Holly Lester

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘Don’t worry – you’re not really late, and it’s not very formal today. The American ambassador is here, which is a bit of a bore, but he’s friends with the President and we need to get on. Alan’s here, naturally, and his mother.’

  ‘Hang on,’ he said suddenly, ‘wasn’t that a Van Dyck back there?’

  ‘No. It’s a copy. Someone named John Stone. It used to hang in the Great Hall, but I moved it. If I want Great Masters I can go to the National Gallery, so why have ersatz ones hanging around?’

  They had moved into a small hallway with a stone floor. Holly flung open a door and led him into a vast drawing room, with a first floor hallway exposed on one side above an arcade with three arches. ‘This is the Great Hall,’ she said matter-of-factly, and led him towards the drinks tray and the other guests. A fire was burning nicely and unnecessarily – it was almost seventy degrees outside, and sunlight cascaded through high windows at the far end.

  Alan Trachtenberg was wearing a canary yellow bow tie and holding a promising-looking Bloody Mary. He nodded amiably at Billings. ‘You know each other,’ said Holly levelly. ‘Where’s Harry?’

  ‘With the Ambassador,’ said Trachtenberg. ‘I’ve just left them in the White Parlour. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s my favourite room. Excuse me a minute,’ said Holly, and went to speak with one of the waiters.

  Trachtenberg looked at Billings with reduced cordiality. ‘Is this your first time here? Or did you have chums in the last lot? I’d have thought you’d have preferred it back then. Those were more your style of politics, weren’t they?’

  Billings shrugged and tried to stay relaxed. ‘I wouldn’t say I had any real preference for a style of politics. In fact, I’m not all that concerned about politics, one way or another.’

  Trachtenberg found this heretical. ‘That’s even worse than being a wet Tory.’ To Billings, his intensity was at once fascinating and creepy. Now Trachtenberg said in a hiss, ‘I know you don’t care about the Party, I know you don’t give a toss about any of the things the rest of us are prepared to die for, but at the very least you could pretend that you’re not hanging around solely for the purpose of…’ He glanced meaningfully at Holly. ‘Picking up crumbs from the master’s table.’

  Crumbs? Holly as a desiccating biscuit? Billings couldn’t help but smile, which seemed especially to infuriate Trachtenberg. ‘Don’t smirk,’ Trachtenberg commanded, struggling to keep his voice down.

  Billings sighed instead. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what are these things you’re so ready to die for? You sound like Churchill manning the ramparts in 1940. If I thought you were an old style ideologue – Tony Benn’s successor on the Left – then I could understand your contempt for someone apolitical like me. But it’s not policies we disagree about, is it? It’s simply whether it’s reasonable to spend any time when one isn’t living and breathing politics. I say it’s not only all right, it’s the only sane way to conduct one’s life. You find this inconceivable. You think I’m an irresponsible elitist. And I,’ he said, finishing in a rush as he spotted Holly coming back to them, ‘think you’re out of your mind.’

  Holly had two other guests in tow. One was an old woman with a sharp face who looked spry and alert. ‘This is Queenie. Alan’s mother,’ said Holly to Billings. He shook the woman’s thin dry hand.

  ‘And this is Canon Flowing.’ Billings looked up at a very tall figure with long white hair, wearing a dog collar.

  ‘You’ve just arrived?’ the man asked him.

  ‘I got slightly lost, I’m afraid,’ Billings admitted.

  ‘You drove yourself?’

  Billings nodded. The old lady named Queenie snorted, then said crisply to the Canon, ‘I suppose you came by public transport.’

  Canon Flowing smiled benignly. ‘Far from it. I have had the generous loan of a car and driver from the Palace.’

  ‘You’re staying there?’ asked Queenie sharply.

  ‘For the time being,’ said Canon Flowing, unperturbed.

  There was an edge to this exchange which Billings attempted to smooth over. ‘I imagine with the Queen at Balmoral the royal chauffeur service is fairly underemployed right now.’

  Canon Flowing looked at him as if he were insane, then took two canapés from a waiter’s proffered tray. Queenie explained: ‘Not that palace. It’s Lambeth Palace. The Archbishop’s.’

  ‘I see,’ said Billings.

  Queenie added, ‘They’re not stupid – even they know who won the Election. They’re no different to anyone else, whatever some people say – they want to keep the butter on their bread, too.’

  Holly broke the slightly awkward silence which ensued by taking Billings by the arm. ‘Come and meet the others,’ she said. Leading him away she whispered, ‘Take no notice of Queenie. Alan’s devoted to her, so we have to have her here, but politically she’s in the Stone Age.’

  They moved towards the fireplace where a waiter gave him a large Bloody Mary and he found the now familiar figure of Sally Kimmo talking to another man. She greeted him warmly: ‘I said we would be meeting soon.’ The man next to her turned around, and Billings found it was none other than the Professore. Before he could express his astonishment a door opened and a man in serving uniform strode in. ‘Luncheon is served, madam,’ he bellowed across the room to Holly.

  ‘Thank you Mr Jenkins. Why don’t we all go in?’ she announced to the guests, then looked at the man named Jenkins. ‘Will you tell Harr – the Prime Minister and the Ambassador that we’re going in?’

  They walked through to the dining room, which held a stunning mahogany table, simply set and gleaming with polish. ‘I’ll let Harry take the far end,’ Holly declared, seating herself at the end closest the door. ‘If he ever lets the Ambassador have his lunch. And in case they’re very late I’m going to break with men-next-to-women ranks and put Henry beside Harry.’ She positioned the rest of them, putting Billings down one end, between Queenie and Adele Eloise, the ambassador’s wife. Blessedly, Trachtenberg sat on the other side of Adele and was thus blocked from Billings’s view.

  As they all sat down, Holly suddenly jumped up. ‘Canon Flowing,’ she said, ‘perhaps you would be kind enough to say Grace.’

  At first, Canon Flowing said nothing in reply, chiefly because his mouth was already full of the bread roll each of them had on a side plate. Unruffled, he stood up slowly, swallowed carefully, then intoned, ‘Oh Lord, thank you for the food we eat, thank you for the fruit and meat. Thank you, thank you Lord.’

  ‘The old fraud,’ said Queenie aloud, as they all sat down to their vichyssoise. Billings exchanged pleasantries about living in London with Adele Eloise while Queenie ate her soup loudly. As the main course of roast beef was served, Harry entered the room in a rush, apologizing loudly, with the ambassador in tow and a very tall man Billings recognized as his press spokesman, Hamish Ferguson. All three men wore polo shirts and blue blazers; Billings realized that he and the Professore were the only men wearing ties.

  Harry was in exuberant spirits. ‘Sorry darling,’ he called down to Holly. ‘We were on the phone with the President.’ The boyishness of this boast was almost endearing.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Holly.

  Henry Eloise, the Ambassador replied. ‘In excellent form. And so much looking forward to meeting you both next month.’

  Queenie turned to Billings and rolled her eyes. ‘Lucky them,’ she said.

  Adele Eloise took her literally. ‘He’s just the most charismatic man,’ she said, with a hint of a Texan accent.

  ‘That seems to be what all the girls say,’ Queenie declared, and Adele Eloise blushed.

  Harry Lester was continuing to talk with Henry Eloise as they were served thin slices of rare roast beef, taking great gulps of the light Italian red wine on the table. Billings caught Holly watching him watch her husband. As he blushed slightly, she gave the faintest hint of a smile.

  When Adele Eloise turned to her l
eft to talk with Trachtenberg, Billings concentrated on his plate, straining to hear the conversation between Harry and Henry Eloise. At first he thought they were talking about election campaigns, since their language was full of combat metaphors. ‘That was the bloodiest of the battles,’ said Henry Eloise.

  ‘Many casualties?’ asked Harry solicitously.

  ‘Lots. And more the next month when we tried to storm the hill.’

  The Ambassador must have been a Vietnam veteran. Which battle was he remembering so cheerfully? The fight for Hue after Tet? Khe Sanh? Billings couldn’t remember any more names. Queenie tilted her head at him, and said, ‘How was your war, Mr Billings?’

  Thinking to humour the old bird, he explained that, being English, he had not found it necessary to fight in Vietnam. She laughed harshly, as if she had a steel rattle in her throat. ‘Neither did he,’ she said, pointing at the Ambassador. ‘He and Harry are swapping anti-war stories. You know, where were you when the mounted police charged in Grosvenor Square? How much tear gas did you inhale after Kent State? Or are you too young for these names to mean anything to you.’

  ‘No, not too young,’ he replied with a shake of his head.

  ‘Insufficiently committed then?’

  He laughed. ‘Insufficiently political, actually.’ He’d discovered English watercolours and girls instead, and had spent every spare moment he’d had paying for dinners he couldn’t afford or hunting out remote antique shops looking for bargains. Bristol, Bath, Burford, Bury St. Edmunds – the best places for discoveries (well, for watercolours at any rate) had all seemed to start with ‘B’.

  ‘I was explaining to James here,’ Queenie said loudly, and Billings realized she was addressing Harry at the end of the table, ‘that you and Henry share an anti-war past.’

  ‘And I was just saying to Henry, who would have thought in 1970 that either one of us would be sitting here?’

  Queenie smiled. ‘You mean instead of demonstrating against a war, you’re planning new ones. Instead of banning the bomb, you want to use little ones on the Iraqis.’

  ‘Not the same situation at all,’ Harry said tersely, looking as if it were a struggle to suppress his irritation.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Queenie languidly. ‘But you can understand people’s confusion. One small Third World country, several large superpowers. Many bombs dropped, many people killed. The suburbs of Hanoi, the suburbs of Baghdad.’

  ‘Not the same at all,’ Harry repeated. ‘One was a national liberation struggle, the other is a fascist state.’

  ‘Then kill Saddam Hussein,’ urged Queenie.

  ‘We couldn’t do that,’ said Henry Eloise.

  Harry explained: ‘It’s not for us to force a leader on another country’s people. That would go against all our democratic principles. That went out with the CIA death squads – you know, trying to poison Castro’s beard. That sort of thing.’

  ‘I see,’ said Queenie musing. ‘Since you can’t kill their leader outright, you try and get the people to remove him instead.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Henry Eloise and Harry simultaneously.

  ‘And you get the people to do that by killing them.’

  From the far end of the table, Holly was beckoning Harry. ‘What is it darling?’ he asked in relief.

  ‘Alan’s been telling us about the London One Thousand plans.’

  Next to Billings, Queenie gave a small moan. But Harry’s face lit up. ‘It could be the most important thing we do this year,’ he declared. ‘Our Crystal Palace and then some.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be uninformed,’ said Henry Eloise, looking down the table at Holly. ‘But what is the London One Thousand?’ Billings was grateful to the man for asking, since he had trouble remembering himself. Some form of honour, was it, possibly for a thousand people, prominent citizens all – like that bizarre list in one of the newspapers of the most powerful figures of the land?

  Trachtenberg spoke up. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s twenty-two areas of chemical-infested waste land in south London. If we can transform that site, I think we can be trusted to do anything.’

  ‘Will there be a building?’ asked Henry Eloise.

  ‘Many buildings,’ said Trachtenberg flatly. ‘Some old, some new – actually, they’ll all be new, but some will look old. A miscellany of London architecture over a millennium, showing how the city has developed since its origins a thousand years ago.’

  London had started a thousand years ago? This was news to Billings. ‘A thousand years ago?’ asked Queenie sceptically, reflecting his own doubts.

  ‘Precisely. We’ve documented it very well.’

  Queenie looked at her son sharply. ‘You were never much of an historian.’

  ‘Does it really matter very much?’ said Holly, like a solicitor trying to temper the zeal of a client.

  ‘Will there be anything inside the buildings?’ This came from Adele Eloise, sitting next to Harry. She spoke in a flat Texan twang.

  Holly started to smile, and when Adele looked puzzled, Sally Kimmo explained. ‘That’s what we’ve just been arguing about.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have little replicas inside?’ asked Adele. ‘You know, like those models from Lilliput?’

  Holly shook her head gently. ‘Alan wants to go the populist route. Arcades for the young, perhaps a disco, that sort of thing.’

  Trachtenberg added, ‘You have to have something to attract people. History alone would be a little dry.’

  ‘It depends on what sort of people you wish to attract,’ said Sally Kimmo. An image grew in Billings’s mind, of the scruffy man by her car shouting ‘RICH BITCH’. He had a pretty clear idea what Sally thought about the masses Trachtenberg wanted to attract.

  ‘The people must be there,’ declared Harry, holding a spoon full of crème brulée aloft. ‘London One Thousand was a key election promise which we have to keep. I’m not letting some bunch of elitists hijack it.’

  This time Queenie’s groan was audible. Holly stopped smiling, and Trachtenberg scowled at his mother. Sally Kimmo spoke again, deftly tempering her views. ‘Modern art is no respecter of class. Anyone can enjoy a Hockney, don’t you think, Arnio?’

  Arnio? It was the Professore she addressed. Billings supposed he had to have a name. The Professore looked unperturbed. Blinking slowly, he stared at the Georgian salt cellar in the middle of the table, then turned towards Harry Lester and said softly, ‘Perhaps Mr Billings has a view.’

  Thanks a lot, thought Billings, almost dropping his own spoon of crème brulée. ‘Well,’ he said, trying to gather his thoughts. Thoughts, what thoughts? Furiously he tried to make sense of the recent conversation. ‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, buying time, ‘that I think there’s an opportunity with the London One Thousand project that should be taken.’ Oh yeah?, he heard the voice of Ratner in his head. Suddenly he felt visited by an epiphany – well no, just a coherent thought. But it would do. ‘If you’re showing the architectural history of London on the outside, shouldn’t you show its artistic history on the inside walls? You know, from Holbein to Hockney, Canaletto to the Camden Town School?’

  There was a silence around the table. So much for that idea, thought Billings, beginning to blush. He hastily spooned more pudding into his mouth, then looked cautiously around him. Harry was staring at Holly, as if waiting for his cue. She nodded at him, smiling. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ he said enthusiastically. Henry Eloise and his wife both beamed at Billings.

  ‘Put him on your committee,’ said Queenie to her son. But from the sour expression on Trachtenberg’s face Billings wasn’t going to hold his breath.

  After lunch they had coffee on the terrace outside, above an immense parterred rose garden, set apart by a length of lovely lavender hedge. Sally Kimmo came up to Billings. ‘Have you been here before?’ she asked.

  ‘Never. Have you?’

  ‘Once, with my husband. During Mrs Thatcher’s time. This is much more enjoyable.’

  ‘Is that w
hat your husband would think?’

  She laughed as the Professore joined them. He looked at Billings benignly and said, ‘You are surprised to find me here?’

  ‘To be honest, yes.’

  ‘Sally is an old acquaintance.’

  ‘I hadn’t realized you two knew each other,’ she said, as if somehow someone should have told her. ‘From your gallery I take it?’

  The Professore nodded. Billings noticed he was wearing especially beautiful shoes – mocha slip-ons with a gold band across the bridge of the foot.

  ‘I was fascinated by what you were saying at lunch,’ Sally said to Billings. She wore a frock of white cotton with fluttering sleeves that only half-concealed the wrinkly skin of her forearms. She must be almost seventy, Billings thought with surprise, as he nodded politely. She continued: ‘I only hope it got through to Alan. He is such a Philistine at times.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And that mother of his is an absolute cauchemar. Of course, her husband was a Communist.’

  The Professore pursed his lips impassively while Billings thought about what next to say. Fortunately, Holly came to the rescue, and began chatting brightly about the history of Chequers. On the edge of the foursome, Billings drank his coffee, and looked out dreamily at the landscape of distant trees and rolling hills. This was the England he had missed in New York, the Albion of oaks and rose gardens, of beer and chips, of... a sharp pain in his right knee checked his reverie, and he looked down to find Sebastian the boy ready to take another imaginary penalty against his shin.

  ‘Darling, don’t do that,’ Holly said sweetly, and Billings fought against a pressing need to rub his wounded leg.

  ‘Mummy I’m bored.’

  ‘Then go and play. Terry will play with you.’ Her voice was saccharine and warm.