Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford

scene flashed, transporting him back to the past. 1906. A bitter cold January day. Emma sitting next to him on the tramcar going to Armley, looking impossibly beautiful in a new black wool coat and the green-and-black scarf and tam-o’-shanter he had given her for Christmas. The green tones in the tartan bringing out the green depths in her eyes, the black showing off the flawlessness of her alabaster skin.

      What a pallor her face had held that Sunday, nonetheless, it had not marred her loveliness, he ruminated, remembering every detail of that afternoon so clearly. She had been seventeen and carrying Edwina, and oh how rigid she had been in her obstinacy. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to manoeuvre her on to that tram. She had not wanted to go to Armley, nor to make the acquaintance of his dear friend, Laura Spencer. Still, when the two girls had met they had taken to each other instantly, and were the closest of loving friends until the day poor Laura died. Yes, Emma’s terrible burdens had eased, once she had moved into Laura’s snug little house, and he had experienced an enormous sense of relief, knowing Laura would mother her, watch over her. And he had won that day, as he fully intended to win with her now, sixty-three years later.

      Opening the top drawer of the bureau at the other side of the room, he took out a small black leather jewel box, stared at it thoughtfully, and then slipped it in his pocket. Humming to himself he strode out and went downstairs.

      Blackie O’Neill still lived in the grand mansion he had built for himself in Harrogate in 1919. A handsome wide staircase, so beautifully designed it appeared to float, curved down into a charming circular entrance hall of lovely dimensions, where walls painted a rich apricot acted as a counterpoint to the crisp black-and-white marble floor. The square marble slabs had been set down at an angle, so that they became diamond shapes, and they led the eye to the niches on either side of the front door. White marble statues, of the Greek goddesses Artemis and Hecate, graced these niches and were highlighted by hidden spots. An elegant Sheraton console, inlaid with exotic fruitwoods, stood against one wall underneath a gilt Georgian mirror, and was flanked on either side by Sheraton chairs upholstered in apricot velvet. Illuminating the hall was a huge antique crystal-and-bronze-dore chandelier which dropped down from the domed ceiling, and the setting had elegance without the slightest hint of ostentation.

      Crossing the hall, Blackie went into the drawing room. Here a log fire burned cheerily in the Adam fireplace, and the silk-shaded lamps cast rafts of warming light on to the cool green walls, on the sofas and chairs covered in darker green silk. Splendid paintings, and Sheraton and Hep-plewhite antiques, added to the graciousness of the room, which exemplified Blackie’s sense of style and colour and perspective in furniture and design.

      He fussed with the bottle of champagne in the silver wine cooler, turning it several times, shifting the ice around, then he took a cigar from the humidor and went over to his favourite chair to wait. He had no sooner trimmed the cigar, and lighted it, than he heard them in the hall. He put the cigar in the ashtray, and rose.

      ‘There you are, mavourneen,’ he cried, hurrying to meet Emma as she came into the room. There was a wide smile on his ruddy face as he exclaimed, ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’ He hugged her tightly to his broad chest, held her away and looked down at her. He smiled again, admiration shining in his eyes. ‘And aren’t you my bonny colleen tonight.’

      Emma smiled back at him, love and warmth overflowing in her. ‘Thank you, Blackie dear. And I must admit, you don’t look so bad yourself. That’s a beautiful suit.’ Her eyes twinkled merrily as she ran a hand down his arm expertly. ‘Mmmm. Very nice cloth. It feels like a bit of my best worsted.’

      ‘It is, it is,’ Blackie said, and winked at Shane who was standing behind Emma. ‘Would I be wearing anything else now. But come, me darlin’, and sit here, and let me get you a glass of champagne.’

      Emma allowed him to guide her across the room to the sofa. She sat down, and a brow lifted. ‘Are we celebrating something?’

      ‘No, no, not really. Unless it’s reaching our grand old ages and being in such good health.’ He squeezed her shoulder affectionately, added, ‘Also, I know you prefer wine to the stronger stuff.’ He glanced at Shane. ‘Would you do the honours, me boy? And make mine a drop of me good Irish.’

      ‘Right you are, Grandfather.’

      Blackie seated himself in the chair facing Emma, picked up his cigar and puffed on it reflectively for a moment, then said to her, ‘And I expect you’ve had a busy day as usual. I’m beginning to wonder if you’ll ever retire … as you’re constantly threatening to do.’

      ‘I don’t suppose I ever will,’ Emma laughed. ‘You know very well I plan to go with my boots on.’

      Blackie shot her a chastising look. ‘Don’t talk to me about dying. I’ve no intention of doing that for a long time.’ He chuckled softly. ‘I’ve a lot more damage to do yet.’

      Emma laughed with him, and so did Shane, who carried their drinks over to them. He fetched his own, and they clinked glasses and toasted each other. Shane took a swallow of his scotch, and said, ‘Would you both excuse me for a few minutes. I have to phone Winston.’

      Emma said, ‘I hope you have better luck than I did. I was trying to get him for ages, earlier. First the line was busy, then there was no answer.’

      Shane frowned. ‘Perhaps he’d slipped down to the village. Any message, Aunt Emma?’

      ‘Tell him that we didn’t – ’Changing her mind, she broke off and shook her head. ‘Never mind, Shane. It’s not important. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow, and I’m sure we’ll have a chance to chat at some point then.’

      When they were alone, Blackie reached across and took Emma’s hand in his, and stared deeply into her face. ‘It’s grand to see you, me darlin’. I’ve missed you.’

      Emma’s eyes danced. ‘Get along with you, you silly old thing. You just saw me the day before yesterday,’ she exclaimed, amusement surfacing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our dinner at Pennistone.’

      ‘Of course I haven’t. But it seems like a long time to me, caring about you the way I do.’ He patted her hand affectionately and sat back in his chair, giving her the fondest of looks. ‘And I meant it when I said you looked bonny, Emma. You’re a real bobby dazzler in that dress, it’s very flattering on you, me darlin’ girl.’

      ‘Some girl! But thank you, I’m glad you like it,’ she answered with a smile of real pleasure. ‘My friend Ginette Spanier, at Balmain’s, picked it out for me and had it shipped over from Paris last week. Mind you, Edwina was rather scathing earlier. She told me it was too young for me, the colour, you know.’

      Blackie’s expression altered radically. ‘She was just being catty, Emma. Edwina’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of that old oak tree out yonder in my garden. She’ll never change.’ He noticed the look of pain flit across Emma’s face, and he frowned with concern for her, cursing her daughter under his breath, Edwina had always been troublesome. But then so had most of the others, and there were a couple of Emma’s children whom he could quite cheerfully strangle with his bare hands. He cried heatedly, ‘I hope she’s not been giving you a hard time!’

      ‘No, not really.’

      She sounded unusually hesitant, and Blackie spotted this immediately, and shook his marvellous white, leonine head, and exhaled in exasperation. ‘I’ll never understand Jim. I don’t know what prompted him to invite her. It was stupid on his part, if you ask me.’

      ‘Yes, and Paula was upset too, but I decided not to intervene. I thought it would look petty. But …’ Emma shrugged, and, since she confided most things in Blackie these days, she told him about her conversation with Edwina, her attempts to reason with her daughter.

      Blackie listened carefully, occasionally nodding, and when she had finished he said, in a low voice, ‘Well, I’m happy for Sally, if this is what she wants. She’s a lovely lass, and Anthony is a nice chap. Down-to-earth, and not a bit stuck up, which is more than I can say for that mother