Hold the Dream

‘Because when Bonnie Prince Charlie went to Scotland, in 1745, trying to regain the throne of his ancestors, he was aided by a Mackinnon of Skye. In gratitude, Prince Charlie gave the man his own recipe for his personal liqueur. Ever since then the secret for its preparation has remained with the Mackinnons, and Drambuie gets its nickname from the legend. And speaking of the Isle of Skye, is that how you spell your name…sky with an e at the end?’

  ‘Yes, but my name is really Schuyler. It’s Dutch. A family name. I have a feeling my Mom thought plain old Smith needed jazzing up a bit.’ She smiled at him slowly.

  ‘It’s a very pretty name. It suits you,’ he said with a show of gallantry.

  ‘Why, thank you kindly, sir.’

  They fell silent.

  Skye Smith was trying to decide whether she could suggest he call her in New York without appearing forward. She was not interested in him as a lover, on the other hand she had found herself drawn to him during dinner, almost against her will. He was entertaining, good company, and a delightful man, if a little vain and too sure of himself. But perhaps they could be friends.

  Shane was still dwelling on Winston, discreetly observing him. He lounged on a sofa at the other side of the room, nursing his brandy, looking relaxed. Whatever problem had been bothering him earlier had apparently been resolved, or dismissed as unimportant. He was laughing suddenly and in a natural manner, and teasing Allison. Shane noticed that her face was radiant. So much for all that, he thought, it was a storm about nothing. He filled with relief. He was going away tomorrow and he did not like to think he was leaving when his dearest friend had troubles.

  Skye finally spoke, interrupting Shane’s contemplations. She said, ‘I hope this doesn’t sound pushy or anything like that, but if I can be of help in New York, do feel free to call me.’ She added quickly, wanting to sound more businesslike, ‘The shop is listed under Brandt-Smith Antiques.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. I will,’ Shane said, and startled himself with his ready acquiescence to her suggestion. He puffed on his cigar for a second, then feeling the need to explain, he went on, ‘I don’t know many people in New York. Just a couple of lawyers who work for our company. Oh, and I have an introduction to a man called Ross Nelson. A banker.’

  ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed.

  Shane glanced at her, saw the surprise in her eyes. Or was it shock that had registered? ‘So you know Ross,’ he said, his curiosity flaring.

  ‘No. No, I don’t,’ she replied too swiftly. ‘I’ve heard of him, read about him in the newspapers, but that’s all.’

  Shane nodded, and for a reason he could not fathom, he immediately changed the subject. But as they talked about other things he could not help thinking that Skye Smith was much better acquainted with the notorious Mr Nelson than she wanted him to believe. And he asked himself why she had felt the need to lie about this.

  Shane O’Neill left Yorkshire the following morning.

  It was dawn. The mist had rolled down from the moors and the higher fells to spread across the meadows like a mantle of grey lace, partially obscuring the trees and the drystone walls and the cottages nestling in the folds of the fields. And all were inchoate images, spectral and illusory under the remote and bitter sky. Dew dripped from the overhanging branches, glistened on the white wildflowers gleaming in the hedgerows, ran in little rivulets down the grassy banks at the sides of the lane. Nothing stirred in the drifting vaporous mists and there was an unearthly quiescence, an unmoving stillness lying over the whole of the countryside and it was a dreamlike landscape…the landscape of his childhood dreams.

  Gradually, from behind the rim of the dim horizon, the early sun began to rise, its streaming corridors of slanting light piercing outward to illuminate the bowl of that cold and fading sky with a sudden breathtaking radiance. And through the tops of the leafy domes of trees, caught in the distant shimmer of sunlight like a mirage, glittered the chimneys of Pennistone Royal. House of his childhood dreams…but there was another house in his childhood dreams…a villa by the sea where they had laughed and played and dreamed away the careless carefree days of their childhood summers…where nothing had ever changed…and time had been an eternity.

  And she was always there…with him…at that villa high on the cliffs above the sunlit sea…laughter in her eyes the colour of the summer sky and gentleness in her smile that had truly been only for him…dreamlike landscapes…dreamlike houses…dreamlike child of his childhood dreams…locked in his heart and mind for all of time…haunting him always…dim shadows on his Celtic soul.

  He was going away now…so far away…leaving them behind…but he never left them behind…he carried them with him wherever he went…and they would never change…they were his childhood dreams …Paula and Pennistone Royal and the villa by the sunlit sea…

  The car sped on, down the narrow winding country lanes, past the great iron gates of Pennistone Royal, on through the village of the same name, out now on to the main road. Shane glimpsed the familiar signs flying by…South Stainley, Ripley, Harrogate, Alwoodley.

  He slowed down as he roared into Leeds, although there was no traffic, no one abroad, deserted as it was at this hour and without a sign of life. Grey, grimy, vital Leeds, great industrial city of the North, the seat of Emma’s power and his grandfather’s and David Kallinski’s family.

  Circling City Square, where the statue of the Black Prince dominated, he drove on, down the short hill near City Station, heading towards the Ml, the road leading south to London. Shane picked up speed the moment he rolled on to the motorway, and he did not reduce it until he was nosing the car over the county boundary…leaving Yorkshire behind.

  CHAPTER 15

  The garden was her magical place.

  It never failed to give Paula a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction and it was therapeutic when she was frustrated or needed a release from the stresses and tensions of business.

  When she began to plan a garden, whether large or small, she gave free rein to her imagination, and every plot of ground that fell into her sure and talented hands was miraculously transformed, became a breathtaking testament to her instinctive understanding of nature.

  In fact, she was an inspired gardener. Flowers, plants, trees and shrubs were woven into a tapestry of living colour and design by her, one that stunned the eye with its compelling beauty. Yet despite her careful planning, none of her gardens ever looked in the least contrived.

  Indeed there was a genuine old-world air about them, for she planted them with an abundance of old-fashioned flowers and shrubs, that were typically English in character. The garden she now called her own, and which she had been working on for almost a year, was beginning to take on this particular look.

  But for once she was hardly aware of the garden.

  She stood poised at the edge of the terrace, gazing down the long green stretch of lawn, yet not really seeing it, an abstracted expression on her face. She was thinking of Jim. Their quarrel of last night had been dreadful, and although they had eventually made up – in bed where they usually managed to put aside their mutual anger – she was still shaken. They had quarrelled about Edwina. Again. And in the end he had won, since she was hopelessly weak where he was concerned, loving him the way she did. And so she had finally agreed to entertain Edwina tonight, to show her the house and the grounds, offer her cocktails before they went out to dinner. But Paula wished now that she had been more resolute with him. In the early hours of the morning, after he had made love to her, he had cajoled, teased and laughed her into agreeing to do as he wished. He had cleverly twisted her around his little finger, and she resented it suddenly.

  Sighing, she walked purposefully over to the rockery she was creating, trying to shake off the remnants of the violent quarrel. I refuse to harbour a grudge, she told herself firmly. I’ve got to let go of my anger before he comes home tonight. She knelt down, continuing the work that she had started earlier that day, hell bent on bringing order to that intractable pile of s
tone, filled with the intense desire to make this rockery as beautiful as the one at Grandy’s seaside house.

  As usually happened, Paula soon lost herself entirely in gardening, concentrating totally on the work, allowing the tranquillity of nature to lap over her until she was enfolded by its soothing gentleness, at peace within herself.

  It was as a child that Paula had discovered her love of the earth and all growing things. She had been eight years old.

  The same year Emma had bought a house to use during her grandchildren’s spring and summer holidays from school. It was called Heron’s Nest and it stood on the high cliffs at Scarborough, overlooking the pale sands and the lead-coloured bay beyond, a piece of Victorian gingerbread with its intricately-wrought wood portico, wide porch, large sunny rooms, and sprawling garden that was a veritable wilderness when Emma had first taken title to the property.

  Aside from wanting a place where she could spend the holidays with her young brood and enjoy their company, Emma had had another valid reason for purchasing Heron’s Nest. She had long felt the urgent need to have her grandchildren under her complete control and influence for uninterrupted periods. Her objective was simple. She wanted to teach them a few of the essentials of life, the practicalities of everyday living, and to make sure that they understood the true value of money. Emma had for years found it intolerable that most of her children had grown accustomed to living in luxury without giving one thought to the cost of their pampered existences, and that they were overly dependent on armies of servants to take care of even their simplest needs.

  And so, in her inimitable way, she had devised a scheme when she had decided that her grandchildren must be brought up to be less spoiled, more self-reliant, and certainly down-to-earth where matters of money were concerned. ‘There’s an old Yorkshire saying and it goes like this –’ she had remarked to her investment banker, Henry Rossiter, one day, ‘– from clogs to clogs in three generations. Well, you can be damned sure that that’s not going to hold true for my lot!’ Immediately afterwards she had signed the cheque for the house.

  Heron’s Nest was the answer to many things, in her mind. And it would become her school. To this end, Emma had seen fit to engage only one maid, a local woman from the town who would come every day. And she had told the rather jolly, plump Mrs Bonnyface that her main task would be to take care of the seaside villa when the family were not in residence. Emma had gone on to outline her rather unorthodox plans, had explained how she fully intended to run the house herself – with the help of her numerous grandchildren. Whatever Mrs Bonnyface had thought of this unusual state of affairs, she had never said. She had accepted Emma’s scheme and with enthusiasm, and had obviously felt privileged to work for the famous Mrs Harte, if her general demeanour was anything to judge by.

  Being clever and a dissembler of the highest order, Emma had not confided her intentions or motives in anyone else, least of all her grandchildren. Only after she had made the acquisition and hired Mrs Bonnyface, had she told them about Heron’s Nest, but she had given glowing details, cloaked it with such an aura of glamour they had been agog with excitement. They regarded the whole idea of a house by the sea as a great adventure, since they would be alone with Emma and far away from their parents.

  Emma had realized almost immediately that the regime she had instituted had come as something of a shock, and she had smiled inwardly as she had watched them floundering around with mops and buckets, carpet sweepers and brooms, furniture polish and dusters, and unmanageable ironing boards. There had been huge disasters in the kitchen…demolished frying pans, pots charred to cinders, and vile, unpalatable meals. They had grumbled about burnt fingers, blisters, headaches, housemaid’s knee, and other minor ailments, real and imaginary, some of which had sounded extremely farfetched to Emma.

  But it was Jonathan who had come up with the most inventive and imaginative excuse for wriggling out of his allocated chores, on the day he had told her that he had strained his Achilles tendons mowing the lawn, and was far too crippled to do any more work for days. Emma had been both startled and impressed by his cleverness. She had nodded most sympathetically. And to prove to this canny little boy that she was so much smarter than he believed she was, she had explained to him, and in diabolically graphic terms, exactly how strained Achilles tendons were treated. ‘And so, since you’re in such dreadful agony, I’d better drive you down to the doctor’s surgery so that he can get to work on you immediately,’ she had said, reaching for her handbag and the car keys. Jonathan had swiftly suggested they wait for a few hours, just in case the pain went away. Seemingly it did. He had made a stunningly rapid recovery, apparently not relishing the prospect of spending the remainder of the spring uncomfortably encased in a plaster of Paris cast reaching from the tips of his toes to his waist. Or of being left behind with Mrs Bonnyface when his cousins returned to their respective schools and his grandmother to Pennistone Royal.

  During those first few weeks at the holiday house in Scarborough they soon settled down to a steady routine. The girls quickly began to show a certain proficiency in their housework and cooking, and the boys readily learned to cope with the heavier household work, weeding the garden and mowing the lawns. Not one of them was ever permitted to shirk his or her duties. Emma was not the type to stand any nonsense for long, and she was relatively strict, showed no favouritism whatsoever.

  ‘I’ve never heard of anyone dying from scrubbing a floor or polishing the silver,’ she was fond of saying if one of them dared to complain or invent an imaginary illness as Jonathan had done. The recalcitrant child who had screwed up enough nerve to protest or fib would instantly blanch under her steely green gaze, remembering Jonathan’s narrow escape.

  And when the time came for them all to pack up and leave the seaside house Emma had congratulated herself, had admitted that they had been real troopers indeed. They had put on good faces and had truly pulled together to please her. As far as she was concerned, the experiment had proved to be an unconditional success. Every year thereafter, when the harsh Yorkshire winters gave way to the warmer weather, she had gathered them up and carted them off to Scarborough.

  Eventually the Harte cousins and the O’Neill and Kallinski grandchildren became regular visitors. Even they were given their fair share of chores, and they had had no choice but to pitch in cheerfully when they arrived to spend July and August by the sea. They quickly came to understand that they would not be invited back if they did not comply with Emma’s wishes and pull their weight.

  The children had called Emma ‘The General’ behind her back, and indeed they had often felt as though they were living in an army camp because of her stringent rules and regulations. On the other hand, they had truly enjoyed themselves during those happy, carefree years, and they had ended up having such enormous fun together that even the chores were regarded as games. Much to their parents’ astonishment, and Emma’s immense satisfaction, each one had come to so look forward to those sojourns in the little seaside town they vociferously declined any other holiday invitations. They had insisted on returning to Heron’s Nest the minute Emma opened up the house.

  Despite her own terrible addiction to work and little else, Emma had been shrewd enough to recognize that her ‘small band of brigands’, as she called them, needed plenty of opportunities to let off steam and lots of pleasurable pursuits to fill the long summer days. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, you know,’ she would constantly repeat to Mrs Bonnyface, and then proceed to invent exciting projects in which she and the children could participate together.

  She took them on interesting expeditions up and down the coast, to Whitby, Robin Hood’s Bay and Flamborough Head, and gave them numerous other rewards for their strenuous endeavours. There were visits to the local picture house and the town’s little theatre; they went for leisurely picnics on the cliffs; sailed in the bay and had swimming parties on the beach. Frequently they went fishing with the local fishermen and were thrilled when they w
ere allowed to keep some of the catch. On those propitious days they would return in triumph to Heron’s Nest, where they would cook their small and meagre fish for Emma’s supper, and she had eaten them as if they had been prepared by the French chef at the Ritz. When the weather was overcast and the seas rough, Emma had organized egg-and-spoon races and treasure hunts in the garden, and, since she truly understood the acquisitive nature of children, she made certain that the treasure was extra special and worth finding. And she had always provided more than enough items for each child, had usually dropped blatant clues to those who were coming up empty-handed and wearing tearful or disappointed expressions. On rainy days when they had to stay indoors they had played charades or put on their own plays.

  One year the boys formed their own band. They called themselves The Herons, and Shane and Winston were the chief instigators and organizers. Shane appointed himself the band leader. He was also the piano player and the vocalist. Alexander sat at the drums and cymbals, Philip blew the flute, Jonathan scraped the violin and Michael Kallinski warbled the harmonica. But it was Winston who thought he was the most important and talented member of the ensemble. He adopted the trumpet as his own and fervently insisted he was the new Bix Beiderbecke, inspired no doubt by a film Emma had taken them to see called Young Man With A Horn. Sarah wondered out loud where he had learned to play and Emma smiled thinly and said that he hadn’t, and that was the trouble. And at times she thought her eardrums would burst when the cacophony of sound filled the house during practice times, which seemed eternal and never ending to her.

  Eventually, when they believed themselves to be polished enough to perform before a live audience, The Herons invited Emma and the girls to a concert in the garden. Emma watched them in amazement, secretly amused by their elaborate and endless preparations. They put out deck chairs, set up a small stage made of planks balanced on bricks, and rolled out the piano to stand next to it. And they took great pains dressing themselves in what they called their ‘rig-outs’ – their new white cricket flannels worn with brilliant scarlet satin shirts, made, no doubt, at one of the Kallinski factories, Emma decided. Purple satin kerchiefs were tied around their necks and debonair straw boaters were rakishly angled on top of their heads.