue. Yet he could be hard-headed, objective, outspoken and honest almost to the point of cruelty, and he was ambitious and driven, by his own admission. Greatness, and greatness for its own sake in particular, appealed strongly to him. And he appealed to everyone who crossed his path. Not that Shane was without enemies, but even they never denied the existence of his potent charm. Some of these traits had been passed on from his paternal Irish grandfather, that other larger-than-life Celt, whose physique and physical presence he had inherited. Yet there was also much of his mother’s ancestry in him.

Now on this crisp Friday afternoon, Shane O’Neill stood with his horse, aptly called War Lord, high on the moors overlooking the town of Middleham and the ruined castle below. It was still proud and stately despite its shattered battlements, roofless halls and ghostly chambers, all deserted now except for the numerous small birds nesting in the folds of the ancient stone amongst the daffodils, snowdrops and celandines blooming in the crannies at this time of year.