Barbara Taylor Bradford - Hold the Dream

Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life … particularly a long life like mine.

Without thinking, she spoke aloud: ‘If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been.’ Her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.

‘Grandma … are you alone?’ Emily asked in a tentative voice from the doorway.

Startled, Emma jumped, and turned in the chair. Her face lit up. ‘Oh hello, Emily dear. I didn’t hear you come through the parlour. And of course I’m alone.’

Emily ran to her, gave her a resounding kiss, and then looked down at her curiously. She said, with a funny little smile, ‘I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone, Gran.’

‘I was. I was talking to him.’ She inclined her head at the photograph, and added dryly, ‘And if you think I’m getting senile, you can forget it. I’ve talked to that photograph for thirty years.’

‘Gosh, Grandy, you’re the last person I’d ever think of as being senile!’ Emily was quick to reassure, meaning every word. ‘Mummy maybe, but never you.’

Emma fixed her coolly probing eyes on her granddaughter. ‘Where is your mother, Emily. Do you know?’

‘Haiti. Basking in the sun. At least I think that’s where she’s gone.’

‘ Haiti .’ Emma sat up in the chair, surprise registering, and then she let out a small whoop of a laugh. ‘Isn’t that the place they practise voodoo. I hope she isn’t having a wax doll made called Emma Harte, into which she can stick pins and wish me ill as she does.’

Emily also laughed, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, Gran, you are a card. Mummy wouldn’t think of anything like that . I doubt she’s ever heard of voodoo. Besides, I’m sure she’s far too preoccupied. With the Frenchman.’

‘ Oh . So, she’s done another bolt, has she? And with a Frenchman this time. Well, I must say, your mother is getting to be a regular United Nations.’

‘Yes, she does seem to have developed a fondness for foreign gentlemen, Grandy.’ Emily’s green eyes brimmed with laughter as she stood rocking on her heels, regarding her grandmother with delight, enjoying their bit of repartee. There was no one like her Gran when it came to the caustic jab which got right to the heart of the matter.

Emma said, ‘Knowing your mother, he undoubtedly has an uncertain character, not to mention a dubious title. What’s this one’s name?’

‘Marc Deboyne. You might have read about him. He’s always in the gossip columns. And you’re right on target, regarding his character. But he doesn’t have a title, dubious or otherwise.’

‘That’s a relief. I’m sick to death of all these counts and princes and barons with unpronounceable names, grandiose ideas and empty wallets, whom your mother unfailingly collects. And invariably marries. Deboyne is a playboy though, isn’t he?’

‘I’d categorize him as IWT, Gran.’

‘What on earth does that mean, dear?’ Emma asked, her brows lifting, expressing her puzzlement.

‘International White Trash.’

Emma guffawed. ‘That’s a new one on me. And whilst I get the implication, explain further, please, Emily.’

‘It’s a term for men with murky backgrounds, even questionable backgrounds, who have social aspirations which they can only hope to fulfil in another country. I mean a country not their own. You know, where inconsistencies won’t be spotted. It could be an Englishman in Paris, a Russian in New York, or, as in this instance, a frog in London.’ Emily made a disagreeable face. ‘Marc Deboyne has been flitting around Mayfair’s fashionable drawing rooms for years, and I’m surprised Mummy got involved with him. He’s so transparent . He must have managed to dupe her somehow. Personally, I think he stinks, Gran.’

Emma frowned. ‘Have you met him then?’

‘Yes, and before Mummy too.’ She stopped short, deciding not to mention that Deboyne had made a pass at her first. That would really be inflammatory to her Gran. She finished, ‘He’s quite ghastly.’

Emma sighed, and wondered how much this one was going to cost her daughter. For cost her he would. That type of man always came expensive – frequently emotionally, but always financially. Dismally she thought of the million pounds she had given Elizabeth last year. Cold cash, too. Most of it had probably been frittered away by now. Still, what that foolish woman did with the money was no concern of hers. She had only been interested in buying Elizabeth off, and in so doing, protecting Alexander, Emily, and the fifteen-year-old twin girls. Emma said, with some asperity, ‘Your mother is impossible. Impossible . Where are her brains, for God’s sake? Don’t bother to answer that, Emily. In the meantime, out of curiosity, whatever happened to the current husband? That lovely Italian.’

Emily stared at her in disbelief. ‘Grandy!’ she shrieked. ‘What a switch! You always said you thought he was a gigolo. In fact, you were usually quite unkind about him, and I was certain you detested him.’

‘I changed my mind,’ Emma replied loftily. ‘As it turned out he wasn’t a fortune hunter, and he was nice to the twins.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go into the parlour and have a drink before lunch.’ She tucked her arm through Emily’s companionably, and steered her across the floor. She asked again, ‘So, where is Gianni what’s-his-name?’

‘He’s around. He’s moved out of Mummy’s flat, of course. But he’s still in London. He’s got himself a job with some Italian importing company, antiques, I believe. He often telephones me to ask about Amanda and Francesca. He’s rather attached to them I think.’

‘I see.’ Emma disentangled her arm and lowered herself on to one of the sofas. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic, Emily, instead of the usual sherry. Do the honours, please, dear.’

‘Yes, Grandy. I think I’ll have one myself.’ Always in a tearing hurry, Emily dashed across the room to the Georgian table which held a silver tray of bottles and Baccarat crystal glasses. Emma’s eyes followed her. In the red wool suit and frilly lilac blouse Emily reminded her of an iridescent humming-bird, so small, so swift, so brilliantly plumed, and so full of life. She’s a good girl, Emma thought. Thank God she hasn’t turned out like her mother.

Mixing the drinks deftly, Emily said, over her shoulder, ‘Talking of my baby half-sisters, Gran, are you going to let them stay at Harrogate College?’

‘For the moment. But I fully intend to pack them off to finishing school in Switzerland this September. In the meantime, they seem to be happy at the college. Of course, I realize that’s because of my proximity. I suppose I spoil them, letting them come home so much.’ Emma paused, remembering the fuss and bother and upset the previous year, when her two youngest grandchildren had tearfully begged to come and live with her. Emma had finally succumbed under their constant pressuring, although her acquiescence had been conditional. For their part, they had had to agree to attend the nearby boarding school Emma had selected. The girls had been thrilled, their mother delighted to be rid of them, Emma relieved that she had averted a nasty family contretemps from developing further.

Leaning back against the cushions, she let out a tiny sigh. ‘Anyway, spoil them or not, I do feel those two need mothering, and a chance to lead a normal family life. They’ve had little enough of either with your mother.’