“Alan, come in, come in. Coffee? Hazel, two coffees if you wouldn`t mind. So, Alan, what have you been up to these recent weeks?”
“Working hard for the Art Newspaper, helping out here and there. I see life is treating you well, Ben. A room with a view, carpet on the floor, pictures on the wall. By the way, what happened to John Beatty?”
“Still with the BBC, Alan. Working in Salford. Comes home every weekend, I believe.”
Hazel brought in the coffee, and Ben hastily retrieved table mats from a drawer and laid them out on the desk.
“Don`t want to spoil the woodwork, do we?”
I took a sip.
Everything else may have changed, but the coffee was still as deplorable as ever.
“Right. To business. As I mentioned on the phone, we`d like to fit your special on Vermeer into the schedule in three months’ time. Do you think you could do that?”
“Oh, I could do it alright, Ben. I can`t see that being a problem. No, the bigger problem is what happens afterwards?”
“How do you mean?” He leaned forward on the desk.
“Well, say I do this special. Fine… but would there be any more in the pipeline? Would I be contracted, personally, to do any others?”
“Well, I couldn`t really say off the top of my head. That`s for the powers above to decide.”
“OK, let`s approach it another way. What have you got planned, in the way of specials, for this year?”
“Er… ” He fumbled in the drawer again, and took out the programme planner. He pored over it briefly, looked up, and said, “One. But there could well be several during the course of next year.”
“Mm… let me put my position to you. I would very much like to work for the BBC. I enjoyed it in the past, and had hoped it might continue in the future. But what you are offering are the crumbs from the table. As a freelance, it could not sustain me.”
I, too, leaned forward on my side of the desk.
“I was in Munich a few weeks ago. Driving back, I stopped off in Strasbourg, and had a meeting with the ARTE people. As you know, the ARTE channel, part-financed by the European Union, transmits high quality arts programmes in French and in German, with many countries provided with their own sub-titles.
“As I speak both French and German, they have offered me the opportunity to do three specials a year for them. So you see, Ben, how can I afford not to take up their offer?”
Chapter 67
For once, Roger was his normal self.
Dressed in a suit, freshly shaved, he performed well as an usher. As did John Fielding. Both, I had to acknowledge, undertook their duties in a correct and proper manner.
I had a dual role. Although best man, I also gave my mother away.
Neither were onerous tasks. At least that was what I thought when McKenna asked me to fulfil the two functions. But, surprisingly wearing on the nerves when trying to ensure every detail of the event went smoothly.
Their marriage took place in the local church; and again, as it was six months earlier at Grandpa Johns` funeral, it was remarkably full.
Predictably, mother invited everyone back to the reception at Mead Court. However, this time I was prepared. Knowing her inclination to welcome all with open arms, I had briefed the caterers to double up on everything - the wine, the food, the cake, all the trappings of a feast.
There was no formality to the seating, other than at the top table.
The speeches, brief, amusing, and light-hearted, were soon dispensed with; and after I had contributed my few words, I relaxed, thanked the lord everything had gone almost according to plan, and wandered out onto the terrace to sit in my favourite chair.
A short while later my mother came out, and sat beside me for some minutes before commenting. “A crazy six months, Alan, wouldn`t you say?”
“I would have said, turbulent, mother. There were times when we were sailing o` so close to the wind. I`m sure Grandpa Johns didn`t envisage what an upheaval he inadvertently caused. But there we are… it`s over and done with.”
We lapsed into silence for another few minutes. Both of us reflecting on past events.
“Did I tell, just how radiant you looked today?” I complimented her. “McKenna`s a lucky man to have such an attractive bride.”
“Why, thank you kind sir. . .or should I say `kind son`?”
“By the way, I told you the BBC had sacked me, with the demise of the Culture Show. Well, a producer, a chap called Ben Ashley, phoned the other day and we had a chat in his office.
“He invited me to do the special on Vermeer I`ve been working on. I said I would if he could give me a regular offer of several specials a year. When he said that was beyond his remit, I told him not to worry, I`m about to sign for a pan-European network which will contract me to three specials a year.”
“What have you in mind?”
“Well, the Vermeer for a start. Then, I thought I might propose an insight into Toulouse-Lautrec, followed by a special on Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn.”
“Haven`t they done Rembrandt to death, dear?”
“I`m taking an entirely different approach to anything that has gone before. Rembrandt, from the perspective of the women in his life, his wife, Saskia, and his mistresses, Geertje Dircx and the younger Hendrickje Stoffels.”
Roger stepped out onto the terrace.
“Ah, there you are. I think it`s time the cakes were cut.”
“My mother smiled. “You`re taking your part in all this very seriously, Roger. Thank you. Come on, Alan, let`s get it over with.”
We stepped into the room and a cheer rang out. My mother walked over to McKenna, and together the couple posed for photographs of going through the ritual of cutting the cakes.
Then there was more champagne.
As everyone was toasting the bride and groom, Mrs Dimmock sidled over.
“There`s a call for you, Alan, on the phone in the hall.”
I walked over to the side table, drank from my glass, and picked up the receiver.
“Alan Cleverden speaking.”
“Mrs Dimmock tells me you are in the middle of a wedding. Will you congratulate your mother and McKenna for me?”
“Hello, Sofia. Where are you?”
I could almost catch the hint of laughter.
“In Vitznau, of course. I told you I was coming here. Nikos and I have taken over where Engel, unfortunately, left off.”
There was a throaty chuckle.
“How, on earth, were you able to do that?”
“You forget, Alan, Nikos` father is a very powerful man. Many of his crewmen will do anything for him.”
The penny dropped. I gasped. She was talking about Konstantinos Ioannidis, the Greek shipping magnate. No wonder she had forsaken me with the lure of all that wealth.
“Anyway, there were two reasons I phoned. You cheated me, Alan. The Chagall is a fake.”
“Yes, you told me a long time ago the painting was a fake.”
“You know very well what I mean. Did you paint it? If you did, I must congratulate you. A first-class effort. So much so, I passed it on as a present to Uncle Konstantinos, and he was over the moon.
“Alan, you mentioned the last time I came to Mead Court, you were searching for a small basalt bust of Tuthmosis lll. Well, I happen to know where it is. According to Engel`s records, I`ve been going through them, it was acquired for a gentleman called Monsieur Le Maitre, who lives in an apartment on the Avenue Foch in Paris. I hope that helps. As we say in Greek, `Θα τα πούμε σύντομα`… see you soon, Alan. I am sure our paths will cross.”
Another throaty chuckle, and she was gone.
I walked back into the reception, took hold of Roger`s arm, and pulled him out onto the terrace.
“Tell me, if we`re partners in the search for Tuthmosis lll, how much are you going to pay me?”
“You know something, don`t you?” he said, peering intently into my eyes.
“Maybe… but you would never find it withou
t my help.”
“In which case we would share the fee. How`s that?”
“Which is?”
“A hundred thousand dollars, So you`d get fifty thousand dollars.”
I grinned at him. “I think I`m going to enjoy this partnership.”
.
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Author`s notes
I am indebted to Louise Connell, the director of the Penlee House Museum and Gallery; and the air ground operators at Compton Abbas Airfield. All helped give credence to the tale.
Popularised by the film, The Monument Men, the work of the Monuments, Fine Art and Archives Programme did much to preserve and restore treasured items to their original owners. Predictably, there is some evidence personnel in the MFAA also acquired works of art themselves. However, it must be stressed, most often they were the results of barter, or gifts for the help many provided during and after the conflict.
Hildebrand Gurlitt was an art dealer who worked for the Nazi regime. His role was to sell what was termed `degenerate art`, and pass on the monies to bolster Hitler`s grand design for Europe. Conrad, his nephew, is a fictitious character: not to be confused with Cornelius Gurlitt, Hildebrand` son, whose apartment in Munich was raided and 1500 works of art were discovered on the premises.
Hildebrand Gurlitt did arrive at Aschbach with a host of paintings; and the MFAA did eventually decide they were his private property. They were stored, alongside many other paintings, antiquities, artefacts and sculptures, in Aschbach Castle until well after the end of World War Two.
Although `Restitution Incorporated` is a fictitious organisation, there are such companies which specialise in research into the provenance, legal title and authenticity of works of art; provide expert advice on potential claims; organise recovery and negotiate settlements for the return of cultural property.
Where the latter aspect of their work is concerned they often employ outside help to locate items, and open the door to mediation for their rightful restitution.
Patrick Gooch – 2017
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