Hold the Dream

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Emma drew her appointment book towards her, and checked the time of her lunch with Emily, Alexander’s sister.

  Emily was due to arrive at one o’clock.

  When she had phoned earlier in the week Emily had sounded somewhat enigmatic when she had said she had a serious problem to discuss. There was no mystery, as far as Emma was concerned. She knew what Emily’s problem was, had known about it for a long time. She was only surprised her granddaughter had not asked to discuss it before now. She lifted her head and stared into space reflectively, turning the matter over in her mind, and then she frowned. Two weeks ago she had come to a decision about Emily, and she was convinced it was the right one. But would Emily agree? Yes, she answered herself. The girl will see the sense in it, I’m positive of that. Emma brought her eyes back to the open page of the diary.

  Paula would stop by at the end of the afternoon.

  She and Paula were to discuss the Cross project. Now, if that is skilfully handled by Paula, and she brings the negotiations to a favourable conclusion, then I’ll have the challenge I’m looking for, Emma thought. Her mouth settled into its familiar resolute lines as she turned her attention to the balance sheets of the Aire Communications Company, owned by the Crosses. The figures were disastrous – and damning. But its financial problems aside, the company was weighted down with serious afflictions of such enormity they boggled the mind. According to Paula, these could be surmounted and solved, and she had evolved a plan so simple yet so masterful in its premise, Emma had been both intrigued and impressed.

  ‘Let’s buy the company, Grandy,’ Paula had said to her a few weeks ago. ‘I realize Aire looks like a catastrophe, and actually it is, but only because of its bad management, and its present structure. It’s a hodgepodge. Too diversified. And they have too many divisions. Those that make a good profit can never get properly ahead and really flourish because they’re burdened by the divisions which are in the red, and which they have to support.’ Paula had then walked her through the plan, step by step, and Emma had instantly understood how Aire Communications could be turned round and in no time at all. She had instructed her granddaughter to start negotiating immediately.

  How she would love to get her hands on that little enterprise. And perhaps she would, and very soon too, if her reading of the situation was as accurate as she thought. Emma was convinced that no one was better equipped to deal with John Cross and his son, Sebastian, than Paula, who had developed into a tough and shrewd negotiator. She no longer equivocated when Emma hurled her into touchy business situations that required nimble thinking and business acumen, which she possessed in good measure. And of late her self-confidence had grown.

  Emma glanced at her watch again, then curbed the impulse to telephone Paula at the store in Leeds, to give her a few last-minute tips about John Cross and how to deal with him effectively. Paula had proved she had come into her own, and Emma did not want her to think she was forever breathing down her neck.

  The telephone rang. Emma reached for it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, Aunt Emma. Shane. How are you?’

  ‘Why Shane, how lovely to hear your voice. And I’m fine, thanks. You sound pretty good yourself. I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, at the christening.’ As she spoke, she took off her glasses and laid them on the desk, relaxed in the chair.

  ‘I was hoping to see you before then, Aunt Emma. How would you like to go out on the town tonight, with two fun-loving bachelors?’

  Emma laughed gaily. ‘And who’s the other fun-loving bachelor?’

  ‘Grandfather, of course, who else?’

  ‘Fun-loving! He’s getting to be an old stick-in-the-mud, if you ask me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be saying that, mavourneen,’ Blackie boomed into the phone, having taken it away from his grandson. ‘I bet I could still give you a run for your money, if I got half the chance.’

  ‘I’m sure you could, darling.’ Emma smiled into the phone, her heart warming to him. ‘However, I’m afraid you won’t get that chance tonight. I can’t accept your invitation, Blackie dear. Some of the family are arriving later, and I ought to be here.’

  ‘No,’ Blackie interjected peremptorily. ‘You can see them tomorrow. Ah now, don’t be refusin’ me, darlin’,’ he cajoled. ‘Apart from wanting the pleasure of your lovely company, I need your advice on an important business matter.’

  ‘Oh!’ Emma was mildly taken aback by this statement. Blackie had retired and left the running of his companies to his son, Bryan, and to Shane. Not unnaturally, her curiosity was piqued, and she said, ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘I don’t want to be discussing it on the telephone, Emma,’ Blackie said in a softly chiding tone. ‘It’s not something that’s so cut and dried it can be settled in the matter of a few minutes. We have to be going back and forth, you know, dissecting it a bit, and I think we should be doing it over a nice drop of Irish and a fine meal.’

  Emma laughed under her breath, wondering how important this so-called business matter really was, but found herself conceding, ‘I suppose I can let them fend for themselves. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t much looking forward to tonight. Even though Daisy and David will be here, the prospect of a family gathering isn’t particularly exciting. So I accept. And where are you and your dashing grandson planning to take me? Out on the town in Leeds isn’t too exciting.’

  Laughingly, Blackie concurred and said, ‘But don’t worry, we’ll cook up something, and I promise you won’t be bored.’

  ‘What time then?’

  ‘Shane will pick you up around six. Is that all right, me darlin’ girl?’

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Good. Good. Until later then. Oh, and Emma?’

  ‘Yes, Blackie?’

  ‘Have you given any more thought to me little proposition?’

  ‘Yes, and I have serious doubts about it working.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re still me Doubting Emma after all these years, I can see. Well, we’ll discuss that tonight, too, and maybe I can be convincing you yet.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she murmured softly as he hung up.

  Emma sat back, contemplating Blackie O’Neill. Doubting Emma. A faint smile flickered in her eyes. When had he first called her that? Was it 1904 or 1905? She was no longer sure, but it had been thereabouts, and Blackie had been her dearest, closest friend for all of those sixty-five years. For a whole lifetime. Always there when she needed him, loyal, devoted, supportive and loving. They had been through most of life’s exigencies together, had shared each other’s terrible losses and defeats, pain and anguish; had celebrated each other’s triumphs and joys. Of their contemporaries, there were only the two of them left, and they were closer than ever, inseparable really. She did not know what she would do if anything happened to him. She resolutely squashed this unacceptable thought before it took hold. Blackie was an old war horse, just as she herself was an old war horse, and even though he was eighty-three there was a great deal of surging life and vitality left in him. But no one lasts indefinitely, she thought, experiencing a twinge of anxiousness, whilst acknowledging the inevitable. At their grand ages mortality was a given, one which could not be argued with, and impending death was an old, if unwelcome, familiar.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Emma glanced at it, adopted her normal expression of cool inscrutability, and called, ‘Come in.’

  The door swung open and Alexander entered. He was tall, lean and trim in build, with his mother’s dark good looks, her large, light-blue eyes; but his somewhat serious, saturnine face made him appear older than his twenty-five years, gave him a dignified air. He wore a well-cut dark grey worsted suit, a white shirt and a burgundy silk tie, all of which reflected, and reinforced, his rather sober personality.

  ‘Good morning, Grandmother,’ he said, striding towards her. Reaching the desk, he added, ‘I must say, you’re looking pretty nifty today.’

  ‘Morning, Alexander, and thank you for the complime
nt. Mind you, flattery’s not going to get you anywhere with me,’ she responded crisply. Nonetheless, her eyes danced and she regarded her grandson fondly.

  Alexander kissed her on the cheek, seated himself opposite, and protested, ‘I’m not trying to flatter you, Grandy, honestly I’m not. You do look absolutely spiffing. That colour really suits you and the dress is very chic.’

  Emma nodded impatiently, waved her hand in airy dismissal, and fixed her grandson with a keen and penetrating stare. ‘What have you come up with?’

  ‘The only solution to the Fairley problem,’ Alexander began, understanding she wanted to curtail the small talk and plunge into business. His grandmother loathed procrastination, unless it suited her own ends; then she could elevate procrastination to an art. But she scarcely tolerated it in others, so he rushed on. ‘We have to change our product. By that I mean we have to stop manufacturing the expensive woollens and worsted cloths that hardly anybody is buying, and start weaving blends. Man-made fibres, such as nylon and polyester, blended with wool. Those are our best bets.’

  ‘And you think this move will get us out of the red and into the black?’ Emma asked, her stare intensifying.

  ‘Yes, I do, Grandy,’ he replied, sounding sure of himself. ‘One of our chief problems at Fairley has been trying to compete with the man-made fibre goods on the market today. Nobody wants pure wool any more, except the Savile Row boys, and they’re not a big enough market for the Fairley output. Look, either we produce the blends or shut up shop – which you don’t want to do. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Can we make the changeover easily?’

  Alexander nodded emphatically. ‘We can. By manufacturing cheaper goods we can capture the more popular-priced markets here and abroad, and do volume sales. Of course, it is a question of sales and getting a real foothold in those new markets. But I’m sure we can pull it off.’ He reached into his inside breast pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve analysed every aspect of the plan, and I’m certain I’ve not overlooked one thing. Here it is.’

  Emma took it from him, reached for her glasses, studied the closely-typed sheet. She recognized immediately that he had done his homework with his usual diligence. He had refined the idea she herself had toyed with, although she had no intention of revealing this, not wishing to undermine him, or diminish his efforts. She looked up, removed her spectacles and gave him the benefit of a warm, congratulatory smile.

  ‘Well done, Sandy!’ she exclaimed, reverting to the affectionate diminutive of his childhood. ‘You’ve put a lot of sound thinking into this, and I’m delighted, really delighted.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ he said, a smile breaking through. Reserved of nature though he was, Alexander was always completely relaxed and outgoing with Emma, who was the one person he truly loved, and now he confessed, ‘I’ve really bashed my brains out on this one, Grandy, played around with all manner of convoluted ideas, I don’t mind telling you. Still, I kept coming back to my original plan for creating the new blends.’ He leaned closer to the desk, and gave her one of her own penetrating stares. ‘But, knowing you, I have a feeling you’d already thought of the solution before you threw the problem at me.’

  Emma was tickled at his perceptiveness, but she stifled the laugh that bubbled in her throat. She looked into his candid blue eyes and slowly shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she lied. Then observing his disbelief, she added, ‘But I suppose I would have. Eventually.’

  ‘You’re damned right you would,’ he acknowledged. He shifted slightly in the chair and crossed his legs, wondering how to break the bit of bad news to her. He decided to jump in with both feet. ‘There is one other thing, though, Grandmother.’ He hesitated, worry suddenly clouding his face. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cut down on our running costs at the mill. Really tighten our belts out there at Fairley, if we want to operate more efficiently – and profitably. I hate to tell you this, but a number of men will have to be laid off.’ There was a slight pause before he finished gloomily, ‘Permanently laid off.’

  Emma’s face tightened in aggravation. ‘Oh dear.’ She nodded slowly, as if confirming something to herself. ‘Well, I sort of expected that, Alexander. If you have to do it, you have to do it. I presume you’ll be letting the older men go, those who are near retirement age?’ she asked, one brow lifting questioningly.

  ‘Yes. I think that’s the fairest thing.’

  ‘See to it that they get a special bonus, severance pay, whatever you want to call it. And naturally their pensions will become effective immediately. No penny pinching, and waiting it out until they actually reach retirement age. I won’t have any of that nonsense, Sandy.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I second-guessed you on that one. I’m preparing a list of names, and details of our financial obligations to the men. I’ll get it to you next week, if that’s all right with you.’ He sat back, waiting.

  Emma made no response. She pushed herself up and walked slowly to the oriel window, where she stood looking down into the magnificent gardens of Pennistone Royal. Concern edged on to her wrinkled face as she ruminated on the mill at Fairley. Her life had been bound up with it in so many different ways. Her father had worked there, and her brother, Frank, when he was only a small boy and should have been at school. Frank had been a bobbin ligger, slaving from early morning until nightfall, hardly able to drag his weary little legs home at the end of the long day, sickly pale from exhaustion and lack of fresh air and sunshine.

  Adam Fairley, Jim’s great-grandfather and the Squire of Fairley, had been the owner of the mill then. How she had hated him as a girl; for the best part of her life really. With the wisdom of great age, she knew Adam had not been the tyrant she had believed him to be. But he had been negligent, and that in itself was a crime in her eyes. His monumental negligence and his selfish preoccupation with his personal problems and his all-consuming love for Olivia Wainright had caused grievous trouble for others less fortunate. Yes, Adam Fairley had been guilty of abdicating his duties in the most careless and callous fashion, and without so much as a glance at those poor souls who toiled in his mills: The workers who made his cushioned life of ease and privilege possible, who were dependent on him, and were, in a very real sense, his responsibility. Half a century ago, she commented silently. I may understand something of the man now, but I’ll never forget what he did. Never.

  She glanced down at her small but strong hands, soft and well cared for, the nails manicured to expensive perfection. But once those hands had been red and chapped and sore from scrubbing and polishing and washing and cooking for the Fairleys, when she had been bound in service to them as a child. Lifting one hand, she touched her face, and remembered with stunning clarity Murgatroyd’s sharp blows on her cheek. The detestable Murgatroyd, Adam Fairley’s butler, who had been permitted by the squire to rule that pernicious and secretive doomed house with a cruelty that bordered on savagery. Despite his harshness and his unremitting persecution of her, Murgatroyd had never frightened her. It was that monstrous house which had filled her with a nameless terror and from which she had wanted always to flee.

  Then, one day, she had owned that great mausoleum of a place – Fairley’s Folly, the villagers had called it – and she had known at once that she would never live in it, would never play the role of the grand lady of the manor. And with a flash of sudden and intense vision she had understood exactly what she must do. She must obliterate it from the face of the earth as if it had never existed. And so she had torn it down, brick by brick by brick, until not a trace of it was left, and she could still recall to this very day the grim satisfaction she had experienced when she had finally razed it to the ground.

  Now, across the span of four decades, she heard an echo of her own voice saying to Blackie: ‘And destroy this garden. Demolish it completely. I don’t want a rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’ Blackie had done exactly as she had instructed, uprooting that walled rose garden where Edwin Fairley had so inhumanly and shamefully
repudiated her and their child, which she had been carrying. Miraculously, in the space of a few days, the garden, too, had disappeared as if it had never been there at all, and only then had she felt free of the Fairleys at last.

  At this time in her life, Emma had acquired the mill. She had done her utmost to give the men proper living wages and overtime and all manner of fringe benefits, and she had kept the village going for years, often at great financial cost to herself. The workers were part of her in a way, for it was from their class that she herself came, and they held a favoured and unique place in her affections. The thought of letting a single one of them go distressed her, yet she had no choice, it seemed. Better, surely, to operate at half her work capacity and keep the mill rolling, than to close it down completely.

  Half turning she said, ‘By the way, Alexander, have you discussed any of this with Kit?’

  ‘Uncle Kit,’ Alexander exclaimed, his startled tone reflecting the expression flicking on to his face. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘For one thing, he hasn’t been around. And for another, he doesn’t seem interested in any of the mills, Fairley least of all. He hasn’t appeared to give a damn since you dumped him out of your will.’

  ‘That’s a crude way of putting it, I must say!’ Emma snapped, and returned to her desk with a show of briskness. ‘I didn’t dump him, as you call it. I passed him over. For his daughter, remember. As I did your mother for you and Emily, and your Uncle Robin for Jonathan. And you know the reasons why, so I won’t bother elucidating on them again. Also, let’s not forget that my will doesn’t come into effect until I die. Which won’t be for a long time, if I have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Or me either,’ Alexander cried swiftly, as always dismayed by her talk of dying.