by James Runcie
He thought that he was ‘doing’ quite enough already, but Miss Morgan was particularly firm on this point. ‘A great many priests waste so much time that they have none left for prayer. We need to make sure that the monastic tradition of religious discipline is preserved.’
‘I don’t think anyone would argue with that.’
‘I should hope not, Mr Archdeacon. It is, of course, a paradox.’
‘Is it, Miss Morgan?’
‘It is. In order to discover the regular rhythms of medieval life we have to embrace modern management techniques. The Church has been stuck in the Victorian era for too long.’
Each day that someone told Sidney about the need to move with the times, he thought of a church in London that had recently installed a lavatory next to the chancel. Members of the congregation were given pieces of toilet paper on which they were told to write down their sins. Then, after a moment of prayer and penitence, and through the mercy of Christ’s forgiveness, the vicar would push down the handle and flush those sins away.
It seemed extreme but now, perhaps, was not the moment to engage in a debate about the tension between tradition and modernity.
After they had established that Miss Morgan would run Sidney’s diary from her office, take dictation and organise his correspondence (letters would need to be signed by 4.30 p.m. ready for the last post), the conversation turned to the cathedral itself.
Her first suggestion was that the vergers take on more cleaning duties. Sidney had anticipated something altogether different; that she might question the number of clergy or raise the possibility of charging admission for entry. There was a precedent for this. In the nineteenth century many cathedrals kept their Naves free to visit but charged sixpence for admission to the Choir, Lady Chapel, Chapter House and Tower.
Instead, Miss Morgan seemed to be picking on the vergers.
‘Why can’t they take on the cleaning as well?’ she asked. ‘You know that they are already doing this at Winchester. We need younger, fresher staff who can get more done and in a tighter time frame. The Church has to embrace the modern age.’
‘But some of the men have been here for years. Loyalty and tradition are important.’
‘Not if the finances are impractical and the size of the congregation is on the decline.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘We have to act before it’s too late.’
‘What do you mean by that, Miss Morgan?’
‘Bankruptcy.’
‘I don’t think the Church is in any danger of that.’
‘And yet without radical new ideas it may wither on the vine.’
‘But what other radical new ideas do you have in mind?’
‘As you can no doubt imagine, I am in favour of a contemporary, inclusive ministry.’
‘I had heard that you plan to enter the Church yourself.’
‘As a deaconess, yes. To begin with.’
‘You have further ambitions?’
‘I do hope that one day there will be women priests. I would have thought that a modern man like you might approve of such a thing.’
Sidney tried to follow the current liberal Anglican line that although he didn’t disapprove of women in principle, unlike some of his colleagues who argued that Christ’s choice of twelve men as his apostles should be preserved in the priesthood, he did not feel that the Anglican communion was ready for such an historic change.
Miss Morgan was not convinced. ‘The Church of England has to take a lead. If Jesus were living in an age with a greater appreciation of women’s dignity and gifts, he would have chosen female disciples and ordained women priests.’
‘That may well be the case, but he didn’t. Although he lives now.’
‘And we should reflect his life in us by ordaining women.’
‘We don’t all have to do the same job. Even if they are not priests, women still have a unique role in the ministry, Miss Morgan. The fact that the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God and Mother of the Church, received neither the mission proper to the apostles nor the ministerial priesthood clearly shows that the non-admission of women to priestly ordination cannot mean that they are of lesser dignity, nor can it be construed as a discrimination against them.’
‘But it is discrimination against them, Archdeacon. Tradition preserves the misogyny of exclusion.’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’
‘Remember St Paul writing in 1 Corinthians 14:33–35? He states: “As in all the churches of the holy one, women should keep silent in the churches, for they are not allowed to speak, but should be subordinate even as the law says.”’
‘But Paul also wrote to Phoebe as a deaconess, Priscilla as a missionary partner, and Junia as an apostle. It was another age, and we all have different ways of following Christ’s example. Everyone can’t do everything.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not possible, Miss Morgan. I can’t give birth to a child. I may want to, but I can’t.’
‘That is a biological rather than a theological problem. If it were physically possible, you should not be excluded from childbirth solely on the grounds of gender.’
‘That is quite an extreme position, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Miss Morgan was almost amused. ‘I do mind you saying so, as a matter of fact.’
‘Then I apologise. I can see we are going to have a lively old time together.’
‘Even more so if I become a priest myself.’
‘I don’t think we’re likely to see that, however much you may want it,’ Sidney replied. ‘At least not in our lifetime.’
‘You know,’ Miss Morgan countered, ‘the Edwardians probably thought the same thing about votes for women.’
Bloody hell, Sidney thought, after the conversation had been interrupted by Amanda’s fortuitous arrival. Hildegard sent her round to the Deanery to fetch her husband for lunch and after a brief introduction the two friends found themselves walking home alone.
‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ Amanda began. She was wearing a dark-purple trouser suit that was more King’s Road than King’s School, Ely.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your “secretary”?’
‘Why do you stress the word? That’s what she is.’
‘I hope you don’t find her distracting. I presume you have spotted that she is rather beautiful.’
‘She’s not attractive at all. She’s terrifying. She might even be ghastly. She wants to be a priest.’
‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. There aren’t any women priests.’
‘I think her plan is to make sure that there are.’
‘It’ll never catch on. I can’t imagine a woman giving me communion.’
‘When was the last time you went to church, Amanda?’
‘Now then, Sidney, don’t be a bully.’
‘I’m not.’
‘All I will say is that Miss Morgan doesn’t have much return of serve.’
‘She does with me, I can tell you. She has made it perfectly clear she has no time for triviality.’
‘Seems a bit of a waste.’
‘What are you saying, Amanda?’
‘For God to make a woman who wants to be a priest so attractive . . .’
‘Her personality is decidedly spiky.’
Sidney had an involuntary flashback to their conversation and remembered another thing that had irritated him: the way Miss Morgan nodded at the end of sentences she thought significant, as if impressed by the precision of her own intelligence.
‘I think that’s deliberate,’ Amanda replied. ‘Protection. She won’t want unnecessary attention.’
‘I thought you were all in favour of attention?’
‘Not the wolf-whistling; although at my age things have certainly calmed down. I can’t turn heads as much as I used to. You remember when the balls started up again after the war?’
‘You were radiant. Always the belle. You co
uld have married any man you wanted.’
Sidney had already fixed one of his earliest memories of his friend: dancing the foxtrot in a deep-emerald-green silk taffeta gown that had been extremely fitted to her tiny waist. She was wearing long white gloves, her dark hair was swept up, her shoulders were bare, her eyes bright, her face flushed, her smile never faded.
‘What a mess I made of everything.’
‘You’re still radiant. When I look at you now, I can picture you at twenty-five.’
‘You’re too kind. But I have to acknowledge that I am entering my more dignified years.’
‘I wouldn’t call them that. How’s your work?’
‘Rather exciting, if you must know. I’ve brought you a catalogue to have a look at: a country-house auction at West Riding Hall, just outside Leeds. Have you ever been to one? I thought we could all go together and make a day of it. You might pick up something nice; something made out of tin, perhaps?’
‘Don’t you start. I don’t think Hildegard and I can afford anything antique at the moment. Why are you going? Do they have something you can’t find in London?’
‘There’s a very interesting painting in the sale; easy to miss, not particularly attractive, but quite extraordinary. It’s advertised as a Spanish, early-nineteenth-century picture by José de Madrazo y Agudo, but I think it’s a Goya.’
‘And that would make a difference?’
‘You could say that.’
‘And what makes you so sure?’
Amanda hesitated, assessing whether or not to convey doubt, reluctant to give her friend ammunition. ‘I’m not, but part of the iconography matches an engraving we have in the British Museum. The provenance is uncanny. The painting has been in the Fairley family at West Riding for over a hundred years.’
‘Do you know them?’
‘Unfortunately not. The grandfather bought it from the Marquess of Worcester, who had been Wellington’s aide-de-camp in the Peninsular War. The marquess married the duke’s favourite niece, Georgina. After she died there was a bit of a hoo-ha, as he then married his former wife’s half-sister. Wellington threw a hissy fit, cut off relations and, so the story goes, asked for the painting back. Unfortunately, the marquess had already sold it to the Fairleys to raise cash. You know that Goya painted Wellington?’
‘Wasn’t that the portrait that was stolen from the National Gallery a few years ago?’
‘Very good, Sidney. A man called Kempton Bunton left the window of the Gents open and came back later and climbed through it . . .’
‘It was as easy as that?’
‘There were some building works at the back.’
‘But shouldn’t the security guards have checked from the inside?’
‘Well, they didn’t and Bunton then asked for a ransom of £140,000 to set up a charity to provide free television licences to the elderly and the poor.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Sidney, really. He said that the affluent society neglected their needs.’
‘Television licences?’
‘The BBC inflicts a tax on everyone regardless of income, as you know. The case gives you an idea of how much a Goya might be worth these days – £140,000 was the same amount the National Gallery had paid for it in 1965.’
‘So this could be another of your “sleepers”?’
‘I am pretty sure it’s a Goya. During the Peninsular War, in August 1812, Wellington was in Madrid following the Battle of Salamanca. Goya painted at least two portraits of him – one just of his bust with all his most recent medals . . .’
‘The one in the National Gallery?’
‘Correct, and an equestrian portrait that was put on display in September in the galleries of the Academia.’
‘Quick work.’
‘Well, originally, it wasn’t Wellington on the horse. Goya just changed the head and a bit of drapery on the body of a Spanish commander he’d already been working on. You have to think fast in wartime . . .’
‘To the victor, the spoils.’
‘Exactly. Wellington left Madrid in March 1813 with more than two hundred paintings seized from the palaces, convents and churches of Spain. He also brought several canvases of his own back to England: two portraits of himself, one of which he gave away to the Duchess of Leeds, and another two that remained rolled and unhung until the middle of the last century. One of these was of the Marquesa de Santa Cruz, but the authenticity of that painting has been disputed, so could he not have brought the one I’ve just found instead? Might the painting have been kept rolled up in Stratfield Saye and then sent on to West Riding Hall by a subsequent duke who found the subject matter too gloomy?’
‘And is it gloomy?’
‘The image is of a female nude looking at herself in the mirror. But instead of her reflection she sees the head of a donkey. Through a window to the right is a battlefield scene reminiscent of one of the Disasters of War, Infame Provecho: Infamous Gain. Behind, and to her left, an artist with an easel is painting her. I think this must be a self-portrait, because the pose is similar to one found in an earlier Goya painting, the family of the Infante Don Luis. The title, written on the back, is Nadie se Canoce: nobody knows himself. This is a reference to each part of the image; that the lack of self-knowledge applies to every subject: the female model, the painter, and the war. That same inscription, in similar handwriting, is found on one of Goya’s engravings.’
‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘The engraving is one of the Caprichos and it’s perfectly possible that the duke was given a set, because the series the family owns comes with explanations in Goya’s handwriting.’
Sidney tried to stick to the key facts as he remembered them. ‘Is the painting signed?’ he asked.
A fleeting look that managed to contain anger, disappointment and the fear of being caught out ran across Amanda’s eyes and forehead. ‘Unfortunately not. But I think the paperwork backs up my theory.’
Sidney persisted. He was determined to retain interest without being annoying. ‘It doesn’t mention the painting by name?’
‘It doesn’t, but I think there’s enough to go on. We also have to make sure this isn’t a pastiche or a later copy.’
‘And you are doing that?’
‘I’m going half and half with a friend of Daddy’s: Charles Beauvoir. He works in fine art and he’s already got one of his men on to it; X-rays and everything. I’ve been seeing him a bit and he’s on his uppers.’
‘“Seeing him a bit”?’
‘Nothing you need to worry about, Sidney. He may adore me, but you’re still top dog.’
‘On his uppers?’
‘Debt. He might even lose his estate. But he knows West Riding Hall and has had a bit of a sniff around, so he’s asked me to take a look. If they know Charles is interested they might cotton on to the fact that something’s up and revise their estimate. That would be a disaster. So I’m going to check up for him.’
‘Won’t they recognise you?’
‘In Leeds? I don’t think so. Besides, Charles is a bit short of the readies. So I’m going to buy the painting and we’ll split the proceeds later.’
Sidney never quite trusted his friend when she talked at speed. It was her way of heading off any alternative point of view. Perhaps she thought that the faster she spoke the more difficult it would be to contradict her. Sidney’s simplest tactic was therefore to wait until she exhausted herself.
‘So you’re taking the financial risk. Does your boss have anything to say about this, Amanda?’
‘Roland Russell? Why should he?’
‘Have you told him what you’re planning to do?’
‘Not specifically.’
‘But will he find out that you have been offering your services to art dealers? And what will he say if he does?’
‘I don’t think he’ll mind. He does it all the time. I’m only buying a painting. I don’t have to seek his permission.’
‘But you are using your re
putation to increase its value.’
‘That’s true.’
‘By how much?’
‘If it’s a real Goya then it will sell for thirty or forty times as much as a painting by José de Madrazo y Agudo. At the moment, minor paintings by Florentine and Spanish School artists are going for two or three thousand pounds. If you can reattribute and add a distinguished name then you can resell for over £100,000.’
‘And a Goya?’
‘I’ve checked. Between 1951 and 1969 his prices have increased nineteenfold. The last set of La Touromaquia, his thirty-three bullfighting scenes, went for £11,000 last year, and those were prints. An undiscovered Goya painting could solve all of Charles’s problems at a stroke. The estimate is only £1,500.’
‘So it’s in his interest to buy it and get it reauthenticated. Would that be by you, by any chance?’
‘And one other.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Xavier Morata. He’s the world expert on Goya.’
‘Does he know about any of this?’
‘Don’t be daft, Sidney. If he knew he’d be on to it and want to buy it too. This whole business depends on the utmost secrecy.’
‘But what if this Morata fellow refuses to help you or doesn’t agree with the reauthentication?’
‘He won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Never you mind, Sidney. There are ways and means. The art world is sometimes quite complicated.’
‘You mean that every man has his price. It sounds dubious. I don’t understand how you can reauthenticate your own painting.’
‘It’s not illegal. People do it all the time.’
‘Then why can’t you keep all the money? Why do you have to have this Charles person?’
‘Because he spotted the painting first and I am a decent woman.’
‘And why does he need you? Why can’t your man just go straight to Morata?’
‘Because he can’t trust Morata, he doesn’t have the cash and I’ve already done half the detective work for him.’
‘I wish we could make sure that you are not taking any undue risk . . .’
‘I’m not.’
