calendar, a fundraiser on an impressive scale. There was always a rush for tickets; this year, because of the centenary, it was likely to prove a mad scramble.
‘I’ll get the tickets in the morning,’ Diane promised. They always looked forward to the event, they both enjoyed the big local social occasions. Diane had arranged some time ago to have the evening off work.
Her expression suddenly changed to a frown. ‘I suppose Edgar and Claire will be there?’
‘Yes, of course they will,’ Lester responded. ‘Edgar’s expected to go, in his job. And Claire’s gone with him every year since they’ve been married.’
Her frown deepened. She was three years younger than Claire, no small gap during the years of growing up; they hadn’t known each other in those days. Claire had married Edgar – much to everyone’s surprise, not least that of Edgar himself – twelve months after Lester’s marriage to Diane. The two women had never taken to each other. Relations between the households had teetered along on a shaky footing, finally petering out altogether a few months ago.
Diane’s tone was sulky. ‘If Claire’s going to be there, then I’m not going.’ Ill humour gave her face a tigerish look.
Lester was astounded. ‘Of course you’re going! Your father’s making a big donation this year. His evening will be ruined if you’re not there to see it.’ The donation ceremony, with its formal announcing of names and amounts, punctuated with drum rolls and storms of applause, was always the highlight of the evening. ‘If you don’t go, I can’t go. It would look very odd if I went without you.’
Her face remained mutinous.
He tried another tack. ‘Stuart will be there this year, now he’s old enough to go.’ Stuart was Diane’s younger brother, they had always been close. And Lester had always got on well with Stuart. ‘It would spoil all his pleasure in going if you stayed away.’
He detected a faint softening of her expression, his tone grew cajoling. ‘I honestly can’t see why it should bother you in the least if Claire’s there. The hall’s big enough in all conscience, there isn’t the slightest need for you to go anywhere near either of them all evening.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Diane grudgingly acknowledged.
He delivered his masterstroke. ‘You go out and get yourself something really stunning to wear, guaranteed to knock Claire’s eye out. Never mind what it costs, I’ll pay.’ Diane had always envied Claire her style of looks, her easy elegance.
She began to smile. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘You win.’
He jumped up, went over and flung an arm round her. He gave her shoulders a squeeze, bent his head and planted a jubilant kiss on her cheek. ‘That’s my girl! We’ll have a great evening! You’ll see!’
A mile or so from the dwelling he had built for his daughter and son-in-law, Tom Mansell’s splendid modern residence stood on the brow of a hill in a superb situation with magnificent views.
On Wednesday morning Mansell woke even earlier than usual. His brain, ever active with plans and enterprises, even during sleep, roused him to full wakefulness before five. He knew the moment he opened his eyes it was all settled, his mind was definitely made up.
He pulled on a dressing-gown and made his way silently from the room, along the corridor, past the bedroom of his son Stuart, eighteen years old now, learning the ropes at the yard – under his own careful supervision – since leaving school over twelve months ago. Past the flight of stairs leading up to the suite of rooms set aside for his housekeeper, a highly respectable widow, good-natured and motherly, in her sixties now. She had kept house for him for the past fifteen years, had ably and cheerfully assisted in the upbringing of his two children. The last ten of those years had been spent in this house, the house he had built for himself and his children, the kind of house he had always dreamed of.
He went down the stairs, towards the kitchen. He was a muscular man, forty-eight years old, a little over medium height, very striking in appearance. His hair was already snow-white, though still thick and wavy, but his heavy eyebrows had remained jet black. His skin was deeply tanned, his eyes a piercing sapphire blue. He exuded a feeling of raw power.
In the kitchen he made himself a pot of tea and carried it along to his study. He sat down at his desk and addressed himself to the matter that had been occupying his thoughts for some time now: the desirability of opening a second yard. Wychford, yes, that was definitely the place; he was getting more and more work these days over in that direction.
He smiled as he drank his tea. He would deeply relish the challenge of setting about cutting himself a second slice of the cake. He would move Lester over to take charge of the new branch. Lester would do well there, he had a good head on his shoulders. He had never traded on his position as the boss’s son-in-law, had always pulled his full weight, he had more than earned his promotion. And he might very well find a spot in the new set-up for Norman Griffin. A useful and loyal henchman, the right stuff in him, the backbone to start taking on a bit of responsibility.
He stood up and went to a wall map. Pins and flags marked current developments, projects still under discussion, sites of possible future interest, and, most mouthwatering of all, likely locations for the second yard. He studied the map closely, then he moved on to consult the calendar – his own trade calendar, expensively produced, beautifully photographed, portraying the best of the firm’s work over the previous year. It bore the correct name of the firm, Dobie and Mansell, though the business was known everywhere these days simply as Mansell‘s.
Dobie was now retired, living abroad. The firm had been started by Dobie’s father after the First World War, Tom Mansell had come in fifteen years ago. Dobie had taken no active part in the management since his retirement. As long as his share of the steadily increasing profits kept rolling in, he didn’t bother his head about what went on in the business.
Mansell fingered back the glossy pages, considering dates: September . . . October . . . November . . . His face broke into a smile, he jabbed a finger down. ‘That’s it!’ he said aloud. Sunday, November 11. He’d have them all here together for a slap-up lunch, Lester, Diane, Stuart, he’d make his announcement then.
It pleased his fancy to choose the anniversary of the day he had taken over sole active control of the firm. Dobie had left the yard for the last time thirteen years ago, on November 10, at the end of the working day. Early next morning, before anyone was about, Mansell had driven into the yard. He had walked about the entire place with a great grin on his face, knowing it was all before him, tasting the powerful sweetness of the moment.
He picked up one of the framed photographs ranged along a shelf, one he particularly liked: Diane and Lester, strolling in the rose garden here, holding hands, smiling at each other. He’d taken the photograph himself one Sunday afternoon when they’d come to tea, not long after they’d got back from their honeymoon.
He gazed fondly down at the smiling pair. How right he had been to encourage the match – in spite of the opposition from that brother of Lester’s. Edgar always struck Mansell as a dry stick, though still a couple of years away from forty. His thoughts were briefly side-tracked by a vision of Claire, beautiful and elegant. The question rose in his mind, by no means for the first time: Whatever could have persuaded a woman like that to marry such a man?
He dragged his thoughts back to Diane and Lester.
