Going Gently

by David Nobbs

  It was the first time Bernard had been able to bring himself to mention the dreaded word.

  Kate knew that she had never looked lovelier than that night, and she also knew that, at fifty-five, she might never look quite as lovely again. She had bought a black Dior dress in the very latest ‘A-line’ look. The bodice flowed smoothly from narrow shoulder to banded hip and lightly fitted waistline. It was plain, flowing, feminine, chic. She entered the Corncrake Gallery at two minutes past six. Olga had said, ‘Come early. Support me, my good friend.’

  There were already a few people in that grand, elegant room with its two Georgian chandeliers. The sight of so many of Daniel’s pictures stunned her, and no doubt there were many more in the two side galleries. She accepted a glass of white wine and made her way towards Olga, who was standing in the exact centre of the room, wearing a smart but unfeminine business suit, and looking paler than ever. Three men were talking to her. The one in the smoking jacket and bow-tie looked familiar. The one in the dark three-piece suit looked formidable. The one in the blue sports jacket and dark flannels looked so like Daniel that Kate’s heart almost stopped. It was, she realised, his son Reuben.

  Before she could reach Olga, Kate was waylaid by a man she hadn’t invited. Heinz was wearing a green Harris tweed suit and looked as if he had wandered in from a fashionable shooting party. He looked older, of course, but good. He’d kept himself fit and his goatee trimmed.

  ‘This can’t be coincidence,’ she said.

  ‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in coincidence. I told a friend only yesterday, as it happens, “There is no such thing as coincidence.”’

  ‘That’s incredible. Yesterday! So did I.’

  ‘You didn’t? What a . . . oh, Kate, I nearly fell for that.’ He examined her, as if she were one of the exhibits. His own private view, before the crowds came. ‘Kate, you look fabulous. As good as ever.’

  ‘Thank you. It just takes me longer to get ready.’

  He hugged and kissed her.

  ‘You’ve worn well too, Heinz.’

  ‘Thank you. I came here to see you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘I heard that you and Walter had separated.’

  ‘Oh? How?’

  ‘You forget I worked for him. I have contacts. I also hear news of my princess.’

  ‘She’s coming tonight.’

  ‘Here? My princess?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My soup runneth over, as you say. My Inge died, you know.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Oh yes. A very beautiful woman.’

  ‘Yes. You sent me a photo.’

  ‘So I think to myself, If I do not go and see Kate I will kick myself into touch for ever. Is that right? My English has rusted. So, anyway, here I am.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you pleased to see me?’

  ‘Oh yes. Oh yes, Heinz. Of course I am. I . . . we . . . of course I am.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . well . . .’

  ‘I must have at least a peep at the pictures, Heinz, before the crowds come.’

  Kate had a very quick look at the pictures. She’d known that Daniel was good, but, seeing them all together like this, she realised that he’d been even better than she’d thought. The next day she came back and looked at them properly. He’d been dissatisfied with his work at every stage of his life, and his life had seemed to move from one phase to another in a most arbitrary way, yet here was a diverse but unified body of work, work of consistent excellence and frequent inspiration, work that could not have been created without Daniel’s knowledge of cubism, impressionism, vorticism and surrealism, but which was nevertheless firmly outside these movements and utterly original. Severe, gaunt, eloquent of suffering, masterful in execution, his paintings were a record of a complete yet fractured vision, clear yet distorted, specifically Jewish but also universal. They told a tale of exile, of banishment, of wildernesses, and yet of hope; of starkness, cruelty, chaos and yet of beauty. People were like rocks, landscapes were like people, cities were like fields, rivers were like streets, the Negev was like Salamanca, Delphi was like Daphne Stoneyhurst. Yet all his subjects were clearly differentiated and clearly themselves. Kate would have called it a conjuring trick, had that not carried suggestions of deception and guile.

  That analysis was for tomorrow, and it was Kate’s and maybe hers alone. Now, at the private view of the great Daniel Begelman retrospective exhibition, Kate grieved for the absent genius. Her heart sank to her elegant, high-heeled shoes as she tripped majestically across a room filled with the absence of the slight, quirky, quizzical figure in smock and flat cap, his secular yarmulke. She shook her head, to rid herself of the vision, put on a smiling social face, and prepared herself for the delights of a crowded evening.

  She strode up to Olga. Olga had thickened out and no longer looked frail. She looked like the formidable fighter that she was.

  ‘Kate!’ she enthused. ‘Oh, Kate! Thank you for coming. You know Reuben, of course.’

  She introduced the other two men as ‘Vincent Anstey, Director of the Corncrake’ and ‘Oswald Philliskirk, art critic and legend’.

  Oswald Philliskirk bowed, flattered by the description.

  ‘We’ve met before,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Kate. ‘Nobody could forget you.’

  He bowed again, taking this as a compliment. Kate thought he looked effete, self-indulgent and smug.

  ‘I’m afraid I destroyed your husband’s reputation, with your help,’ he said.

  Kate was determined not to be apologetic on this night.

  ‘It had to be done,’ she said. ‘He was a fake. Olga, I don’t know what the critics will say, but I think the pictures are magnificent.’

  ‘This critic will say that,’ said Oswald Philliskirk.

  ‘I anticipate a huge success,’ said Vincent Anstey. His eyes were like cash registers, and his cuff-links were excessive.

  ‘Not much use to my father,’ said Reuben.

  ‘To you that is naturally sad,’ said Oswald Philliskirk. How smug his bow-tie looked. ‘In the history of art it is of little consequence. Your father’s name will live, Reuben. That’s what matters. Ah well. Duty and deadlines call.’

  He moved off, to examine the pictures. Soon Vincent Anstey and Reuben moved off as well.

  ‘I hardly needed to invite my friends,’ said Kate, looking at the people pouring in.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Olga. ‘I really didn’t know. Oh, Kate, why couldn’t it happen when he was still alive?’

  They talked briefly of Daniel’s later years, the travelling, the poverty, the occasional teaching jobs, the impossible hopes, the inevitable disappointments, the unsung end. Then Kate saw Bernard standing in front of one of the pictures, talking to a man who looked as though he wanted to escape. She made her excuses to Olga and hurried over to her younger brother. He looked so ill, he’d lost weight, his hair was thinning, his eyes were set deep in his face, there was a lump on the side of his neck, and he was sounding off about the pictures, pretentiously but not unintelligently, in a voice similar to the one he’d used at Kate and Walter’s lunch party, but subtly different, this was his gallery voice. She hugged him, and the man to whom he’d been talking made his escape. Just behind them, but sounding miles away, a man with a stutter said, ‘You know these p . p . p . pictures are terrib . . . b . b . . . terrib . . . b . b . . . terribly good.’

  Bernard was as pleased to see Kate as she was shocked to see him. They were incoherent in their love and grief.

  ‘Oh, Bernard,’ she said at last.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know, but the prognosis is much more hopeful.’

  Elizabeth arrived, seventeen and clueless, with her best friend Sylvie, seventeen and shapeless.

  Kate hurried up to Heinz, to tell him. He was with two goodlooking, smartly dressed men.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘My ex-wife. I’d like you to meet two very good
German friends of mine, Graf Von Seemen . . .’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, your grafship.’

  ‘No, No. We do not say this. Just call me Wolfgang.’

  ‘ . . . and Ernest Halle. He’s in the toy business with me.’

  ‘Ah, you’re back in toys!’

  ‘I should say he is,’ said Graf Wolfgang Von Seemen. ‘He is a big man. And now he goes into politics. He is a good man, is Heinz Wasserhof.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Kate.

  ‘If I can play a little part, so that things that happened that shouldn’t have happened can never happen again, I am content,’ said Heinz.

  ‘Heinz, Elizabeth’s here. Sorry, gentlemen, to . . . er . . . but . . .’

  ‘Elizabeth is our daughter,’ said Heinz in a low voice.

  Kate led Heinz away and pointed Elizabeth out.

  ‘I wouldn’t have recognised her.’

  ‘Your English rose has greenfly.’

  ‘Kate! That’s cruel.’

  ‘Just my way with words. I love Elizabeth, and she’ll make some man a lovely wife.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Well, she will. But she isn’t a princess.’

  ‘No. No, she isn’t a princess.’

  ‘Shall I introduce you to her? Begin the process whereby she might one day be told who you are?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘That sounds very half-hearted.’

  ‘How can I be wholehearted? This is heart-rending.’

  ‘Well, shall I?’

  ‘Well, I think you must.’

  So Kate led Heinz over to his daughter.

  ‘Elizabeth, dear, this is a friend of mine from Germany, Heinz Wasserhof.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Elizabeth, blushing slightly from shyness.

  ‘It’s good to meet you.’

  ‘And this is her friend Sylvie.’

  ‘Hello, Sylvie.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘So what do you think of the pictures, Elizabeth?’ asked Heinz.

  ‘I haven’t really looked at them,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but they seem nice enough.’

  ‘Nice! That word surprises me,’ said Heinz, ‘because I think they are many things, but not nice. I think they are great art but not nice art.’

  Elizabeth blushed.

  ‘No, no. Don’t be upset. I am not being rude,’ said her father. ‘The great thing about art is that we all see it differently.’

  ‘I haven’t really been taught how to look at art,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘No? Well, I will just say this. Two people look at a painting. One is an expert with fifty years’ experience. The other comes from the jungle and has never seen a picture before. But they both have two eyes. Yes?’

  ‘I will come and look at the pictures again, I promise,’ said Elizabeth.

  Kate found it strange that Elizabeth had said, ‘I promise,’ to the man whom she didn’t know to be her father. It was as if she’d sensed that his interest was more than just polite.

  ‘And what do you think about the pictures, Sylvie?’ asked Heinz.

  ‘I haven’t had time to look at them,’ said Sylvie.

  ‘Excuse me. There’s Uncle Bernard,’ said Elizabeth. She moved on, and Heinz sighed, and Sylvie gave him a funny look and moved on in pursuit of Elizabeth, her anchor.

  ‘Well, there we are,’ said Heinz to Kate. ‘I have met our daughter again.’

  There was a heavy, flat silence between Kate and Heinz then. Things were hotting up behind them. Kate heard a voice cry, ‘Daphne!’ and the man with the stutter said, ‘Isn’t that Bunny Parr-Parr-Parr-Parr-Parr-Parr-Parr-Parkinson over there?’ and somebody replied, ‘She’s Bunny Thomas now. She married some Welshman,’ and still Heinz was looking at Kate quizzically.

  ‘Your friends seem nice,’ said Kate. ‘Herr Halle and the Sperm Count.’

  ‘The Sperm Count?’

  ‘Graf Von Seemen.’

  ‘Kate! You’re incorrigible.’ His tone changed. He became serious, almost pleading. ‘Kate?’

  ‘By all means. Phone me tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were going to ask me to dinner. Good idea. Lots to mull over. Excuse me.’

  Kate began to put on a performance then. She went over to Oliver and Bunny. Oliver was still very good-looking. Bunny had been ill advised about her outfit. Expensive it might be, but red made her look bulky.

  ‘Oliver! Bunny!’

  They embraced.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ said Oliver, and Bunny scowled. ‘That’s a beautiful dress.’

  ‘Thank you. I bought it with Walter’s money. It’s odd, I suppose. On our first separation I wouldn’t take his money. It seemed soiled by what he’d done. This time, when it’s all my fault, I have no such compunction. It eases the pain a little. Let’s get some wine.’

  They pushed their way through the crowd to the drinks table.

  ‘I thought there was going to be nobody here,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s an absolute scrum.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kate. ‘It’s not as I expected. Have an olive.’

  ‘Oh no, thank you,’ said Bunny, so loudly that two people turned round to see what was wrong. ‘I detest olives,’ she added proudly.

  ‘What do you think of the pictures?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to look,’ said Bunny.

  Bunny approached the pictures with a brave, set face, as if crossing terrain studded with land-mines. This was Kate’s chance.

  ‘Bernard looks so ill,’ she said to Oliver in a low voice.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He is so ill.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Couldn’t you do more?’

  ‘Use my influence, you mean? I do, Kate. I’ve made enquiries. The man he’s under is well thought of. I keep a close watch. I put pressure on.’

  ‘I’m sure you do everything you can professionally. I meant as a brother. As a friend.’

  ‘I know. I know. But it’s difficult.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  ‘He upsets Bunny. She can’t handle it.’

  ‘Upsets her? How?’

  ‘Those flecks of foam around his teeth. Can’t he do something about that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s hardly a hanging offence.’

  ‘That lump on his neck. Bunny finds it difficult.’

  ‘I don’t expect he finds it a doddle.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Oliver! And you a doctor! And you the golden boy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Where’s your compassion, Oliver?’

  ‘I feel for Bernard, Kate. I love him. But he doesn’t make things easy for himself, vis-à-vis Bunny. He told her an extinct dinosaur had more political nous than her.’

  Kate gave a short snort of a laugh.

  ‘It isn’t funny, Kate.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s tragic.’

  ‘Look after Bunny for a while, Kate, keep her occupied, and I’ll go and chat to him.’

  ‘Thank you. How will I keep her occupied?’

  ‘Introduce her to people. People take to her, Kate. She’s a good mixer. I’ll go and . . . what’ll I say to him?’

  ‘You’ve lived in England too long. Just be yourself. Be Welsh. Tell him you love him. Spout away. Tell him you think of him all the time. Open your heart, and his. Come over all emotional and Celtic.’

  ‘Right. Emotional and Celtic. Will do.’

  Oliver slid off looking as if he was about to have a particularly sticky interview with his bank manager. Kate joined Bunny in front of a stark, strong, uncompromising painting of the Negev.

  ‘Well?’ said Kate.

  ‘I prefer landscapes.’

  ‘That is a landscape, Bunny.’

  ‘No, no. I meant . . . proper landscapes. I’m sorry . . .’ She sounded anything but sorry. ‘ . . . but I can’t make head or tail of these.’ She sounded proud! Anger rose slowly in Kate’s gullet, as Bunny
waffled on. ‘No, I like things I can recognise in paintings. Fields, mountains, lakes . . .’

  Anger at Bunny for her complacent stupidity.

  ‘ . . . birds, ducks, geese, Peter Scott . . .’

  Anger at Oliver for marrying Bunny. Was he so insecure, the former golden boy, that he had to marry double-barrelled women, not that she’d been double-barrelled before she met Peter Parr-Parkinson.

  ‘ . . . I like horses too. Munnings, Stubbs . . .’

  Anger at Bernard’s undeserved lump. Anger at Daniel’s unappreciated life.

  ‘ . . . and still lifes . . .’

  Anger at this wine-sipping, olive-guzzling, overdressed crowd.

  ‘ . . . if one can say “still lifes”. Or should it be “still lives”? But that sounds wrong. Anyway, I like them . . .’

  Anger at the world for recognising Daniel too late, too late.

  ‘ . . . flowers, vases of flowers . . .’

  All this anger was no use. Kate tried to control it, turned to Bunny, and said, ‘You have catholic tastes.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Bunny. ‘I hate all that. Madonnas and bambinos. All that spirituality and what the babies so obviously need is a good burping.’

  ‘No, I meant . . .’ Why do I persist? To give Oliver time with Bernard. ‘No, I meant . . . you like a wide variety of paintings.’

  ‘Oh yes. Not fruit, though.’

  ‘Fruit?’

  Bunny looked at Kate as at a halfwit.

  ‘You know. Apples, pears, bananas, plums. Fruit. I can’t stand paintings of fruit.’ A dreadful thought struck Bunny. ‘You didn’t give us a painting of fruit for a wedding present, did you?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t invited, so I didn’t give anything.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that. I can be tactless, Kate. I was known for my faux pas, in Harpenden. Oh good. I’m glad you didn’t. Two people did. We keep them in the loft.’

  Bunny looked round, searching for Oliver.

  ‘Let me introduce you to some people,’ said Kate, steering her by the arm through the swelling mob, searching for people to whom it would be safe to introduce Bunny.

  Elizabeth and Sylvie would do. They were huddling together, trying to look like a crowd and failing miserably.