Moonrise Over the Mountains

by Lilian Peake

  MOONRISE OVER THE MOUNTAINS

  Lilian Peake

  When Ewan Pascall offered Gayle a job within his organization which carried greater responsibilities she took up the challenge, although she realized that her attempts were bound to result in failure.

  At least that would mean that she would never meet the autocratic Ewan again. But was that what Gayle really wanted?

  For my son, Graham, who saw the moon rise over the mountains

  CHAPTER ONE

  “It’s no good trying to persuade me,” Gayle said. “I’m just not experienced enough to take on such an important position.”

  “The trouble with you, love,” her father replied, “is that you should have more confidence in your own ability.”

  Gayle laughed and said in a kindly way, “Look who’s talking! You’re hardly brimming with confidence yourself.”

  Her father sighed, but it was the sigh of someone who had reconciled himself long ago to his own shortcomings. “It’s my nature. And there’s no doubt you’re your father’s daughter. You’re me all over again.”

  “Suppose,” said Gayle, looking at him fondly, at his hair, still only touched with grey, at his patient round face and his comfortable figure, “just suppose, for the sake of argument, Mr. Pascall said to you, ‘From now on, Mr. Stuart, you’re the Personnel Manager. I’m moving you from deputy to the top post.’ How would you feel?”

  “Like you, I’d say ‘no, thanks.’ I never was cut out to take overall responsibility. But then I’m fifty-two—thirty years older than you are. My career’s within a few years of its end. Yours is just beginning.” His daughter shook her head. “Gayle,” Herbert said, with a touch of urgency, “tomorrow Mr. Pascall is going to offer you the job—He spoke to me about it today, asked me how I thought you’d react. Favourably, I said.”

  “Dad, how could you, without asking me first?”

  He took his daughter’s mild rebuke with a lift of the shoulders. “Thought I knew my own daughter well enough to give a positive answer. He told me his fiancée has left. Returned to her old job of modelling, he said.”

  “I know. But he’s got it wrong. The beautiful Miss Carla Grierson has never stopped modelling. She used to walk round the department as if she were showing whatever she happened to be wearing—even if it was an overall at stocktaking time—to a gaping, admiring crowd of fashion critics at a dress show.”

  “That’s supposed to be the hallmark of a successful fashion model, isn’t it?” her father asked mildly.

  Gayle shrugged. “You get a bit tired of it. Her looks and figure are so flawless even an admiring male must surely find himself looking for something out of place. I shouldn’t think she lets Ewan Pascall within a mile of her in case he dislodges her hair-style or messes up her perfectly arranged gowns—you can’t use the mundane description of dresses for the clothes she wears.”

  “Well, someone must be appointed to take her place,” her father said. “You’re her assistant. There’s no one else, no one, that is, who could take over immediately. Mr. Pascall would have to advertise and that would take time. I did warn him you were a difficult ‘customer’ to deal with yourself.” He smiled in his slow way. “Mr. Pascall said ‘Better the devil you know...’ ”

  Gayle cleared the table angrily. “Yes, he would. He’s the last word in arrogance. Walks round the store as if he owns it—” He does,” her father interrupted with a smile.

  “Oh, you know what I mean—as if he owns the lives of everyone he employs.”

  “You’re misjudging him, dear. You’re prejudiced—”

  ”I’m not! You’re prejudiced. You’ve worked there years, so he’s nice to you. When he’s on the prowl, word goes round and everyone’s on their best behaviour. He never comes to praise—except where his precious woman’s concerned. All his comments about the rest of us are criticisms.”

  “Constructive, dear, surely you’ll admit that.”

  “What,” scornfully, “does he know about fashion?”

  “Quite a bit, I imagine, since the woman he’s going to marry is in the fashion business up to her neck.”

  The front door opened—it was always on the catch—and the next-door neighbour walked in.

  “Well,” Gayle said, taking the tea things into the kitchen, “he can ask me if he likes, but I’m turning it down.”

  “Turning what down, dear?” asked Rhoda Booker from the doorway.

  Despite her age—she was older than Herbert by three years—her face retained a youthful sweetness, her figure that of a young matron with only a few surplus inches here and there which gave a comforting hint of warmth and the suggestion of a couple of welcoming shoulders to cry on should anyone feel the need to do so. She, like Herbert, had lost her life partner a few years back. She, unlike Herbert, was a victim of loneliness and would, if given the chance, have filled the gaping emptiness her late and much-loved husband had left behind. And had her friend and neighbour, Herbert Stuart, invited her to share her life with him, she would have accepted gladly.

  : But Herbert was placid, content and undemanding. He had a daughter who waited on him hand and foot, which was what her mother had done when she was alive. So Herbert could afford to be content and serene. And utterly blind to the yearnings of his-lonely, kindly and attentive neighbour.

  “A job,” Herbert told Rhoda as she joined them in the living-room, “a good job, promotion to the position of buyer in the dress department, that’s what she’s threatening to turn down.”

  But, Gayle,” said Rhoda, easing herself into the armchair she had come to regard as her own, “you can’t refuse that, dear. Isn’t it a responsible position?”

  “Very, said Gayle, folding the cloth and pushing it into the sideboard drawer, “and I’m not taking it.”

  “He’ll send for you in the morning,” her father warned.

  “Let him. He’ll have to find someone else.”

  “If Mel weren’t out at his evening class,” Rhoda looked at her watch, “he’d talk you into it. He’ll be in here as soon as he gets home.”

  When Melvin Booker pushed the front door about an hour later, Gayle met him in the hall. “Mother here?” he asked, and took Gayle into his arms.

  He was twenty-one, Gayle’s junior by a year and only an inch or so taller than she was. His face was honest and open and his physique sturdy. He worked as an engineering draughtsman for a firm manufacturing domestic appliances. Mel was ambitious, with a series of examinations ahead of him which he was dedicatedly determined to pass.

  He was as serious about Gayle as his mother was about Gayle’s father, but with a difference. Whereas his mother’s hands were tied in relation to the man she would gladly have taken as her second husband, Mel had told Gayle that, when his financial position was more secure, he wanted to marry her. She had not given him any reason to believe that his offer of marriage would be refused. In the meantime, Gayle was content to wait. She had her job and her father to occupy her mind.

  Mel’s lips held Gayle’s and his mother called, “Persuade her, Mel. She’s threatening to turn down the offer of promotion. Her boss wants to make her a buyer.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Mel asked, letting her go. “More money, increase in status—”

  ”And responsibility.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Melvin repeated.

  “I’m happy as I am, and I’m going to stay that way. Tomorrow I shall have the pleasure of telling Mr. Ewan ‘Boss’ Pascall that he can stuff his job.” Her eyes shone with anticipation. “I’m going to enjoy saying ‘no’ to the man at the top!”

  When Gayle arrived at Pascall’s large department store next morning, the telephone was ringing in the buyer’
s office.

  Since Carla Grierson, sophisticated, imperious, experienced buyer and elegant model, had returned to her true vocation of fashion modelling, Gayle had reluctantly and temporarily taken charge of the dress section of the fashion department.

  The ring of the phone was insistent, impatient and, to Gayle’s apprehensive ears, irritable. You’re late, it was telling her—she was, by seven minutes—and you’d better answer me or it will be the worse for you.

  “Miss Stuart?” asked the top man’s dauntingly efficient secretary, whose name was Miss Potter. “I’ve been trying to contact you for the past ten minutes.”

  “Sorry,” said Gayle, breathing hard from running across the fashion floor, “bus was late.”

  “Mr. Pascall wants to see you. Will you come to his office at once.”

  So he had kept his word. ‘Boss’ Pascall was on her heels like a dog after a cat. Was she wily enough to scramble up a tree and sit there, palpitating, watching him snap and snarl at the foot of it?

  As she walked into Ewan Pascall’s office via his secretary’s communicating door, the nearest thing to a tree Gayle could find was a large exotic plant in the corner near the window. No escape, no sanctuary, there, no scrambling out of reach of the terrifying enemy eyeing her, detached, dispassionate and with a touch of disparagement, as she stood, her uncertainty showing like a smudge on her face, waiting for him to speak.

  His chair swung fractionally right, then left. His elbow was supported by the arm of the chair, his fingers rested thoughtfully against his cheek. Well-marked eyebrows topped cool, estimating eyes. High cheekbones, full, mobile lips and a square, determined jaw were bound together by the powerful adhesive of a deep, unassailable cynicism which was so well embedded as to be, at his age, ineradicable.

  How such a man, Gayle reflected with the small section of her mind which had not been paralysed with fright, could have been caught and inveigled into becoming engaged to a woman with the icy beauty of Carla Grierson, she could not fathom. A successful businessman, shrewd, hard-headed and ruthless by repute—yet, where women were concerned, he must, by his proposal of marriage to the beautiful but passionless Carla, have been as undiscerning and as easily duped as the rest of his sex.

  But, judging by the merciless, dissecting look he directed at the girl in front of him, appraising her, taking her personality apart, examining and analysing every piece and, with an unerring hand, putting it together again, he did not seem to be a man who could be fooled into an impulsive, precipitate action by any designing female, however alluring her looks.

  Gayle said, weakly, as though she had just undergone a lengthy, intricate surgical operation, “You wanted me, Mr. Pascall?”

  His smile, faint though it was, held an unmistakable touch of mockery. “Yes, I wanted you.”

  Gayle coloured at his tone and sat on the chair to which he had, with a careless movement, motioned her. He changed his position, leaning back, crossing his legs and flicking with a minimum of interest through the pages of a glossy trade magazine which was lying on his desk.

  He did not raise his eyes. “Your father may have told you why I wanted to see you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pascall,” she said breathlessly, determined at the outset to let him know he was wasting his time and might as well dismiss her from the room at once, “and the answer’s no.” “I’ll enjoy,” she had told Mel, “saying no to the boss.” For the record, she told herself firmly, I’m not only not enjoying, it, I’m hating every minute.

  The thick black eyebrows lifted into two faintly reprimanding question marks. “Am I permitted to ask what you’re saying no to, Miss Stuart?” The taunting smile was there again. “After all, I haven’t asked a question yet.”

  Gayle felt as crushed as a cigarette under the heel of a shoe. “Sorry,” she murmured, “please go on.”

  He inclined his head but chose to stay silent while he studied a photograph which had caught his eye in the magazine. It seemed to be a picture of a girl modelling a two-piece swimsuit. There was no doubt, by the look in his eyes, that he appreciated the girl more than the swimsuit. With some reluctance he closed the magazine and put it aside.

  Then he looked at Gayle with the same knowledgeable concentration as he had studied the girl in the photograph. Did he look at all women like that? Gayle wondered, colouring at his mocking glance which was now looking into two irritated grey eyes. All attractive women, perhaps? If so, Gayle thought, I don’t qualify. There’s nothing about me to attract this man, with his worldly wisdom and sophisticated tastes.

  His gaze moved from the brown shoulder-length hair, over the face which, in its roundness, was a youthful version of her father’s. They lingered meaningfully on the well-shaped mouth and sauntered on their journey to study a large area of uncharted, untried, undulating terrain.

  “I’m promoting you to the position of buyer.”

  The statement came so suddenly Gayle’s protests were effectively silenced.

  “As from now,” he continued, “your salary will increase—considerably. Your status will increase, likewise considerably. Not to mention your responsibilities and your worries. You will have an assistant to fill the vacancy your promotion will create.” He moved his body as if dismissing her and pulled a pile of letters in front of him. The interview was, presumably, at an end.

  A strangled protest bubbled its way into Gayle’s constricted throat. “B-but—”

  He looked up, as if surprised that she was still there. “I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Pascall. I can’t do it, can’t possibly take on the job.” He seemed to be waiting for more. She faltered under his puzzled scrutiny. “B-but thank you for offering it to me.”

  “I haven’t offered. I’ve given you the job. I didn’t invite you here to discuss the matter, but merely to inform you that you have taken Miss Grierson’s place and are now buyer of dresses for the fashion department.”

  Her shaking head, her clenched hands, her locked ankles, her whole body was struggling to say ‘no, thank you.’ Now her lips attempted to put into words the protest her taut body was desperately miming. “I can’t do it, Mr. Pascall, I’m just an assistant, which is all I ever intended to be. I simply wouldn’t know how to start.”

  He frowned. “But you’ve surely learnt something about running a department, about the art of buying?”

  “Very little.”

  “But you’ve worked closely with Miss Grierson.”

  “I worked for your fiancée, Mr. Pascall, not with her.” Gayle looked down at her interlocked fingers. How much could she tell him about his precious woman? “She—she taught me nothing. Whenever I questioned her on technical matters, purely out of interest, she put me off, saying she was too busy and anyway there was no need for me to know.” She glanced at him as he tapped the point of a pencil on the desk. “She said she was running the department. She also said she didn’t want a back seat driver telling her what she should or should not do, so the less I knew about the business the better.” Gayle looked up again, seeing the in-drawn lips. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pascall.” He said nothing. “So you see, I can’t do as you wish and step into Miss Grierson’s shoes. I’d make a terrible mess of it.”

  There was a brief silence. “I shall make allowances.”

  She panicked. So she still had not convinced him! “I couldn’t do it, Mr. Pascall. It would be like stepping into the unknown. I’d be lost, I wouldn’t know what to do...”

  He got up and walked to the window which overlooked the busy high street. He watched the milling aimless crowds, people pushing, strolling or standing still. As one crowd of customers strained to enter the store, another crowd struggled to leave it.

  Then he turned and walked towards her, folding his arms and looking down into her fear-filled eyes. “Tell me, did the first man who orbited in space say, ‘I can’t do it, I’d be lost, I wouldn’t know what to do’? He hadn’t been there before. Did the first men to reach Everest’s summit say, ‘We can’t do it—because we’ve never done it
before’? Did I say, when my father died, ‘I can’t take over the running of this store, not to mention all of Pascall’s other branches, because I have never done it before’?”

  He wandered away and back again. “I was dropped head first into the job five years ago, at the age of twenty-seven. But because I felt challenged—challenged, Miss Stuart, I soon landed on my feet. So you see, your arguments just don’t stand up to examination.” He studied her openly, ignoring her rising colour and looking instead at the clear, frank eyes, the soft but diffident line of her lips.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “there’s a lot of your father in you—self-effacing, lacking in confidence, willing every time to accept second best, content always to be in the passenger seat and never taking over control of the car. You’re too young to be swamped by the inherited timidity of your personality. There must,” as if talking to himself, “be another side, some hidden, deep-seated aggression buried somewhere in your character.”

  He walked away and took a coin from his pocket, tossing it absently. “I’d stake half my fortune—” He swung round. “You’re taking the job, Miss Stuart, even if I have to teach it to you myself.”

  She stood uncertainly. “But, Mr. Pascall—”

  He pressed his hands flat against the desk and said, each word precise and clear, “I’m challenging you, Miss Stuart. I’m daring you to take on the job.”

  The authority, the compelling urgency in his eyes, the fact that he, head of the firm, believed in her enough to trust her to make a success of the position he was offering, caused her to lift her head and pull back her shoulders. “When do I start, Mr. Pascall?”

  For a moment his tensed body stayed as it was, then for a passing second his head dropped like a man who, against all odds, had taken a calculated risk—and won.

  He straightened. “This morning. First you must inspect your stock. Then you examine the order books. Find a list of suppliers and contact their representatives, making appointments for them to come and see you. You will have to use your judgment, assess local needs, remember that we have four seasons in the year, all of which will have to be catered for in the racks of your department.