Chapter 7 #2
Tony opened the door and went in first. “I’ve brought the young lady from Australia, Father,” he said. “You wanted to see her?”
“I do. Come in.”
Emma stepped into a pleasant room with royal blue carpet and white walls, lined with bookshelves.
The view beyond was of a small garden with a trellis, but the room itself was dominated by a huge mahogany desk.
The man behind the desk was a commanding presence, a shock of grey hair, a strong jaw and deep frown lines giving him an aggressive expression.
Emma wondered why he was planning to retire, when he still looked so vibrant.
“So you’re the young lady who has created such a stir,” he said. “Come in. Take a seat.”
He motioned to a leather captain’s chair in the window. As Emma moved towards the chair she noticed that Mr Gordon was actually sitting in a wheelchair with a rug over his knees.
“I don’t think one good review in The Sunday Times amounts to creating a stir, sir,” she said, attempting to give him a friendly smile because he was still scowling.
“I don’t mean the book. I mean yesterday. Quite a kerfuffle, so I understand. Cynthia having a tantrum and not speaking to Iris.”
“None of my doing, I assure you,” Emma said. “Look, it was not my idea to suggest I could finish her book—in fact I’m fairly sure that I won’t be able to. I’m still a very amateur writer, and it’s worrying to me that Iris has got it into her head that I’m the one she wants.”
Mr Gordon smiled now, making him look less formidable, and Emma realized that the frown lines might be because of pain.
“You don’t know Iris, my dear. I’ve been her solicitor since the thirties and she does get these whims. She also likes to get her own way.
Once she’s made up her mind she won’t let go.
She’s like a dog with a bone. So I would say do your very best to make it happen, then we’ll all have an easy life. If not, God help us.”
“I will do my best, Mr Gordon, but I can’t promise anything. Not every writer can write like someone else, and I’ve already told her that I have no clue about Scotland or the Scots. I’ve never met one.”
“That’s a lie,” he said. “You’ve met two.
Right in this room. Gordon is a Scottish name, although my family has been in the south for many generations.
But we carry the ancestry and the name proudly, like all Scots do.
” He glanced up at his son. “Grab a chair, Tony, for God’s sake.
You make me nervous hovering like that.”
“Sorry, Father.” Tony pulled up a wooden chair, closer to the desk. Emma wondered if he was scared of his father, or was he just trying to do the right thing with Emma present?
“Now, Miss Callander,” Mr Gordon said. “I just want to ask you a few questions. You have to understand that any person working with someone of the stature of Iris Blackburn has to be vetted. There is a lot of money at stake as well as her reputation, and her peace of mind. I consider myself the guardian at her gate.”
When Emma nodded he went on. “Now, my dear, your full name?”
“Emma Louise Callander.”
“And your date of birth?”
“September the twelfth, nineteen forty-two.”
“You’ve just had a birthday!” He looked quite human now.
“Yes. Last week. My flatmates made a curry. It was rather a disaster.” She grinned.
“Where were you born?”
“Where was I born?” She sounded amused that anyone would want to know this. “In New South Wales and to be precise in the hospital in Cessnock, not too far from my home at the winery.”
“The winery is called?”
“Callander Wines,” she said as if this was a silly question.
“And your father’s name?” He was barking out the questions with rapid fire.
This was beginning to annoy Emma. “Rory Callander.”
“His full name? Did he have a middle name?”
“I don’t know.” She stopped to think. “My parents were Mum and Dad. I never used their names. Hang on, wait a minute. I think his middle name was Blake.”
“Blake? You’re sure?”
She shrugged. “Not sure. I think I saw it written on his death certificate, but I could be wrong.”
“No problem. Your mother’s name?”
“Amelia May Callander. Only it’s not Callander any more, it’s Warton.
She remarried.” She stopped, frowning at him now.
“Look, I don’t want to appear rude, Mr Gordon, but what has any of this to do with me?
My dad is dead. My mum is off somewhere married to someone else, and I’m a grown woman earning my living in London. ”
Arthur Gordon rested an elbow on the desk, examining her. “Mere formality, my dear. So tell me a bit about your life growing up.”
“Is this really necessary?” Emma said, trying not to feel she was being backed into a corner.
He chuckled then. “Not at all. The first part was, just to make sure you are who you claim to be, but now I’m just interested, so humour a sick man, will you?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Were you in an accident?”
“No accident. A bloody war. I was in the tank regiment in North Africa. A shell landed too close and left me with useless legs. That’s why I’m pushing Tony to take over more of the work.” She saw the bitterness in his face now.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
“So am I. Bloody nuisance, if you’ll pardon the language. I used to love my golf and swimming and all those things that make life worthwhile. So humour a poor old invalid, will you?”
“Of course.” She smiled now. “I don’t have much to tell. I had a normal childhood, quite nice, nothing special.”
“You were happy?”
“Yes, happy enough. A bit lonely. There were no other kids around, so I read a lot of books, rode my pony. Tried my hand at writing my own stories.”
“Ah, so you’ve always been a writer?”
Emma gave an awkward shrug. “I’ve always liked to write. I’m not sure any of it was any good but it was a great outlet for me.”
“And you went to school where?”
“I was sent off to boarding school when I was thirteen, and that was quite nice, too. And in the sixth form I was about to apply to the University of Newcastle, not too far from us, when I was offered a scholarship to Oxford.”
“Really. How wonderful. But you didn’t take it?”
“No.”
“Why miss a chance like that? Was it just too far from home at the time?”
“Not at all,” she said. She looked away, staring at the view outside the window.
“I would have given my eyeteeth to go, but my dad was killed in a freak accident. A farm machine ran over him. And my mum, who was never the strongest of women, completely went to pieces. She had a nervous breakdown. So I couldn’t leave her. ”
“An admirable daughter.”
“Not really. It was just the right thing to do.”
He was staring at her with interest. “I can see why Iris took to you. She likes people who do the right thing.”
“Anyway,” Emma said. “It’s all in the past now. My mother remarried and she’s off living happily on someone else’s estate and I’m here, so all is well.”
“You don’t miss her?”
“Good Lord, no.” The words just came out more forcefully than Emma intended.
She blushed. “I was never as close to her as I was to my dad. He was a lovely man. He enjoyed life, he loved to laugh, always very active, tennis, swimming, riding . . . You name it, he did them all. And we got along so well. He’d take me with him, show me what he was doing on the estate, and we’d talk about life.
My mum . . . well, you could never get close to her.
She was always a bit critical, of how I looked, what I was wearing, and I think she wasn’t happy being stuck out in the country, although they did lead quite an active social life. ”
Arthur Gordon nodded. “So you’re not homesick here?”
“On the contrary,” Emma said. “I’m quite homesick at the moment; in fact if this hadn’t turned up I was all set to book my passage home.”
“Back to your winery?”
“Oh no.” Emma stopped, frowning. “That’s now occupied by Dad’s cousin and his family. There’s not really room for me, and anyway, what would I do out in the back of Bourke?”
“Back of Bourke?” He looked amused.
“Middle of nowhere,” she explained. “An Australian expression. Bourke is a town in the outback.”
“Such quaint expressions you Australians have.” He looked amused. “So what would you do back in Australia?”
“Get a job in Sydney, I suppose. Go to the beach or up to the Blue Mountains. Enjoy the outdoors. That’s what I miss here—blue skies, open spaces. You feel so hemmed in in London. I go to Hyde Park and walk around, but it’s not the same.”
“I’ve never been a city person myself,” Arthur Gordon said and nodded in affirmation. “Well, Miss Callander, I think we’ve grilled you long enough. My son has a contract for you to sign when you meet with Iris. All a formality to keep her safe.”
“And me?” Emma asked. “Am I to be kept safe?”
“I assure you that Miss Blackburn intends to do right by you, Emma. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed if you follow this through.” He waved a dismissing hand. “Off you go then. You know Iris doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”