by McNeir, Leo
“Good morning everyone. I don’t intend to make a speech.” There was a flurry of applause and Marnie smiled. “This collection was left to me by an old man who lived in a caravan beside his boat at Little Venice. Old Peter, as we knew him, lived very modestly and kept to himself. He died last September. For longer than anyone can say, he also kept safe this collection of original drawings, about two centuries old. No-one knows how he came to possess them. They have become known as the Lost Drawings of William Jessop. They have been described as priceless and exquisite. They are. But for many of us, they are also the epitaph to our friend, Old Peter, and it is in his name that I am here to open his gallery. Thank you for being here today. I know he would want you to enjoy the exhibition.” She stepped down and the Chairman of Governors shook her hand.
There was a gap before the applause, the guests unsure if the proceedings were completed. The simplicity of Marnie’s words and the brevity of her address had come as a surprise. People who had had thoughts only of the refreshments suddenly found themselves anxious to see this unique collection and pressed forward as Marnie walked to the elegant double doors and opened them under the lights of the television cameras and the flashing bulbs of the photographers. There was further applause.
As the guests surged forward, Marnie found herself isolated in the middle of the crowd. She was here as an individual and was aware that many of the people present had known each other for a long time. Muted conversation flowed all round her as chairman muttered to vice-chairman and regional co-ordinator chatted with divisional officer. The Chairman of Governors appeared at her side offering a glass of white wine.
“Mrs Walker, or may I call you Marnie? We all tend to refer to you by your first name here in private.”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“We were wondering whether you’d like to become a member of our Board of Governors. Your collection is the finest exhibit we have now and certainly the most well-known.”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve always thought of myself as allergic to committees. I think it goes back to college days when I was on the Union. It rather put me off that sort of thing.”
“I quite understand, but I can assure you our meetings are civilised and friendly. Also, the work is rather interesting. Would you like to think about it?”
“Thank you. I will.” By now they were standing by the buffet table, which was surprisingly deserted, even though the food looked wonderful. Marnie was on the point of suggesting that they made a start while they could, when a young woman approached carrying a clip-board. She was dressed in a black trouser suit and exuded energy and confidence.
“Marnie, hallo. I’m Alison McGee, BBC Television News for the South-West. Can we interview you briefly? It won’t take a minute.” She whisked Marnie away to a corner of the exhibition where the crowd and part of the collection formed a backdrop. She asked the basic questions about how Marnie had come to own the drawings, while other journalists clustered round and added a few of their own. By the time she was free, she knew this was the end of her brief moment of fame and she returned to the buffet where she found Beth and Paul.
“I liked your speech,” said Paul. “I wish our Dean would come to you for lessons in public oratory. We’d have much more time for research. Try the smoked salmon. It’s delicious.”
“Congratulations,” said Beth, kissing her sister warmly on both cheeks. “You were super. I bet Old Peter would be very happy with what you’ve done. The vol-au-vents are wonderful, by the way.” Marnie went to pick up a plate but found her way blocked by another young woman dressed entirely in black. She looked vaguely familiar.
“Sorry to catch you like this, Marnie. Do you remember me? I worked in your office for a short while. Sue Brownlow. I left not long after you joined the firm.”
“She has that effect on people,” said Beth, sipping her wine. Marnie ignored the comment.
“Yes, I thought I recognised you. That must have been seven or eight years ago. Are you involved with the museum?”
“Not directly. My husband’s with the regional tourist board, head of marketing. I’m here on his coat-tails today. I wanted to come because you were doing the opening. You gave me some good advice years ago and I thought it would be nice to see you again.” Marnie struggled inwardly to recall her good advice.
“Didn’t you want to move into journalism, writing about design?”
“Right. You remember. I went to National Magazines and got a really good start. Then I met Rob and we moved to Bristol, started a family and now I do free-lancing.”
“I’m glad it’s worked out for you.”
“I was wondering about doing something on canals and boats, but I don’t think it would be quite my scene.”
“What is your scene these days?”
“General interior design features. I’m working on a series at the moment. How young people, teenagers, develop their own style.”
“Do you have all the material you want?” said Marnie.
“To tell you the truth, it’s pretty hard going. Most young people don’t have the money to experiment, so it’s all pop posters and bright duvet covers. Loads of clutter.”
“Could I make a suggestion?”
“I’d be grateful.” Sue handed Marnie her notebook and pen. As Marnie wrote a name and number, the Chairman of Governors came up and touched her arm.
“Sorry to interrupt, Marnie, but I’ve bumped into a man who knew Old Peter all his life. He’d love to meet you and I’m sure you’d find him interesting. He’s over here with Jack Hadley. He’d like to meet you, too. He says he knows you.” With that, Marnie was dragged away and was led round by the Chairman.
“Well,” said Beth with a sigh, in the car going home, “I thought you were crazy when you told me about giving the collection away, but I see why you did it. And now you’ve become a heroine.”
“You did the right thing, Marnie,” said Paul from the back seat. It was mid-afternoon and the traffic on the motorway was moderate. Marnie settled down for the drive, estimating that it would take about an hour and a half. She also calculated that she could do it in about a week by narrowboat. Suddenly up ahead, they saw blue flashing lights in the distance. Marnie flicked on her own hazard lights and eased back to sixty. She slowed further and saw several vehicles slewed across the carriageway. One of them was a police car.
“I don’t like the look of this,” she muttered. By now they were down to thirty and could see a policeman in motorcycle gear waving traffic onto the hard shoulder. Marnie joined the queue moving at walking pace.
“Accident,” said Paul.
“Can’t see anything,” said Beth. They came to a halt level with the police officer. Marnie opened her window.
“Is it an accident?” she called out. The policeman glanced down at her, two eyes peering out from his crash helmet.
“I can’t say, miss. You’ll be pulling off the motorway at the service station down the road. Follow the diversion signs.” He turned away and the traffic eased forward. As they crawled along the hard shoulder, a silence fell on the three of them. Ahead, the motorway ran over a brow downhill and it was impossible to see more than a few hundred metres of empty road. They could see no activity, no plume of smoke in the air, no comings or goings. It seemed somehow sinister. Marnie broke the silence.
“Well, that decides it. He said we had to pull off through the service station. I’d like to stop and get something to eat.”
“Eat?!” chorused Beth and Paul, memories of Parma ham with melon, seafood canapés and Waldorf salad still vivid.
“Eat,” repeated Marnie. “You may not have noticed, but while you two were stuffing yourselves, I was doing the meet-the-people act. I could have murdered that smoked salmon.” She pulled out of the crawling line of traffic and parked the car.
Whatever was happening on the motorway, in the self-service all was normal. Businessmen in suits were tucking receipts into their wallets. There was a coachload of elderly ladies
in cardigans. A flash of colour in one corner revealed a quartet of bikers in animated conversation in bright leathers, green and white, red and white, with bulky crash helmets lying on the floor beside them like small dogs. Marnie took a sandwich and a glass of Aqua Libra, while Beth and Paul settled for coffee. They took a table across the gangway from the bikers.
“Egg mayonnaise?” said Beth. “I thought you would have gone for the smoked salmon. They did have some.” Marnie shook her head.
“It wouldn’t bear comparison.” She set about eating in silence and her companions sipped their coffee. Paul was just remarking how the standard of food served on motorways had improved when Marnie raised the palm of her free hand from the table in an unmistakable gesture for silence. Without warning she leaned across and spoke to the bikers.
“Excuse me. I couldn’t help overhearing. Was that just now?”
“Yeah,” said the nearest one. He looked like a gangling green and white puppet in his tight leathers. “I thought they were coming to pull us over for speeding. We were doing about eighty, same as everybody else, but they went past at about a ton, three of them on Nortons.” One of the red and whites joined in.
“Next thing, there was a road block right across the motorway. You’ll see skid marks all down the road. There was fuzz everywhere. Well, we knew it wasn’t a routine tyre check. So I says to the fuzz nearest me, I’d had a Norton like his and they were great bikes. He said he liked his one. Then I said what’s up and he says not supposed to say, but a van had just blown up.” The green and white biker chimed in again.
“So I says, how come you lot were on the scene and he gave me a funny look. I reckon they were following it on suspicion.”
“Terrorists?” said Marnie. All four bikers nodded agreement. “You think the police blew it up?”
“More like carrying explosives that went off, I reckon,” said red and white. “I used to work on the buildings and that stuff needs real care. You can’t play about with it.”
They were in the restaurant for no more than twenty minutes and as they came out, the line of traffic was still processing off the motorway and across the car park. Marnie looked at her watch and quickened her pace.
“No need to hurry,” said Beth. “We’re going to be ages at crawling speed.”
“News bulletin – one minute,” Marnie called over her shoulder. They listened to the main items: another government minister accused of sleaze, United Nations action in the Balkans and a fisheries dispute in the Bay of Biscay. The announcer reached the end of the bulletin.
“… BBC News at two minutes past three. And now, a choice of listening. On FM …” Marnie reached down to turn off the radio. “But first a news flash. Reports are coming in of a major hold-up on the M4. Traffic is being diverted after an accident west of junction 16 in Wiltshire. Eastbound traffic is being diverted around Swindon. Motorists are advised to avoid the area for the next two hours if at all possible. No further details are available at the present time.”
“An accident,” said Beth.
“Some accident.” said Marnie, pulling on her seat belt.
“But shouldn’t there be smoke visible, or something?” said Beth.
“Depends on the size of the explosion,” suggested Paul. “A really big bang might not leave much trace.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever know,” said Beth. “They might try to hush it all up.”
“It’s difficult to keep an explosion quiet,” muttered Marnie, accelerating across the car park to join the queue of traffic.
*
That evening, after supper at Beth and Paul’s, the three of them gathered in front of the television to watch the evening news. The ministerial scandal, the Balkans and the Bay of Biscay were still leading stories, as was the new Royal hairstyle, but a report was now prepared on the incident on the M4 in which a van had blown up. It was so totally destroyed by high explosive that the police were still unable to say how many people had been travelling in it. Wreckage was flung in all directions and it was a miracle that multiple mayhem did not take place. There were eye-witness accounts, aerial film and a police statement about terrorist groups operating on mainland Britain and the need for vigilance. After the report, Beth got up and fetched the coffee pot. They speculated about the incident and about the wider topic of hatred in the community that lay behind the terrorism and this latest horror.
“Once you start putting labels on people they cease to be human beings,” said Marnie.
“I am a freedom fighter, you are a trouble-maker, he is a terrorist,” said Paul, quoting somebody.
Marnie agreed and added: “One side thinks there are Christians and Catholics, the other thinks there are Christians and Protestants. No-one listens to anyone and neither side talks to the other. It’s a conference of deaf-mutes.”
“All of them armed to the teeth,” added Beth pouring coffee. She nodded at the television. “Shall I turn this off now?” The presenter was coming to the end of a summary of financial markets. Beth put down the pot and moved towards the set just as the presenter was coming to the last item.
“And finally, a lost national treasure goes on show for the first time in two hundred years. Alison McGee reports from the West of England.” The screen was suddenly filled with the drawing of the great viaduct of Pontcysyllte and the scene changed to the opening of the gallery at the National Canal Museum. Instead of the routine interview, the report focused on the drawings themselves with a commentary on their importance and how they had come to light. Suddenly, there was Marnie stepping up to the rostrum as the reporter explained: “It is thanks to one woman that the collection can now be seen by the public, the owner of the drawings, Marnie Walker.”
“I do believe you’re blushing,” said Beth.
“Sh-sh-sh!” said Paul, pointing at the screen. Marnie was at the microphone. Paul grabbed the video controller and pressed the record button.
“… was left to me by an old man who lived in a caravan beside his boat in Little Venice …”
“It’ll have finished before the machine has got started,” said Beth. On the screen Marnie was still talking.
“… and kept to himself. He died last September. Old Peter, as we knew him …”
“We’ll get as much as we can,” said Paul. They sat in silence as Marnie continued her speech, expecting it to be faded out at any moment, but it ran on to the end.
“… and it is in his name that I am here to open his gallery. Thank you for being here today. I know he would want you to enjoy the exhibition.” As the audience applauded in the background, Alison McGee ended the report. Back in the studio, the presenter rounded off the programme.
“That was the first time we have ever shown an entire speech from beginning to end on the evening news. On a day when so much has been said by world leaders to so little avail, it’s good to end on that generous note. From all of us here, good night.”
“Well!” said Beth. “You’ll be doing the Barclaycard adverts next.” Paul got up, switched off the television and rewound the tape. Marnie blinked a few times and cleared her throat.
“I think I’ve got most of it recorded for posterity,” said Paul. As the tape finished rewinding, he pressed the eject button and pulled it out of the slot. “I’m sure you’ll want to keep this as a memento.” He held the tape out to Marnie, but before she could take it, he looked down at the cassette and groaned. “Oh, bugger!” Marnie stared at him curiously.
“What’s up?” said Beth. Paul looked at her and rolled his eyes.
“I’ve taped over the beginning of Casablanca.” He sighed. “I thought I had the odds-and-ends tape in the machine.” He paused and reflected. “In fact, I’m sure I did.”
Beth made a grimace. “Ah, well, yes,” she said. “I was looking to see what was on the tapes when I tidied them up the other day. There were so many of them lying around. I must have left that one in the machine by mistake. Sorry. Don’t worry; it’ll be on again, no doubt. We can tape it another t
ime.”
“I’m sorry about the tape, too,” said Marnie. “It was kind of you to think of recording the ceremony. I’m sure Beth’s right. Casablanca will come round again.”
“It’s not the end of the world,” said Paul.
“Maybe not, but it was a close run thing,” said Marnie. Beth and Paul looked puzzled. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if we’d left the opening five minutes earlier, we might have been near the van when it blew up? We might have been on the news for an altogether different reason tonight.”
“That’s cheered me up no end,” said Beth, looking anything but cheered up.
*
Back in the office next morning, Marnie had three phone calls in quick succession, one of them expected, one of them not unexpected and one a complete surprise. Lois had arranged a collection of messages and notes in priority order in the message-tray. There were three from Dyson at the estate agents. As she was reading the notes, the phone rang on her direct line. It was not yet eight-thirty.
“Ah, Mrs Walker. It’s Dyson from Blacky and Johnson. I was starting to think we’d never speak. I’m glad I’ve caught you. I wonder if you’ve had any more thoughts about Glebe Farm.” Marnie knew it was probably the most unwise decision she would ever take, but she was longing to buy it. Roger Broadbent’s advice came into her head.
“I’ve been having a busy time these last few days, Mr Dyson. I’m sorry you’ve had difficulty reaching me.” Now it was his turn again.
“Not at all. Have you come to any conclusion?”
“I’m not really sure. There are so many things to take into account.” Over to you, she thought. Dyson hesitated at the other end, anxious not to lose her now that she was talking.
“If you wanted to make an offer,” he began. Marnie said nothing. “There could be scope for some flexibility on price.” It was the first concession he had made. Marnie waited again. “What do you think?” he said.
“I think there would have to be, Mr Dyson.” Marnie’s heart was beating faster. “Have you received any offers so far?” The directness of the question took Dyson by surprise.
