by Peter Watson
David had still not sorted out his exact reaction to all this. Still, some comment was required. ‘I’ll have to consult my colleagues,’ he said, feeling rather inadequate.
‘As few as possible,’ replied Seton. ‘And only those you trust completely. I’d like some sort of answer in—say—two weeks. If she is to go ahead, Her Majesty would like to make some sort of announcement soon. She goes on a long tour of Australia and the Caribbean in January and would like to release the news before then.’
David left Windsor in a daze, hardly noticing that the rain had stopped and that a diluted sun lurked behind the clouds. As Patton drove east, back along the M4, half-submerged in the wake of faster cars the windscreen wipers of the Ford beat rhythmically back and forth. ‘Hol-bein, Dü-rer, Rem-brandt.’ It was incredible, what was happening. First the Pope, then the Israelis, now the Queen … The car slowed as they reached the usual snarl-up where the three lanes of motorway funnelled into two near Chiswick flyover. At least it gave him time to think. He stared down at the roofs of countless houses below him. A fiercely ambitious person himself, independent to the point of stubbornness, he had never been prone to jump on whatever happened to be the current bandwagon. But he could also see that the Queen’s position was rather different in the wake of the Pope’s successes. This was not something she could have initiated herself. But because the Pope had done it, because he had brought about change without any political overtones, because his intervention had been so popular and successful, she could act now without any accusations of political interference being levelled at her. The traffic began to move more quickly along the Cromwell Road. David flipped through the catalogue of the Royal Collection which Sir Edgar had given him. Her Majesty could raise £50 million, £100 million, £500 million, just like that, depending on what she was willing to let go. The Holbeins were fantastic, the Hogarths, the Hilliards and the Frans Hals were all perfect, to name but a few. But, the more he thought about it, the more David realized that, for some unaccountable reason, he did not have the same favourable reaction to Sir Edgar’s news as he had had when he first visited the Vatican. He couldn’t put his finger on why: perhaps it was because he was British and the Queen proposed to sell off what he regarded was his heritage, or perhaps it was simply because he suspected that others in Britain would take even less kindly to the Queen’s plan than he, and would seek to make trouble for Hamilton’s.
The car reached Hyde Park Corner, turned down Grosvenor Place and past Buckingham Palace. David reached his office in a still uncertain state of mind, but any doubts he had—any thoughts at all in fact—were quickly dispersed by a message Sally had left on his desk. It was to call Betsy in New York. He assumed that she had some news about the autocrats, the big business bosses he had asked her to research. But it wasn’t that.
Betsy sounded quite frightened on the phone. ‘We’ve just had a visit from a real scary guy. Small and dark, hairy backs to his hands. Italian accent. He just turned up here and demanded to see you. I told him you were in London and he said to give you a message. He said for you to call off the Pope’s sale. He said that if you didn’t, you’d be sorry. And from the look of him, Mr Colwyn, I guess he meant it. He had Mafia written all over him.’
On Christmas Day the Queen broke with tradition. Her speech to the Commonwealth, normally pre-recorded, was made live, not from Buckingham Palace, but from Windsor Castle where she was shown surrounded by some of her magnificent art collection. And the speech itself, instead of being the usual rather bland review of the last year’s royal tours, mixed with tame jokes about her immediate family, contained her bombshell. David watched her, alone in his house in Pelham Crescent. Bess was busy in Rome, his own work kept him in London, and Ned was with Sarah.
‘Christmas,’ said Her Majesty, ‘is a time of relaxation, of looking back and looking forward. We look back to what we have accomplished in the past, and forward to what we might accomplish in the future.’ Her voice was as clear as ever but had weakened with age. ‘I speak to you today, not only as Queen, but as head of the Church of England. And today, at Christmas, I look across to the head of another church, the head of the Catholic Church, Pope Thomas in Rome. Like many of you, I have been heartened and impressed by what Pope Thomas has accomplished this year. With the sale of just three great works of art from the Vatican, he has managed to bring hope to the poor and needy in many parts of the world.
‘Now, he plans a bigger sale. Twenty-one Vatican treasures are to be sold in New York, in order to provide a huge charitable trust fund for the relief of international poverty. In Israel the government is already planning something similar. Four Dead Sea Scrolls are to be sold, and again the money will be used to help the poor.
‘Such sales are both imaginative and clearly popular. They represent, as the President of the United States, Mr Roskill, has said, a wonderful combination of compassion and business acumen.’
She paused to allow the camera time to draw back, to show more of the Windsor gallery behind her.
‘Many of the pictures you see here have been in the British Royal Family’s Collection for hundreds of years. Ours is one of the largest collections in the world. I have decided that some—a small number—of these works of art should now be sold and the money provided will be used to benefit some of the poorer, less fortunate Commonwealth countries and some of Britain’s more ravaged inner cities. I shall be visiting several Commonwealth countries in the coming year and shall discuss with their leaders how best the money may be used. The pictures, after all, are in a sense part of all our Commonwealth, yours and mine.’
The rest of the speech didn’t matter. Those few paragraphs of Her Majesty’s Christmas message were quite enough. They made the days after Christmas a busy time for David, which was just as well. Otherwise he’d have been at a loose end. Ned had gone off with his mother and Greener, skiing in Switzerland, and as soon as Thomas’s official Christmas functions were over, Bess too had gone away, back home to Louisiana. She loved her family dearly, and wanted to give them their Christmas presents in person, albeit late.
The British reaction to the Queen’s news, however, confirmed David’s initial doubts. Among the public her proposal was every bit as popular as Thomas’s plans had been. But the art establishment in Britain, the museum directors, the dealers, the heritage organizations, were ominously quiet. David didn’t like it. And he liked it even less when, during the first week of January, he was tackled openly in his club bar.
‘David! Buy me a drink. You can afford it these days, with all that Vatican money sloshing around in Hamilton’s.’
‘Paul! Aren’t you too busy to frequent bars? And what are you doing here anyway? Downing Street boring?’
Paul Clegg was an old friend of David’s from university days and now a civil servant on the Prime Minister’s staff.
‘When I say buy me a drink, David, that’s not a request, it’s an order.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes, I’m here semi-officially. I’ll have a gin.’
David ordered a gin for Clegg and a whisky for himself. The other man pulled him away to a window seat. ‘Cheers!’ he said, sinking half his drink.
David returned the toast.
‘Now, in the nicest possible way, David, the PM is not, repeat not, at all happy with this royal sale.’
‘He’s not the only one.’ It was true. In preparation for the Queen’s announcement, David had spent days at Windsor, choosing the pictures with Seton. It was a difficult time and the two men had quite a tussle over what to include. David had lost.
Clegg nodded to several club members, then turned back to David. ‘This is just a friendly warning, David. Hamilton’s are only doing their job, of course, and we can’t blame you for that. The PM is really more angry with the Queen. This proposal of hers implies that the political approach to our problems has failed, that her government isn’t doing its job properly.’
‘It implies nothing of the sort.’
‘Do
n’t be naïve, David. You know the Queen and the Prime Minister don’t get on. What I’m saying, so that it’s crystal clear, is that you are to expect no support from the government on this sale. We are not going to make things easy for you. Quite the reverse, in fact—if any of these works look like going abroad we shall slap restrictions on them, hold them up for as long as we can.’
‘Can you do that? Aren’t they Her Majesty’s own personal property?’
‘That’s never been tested. So it may mean taking Her Majesty to court over her right to export her paintings. Not an edifying prospect, I know, but the PM is so livid right now that anything is possible.’
‘The Prime Minister would take on the Queen? He’d be massacred, surely. Her Majesty is vastly more popular.’
‘Maybe. But he will challenge her, David, if this sale goes ahead.’
David drained his glass. ‘I don’t really know why you’re telling me all this, Paul. Hamilton’s can’t back out now. We’re committed. And, as you say, we’re only doing our job.’
‘I’m telling you because the PM has asked me to. He’s talking to the Queen at a different level, of course, but she’s as adamant in her way as he is in his. So the government is exerting its pressure wherever it can. Hence this chat.’
‘But it’s only chat, right? You have no real sanctions you can bring, not until the sale has taken place and pictures look like going abroad?’
‘At the moment maybe. But things have a way of changing. This chat is just to let you know that the government is against the sale, on the grounds that some, perhaps all, of these pictures should be saved for the nation. Money isn’t everything. There are also one or two “quid pro quos” we can offer that could hurt you. That’s what I am saying.’
The room was filling up. Clegg drained his glass. ‘My round next time,’ he said and made for the door, nodding to others as he went. David stared at the photograph of the Queen above the bar. Absently, he sucked some ice from his drink. Something inside him had been against the royal sale from the beginning. He felt that, slowly but steadily, he was entering a trap.
Eventually, when it seemed to David that the New Year was already quite old, Ned came back from skiing and Bess from the USA. He saw Ned first, before he returned to school. David had heard from Sarah that Ned had been a ‘pain’ in Switzerland—moody, contrary, silent and stand-offish. He therefore took the boy to the theatre, to a Christmas show set in the future on another planet. With Ned’s passion for space David thought it might cheer him up.
During the first half, he watched his son out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to be enjoying it. At the interval over ginger beer in the foyer, David asked: ‘How was Switzerland?’
‘Okay.’
‘Your mother says you were … quiet.’
‘Michael Greener is not my favourite person.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ David was reminded how treacherous divorce was. There was nothing wrong with Michael Greener, except that he was the third side of the triangle. But David wanted to hear Ned’s answer all the same.
‘He’s a trivet.’
‘A what?’
‘Come on, Dad. You’re the art expert. A trivet’s one of those metal things they used to stand in front of the fire in England in the eighteenth century, to keep pots warm on. In Switzerland, in the evenings, he was always standing in front of the fire, keeping his pot belly warm. And sounding off—just like a pot boils. So he’s a trivet.’
These were troubled waters. Ned’s description didn’t fit Greener at all. For all his faults, David knew the MP to be an elegant, witty man, not self-important in any way—though he was, perhaps, a shade on the sturdy side. So what was Ned up to? Trying to protect David by pretending he didn’t like Greener? Troubled waters indeed. David changed the subject.
‘How’s school? Looking forward to going back?’
‘I suppose so. I might make the rugby fifteen this term, if the right people get crocked.’
‘Ned!’
‘Dead men’s shoes, Dad. That’s how you get on in life.’
David tried to keep from laughing. The worst of it was: Ned was right. Half-right anyway. People were drifting back into the auditorium, the interval was nearly over. It was time to broach the other subject he wanted to discuss.
‘Ned, if … if I did what your mother has done, found someone else, I mean … would—would you think up a funny name for her, too?’
‘Does she have a pot belly?’
‘Women don’t have pot bellies, Ned.’
‘A squint then? Or a humpback, or webbed fingers, or a beard, or six toes on one foot, or—’
‘Ned! Be serious.’
‘Humpbacks are serious Dad, if you’ve got one.’
David laughed.
‘What’s her name, Dad?’ Ned said softly.
David hesitated. ‘Elizabeth Lisle. She’s called Bess. She’s a Catholic and lives in Rome. She’s the Pope’s press secretary—I met her handling all these sales of Vatican pictures. She’s American.’
‘The Vatican? That must mean she’s religious.’
‘Yes, she’s religious, but no more than me.’
‘Where does she come from in America?’
‘Louisiana. Near New Orleans.’
‘Are you going to marry her?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t known her very long.’
‘Will you go and live in Rome too?’
‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘Does ma know about her?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Am I going to meet her?’
‘If you want to. Do you?’
‘I’m asking the questions, Dad. What does she look like?’
‘Here’s a picture.’
Ned looked at the photograph David offered, without taking it from him. ‘Too good-looking for you, dad. You won’t keep her.’
‘Thanks.’
They made their way back to their seats. To David it seemed as though the conversation had gone well enough. He had introduced the idea of Bess and his son had seemed quite amenable. Why was it then that, as the second half of the show wore on, a second half which was much funnier than the first, Ned sat very still and didn’t laugh or even smile once?
Since David and Bess had not seen each other over Christmas, they decided they just had time to sneak a few days holiday, in Italy, before the St Patrick’s sale. Most of the preparations had been made but it was the biggest sale David had ever handled, the biggest art auction ever held, so he commuted to Manhattan every fortnight.
Still, the two of them managed a four-day break.
They went to Lucca, Genoa, then across to Venice. It was, said David, a ‘silk tour’, an itinerary which followed the great Italian silk-making city-states. If Bess was to become a world authority on silk, he joked, she had to see Lucca silks in Lucca and Genoa designs in Genoa. In Lucca David bought her a fifteenth-century panel showing swooping phoenixes, the traditional Lucchese design, and a piece of sixteenth-century patterned velvet, another Lucca speciality. In Genoa they found some sixteenth-century damask with a traditional pomegranate design. And in Venice they visited the factories which still exist, and still produce world-famous silks.
From Venice they took the vaporetto to Burano. It was rainy and windy, so they had to sit inside, gazing out at the grey lagoon through steamy windows. ‘Imagine being here in the sixteenth century,’ said David, ‘when Venice was at the peak of her power. Small wooden ships, no heating, no plate glass, plague every ten years, sail power only …’
‘How romantic!’
‘Do you know, fashionable women used to walk around on wooden shoes, with heels as high as ten or eleven inches—so they could be above the filth in the streets?’
‘David!’
He pointed out of the window, to a small island with a wall running round it and soaked cypress trees bending in the wind. ‘St Erasmo. During plagues that’s where they buried all the bodies—’
At Burano they watched crimson damask being made by small, dark-haired women with nimble fingers. In the next room a deep green silk was being hand-woven into a thick panel. ‘These colours don’t amount to much now,’ said David, ‘but once they were trade secrets. Venetian red and Verona green-earth were two of the most sought-after colours in the civilized world.’
The next room was the factory shop. ‘With those brown eyes, I think green suits you better,’ David told her, and ordered a roll of the Verona green-earth silk.
Bess gripped his arm. ‘Oh David, what a great idea! I could make a shirt, or maybe a robe. Thank you.’ They were in public so she couldn’t kiss him. Instead, she just leaned her body into his.
Outside it was still raining, the wind driving the drops almost horizontally. They ran down the street, avoiding the puddles, towards the landing where the vaporetto stopped. They had to wait. The wind and the rain swept around them but, in the glass-walled bay, they were sheltered. Bess took out a handkerchief and wiped the rain off David’s hair and forehead. He held her arm and kissed her. From here they could see the big ocean-going ships making for the Adriatic. An oil tanker, sleek and graceful despite its industrial purpose, was making towards open waters.
‘I’ve never made love on a ship,’ said Bess. ‘I wonder what it’s like.’
‘It can be arranged,’ said David. ‘Over here!’ he shouted, waving at the tanker. ‘Over here! Don’t go without us!’
She pulled him back, laughing. ‘I’ll settle for a hotel room, on the Grand Canal. Let’s go to mass and then have an early dinner. I need a lot of time to thank you for the silk.’
They were staying at the Gritti Palace and because it was early February and the hotel far from full, they had the pick of rooms overlooking the Grand Canal. That night, after involtini di Salmone at Antico Martini, a restaurant opposite the opera house, they leaned out of their hotel window and watched the river traffic, the shifting lights and surfaces. The rich smells of cooking mingled with the damp odours of decay. The vast, dark shapes of the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni and Santa Maria della Salute on the opposite bank threw back at them the throaty roar of the vaporetti, the soft slapping of the water, and the more fleeting, secretive noises of half-heard conversations.
