by Angus Wilson
‘I know how frightfully busy you are. As a matter of fact I am myself,’ he said with the half-humorous urchin smile that he used for such jokes. Only his secretary, Veronica, gave the helpful laugh he expected. It was not going to be an easy meeting, he decided. ‘So I’m not going to waste your time with a lot of talk’ he went on ‘I just thought …’ He paused and beat with his pencil against the desk whilst Mrs Scrutton moved her chair fussily out of the sunlight. ‘Ready?’ he asked with an over-elaborate smile ‘Right. Then we’ll start again. As I was saying, we’re all very busy, but all the same I thought it was time we had a little meeting. I’ve been here a week now and although I’ve had some very helpful chats with each of you in turn, we’ve never had a chance to get together and outline our plans.’ None of the three who formed his audience made any response. Veronica, who remembered him taking over new departments at the Ministry during the war, thought he hasn’t got the right tone, he doesn’t realize that he’s coming up against deeper loyalties with these people, loyalties to scholarship and ideas. She almost felt like letting him fend for himself, but old habits were too strong.
‘I’m sure it’s what everybody’s been wanting’ she said in her deep voice. She had gauged rightly, his moment of uncertainty had gone, her faithful bark had guided him at the crucial moment. Mrs Scrutton tried to discomfort him. She rustled the papers on her lap and whispered audibly to Major Sarson ‘Our plans. His plans for us would be more honest.’ But it was too late, she had missed her chance. John merely frowned at the interruption and it was Mrs Scrutton who was left with burning cheeks, hiding her embarrassment by lighting a fresh cigarette.
‘As you know’ John went on, and Veronica could tell by the loud trumpeting, rhetorical note of his voice that he was once more the confident salesman lost in the dream world of the grandiose schemes he was putting before them ‘I’ve got some very big ideas for the Gallery. I’m not an expert in any way as you people are, but I think that’s possibly why Sir Harold’s executors chose me for the job. They felt the Gallery had already got its full weight of scholars and experts, what it needed was a man with administrative experience, whose training had led him to take an over-all view of things, to think, shall I say, widely rather than deeply. That’s why they got me in. But I’m going to be absolutely frank with you’ tossing a lock of brown, wavy hair from his forehead, he stared at his audience with a wide-eyed appeal ‘I need your help, without my staff I can get nowhere.’
Major Sarson winced slightly. All this theatricality and the loud pitch of John’s voice got on his nerves, besides he could feel a draught round his legs. It’s like some damned Methodist preacher fellow, he thought.
‘You’ve been grand in this first week’ John went on ‘absolutely grand. I don’t mind telling you now that when I arrived I was dead scared. You’d all been here for years, you knew the collections backwards, you had your own ways of running the place, and above all you’d had the inestimable advantage of knowing Sir Harold, of hearing exactly what was in his mind when he bought this picture or that object, of knowing what his ideals were in giving the public the benefit of his taste and experience. I felt sure you were bound to resent me as an outsider, and I knew I’d have done the same in your place.’
The faces in front of him were quite unresponsive. He isn’t going to get anywhere with sentimental appeals, thought Veronica, these people are idealists, there’s nothing more hardboiled. The damned fools, thought John, they have the chance of turning this tin pot, cranky provincial gallery into a national institution and they won’t play ball. Well if they can’t see which way their own chances lie, they’re not getting in the way of mine. They’ll have to come to heel or go. His voice became a little sharper, a shade less ingenuous and friendly.
‘You’ve all told me your views in our various little chats. Sometimes we’ve agreed, sometimes we haven’t. You’ve inclined to the feeling that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds, I’ve felt that some changes were needed, that the scope of the work here wanted broadening, that the organization wanted, let’s face it, bringing up to date a bit, and in all this the Board has agreed with me.’
Tony Parnell’s baby face had grown steadily more pouting and scowling as John had been speaking. To think of this mountebank in charge of the Gallery, a professional careerist, who understood nothing of Sir Harold’s ideas and aims, who had even laughed when he’d spoken to him of the metaphysical aspects of technique in painting. He had banked so much on becoming Curator. Sir Harold had spoken so often of him as ‘my torchbearer, the youngest member of our staff,’ and now these awful business men who had got control of the estate had put this creature in. Major Sarson and Mrs Scrutton were too old to fight these changes, he had promised before the meeting that he would make the challenge. Now was his opportunity. Red in the face, he opened his mouth, but in his nervousness his voice emerged a high falsetto. John smiled across at Veronica.
‘The Board haven’t had much opportunity of agreeing with us since they haven’t heard our views’ Tony squeaked.
‘My dear Parnell’ said John, and his tone was purposely patronizing and offensive. The old ones he regarded without rancour as dead wood to be cleared away, but Tony he disliked personally for his assumptions of scholarly disinterestedness and moral superiority. ‘Don’t let that worry you. As soon as you’ve got your ideas clear come along and push them at the Board as much as you like. I shouldn’t use too much of your favourite art jargon if I was you; the Board are anxious to help but they’re only ordinary business men and they might not understand. If you follow my advice you’ll come down to earth a bit, but of course that’s entirely your affair.’
Mrs Scrutton fingered the buttons on her checked tweed coat nervously. ‘There’s no need to bully Mr Parnell’ she said.
‘Oh, come’ said John jocosely ‘if Parnell’s going to have the ladies on his side I shall have to surrender.’ To his delight he saw that Tony was frowning with annoyance.
‘Do let me deal with this in my own way’ he said to Mrs Scrutton, whose lip began to tremble.
So that severe grey bobbed hair and man’s collar and tie could dissolve early into tears, thought John, so much the better.
‘Mrs Scrutton was only trying to help you, Parnell’ said Major Sarson ‘Don’t let us forget our manners, please.’
John yawned slightly. ‘When the little civil war’s over’ he said ‘I’d just like to outline our main functions. As I see them they’re these: Relations with the Public, that’s you, Parnell; Display, Mrs Scrutton; Research, Major Sarson. Miss Clay’ he indicated Veronica ‘is maid of all work. And I, well, I’m the Aunt Sally, ready to stop the bricks and pass on the bouquets.’
Major Sarson looked at his watch impatiently. ‘I quite agree with you, Major’ said John ‘the sooner we get finished the better. No true gentlemen continue to hold meetings after opening time.’ The old man’s face twitched violently, no one before had referred overtly to his notorious weakness.
‘I’d like to take the public first’ said John. ‘You’ve done a first-rate job, Parnell – within its limits. But you haven’t gone far enough. You’ve got real enthusiasm and that’s half the battle – but only half. You give the public first-rate value in lectures and catalogues when they get here, but you don’t try to get them to come. I know what you’re going to say “They’ll come if they’re interested.” But aren’t you being a bit hard on the poor, tired, pushed-around public of today? They’ve got to be told about the place. You’ve got to compete with the cinema, the football team and the fireside radio. In short you’ve got to advertise and you can’t do that unless you have figures.’ Here John paused and picked up a file of papers.
‘You have all the figures there’ said Tony sulkily.
‘I know’ said John ‘but don’t you think they’re just a bit too general? “So many people visited the Gallery on August 5th, so many on November 3rd” But what sort of people? Who are we catering for? Were they Chinam
en, shopgirls, farmers, or just plain deaf-mutes? To tell us anything these figures want breaking down into groups – so many foreigners, so many over-forties, so many under-twenties. That’s the way to build up a picture. Now supposing you run over these figures in the way that I suggest and we’ll talk again.’
Tony was about to protest that this task was impossible, but John held up his hand. ‘No, no, time’s very short and there’s one more point I want to raise before we pass on to display.’ Mrs Scrutton drew her coat tightly round her. ‘It’s about the lecture room. Sir Louis Crippen was saying something at the last Board meeting about its not being free for his archaeological society when he needed it. Do you know anything about that?’
Tony Parnell hesitated. ‘Well, actually’ he said ‘Mrs Scrutton makes all the lecture hall arrangements.’
‘But isn’t it the PRO’s pigeon?’ asked John.
‘Yes’ said Tony ‘but … well … Mrs Scrutton …’
‘I see’ said John coldly. ‘Perhaps you’d enlighten me, then, Mrs Scrutton.’
The grey bob shook as she answered, an involuntary shake that was to prove the prelude to age’s palsy. ‘Sir Louis asked for Tuesday and Tuesdays are always booked by Miss Copley’ she said.
‘Miss Copley?’
Mrs Scrutton guessed that he knew the answer and her reply attempted a rebuke. ‘Miss Copley is an old and true friend to the Gallery’ she said. ‘She’s been giving her lectures to Schools on Tuesdays for many years.’
‘No doubt’ said John ‘but I still think Sir Louis should have preference.’
‘I don’t agree at all’ said Major Sarson ‘it would be most unfair.’
‘Yes, why should Sir Louis receive special treatment?’ asked Mrs Scrutton.
‘Well, frankly,’ replied John ‘because although Miss Copley may be a very old friend, Sir Louis is a very influential one and the Gallery needs influential friends.’
Before Mrs Scrutton there floated Sir Harold’s features, like Erasmus she had thought him, the last of the humanists. Major Sarson too, remembered his old friend’s handshake and his firm clear voice. ‘Sarson’ he had said ‘this money came to me through false standards, false distinctions. There shall be no distinctions in its use but those of scholarship.’ The eyes of both these old people filled with tears.
John turned to Veronica. ‘You’ve nothing to do, Miss Clay’ he said. ‘In future you will take on the lecture hall arrangements. Anything important you’ll refer to me.’ Mrs Scrutton made a gesture of protest. ‘No, no’ said John. ‘I’m not going to let you wear yourself out on these minor details, you’re far too valuable to the Gallery. Besides, you’ve got more than a full time job with Display if it’s properly carried out.’
Tony Parnell half rose from his chair ‘I thought the Lecture Hall arrangements came under Public Relations?’
‘So did I’ said John ‘until you disillusioned me.
‘Next we come to Display. I suppose no side of our work has been more revolutionized in recent years. The Philadelphia report, you know, and the Canadian Association series’ he went on, smiling at Mrs Scrutton. She suddenly felt very tired, she had seen these documents but had never been able to bring herself to read them. ‘But there’s no need for me to mention these things to you’ John continued. ‘Your arrangement of the miniature collection’ and he sighed in wonder. ‘Well, I’m going to pay you a great compliment there. Your arrangement of the miniatures not only makes one want to look at them, it makes it impossible for one not to look at them. I’m sure, Mrs Scrutton, you’ll agree with my wish that some other sides of the collection had the same advantages as the miniatures – the jewellery, for instance, and the armour. But that’s not your fault. There’s just too much for one person, that’s all there is to it. The same applies to the research. I’m not going to embarass Major Sarson by talking about his position as a scholar’ he waved his hand towards the old man who went red round the ears ‘suffice to say what we all know, that the Gallery is honoured by the presence of the world’s greatest authority on the Dutch school, and a great scholar of painting generally. Though I doubt, by the way, whether the Major’s exactly fond of the moderns. I sometimes wish that the Gallery possessed only paintings, I’m sure Major Sarson does. Unfortunately that isn’t the case. I fully sympathized with him when he spoke to me as he did of “those wretched pots and pans”’ here John laughed patronizingly ‘but I doubt if a ceramics man would. Frankly’ he said, turning to Major Sarson ‘I consider it disgraceful that a scholar of your calibre should be taken off your real work in this way. Now how, you may ask, do I suppose to remedy the situation? Well the answer is that I propose to treble the staff. From next month new staff will begin to arrive – some students from the Universities, some more experienced men from other galleries and museums.’
There was silence for a minute, then Mrs Scrutton spoke. ‘Does the Board know of this?’
‘Yes’ said John ‘they fully approve the scheme.’
‘Do they realize the expense involved?’ asked Tony, the practical man.
‘The Board are business men’ said John ‘they know that outlay must precede returns.’ He looked round at their faces. ‘Well, I think that’s all’ he said. ‘I know you will give the new members of the staff the same cooperation you have given me, whether it is a question of instructing and training them, or in some cases of working under them.’ His tone was openly sarcastic.
‘Do I understand that people will be put over us?’ asked Mrs Scrutton.
‘In cases where experts are brought in, it may be necessary to make revisions in seniority’ said John.
‘You realize, of course, that in such an eventuality we should resign’ said Major Sarson.
‘That would be a great loss to the Gallery, but we could not, of course, control your decisions’ replied John, and opening the door, he bowed them out.
‘Golly’ said Veronica ‘you do tell some lies, don’t you? Or have the Board ratified your staff changes?’
‘How many more times must I tell you, Veronica, that truth is relative’ said John.
Veronica looked down for a minute ‘I’ll make you some coffee’ she said.
‘Yes’ said John ‘Victory always makes me thirsty. I cannot help being satisfied when I think of the well merited unpleasant few weeks those three are going to have. The punishment of incompetence is always satisfactory.’
‘Mmm’ said Veronica doubtfully.
‘What’s that mean? You’ve not fallen for this sentimental stuff about Sir Harold, have you?’
‘Good Lord, no’ said Veronica. ‘It’s not those misfits I’m worrying about, it’s you.’
‘Me?’ said John. ‘Why?’
‘You’re getting too fond of bullying’ said Veronica ‘it interferes with your charm, and charm’s essential for your success.’ She went out to make the coffee.
What Veronica said was very true, thought John, and he made a note to be more detached in his attitude. All the same these criticisms were bad for his self-esteem. For all her loyalty Veronica knew him too well, got too near home. Charm was important to success, but self-esteem was more so. His imagination began to envisage further staff changes, perhaps a graduate secretary would really be more suitable now.
A STORY OF HISTORICAL INTEREST
IT was clear, thought Lois, that no real provision was made in these ambulances for relatives, of the deceased she was about to say, but recovered herself in time, of the sick, of course. My legs are quite stiff, she thought, and my bottom will never be the same again after sitting for so long on this little bench. How selfish! how dreadfully selfish to think of oneself when Daddy was lying there dying, or at any rate possibly dying, for no one, not even the doctor seemed to know whether he would recover from the effects of this stroke. His face looked so strange, almost blue grey, and at intervals he was sick into the little white bowl which she or Harold held up to him – not really sick, she thought, remembering with horror those bouts of vomi
ting she had undergone as a child after parties, – this wasn’t like that at all, just a thin, watery fluid with globules of green phlegm floating in it. His hand, too, constantly brushed feebly at his face or picked at his lips, as though he was removing an imaginary cobweb. He was more comfortable now, though, since they had had the nurse to wash him.
Perhaps the most awful moment of the three awful days, since she had been summoned back to the hotel from the office, had been the realization of her own clumsiness and of the pain she was causing him when she had tried to wash him on that first afternoon. The thick hairs had got coated together and stuck to the body with sweat and urine, and she had pulled at them in her efforts to sponge him. His eyes had gleamed red and small with hatred as he had cursed her for it; ‘God damn you, you bloody bitch’ he had said again and again, for he was impatient of any pain and behind it all, though she tried hard not to believe it, terrified of dying, angry like a trapped animal. She had gone on relentlessly, however, hoping that at such times it was necessary to be cruel to be kind. It had angered her, too, for she longed to show him her tenderness, to envelop him in a deep, almost maternal love, but by her blundering roughness she had failed. She had hated him for underlining her clumsiness; if he had not been cowardly and inconsiderate she would never have guessed at her failure.
How different the nurse had been! She could still see those ‘frank’ Irish eyes with their sly, sexy twinkle, could hear that soft brogue jollying him on, whilst the plump hands moved him about like a baby, turning him over, powdering him, making him easy. ‘It’s a wicked boy ye’ve been, I can see, and will be again. Ye’ve not finished with the poor girls yet with those great eyes of yours’ and her father’s chuckle, sensual still though feeble. ‘What do you know about me and the girls, nurse? I’d like to know.’ She had seen herself suddenly as Mummy, awkward, unattractive, without gaiety; and the nurse as a symbol of those other women who had made up the pattern of his life. It seemed so unfair that the drab, clumsy part of her which came from her mother should have made its appearance at that moment, putting her at a disadvantage, alienating him from her as he was fading out of life. Ever since Mummy’s death she had suppressed that side of herself, had deliberately cultivated gaiety, had flirted with him to hold him at home as she felt Mummy should have done – and she had succeeded so that he had said she was ‘the nicest kid he’d ever run around with’, called her ‘Daddy’s little pal’. She could hear her own voice now as she spoke to the nurse, prim and tense like an affronted governess: ‘Mr Gorringe has never been very fond of women’s chatter, nurse, so I expect you’ll find him rather impatient. It’s only a question really of keeping him comfortable. I’d have taken it on myself but we don’t know how long the illness will last and I can’t stay away from work indefinitely.’ ‘Not fond of women now Oi’m surprised to hear’t with his little twinklin’ eyes. But it’s merciful you got a nurse in when you did, the poor thing’s been pulled about cruelly.’ She had almost struck the bitch. Nevertheless she had been just: Daddy needed a nurse and so the nurse should stay. No, it was only that dreadful letter which had made it imperative to dismiss her.
