I felt a tap on my back, and turned to find Philip standing there. From the look in his eyes, it was obvious he’d started celebrating long before the actual service began.
‘So what do you think of young Enid?’ he asked me, slightly slurring his words.
‘Enid? Is that what the girl you’re with is called?’
‘They’re all called Enid,’ my brother replied, contemptuously. ‘Can’t for the life of me remember what the real name of this particular Enid is, but I’m sure it’ll come to me again when I need it to.’ He swayed a little. ‘Anyway, I noticed you couldn’t take your eyes off her.’
‘That’s rather an exaggeration,’ I said mildly – because the last thing I wanted was a scene at my brother’s wedding. ‘I may have glanced at her, but you were the one who got most of my attention. You’re looking well.’
I wasn’t lying. He’d been rather pasty as a child, but he’d grown out of it and was now a healthy young man.
‘I’ve only just met this Enid, but I’ll have her before the night is out – just see if I don’t,’ Philip boasted. He sniggered. ‘Even if I don’t get all the way, I’ll probably have more luck than your John will.’
‘And just exactly what do you mean by that, Philip?’ I asked, my voice hardening.
My cousin’s mouth dropped open in a look of comical amazement. ‘You don’t know, do you?’ he said. ‘You really don’t know.’
‘Know what?’ I demanded. ‘Is this something to do with Lydia?’
Philip laughed. ‘Well, bugger me,’ he said. ‘And I always thought you were the smartest out of the three of us.’
‘If you’re aware of something which might hurt John, you should tell me about it right now,’ I said.
‘You never did like me much, did you, Rob?’ my cousin slurred.
‘We’re not talking about you and me,’ I told him. ‘It’s my brother that I’m concerned about now.’
‘Well, I’ve never liked you much, either,’ Philip continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. I wouldn’t lift a finger – not one little finger – to help either you or your brother.’
He was so obviously drunk that I should have let it all wash over me, yet despite my best intentions, my head began to pound and I found I had clenched my fist.
‘Now you listen to me …’ I began.
There was suddenly a new person standing between us – a man in his mid-20s.
‘Mr Conroy,’ he said, addressing me. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Paul Taylor, your father’s new executive assistant. I wonder if you could spare me a few moments.’
And almost before I knew what was happening he had one hand on my shoulder and another on my elbow, and was steering me away from Philip.
We came to a halt near the buffet table.
‘So what do you want to see me about, Mr Taylor?’ I asked.
Taylor grinned. ‘Nothing really,’ he admitted. ‘It’s just that in another two or three seconds, you’d have taken a swing at your cousin. And I really didn’t think that was a good idea.’
He was right, of course, on both counts. I would have knocked Philip down – and it wouldn’t have been a good idea.
I took a proper look at my rescuer. Paul Taylor was tall and slim. He had silky blonde hair which touched lightly on his collar, and his eyes were a very deep blue. The overall impression was one of gentleness – perhaps even weakness – but there’d been nothing weak about the way he had stepped in and saved me from myself.
‘How long have you been working as my father’s assistant, Mr Taylor?’ I asked.
‘Not long,’ Paul told me. ‘A matter of weeks – long enough to know that your cousin likes to cause trouble. What was he trying this time?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.
Paul Taylor nodded, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to leave the matter there.
‘If you asked me to guess, I’d say he was speculating about how long your brother’s marriage is going to last,’ he said.
Which, I supposed, was close enough.
‘How long do you think it’s going to last?’ I asked.
Paul shrugged. ‘Who can say how long any marriage is going to last these days? It could be for a lifetime. It could be over in a matter of weeks. Only time will tell. But I am convinced that your brother wants it to work.’
I liked Paul Taylor, I decided. Despite his soft appearance he seemed a stable, decisive young man, and I was pleased that he would be working beside my father.
‘Let’s get a drink?’ I suggested.
‘I’d love to,’ Paul replied, ‘but I rather think the big boss would like a word with you.’
I turned around, and saw that Grandfather was indeed signalling me to go over to him.
‘Maybe we can have a drink later,’ I said to Paul
‘I’ll be around,’ he promised.
I made my way over to where Grandfather was standing. The old man was, I noted, leaning much more heavily on his stick than he would have done a couple of years earlier.’
‘How are you, Grandfather?’ I asked.
‘What was that all about?’ he replied.
‘I was just talking to my father’s new executive—’
‘That’s not what I mean – and you know it.’
So he had not missed the exchange with Philip. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. The old man rarely missed anything.
‘Philip was drunk, and because he was drunk he was rude,’ I said. ‘There was nothing more to it than that.’
‘Your cousin hasn’t had it easy,’ Grandfather said.
‘Hasn’t had it easy?’ I repeated incredulously – and determined not to be intimidated even if it was Grandfather I was talking to. ‘He’s had it all on a plate. He got his own brand new car on his 17th birthday.’
‘I’m not talking about things,’ Grandfather said. ‘I’m talking about feelings. Oh, your uncle Tony did his best for him, I’ll not deny that, but there’s no substitute in this world for a mother. I used to watch the way young Philip acted towards those women who your uncle would bring home. He desperately wanted affection from them, and sometimes they’d give it – but then Tony would get bored with the woman and trade her in for a new model, and Philip would be left alone again.’
‘Even if he did have a rough time when he was growing up, it still doesn’t excuse the way he’s acting now,’ I said.
‘I love all my family, whatever their faults,’ Grandfather said softly, ‘and you’re not without a few big faults of your own, you know.’
A bit below the belt, I thought – but if anybody had the right to take a low punch it was Grandfather.
‘I know I’m far from perfect,’ I admitted.
‘I love you all,’ Grandfather repeated, ‘and I want you all to get on together. And you’re going to have learn how to do that quickly – because if you don’t, there’ll be a civil war after I’ve gone that nobody can win.’
I laughed. ‘Civil War!’
‘I’m being serious,’ Grandfather said sharply. ‘I’m not splitting the business, and you’re going to have to come to terms with that.’
****
I wondered later, as I was driving back to Oxford after the wedding, which it was that Grandfather cared most about – the family or the business.
It probably wasn’t that simple, I decided, because for him the family was the business, and the business was the family.
We were all a part of his plan – each one of us a piece of the jigsaw which comprised his elaborate vision. And even if Jill hadn’t died – even if I hadn’t had my nervous breakdown – I would have ended up working for him eventually because he would have piled offer on top of offer until eventually he made one that I couldn’t refuse.
As I changed gear, my thoughts shifted from my grandfather to my brother. I should have asked him more about Lydia’s background before I started to give him advice on whether he should or should not marry
her. Perhaps I should even have done a little investigating of my own. Yet my father didn’t seem concerned – or if he was, he had a very different concern from my own.
Another gear change, and I was thinking about Philip. What exactly had he meant at the reception? Did he really know something I didn’t? Had he been snooping around and uncovered a dark secret in Lydia’s past – a secret he was now taking malicious glee in hiding from the rest of us?
Then I saw a signpost which announced that it was now a mere 50 miles to the city of Oxford, and my thoughts, I’m ashamed to admit, turned to the mountain of work which would inevitably have built up on my desk during my absence, and would be demanding my immediate attention.
****
Six years had passed since that wedding – hardly a moment in the existence of the forbidding church I was standing in front of now, but a fair chunk of a human life. And still I had no answer to the questions I had raised with myself back then.
But that didn’t seem so important anymore, because as intriguing as they were, they didn’t seem to me to be the right questions – the questions which might have helped me to save my brother’s life. Those questions lay buried even deeper in the sludge at the bottom of my mind, and would have to be painfully and painstakingly dredged out.
I checked my watch. I was not due at Philip’s house for a reading of Grandfather’s will for another half hour, and though I knew it was probably a mistake to have too much to drink before lunch, I went back into the George and Dragon and ordered myself another pint.
Chapter Sixteen
I had expected Cousin Philip’s car to be parked next to his house, but the space it usually occupied was empty. I wondered, briefly, if he’d forgotten we were due to hear Grandfather’s will in less than half an hour – but knowing my cousin as I did, that didn’t seem likely.
I walked on to the end of the dirt track and looked down the steep slope at the path which led across the fields and down to the mere. A week earlier it would have been a simple enough matter for me to follow that path myself, I thought, but since the crash everything had become more complicated, and my injured leg was already sending out signals that I had probably overdone things that morning.
There was the sound of a car engine behind me, and turning I saw that my cousin’s Audi had just rounded the bend. I took a step forwards, and felt a stab of pain in my leg. It didn’t bother me much – I could handle physical pain.
Philip stepped nimbly out of his car. He was wearing a very smart business suit and carrying an expensive executive briefcase.
‘You’re lucky I made it on time,’ he said crisply by way of greeting. ‘I just managed to get the last First Class seat available, and even so my plane only landed three quarters of an hour ago.’
‘You’ve been away?’ I asked.
‘You don’t normally take a plane unless you’re intending to go somewhere,’ Philip replied. He took out his keys and opened the door. ‘Let’s go through to my study.’
I followed him down the hallway and into the high-tech office which in Uncle Tony’s day had been full of antique furniture and over-stuffed sofas. I accepted my cousin’s invitation to take a seat – one of a pair of chrome and leather ones in front of his desk – but turned down his offer of a drink.
Philip poured himself a generous glass of scotch, then sat down on the other side of the desk.
‘Yes, I’ve been away,’ he said, about as pleasantly as he ever got with me. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been down to Swansea.’
‘Swansea?’ I repeated stupidly. ‘Why did you go to Swansea?’
My cousin sighed, his moment of amiability obviously over.
‘Did you suffer brain damage as well as everything else?’ he asked. ‘You were going to Swansea when you had the crash. Do you remember why you were going? Remember the deals you were trying to close.’
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed, though after all I’d been through, the idea of closing deals now was as unreal to me as the thought of walking on Mars would have been.
‘Well, aren’t you at least going to ask me how all it went?’ Philip said.
‘How did it go?’ I said dully.
A complacent smile came to my cousin’s face. ‘All signed and sealed. I’ve saved the company.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, and though I knew that meant he had also saved Cormorant Publishing, I still found it hard – at that precise moment – to raise much enthusiasm.
‘Yes, it was rather clever of me,’ Philip said, ‘though I must admit, the crash helped.’
I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘The crash?’ I repeated. ‘You’re saying that helped?’
‘Of course. You remember the customers had their doubts about giving their business to us?’
‘I know your father was rather concerned the deal might not go through.’
‘And he was quite right to be. After the way they’d been treated by Western Haulage, the people in Swansea were very dubious about continuing to use it, even under new management. But, you see, the crash changed everything. The customers couldn’t really fail to give us a chance to prove ourselves after such a family tragedy. No one likes to kick a man when he’s down.’
How could he talk like this, I wondered? How could he speak about the deaths of three members of our family as if it were no more than a business negotiating tactic?
‘Look, I’m as devastated about what’s happened as you are,’ my cousin said, reading my expression. ‘But someone has to take charge. The company is Grandfather’s legacy, and by maintaining it, I’m honouring his memory. And let’s not forget all our employees. There are several hundred people who depend on Conroy’s to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table – and we have a responsibility to them, too.’
In a way, I supposed, he was right. No, I corrected myself – he was completely right, whichever angle I looked at it from. But I just wished he wasn’t taking such obvious pleasure from being the young tycoon.
Philip glanced down at his Rolex. ‘The solicitor should arrive any minute now.’
‘Are we expecting anyone else?’
‘Anyone else? What do you mean?’
‘Are we the only two people who are supposed to be here for the reading of Grandfather’s will?’
‘Yes – it’s just you and me, Cousin – Grandmother isn’t up to it.’
There should have been the whole family there for the reading, I thought – Father, John and Uncle Tony – but now Philip and I were the only men left. It was not a comforting thought.
‘Do you know what’s in the will?’ I asked.
‘In general terms,’ my cousin said airily. ‘But we still have to have the details spelled out.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘That’s probably the solicitor now,’ I said.
‘Yes, that’ll be the old fool, all right,’ my cousin agreed. ‘And for once, he’s on time.’
My cousin went to the door and returned with Mr Gryce, the family solicitor. Gryce was a short man with bandy legs and a bald, shiny head. He dressed in durable suits which looked as if they dated from the 1950s, and had been my family’s solicitor for as long as I could remember.
After we’d all shaken hands and Philip had resumed his seat, the solicitor coughed and said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to sit at that side of the table, Mr Conroy.’
‘And what if I do mind?’ Philip asked. Then, realising how petulant he must sound – and how inappropriate such behaviour was for a dynamic young tycoon – he walked around the desk and took the seat next to mine.
Mr Gryce opened his briefcase and spread his legal papers over the pristine surface of Philip’s desk.
‘The will is quite a short one,’ the old man said. ‘Most of your grandfather's personal fortune was placed in family trust funds long before he died. The rest of it had already been signed over to your grandmother for her use during the rest of her natural life.’
‘We kn
ow all that,’ Philip interrupted.
The solicitor gave my cousin a disapproving look, but Philip was either so tense – or so excited – that I don’t think he even noticed it.
‘So what the will mainly concerns itself with is the voting shares in Conroy Enterprises, which have absolutely no monetary value, and merely establish who has the right to take the decisions which will affect the company,’ the solicitor continued. ‘Until his death, all these shares were held by your grandfather. His will specifies that they can never be sold, nor can they be divided into smaller blocks and distributed amongst other members of the family. Strictly speaking, I suppose, it could be said that your grandfather hasn’t left the shares to anyone. He has merely bestowed stewardship of them onto one person, until, by a mechanism I will outline later, that same stewardship will be passed on to another.’
And that person had to be me, I thought with horror, because, if only by a few months, I was the oldest surviving member of the Conroy family.
I didn’t want it – I really didn’t want it – but neither did I want to commit Grandfather’s legacy to Philip’s hands.
I glanced at my cousin. His thoughts must surely have been running along the same lines as mine, so he must have realised by now that what he wanted most in the world was about to be snatched away from him – and yet he seemed so calm.
He knew what was in the will, I realised – and knew, furthermore, that it was not as straightforward as it first appeared.
‘Had he lived, the shares would have gone to Mr Antony Conroy as the eldest son,’ Gryce said. ‘In fact, strictly speaking, they already had, because your grandfather died before the crash, so it can be said that for an hour or so – though he didn’t know it himself – the shares were his.’
‘And now they’re mine,’ Philip exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ Gryce admitted, ‘but only because Mr Edward Conroy died, too.’
‘What do you mean?’ Philip demanded.
‘The Conroys are not the Royal Family, though you sometimes act as if you thought they were,’ Gryce said with a malicious grin, ‘so there is no divine right of succession. If Edward had not been in the car, the shares would have gone to him as the second son, and when he died they would have gone to his son, Rob. As it is, they will still go to Rob if you die before you have an heir who has attained the age of 35.’
The Vital Chain Page 14
