by Peter Watson
Naturally, Bess was in New York again for the opening. Though David had been carefully muted in his reaction to her news about Thomas’s encyclical, he had been delighted to see that, for Bess herself, it was very important. Until that evening in New York, he had had no real understanding of her feeling for him. At Cardinal Rich’s recommendation, they’d had their celebration at the Veau d’Or on 61st Street. It was a fairly formal place, showed no sign of nouvelle cuisine, tended to serve diners who preferred red to white wine, and the tables were laid out along banquettes where people sat side-by-side rather than opposite each other. Bess was therefore able to rest her hand on David’s easily, unobtrusively, almost as if by chance. Their first real physical contact would have appeared to anyone watching as no more than an affectionate stroking by familiar, long-time lovers.
Inevitably the contact, innocent as it was, unlocked their tongues. And once again it was Bess who made the first moves.
She started tentatively, at a tangent. ‘If I were to write a book, David, do you know what it would be about?’
He shook his head.
‘Appetite.’
‘Hungry—eh?’
‘Not that appetite silly. Appetite in general. That’s what first attracted me to you—your appetite for your work. And your enthusiasm for collecting. You may not realise this but you created an appetite, an enthusiasm in me—for silk. It’s amazing the way something can be locked away inside and one isn’t aware of it. Working for Thomas, for instance, at the Vatican, being so close to the Holy Father, I’ve been so busy, so engrossed, there wasn’t time for anything else. But then … after the fair, after that business with Ludovisi … I guess I began to get an appetite for you too. It’s funny the way appetites grow, from the tiniest beginnings.’
‘Mmmmmmnn. Dare I mention my appetite for food right now?’
She dug her nails into his hand. ‘Beast! I was being serious.’ But she was smiling, too.
David signalled to the waiter and they ordered. He turned back to Bess. ‘I can be serious too. My appetite for you rather pre-dates yours for me.’ And he told her how he had called her when he had felt so low after his day out with Ned, when a man had answered the phone.
‘So it was you, was it? I remember the call very well. We both thought it was strange. You silly mutt. I was ill, remember? That man was my doctor!’
Now, at last, he could ask her. ‘But is there no man—no other man—in your life? I can’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. There’s a lot about me you don’t know, David. When I was twenty-two I was engaged. Engaged, in love, and deliriously happy. His name was Nicholas. It wasn’t just that he was handsome, kind and very funny.’ She flashed a look at David and smiled. ‘Men like that grow on trees, eh? No, he was also a great friend of my brother, Patrick. They did everything together—sailing, skiing, dating … When I came home from college and fell for Nick, amazingly I didn’t come between them. The three of us did a whole bunch of things together. Until one night, after a storm. I had the flu and hadn’t gone out. Near our home was a ford, where a little stream crossed the back road to the village. That night though there was a flash flood, and the stream turned into a torrent. Usually the road would have been closed but Nick and Paddy got there before the local police. They’d been drinking and, I expect, were driving too fast.’ She looked at David, her hand on his tightening. ‘The car was found submerged half a mile downstream. Nick was still in it. Patrick had been thrown out, his body tangled in a tree.’ Her hands had begun to sweat, and she wiped them on her napkin. ‘I was terribly upset, of course. In the normal way I would have got over it, but … It’s over ten years ago now. The problem has always been my parents. You see, Nick was driving—his body was behind the wheel—so my mother and father always blamed him. They can’t forget and won’t let me forget either.’ She stroked the back of David’s hand with her finger. ‘That’s one reason why I live in Europe. I knew, in the end, that I had to get away.’
David was silent, deeply moved by her story. He reflected that it explained a lot. He was full of admiration for Bess, too, for the way she hadn’t revealed her wounds immediately, as he had done. What she said raised one question in his mind. ‘Did the … accident … was it that which made you find work in the Church?’
‘I suppose. We were a religious family to begin with, though. Patrick once thought of becoming a priest. I’m not the mystical type, as perhaps you’ve noticed. But I’ve always been very moral. Upbringing I suppose. The selfishness and ignorance and self-righteousness in the world frighten me. We were close as a family, at least to begin with. My mother was always more in love with my father than he was with her. At least, she always thought so. I suppose that made me reticent with men, but it wasn’t all. After she had me, she found out she couldn’t have any more children—it would have been too dangerous. Two is plenty for lots of people but not Ma: she was, still is, an old-fashioned Catholic. She was mortified. She thought she had let down Pa. That’s when she developed her habit of giving him gifts—they took the place of children. Silly things, like a hat she had seen and thought he would like. Or an unusual bottle he might want to use as a new way of promoting our liquor. She found that Fort Humbug “cannon” I told you about. Pa had his whole study filled with Ma’s gifts. An early typewriter, stud boxes made of rare wood, an oar from an Indian canoe. Pa was entranced and Ma was right. Gift-giving is more important then people let on. If the gift is right, the person receiving it can’t help but be filled with warmth.’
‘But—’
‘You’re right. There’s always a “but”. It all stopped after Nick and Paddy were killed. The car was a gift.’ For a moment Bess looked sad again; then she brightened. ‘That’s when I picked up Ma’s habit. I send them gifts from time to time. Instead of letters. It means more. They didn’t like it when I went away, but they’re coming round a bit now.’ She stroked his arm again. ‘I enjoyed journalism but I have to admit now, there was always something missing. When Thomas offered me a job, it was like coming home.’ She laughed. ‘But the job’s another reason why there’ve been no men lately—it is a bit intimidating. So when you kept trying, even though you have this screwed-up marital situation, I knew you had to be serious. And anyone who could be so persistent had to be worth a second look.’ She leaned against him. ‘Enough about me. Tell me about Ned.’
David laughed. Telling her about his son was easy.
‘You’d like him, I think. There are three things to understand about Ned—he’s crazy about American football, crazy about space, and crazy about fakes. He has no other topic of conversation and if you’re not interested in those things you are, in his words, an outlaw. Still, he works hard at school and he’s far from stupid. He used to be a very sunny child—great company and very funny. Not at the moment. He has his flashes but frankly I’m a bit worried.’
They talked about the difficulties any child had to face when their parents split up. Bess was very understanding.
After dinner they had taken a taxi back to the hotel but, before going in, had walked a few blocks in the cool October air. There was a shop window at the corner of 79th Street and Madison Avenue which David wanted to show Bess. It was full of silks.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said. ‘Persian, right?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Your collection lacks one of these, I think. It’s time I gave you a present. We’ll come back when it’s open.’
‘It’s time I gave you something, too.’ She had kissed him then and again, back at the hotel, outside her room. And the following morning, when they met again in the cathedral, although she was brisk and businesslike, there was a new tenderness between them.
The next time they were together in New York, on the day of the opening, they went back to the Veau d’Or for lunch and asked for the same table. She rested her hand on his in exactly the same way. But you can never duplicate life exactly: they emerged from the restaurant to find that it was snowing.
New Y
ork was transformed. Its harsh straight lines were softened romantically and blurred by the snowflakes. Its sounds were hushed, its timetables abandoned, its pace altered, its self-assurance gone. The taxi slithered silently up Madison Avneue, throwing them against one another.
‘Does Ned like the snow?’ Bess asked, looking out at some people throwing snowballs.
‘If he was here he would probably be asking questions like: “Does it snow on Mars?”’
She squeezed his arm. The taxi reached 79th Street and they got out. The silk shop was open this time and they went in. Bess ran her hands over several pieces of silk, pressed them to her cheek. Eventually, she chose a small lozenge that depicted a highly stylized map of the silk route itself, winding from China, across Afghanistan to Venice. It was gold, brown and red, with places picked out in patches of deep green, like pools.
Outside again in the snow they held on to each other, inching their way towards Fifth Avenue where the amber lights made it seem as if the park was coated in resin. They watched snowball fights and saw the first toboggans appear. Across the park the high buildings of the West Side faded into the murk. It seemed as if there was, for once, hardly a sound.
Because of the weather they had dinner in the hotel, then, wrapped in boots, scarves and heavy coats, went out into the snow again. They tramped the quiet streets, watched the snow settle on cars, on mailboxes, on the spindly branches of trees. They trudged over to Lexington Avenue and bought an early edition of the next day’s paper, where the St Patrick’s exhibition was written up. They slithered back past a school on 82nd Street where the basketball ring was topped with a perfect circle of white.
Outside her room at the hotel, David went to kiss Bess goodbye, but she stopped him. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘Come in.’
Next day was cold but fiercely sunny. Overnight, the city had been cleaned up. David left for Israel and then, a few days later, flew back to London to see Ned. He had been back in London only a few hours, and had yet to see his son, when he received a phone call from Sir Edgar Seton. It was a surprise. Seton was Surveyor of the Queen’s pictures and his request was simple: would David go down to Windsor for lunch the following day. It was important, said Seton. David sighed. Regretfully he abandoned all hope of seeing Ned until the day after. As his driver, Patton, pulled on to the M4 in his office car, the rain slashed down in cold, cutting diagonals and David buried himself in newspaper cuttings. Sally Middleton always cut any articles about art when he was away so that he could catch up and keep himself fully informed. This morning’s batch contained news of the latest development in the long-running saga about a Pieter de Hooch picture in Houston, which they claimed was real and an English art restorer claimed was a fake. Hamilton’s had sold the picture to Houston, as genuine, so David was relieved to see that the restorer was backtracking a bit now. There was another interesting item: this concerned a British university which had decided to sell its unique collection of tribal art. The university had not offered the British Museum a chance to save the collection for the nation but instead had found an overseas buyer. Worse, since the collection’s combined value would have necessitated obtaining government permission, permission which almost certainly would have been refused, the university had exported the thousands of items one by one, thus avoiding the need to obtain official sanction. That was bad, David felt, a bit like the university smuggling the collection out of the country.
The Ford skimmed up the hill to Windsor Castle. The rain still fell insistently from a sky grey as the walls of the castle itself. At the gate David got out of the car and a man in a short black jacket with gold crowns on his lapels greeted him. ‘Mr Colwyn? Follow me please. I’ll show you to Sir Edgar’s office.’
They ascended a wide oak staircase and reached a long gallery which, despite the weather, was very light: the windows must have been twelve feet high. A carpet ran the length of this gallery which, David could see, was hung with mainly English portraits of varying quality. He did not know Edgar Seton well, but the Surveyor was an authority on English miniatures and on Holbein, and David had read his books on those subjects. They had met on several occasions at exhibitions and receptions. They had once served on the same committee.
At the end of the gallery the official in the black jacket turned into an alcove and knocked at a wooden door. Seton’s voice was heard faintly, ‘Come in.’
He rose to meet David. He was a small, neat, tidy man with silver hair and sharp, rather beaky features. The amount of shirt cuff his suit left showing suggested that he took just a little too much care with his clothes. He came round the desk, shook hands and showed David to a sofa next to a fireplace. ‘Sherry?’
David hadn’t drunk sherry since university. He was struck by how similar this office was to a college room—light oak panelling, but fairly new, a biscuit-coloured carpet, burgundy curtains, safe chintzes. The pictures stood out, of course. ‘Yes, I’d love a sherry,’ he said.
Seton busied himself at a table.
‘Veronese?’ said David, looking at the picture above the mantelpiece.
‘One of the perks of the job,’ replied Seton, opening the sherry with a flourish. ‘Yes, it’s a study for his “Marriage at Cana”. There’s a Rubens opposite … and you probably recognize the Holbein behind my desk.’
David walked across. ‘Superb …’ He was genuinely impressed. ‘I sometimes keep pictures we are selling in my office, but never for more than a few days. You’re very lucky.’
Seton handed him the sherry and they both sat down. ‘Yes, I am lucky. I’m also safe here—this is a castle after all. Doesn’t security bother you people? It has always amazed me that you’re not burgled more often.’
David swallowed the excellent sherry. ‘Well, our clients don’t really have any choice, not if they want us to sell their pictures. We have to keep them for a few days so that people who might want to buy them can look at them. We don’t exactly advertise our precautions, but they’re reasonably state of the art. And—’ he tapped the table between them ‘—touch wood, there have been no problems so far. Not serious ones anyway.’ He lifted the glass again. He hadn’t been invited here to discuss security.
Seton took his cue. ‘Mr Colwyn, I’m glad you could come down here. I didn’t want to take the risk of being seen at your offices in St James’s Square.’
David’s expression didn’t change. But it was a telling remark, he thought.
Seton crossed his legs. His left arm was draped elegantly along the back of the sofa. ‘The truth is, it was Her Majesty who wanted me to see you. The Queen is a fine woman, Mr Colwyn, and a generous and kind employer. She also likes paintings but I think she would agree with me when I say that she is in no sense a connoisseur.’ He drank his sherry. ‘She is also—well, no longer as young as she was. And she is a worried woman. She believes—and here, as in all I say today, I must swear you to secrecy—she thinks that, in the past twenty years or so this nation has begun to break up. The process started with the Commonwealth, of course, but has now spread to Britain itself. She cannot say so publicly, of course—and only privately in the strictest confidence. She must not be seen to involve herself in politics. All the same, she feels—well she would like to do something. Something to help her subjects, help them and unite them. Bring the Commonwealth back together. The main difficulty, in her position, is what.’
Seton got to his feet, took David’s sherry glass and went to the table where he refilled it. Outside, the day seemed to be brightening.
Seton returned to the sofa. ‘This is where you come in, Mr Colwyn. Her Majesty has been most impressed by the activities of His Holiness the Pope. Although she has said nothing publicly, she privately applauds his decision to sell off the Vatican treasures in order to do the things he has done … and still plans to do. In fact, Mr Colwyn, she is so impressed that she has it in mind to sell off some of the art in the Royal Collection—the collection which belongs to her personally, rather than to the nation—and put the money to
good use.’ Seton paused and levelled his eyes at David. ‘I must emphasize that nothing is settled yet, Mr Colwyn. Her Majesty always has to move slowly. So I repeat: she has this plan in mind, but first we must take soundings. That is why you are here today. I want your reaction.’
David said nothing. What could he say? The British Royal Collection of works of art—paintings, drawings, tapestries, furniture, sculpture—was the best private collection in the world. As a collection it was better even than the Vatican’s masterpieces. It may not have had a ‘Pietà’ but that was about all it didn’t have. The Royal Collection contained Leonardos, Bellinis, Holbeins, Titians, Breughels, Dürers, Cranachs, Raphaels—the list was immense and the quality was superb.
‘Yes,’ said Seton, studying David’s face. ‘I was stunned when the Queen first mentioned it to me. But you’ll find you get used to the idea.’
‘How many works does she want to sell?’
‘Ah, that is where you and I come in. I have to tell you, Mr Colwyn, that I do not exactly approve of what Her Majesty intends to do, but they aren’t my pictures and, although I have some influence, in the end even I have to do as I’m told. And as part of the necessary soundings, Her Majesty would like you and me to advise her on what items she should sell and how much she might expect for them. Naturally she wishes the collection to be damaged as little as possible, but she has in mind a substantial final figure—something in the region of a hundred million, at the very least. We have to produce a list. I’ve already told her that, what with these other Vatican sales, many museums and galleries will be stretched for funds and so top dollars may not be available for a while.’
