‘I was hoping to see you before then, Aunt Emma. How would you like to go out on the town tonight, with two fun-loving bachelors?’
Emma laughed gaily. ‘And who’s the other fun-loving bachelor?’
‘Grandfather, of course, who else?’
‘Fun-loving! He’s getting to be an old stick-in-the-mud, if you ask me.’
‘I wouldn’t be saying that, mavourneen,’ Blackie boomed into the phone, having taken it away from his grandson. ‘I bet I could still give you a run for your money, if I got half the chance.’
‘I’m sure you could, darling.’ Emma smiled into the phone, her heart warming to him. ‘However, I’m afraid you won’t get that chance tonight. I can’t accept your invitation, Blackie dear. Some of the family are arriving later, and I ought to be here.’
‘No,’ Blackie interjected peremptorily. ‘You can see them tomorrow. Ah now, don’t be refusin’ me, darlin’,’ he cajoled. ‘Apart from wanting the pleasure of your lovely company, I need your advice on an important business matter.’
‘Oh!’ Emma was mildly taken aback by this statement. Blackie had retired and left the running of his companies to his son, Bryan, and to Shane. Not unnaturally, her curiosity was piqued, and she said, ‘What kind of business?’
‘I don’t want to be discussing it on the telephone, Emma,’ Blackie said in a softly chiding tone. ‘It’s not something that’s so cut and dried it can be settled in the matter of a few minutes. We have to be going back and forth, you know, dissecting it a bit, and I think we should be doing it over a nice drop of Irish and a fine meal.’
Emma laughed under her breath, wondering how important this so-called business matter really was, but found herself conceding, ‘I suppose I can let them fend for themselves. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t much looking forward to tonight. Even though Daisy and David will be here, the prospect of a family gathering isn’t particularly exciting. So I accept. And where are you and your dashing grandson planning to take me? Out on the town in Leeds isn’t too exciting.’
Laughingly, Blackie concurred and said, ‘But don’t worry, we’ll cook up something, and I promise you won’t be bored.’
‘What time then?’
‘Shane will pick you up around six. Is that all right, me darlin’ girl?’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Good. Good. Until later then. Oh, and Emma?’
‘Yes, Blackie?’
‘Have you given any more thought to me little proposition?’
‘Yes, and I have serious doubts about it working.’
‘Oh, so you’re still me Doubting Emma after all these years, I can see. Well, we’ll discuss that tonight, too, and maybe I can be convincing you yet.’
‘Perhaps,’ she murmured softly as he hung up.
Emma sat back, contemplating Blackie O’Neill. Doubting Emma. A faint smile flickered in her eyes. When had he first called her that? Was it 1904 or 1905? She was no longer sure, but it had been thereabouts, and Blackie had been her dearest, closest friend for all of those sixty-five years. For a whole lifetime. Always there when she needed him, loyal, devoted, supportive and loving. They had been through most of life’s exigencies together, had shared each other’s terrible losses and defeats, pain and anguish; had celebrated each other’s triumphs and joys. Of their contemporaries, there were only the two of them left, and they were closer than ever, inseparable really. She did not know what she would do if anything happened to him. She resolutely squashed this unacceptable thought before it took hold. Blackie was an old war horse, just as she herself was an old war horse, and even though he was eighty-three there was a great deal of surging life and vitality left in him. But no one lasts indefinitely, she thought, experiencing a twinge of anxiousness, whilst acknowledging the inevitable. At their grand ages mortality was a given, one which could not be argued with, and impending death was an old, if unwelcome, familiar.
There was a knock on the door.
Emma glanced at it, adopted her normal expression of cool inscrutability, and called, ‘Come in.’
The door swung open and Alexander entered. He was tall, lean and trim in build, with his mother’s dark good looks, her large, light-blue eyes; but his somewhat serious, saturnine face made him appear older than his twenty-five years, gave him a dignified air. He wore a well-cut dark grey worsted suit, a white shirt and a burgundy silk tie, all of which reflected, and reinforced, his rather sober personality.
‘Good morning, Grandmother,’ he said, striding towards her. Reaching the desk, he added, ‘I must say, you’re looking pretty nifty today.’
‘Morning, Alexander, and thank you for the compliment. Mind you, flattery’s not going to get you anywhere with me,’ she responded crisply. Nonetheless, her eyes danced and she regarded her grandson fondly.
Alexander kissed her on the cheek, seated himself opposite, and protested, ‘I’m not trying to flatter you, Grandy, honestly I’m not. You do look absolutely spiffing. That colour really suits you and the dress is very chic.’
Emma nodded impatiently, waved her hand in airy dismissal, and fixed her grandson with a keen and penetrating stare. ‘What have you come up with?’
‘The only solution to the Fairley problem,’ Alexander began, understanding she wanted to curtail the small talk and plunge into business. His grandmother loathed procrastination, unless it suited her own ends; then she could elevate procrastination to an art. But she scarcely tolerated it in others, so he rushed on. ‘We have to change our product. By that I mean we have to stop manufacturing the expensive woollens and worsted cloths that hardly anybody is buying, and start weaving blends. Man-made fibres, such as nylon and polyester, blended with wool. Those are our best bets.’
‘And you think this move will get us out of the red and into the black?’ Emma asked, her stare intensifying.
‘Yes, I do, Grandy,’ he replied, sounding sure of himself. ‘One of our chief problems at Fairley has been trying to compete with the man-made fibre goods on the market today. Nobody wants pure wool any more, except the Savile Row boys, and they’re not a big enough market for the Fairley output. Look, either we produce the blends or shut up shop – which you don’t want to do. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Can we make the changeover easily?’
Alexander nodded emphatically. ‘We can. By manufacturing cheaper goods we can capture the more popular-priced markets here and abroad, and do volume sales. Of course, it is a question of sales and getting a real foothold in those new markets. But I’m sure we can pull it off.’ He reached into his inside breast pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve analysed every aspect of the plan, and I’m certain I’ve not overlooked one thing. Here it is.’
Emma took it from him, reached for her glasses, studied the closely-typed sheet. She recognized immediately that he had done his homework with his usual diligence. He had refined the idea she herself had toyed with, although she had no intention of revealing this, not wishing to undermine him, or diminish his efforts. She looked up, removed her spectacles and gave him
