Hold the Dream

  ‘I’m not sure what to say, Mother. Your points are well taken, though.’

  ‘Think about it. I can always change my will.’

  ‘But you’ve left me so much…more than I’ll ever need. It seems greedy, accepting this house.’

  ‘That’s a load of codswallop, Daisy. By rights it should be yours. If you decline, then I think that perhaps I’d better leave it to Paula or Philip.’

  ‘But what about Sarah?’

  ‘She’s not a McGill.’

  Daisy pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘All right, I’ll do as you say – think about it. Look here, Mother, I know a woman of your immense wealth has to have her affairs in proper order at all times, but to tell you the truth, I do hate these discussions about your will and your death. They really make my stomach churn. Your death is certainly something I can’t bear to think about, never mind discuss in this off-handed way. I get very upset.’

  Emma looked at Daisy, said nothing. She squeezed her hand, sat back, continuing to stare at her intently.

  Daisy took a deep breath, exhaled, forced a weak smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to speak to you so harshly. However, I do especially dislike talking about such things today, of all days. It’s your birthday, remember.’

  ‘I understand.’ There was a tiny silence, and eventually Emma said in the quietest voice, ‘I have been a good mother to you, haven’t I, Daisy darling?’

  ‘How could you ever think otherwise!’ Daisy cried, her face ringed with concern. Her large and brilliant eyes of the deepest cornflower blue widened considerably, unexpectedly filled. ‘You’ve been the most wonderful mother anyone could ever have wished for, always so loving and understanding.’ Daisy returned Emma’s steadfast gaze unblinkingly, and as she looked deeply into that wrinkled face her heart clenched with the most profound love for this remarkable woman who had borne her. She knew that the forbidding demeanour and the permanently stern expression were only surface characteristics, camouflage for a vast reservoir of emotion, and compassion. Emma Harte was a complex, many-faceted person, and contrary to what some believed, she was much more vulnerable and sensitive than most.

  Daisy’s gentle face underwent another change as her adoration and loyalty to her mother rose up in her. ‘You’re so very special, Mummy.’ Daisy stopped, searched Emma’s face, and shook her head wonderingly. ‘You’re the most honourable and loving person I’ve ever known. I’ve been so very lucky to have you all these years. Really blessed.’

  Emma was deeply moved. ‘Thank you, Daisy, for saying those beautiful things.’ She looked into the distance, then murmured in a saddened voice, ‘I’ve failed miserably with your half-brothers and half-sisters. I couldn’t bear to think that I’d also failed with you. Or that I’d ever let you down in any way, not given you my best and dearest love.’

  ‘You’ve given me everything…why, I couldn’t begin to tell you what I owe you. And I don’t believe you’ve failed the others. Not in the slightest. Didn’t my father say once that each of us is the author of our own lives? That we are responsible for what we are? For the deeds, both good and bad, that we do?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Then believe it, Mother. It’s true!’

  ‘If you say so, darling.’

  Emma fell into momentary silence, reflecting on her daughter’s words. She was proud of Daisy, or the woman she had become. For all her sweetness, her soft manners and her intrinsic charm, Daisy had a strong, even tough, inner core and immense resilience and fortitude. Emma knew that when she chose to be, her Daisy was as immovable as a mountain and unwavering in her resoluteness. This was especially true if her convictions and principles were involved. Daisy, so young looking, was also inordinately youthful in her attitudes. She had a gaiety, a joyousness about life that was infectious, and she was of that rare breed of women who are liked by their own sex as well as by men. In fact, Emma was well aware that most people found it difficult, if not indeed impossible, to dislike Daisy. She was so full of integrity, so honourable, so beyond reproach, yet so truly human and caring, she towered above everyone. If her half-brothers and half-sisters were jealous of her, even resented her slightly, they were nevertheless rendered helpless under the force of her warm personality and extraordinary sincerity. It was her goodness, purity, and sense of fair play that also kept them off balance and at bay. She was the conscience of the family.

  ‘You’ve got a faraway look on your face, Mother. Are you daydreaming? You seem so intense all of a sudden, what are you thinking about?’ Daisy leaned closer to Emma, searching her face, and touching her cheek lightly.

  ‘Oh nothing much.’ Emma shook off her introspection, gave Daisy’s clothes an appraising glance. ‘Perhaps I ought to go and change, since we’re going to the Mirabelle for lunch.’

  ‘You don’t have to, darling. Don’t bother struggling into something else.’

  ‘All right, I won’t. But what about tonight. Blackie tells me he’s wearing a dinner jacket. You don’t think he actually wants me to wear a long frock, do you? I mean, after all, we’re only going to be eight.’

  Oh my God, Daisy thought, wait until she finds out it’s closer to sixty. She wondered if her mother would be annoyed with them for giving the surprise party. Clearing her throat, praying that she sounded off-hand, Daisy remarked, ‘But Uncle Blackie wants this to be a festive evening, extra special. As he said to me the other day, “How often is your mother going to be eighty?” So naturally I agreed with him that we should dress. Still, you don’t have to be that grand, wearing a long frock, I mean. I’ve decided on a peacock-blue faille cocktail dress myself. Look, I’d wear one of those lovely chiffons of yours, if I were you.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I have the green chiffon, it’ll do quite nicely. Oh dear, there’s the door bell again! I do hope it’s not more flowers. This place is beginning to resemble a funeral parlour.’

  ‘Mother! What an awful analogy!’

  Daisy sprang up, moved swiftly across the floor, said over her shoulder, ‘Perhaps it’s the gift Elizabeth sent, or the ones from Kit and Robin. I’ll go and ask Parker.’

  Before Emma had a chance to blink, Daisy returned. ‘It is a gift, Mother.’ She glanced into the foyer, nodded, then took up a position near the fireplace, standing under the portrait in oils of Paul McGill.

  Emma, acute as ever, peered at her suspiciously. ‘What’s going on? You looked exactly like your father did when he had something up his sleeve.’ Her eyes strayed to Paul’s portrait and then back to Daisy. There was no doubt whose daughter she was. Her likeness to him was more pronounced than ever today…the same bright blue eyes, the black hair, the cleft in the chin. ‘Come on, what are you hiding?’

  Daisy looked expectantly at the door and beckoned.

  On cue, Amanda and Francesca walked in, doing their level best to be sedate and grown up. They came to a halt in the centre of the floor, focused on Emma.

  ‘Happy birthday to you, dear Grandma, happy birthday to you,’ they chorused, sounding enthusiastic if slightly off-key.

  Sarah, Emily and Paula had followed them into the study, stood behind their young cousins. They echoed, ‘Happy birthday, Grandma,’ gazing at her lovingly.

  ‘Good heavens, what’s all this!’ Emma cried, truly taken by surprise. She gaped at her granddaughters, then addressing the twins, asked, ‘And what are you two doing here? It’s not half-term, is it?’

  Daisy cut in, ‘I took them out of school for a couple of days, Mother. They’re staying with me and David. After all, it is your birthday.’

  ‘I knew somebody was cooking up something,’ Emma said, giving Daisy a sharp penetrating look. ‘To tell you the truth, I thought you and Blackie were conniving together, Daisy. I suspected that you’d planned some sort of celebration for tonight.’

  Daisy managed to keep her face neutral. But before she got the opportunity to say anything, Emily came forward purposefully. She handed a beautifully-wrapped package to Francesca, and touched Amanda’s shoulder ligh
tly. ‘You haven’t forgotten your speech have you?’

  ‘Course not,’ Amanda hissed back indignantly, reached for Francesca’s hand and gave her twin a little tug, drew them both nearer to Emma.

  Taking a deep breath, the fifteen-year-old said carefully, enunciating each word clearly, ‘Grandy, this gift is from all your grandchildren – from Philip, Anthony, Alexander, Jonathan, Paula, Sarah, Emily, Francesca and me. Each one of us has contributed to it, so that we could present you with something special on this your eightieth birthday. We give it to you with our very dearest love always.’

  Amanda went to Emma, bent down and kissed her; Francesca followed suit, then handed her the present.

  ‘Thank you, girls,’ Emma said to the twins. ‘And your little speech was very nicely rendered, Amanda. Well done.’ She looked over at their sister and cousins. ‘My thanks to all of you.’

  Emma sat for a moment without moving, holding the present on her lap. She let her eyes rest on each one of her elder granddaughters who were grouped together, and she smiled at them individually, nodding to herself, thinking how pretty and charming they looked. Tears welled unexpectedly, and she blinked them back, glanced down at the package, endeavouring to conceal her emotional reaction to this unexpected family scene. To her astonishment her hands shook as she untied the purple ribbon and lifted the object from its box.

  The gift was a clock in the shape of an egg, made of the most translucent blue enamel she had ever set eyes on. A miniature cockerel, enamelled and delicately worked, was mounted on top of the egg, heavily jewelled with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Emma marvelled at the design and craftsmanship, which were exquisite, and she recognized the clock for the precious work of art it truly was.

  ‘It’s by Fabergé, isn’t it?’ she managed at last, her voice hardly audible.

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said. ‘Actually, Gran, it’s an Imperial Easter egg which Fabergé made for the Empress Marie Fedorovna of Russia. Her son, Nicholas II, the last Tsar, ordered it for her.’

  ‘How on earth did you manage to find something as rare and valuable as this?’ Emma asked, awed. As an art collector of discernment she was aware that such pieces by Fabergé were becoming increasingly scarce.

  ‘Paula heard about the clock through Henry Rossiter,’ Emily volunteered. ‘He had learned it was going to be auctioned last week at Sotheby’s.’

  ‘And Henry went to the auction for you?’

  ‘No, Grandy. We all went en masse, except for the twins, who were at school, of course. Henry did come with us, though. Paula had called us, and we got together for a confab. We each agreed at once that we should try to buy the clock for you – as a collective gift from us. It was terribly exciting!’

  ‘We almost lost it several times, but we just kept on going, topping other bids. And suddenly we had it. We were so thrilled, Grandma!’

  ‘And so am I, my darlings.’ Her eyes encompassed them all.

  Parker suddenly appeared, also on cue from Daisy, bringing in a tray of glasses brimming with sparkling champagne. When each of them had a drink they clustered around Emma, wished her a happy birthday again, and toasted her health.

  Once things had calmed down, Emma turned to Daisy and said, ‘Are we really going to lunch at the Mirabelle? Or was that a ruse to prevent me from going to the store?’

  Daisy grinned. ‘Of course we’re going to lunch – all of us who are present, in fact. Anthony, Alexander, Jonathan and David will be joining us. So, you can forget about going to work today, Mother.’

  Emma was about to assert herself on this point, but she recognized the look on Daisy’s face. Since it forbade argument, she held her tongue.

  It was dusk.

  Emma walked across the entrance foyer, so bosky and still at this hour, her step light as she entered her study.

  She was dressed for the dinner party Blackie was giving at the Ritz, wearing a short dress made of layers and layers of pale and dark green chiffon, simply cut with long floating Mandarin sleeves. The magnificent McGill emeralds, blazing at her throat, on her ears, arms and hand, looked stunning against the mingled greens of the delicate fabric, the fire, depth and brilliance of the gems intensified by the repetition of their colour.

  Yes, it was a good choice, Emma decided, as she passed the one mirror in the room and caught a fleeting glimpse of herself. She did not stop, but continued across the floor, the only sound the swishing of her dress as she moved with her usual briskness.

  When she reached the console where some of her many birthday presents were stacked, she picked up the Imperial Easter egg and carried it back to the drawing room.

  Placing it on an antique occasional table near the fireplace, she stood back, admiring it again. It was undoubtedly one of the loveliest things she had ever been given, and she could not wait to show it to Blackie.

  The sharp trilling of the bell made her start, and in rapid succession she heard Parker’s footsteps resounding in the foyer, the front door banging and muffled voices.

  A moment later Blackie was striding into the room, splendidly attired in a superbly-cut tuxedo, the wide grin on his face competing with the sparkle in his black eyes, and he was obviously buoyed up with excitement.

  ‘Happy birthday, me darlin’,’ he boomed, and drawing to a standstill he swept her up into his arms. Then he released his grip, stepped away and caught her hands in his, looked down into her face, repeating the gestures practised on her for years. ‘You look bonnier than ever tonight, Emma,’ he said, beaming, and bent to kiss her.

  ‘Thank you, Blackie.’ Emma returned his smile, and moved towards the sofa. ‘Did you tell Parker what you wanted to drink?’

  ‘Sure and I did. My usual.’ He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, his large frame filling it completely. ‘I don’t want you to think I’ve come empty handed – your birthday present is outside. I’ll go and get it –’

  The butler’s discreet knock interrupted him, and Parker came in with a tumbler of neat Irish whiskey for Blackie and a goblet of white wine for Emma.

  As soon as they were alone, Blackie raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, mavourneen. And may we celebrate many, many more of our birthdays together.’

  ‘I know we will,’ Emma laughed. ‘And here’s to our trip, Blackie dear.’

  ‘To the trip.’ After only one sip, Blackie sprang up. ‘Don’t move,’ he instructed, ‘and when I tell you to close your eyes, I want you to do just that, and no cheating, mind you.’

  She sat waiting for him to come back, guessed he had enlisted Parker’s help when she heard the low murmur of the butler’s voice, Blackie’s response, then the sound of paper being ripped.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Blackie ordered from the doorway several seconds later. ‘Remember what I said, no peeking, Emma!’

  ‘I won’t,’ she reassured him, laughter bringing a lilt to her voice. She sat perfectly still, her hands clasped in her lap, and she suddenly felt like a young girl again; like the little starveling girl who had received her first real present wrapped in silver paper and tied with silver ribbon. It had been from him – had been that cheap little green glass brooch which she had cherished all of her life. She still had it tucked away in her jewel case, alongside the fine replica he had eventually had made in emeralds. And once, long ago, that bit of green glass had been her most treasured and valuable possession.

  ‘Now!’ Blackie cried.

  Slowly Emma opened her eyes, and as she looked at the painting he was holding in front of her she instantly recognized the work of her great-niece, Sally Harte. Emma gasped in astonished delight, and then she filled with a swift and piercing pain of poignant nostalgia as haunting memories rippled through her. Her throat tightened. She focused her eyes, took in every detail, every brushstroke, and she could only gaze at the painting’s evocative beauty, unable to say a word.

  ‘Oh Blackie,’ she said at last, ‘it’s perfectly lovely…the moors above Fairley. My moors, where we first met.’

  ‘Look
a bit closer, me darlin’.’

  ‘I don’t have to, I can see it’s the Top of the World.’ She raised her eyes and shook her head in wonderment. ‘What a truly meaningful gift this is, my dear old friend. The painting is extraordinary. Why I feel as though I can reach out and pick a bunch of that heather, as I used to do for my mother.’ She let one finger rest lightly against the canvas, barely touching it. ‘I can hear the tinkle of this little beck, here in the corner, and the sound of its crystal water tumbling down over the polished stones. It’s so…so real, I can even smell the scent of bilberry and bracken and the heather. Oh Blackie darling…’

  Emma looked up at him and smiled her incomparable smile, then swiftly brought her gaze back to the painting. ‘It’s a real Yorkshire sky, isn’t it? So full of clarity and shimmering radiance. What immense talent that girl has, and only Turner and Van Gogh have ever been able to capture the true quality of light on canvas in such a way. Yes, Sally has surpassed herself with this.’

  Gratification and pleasure shone on his craggy, expressive face. ‘I took Sally over there myself, showed her the exact spot. And she kept going back, time and time again. She wanted perfection for you, Emma, as I did, and I think she got the painting just right in the end.’

  ‘She most certainly did. Thank you, thank you so much for thinking of such an unusual present.’

  Blackie said softly, ‘I had her write this on the back. In paint.’ He turned the painting around, indicated the neat lettering. ‘You won’t be able to read what it says without your glasses, so I shall tell you what I asked her to put. It says, “To Emma Harte on reaching her eightieth birthday with love from her life-long friend, Blackie O’Neill.” Then there’s the date underneath.’