darling, rise above it. As I have always done. And forget Sebastian Cross. He’s the least of your worries.’
‘Yes, you’re right on all counts, as usual, Grandmother,’ Paula said and pushed away the dismaying memory of those hard eyes which had filled with loathing for her that morning. She felt a shiver trickle through her. Sebastian Cross would do her harm if he could. This unexpected thought immediately seemed silly, farfetched and overly imaginative, and Paula laughed silently at herself, and dismissed such an idea.
Rising, she crossed to the fireplace and stood warming her back for a moment or two. Her eyes swept around the lovely old room. It looked so peaceful, so gentle in the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the many windows, with every beautiful object in its given place, the fire crackling merrily in the huge grate, the old carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece as it had for as long as she could remember. She had loved the upstairs parlour all of her life, had found comfort and tranquillity here. It was a room abundant with graciousness and harmony, where nothing ever changed, and it was this timelessness which made it seem so far removed from the outside world and all its ugliness. It’s a very civilized room, she said to herself, created by a very civilized and extraordinary woman. She looked across at Emma, relaxed on the sofa and so pretty in the pale blue dress, and her eyes became tender. Paula thought: she is an old woman now, in her eightieth year, yet she never seems old to me. She could easily be my age with her vigour and strength and zest and enthusiasm. And she is my best friend.
For the first time since she had arrived, Paula smiled. ‘So much for my wheeling and dealing … skirmishing might be a better way to describe it, Grandy.’
‘And so much for my new project. Now that that’s flown out of the window, I’ll have to find another one, or take up knitting.’
Paula could not help grinning. ‘That’ll be the day,’ she retorted, merriment swamping her face. Stepping back to the sofa, she sat down, lifted her cup and took a sip of tea, then remarked casually, ‘I had lunch with Miranda O’Neill today, and – ’
‘Oh dear, that reminds me, I’m afraid I won’t be here for dinner this evening. I’m going out with Blackie and Shane.’
‘Yes, so Merry told me.’
‘My God, can’t I take a breath around here without everyone knowing!’ Emma paused, scanned Paula’s face. ‘Well, you don’t seem too upset, so I presume you don’t mind that I’m trotting off and leaving you to cope with Edwina. Don’t worry, she’ll behave.’
‘I’m not concerned. I was at first, but I decided she’s Jim’s problem. He invited her, so he can entertain her. In any case, Mummy’s always pretty good with Edwina. She knows how to appropriately squelch her, in the nicest possible way too.’ Paula put down her cup and saucer, leaned closer. ‘Listen, Grandy dear, Merry has had an idea, one that might appeal to you. It could be just the project you’re looking for.’
‘Oh, has she. Well then, tell me about it.’
Paula did so, but as she came to the end of her little recital she made a small moue with her mouth, and finished lamely, ‘I can tell you’re not enthusiastic. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’
Emma laughed at her crestfallen expression. ‘Yes, I do. However I’m not interested in taking it on as a personal project. Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pursue the idea and develop it further with Merry. It could be good for the stores. Come back to me when you have it refined. Perhaps we will open the boutiques.’
‘I’ll set up a meeting with her for next week – ’ Paula stopped, peered at Emma. ‘Out of curiosity, why don’t you think it’s a project for you?’
‘There’s no challenge to it. I like tougher nuts to crack.’
‘Oh Lord! And where on earth am I going to find such a thing for you?’
‘I might find my own project, you know.’ Emma’s green eyes twinkled, and she shook her head. ‘You’re constantly trying to mother me these days. I do wish you’d stop.’
Paula joined in Emma’s laughter and admitted, ‘Yes, I am doing that lately, aren’t I. Sorry, Gran.’ She glanced at the clock, swung her eyes back to Emma, said: ‘I think I’d be much better off going home and mothering my babies. If I hurry I’ll get back in time to help the nurse bathe them.’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that, darling. These early years are the most precious, the best really. Don’t sacrifice them.’
Paula stood up and slipped into the magenta jacket, found her handbag, came to kiss Emma. ‘Have a lovely time tonight, and give Uncle Blackie and Shane my love.’
‘I will. And if I don’t see you later, I’ll talk to you in the morning.’
Paula was halfway across the room when Emma called, ‘Oh, Paula, what time do you expect Jim and your parents?’
‘Around six. Jim said he’d be landing at Leeds-Bradford Airport at five.’
‘So he’s flying them up in that dreadful little plane of his, is he?’ Emma pursed her lips in annoyance and gave Paula the benefit of a reproving stare. ‘I thought I’d told the two of you I don’t like you flitting around in that pile of junk.’
‘You did indeed, but Jim has a mind of his own, as you well know. And flying is one of his main hobbies. But perhaps you’d better mention it to him again.’
‘I certainly will,’ Emma said, and waved her out of the room.
They all said that he was a true Celt.
And Shane Desmond Ingham O’Neill had himself come to believe that the heritage of his ancestors was buried deep in his bones, that their ancient blood flowed through his veins, and this filled him with an immense satisfaction and the most profound pride.
When he was accused by some members of his family of being extravagant, impetuous, talkative and vain, he would simply nod, as if relishing their criticisms as compliments.
But Shane often wanted to retort that he was also energetic, intelligent and creative; to point out that these, too, had been traits of those early Britons.
It was as a very small boy that Shane O’Neill had been made aware of his exceptional nature. At first he had been self-conscious, then confused, puzzled and hurt. He saw himself as being different, set apart from others, and this had disturbed him. He wanted to be ordinary; they made him feel freakish. He had detested it when he had overheard adults describe him as fey and overly emotional and mystical.
Then, when he was sixteen and had more of an understanding of the things they said about him, he sought further illumination in the only way he knew – through books. If he was ‘a curious throwback to the Celts’, as they said he was, then he must educate himself about these ancient people whom he apparently so resembled. He had turned to the volumes of history which depicted the early Britons in all their splendour and glory, and the time of the great High Kings and the legendary Arthur of Camelot had become as real to him, and as alive, as the present.
In the years that followed his interest in history had never waned, and it was a continuing hobby.
