As arranged, Ingaza turned up for our late lunch – very late as it turned out, well after two o’clock. ‘What took you so long?’ I protested. ‘The lobster is not at its best, and neither am I.’
He had the grace to apologize and explain that he had been delayed by a recalcitrant client. ‘Someone you know, actually.’ He smirked.
‘Oh, really? And who might that be?’
‘A Mrs Alice Markham, sister of the Travers woman you are so obsessed with.’
I was taken aback. Why on earth should Alice Markham be patronizing Nicholas’s money-trap? Had she inherited spare funds from her sister’s will and thus eager to fritter them on paintings of questionable worth and ambiguous provenance?
Naturally I didn’t say that exactly, but instead asked blandly, ‘Oh, and did she want to buy something? Perhaps her London flat has a wall space?’
‘No,’ was the curt reply, ‘I wouldn’t know about her London flat and do not care. What the lady wanted – if thus one can call her – was not to purchase, but to sell.’ He glared at the cat, who glared back.
I must have looked puzzled, for he then continued, ‘Yes, the old bat actually had the nerve to say she didn’t like those two Calder pictures her sister had bought and would I kindly take them back! When I enquired what price she had in mind, she gave a sour look and said, “The original naturally!” I wasn’t too keen on that and told her Calder’s popularity had taken an unfortunate nosedive since that sale and thus any reimbursement would, alas, be minimal.’
‘You don’t say,’ I laughed, ‘and what was her reaction?’
He winced. ‘Made a scene, if you please, quite embarrassing really – an awful racket, and then flounced out bawling the odds and declaring she would do better at Sotheby’s … Huh, and much good that’ll do her, I don’t think!’ He gave an indifferent shrug but I could see he was piqued. ‘Mad as a hatter,’ he muttered.
To soothe ruffled feathers I hastily introduced the lobster bisque and a bottle of chardonnay, which gave mutual pleasure and a mellowness we rarely shared.
Over the cheese (the grocer’s best mousetrap) we discussed the terms of his talk to the Artists’ Guild and touched lightly on MacManus’s recent visit. About the latter he was fairly insouciant: ‘I shouldn’t worry. Take my advice and hang on to those photos; they could be dynamite. A chap in his position can’t afford to be caught romping about with some tart dressed as a stork.’
‘An ostrich actually,’ I murmured.
‘Either way it would be curtains for his career. Play that card and he’ll be putty in your hands.’ He spoke with confidence and I was reminded that having once upon a time been gaoled for dubious antics in a Turkish bath, Nicholas Ingaza would surely know what he was talking about.
He consulted his watch. ‘Ah! Time for liquors if you have any.’ He grinned encouragingly, and I dutifully supplied some port while he produced cigarettes. We settled back in our chairs in a swirl of scented Sobranie, and he winked. ‘Quite like old times really – all we need now is dear old Francis … God, what a bumbler! What a lovable effing bumbler!’
I nodded, and tacitly we raised our glasses. For a moment there was silence as we lapsed into private unspoken nostalgias. I suppose it was the heady blend of wine and port, but for a brief moment I was back in my student days carefree and unencumbered. ‘Youth is so far away,’ I sighed wistfully, thinking of my dalliances at the Courtauld.
Rather to my surprise Ingaza seemed in agreement, for he nodded and gave a rueful smile. There followed another silence. And then he said brightly, ‘Fortunately my tango is still superb, of course, but I fear my singing days are over. Out of practice … a pity really. I don’t think you ever heard my rendition of “La Mer”, did you?’
I was about to say something polite to the effect that I had missed that particular joy, but an awful memory seized me. Oh yes, I had certainly heard it: once in the Auvergne when the three of us – he, Francis and I – were embroiled with an unhinged pseudo-religious sect on the heights of Le Puy1. Yes, that was the time. In a moment of careless bonhomie (prior to the onset of darker matters) Nicholas had launched into an excruciating imitation of Charles Trenet singing that haunting chanson. Affected, reedy, nasal and overlaid with a distinct cockney twang, Nicholas’s version had been hard to bear. But bear it we did, on the assumption that such a performance would be a rarity … And so it had been until this moment – when, with a sharp clearing of throat and a bracing of thin shoulders, the crooner manqué stood up, spread his arms and began to give voice.
Dutifully I listened with rapt features, but just as he reached the end of the sixth line, ‘“La mer au ciel d’été”,’ spinning it out for all it was worth, the doorbell rang. ‘Fuck!’ the crooner snapped, and stopped.
Saved by the bell, I went to open the door.
‘Hello, Miss Oughterard,’ piped the diminutive Richard Ickington, ‘I’ve brought you some flowers. Matron said you might be in.’ Why Matron imagined that I have no idea. The boy thrust a mangled bunch of chrysanthemums towards me. Colourful they may have been, but as I politely held them to my nose I was assailed by that characteristic odour of old vestries and rancid cheese.
I beamed down at the child. ‘How lovely,’ I murmured, ‘and to what do I owe this nice surprise? Has Grandpa won on the horses again?’ Grandpa was His Honour Mr Justice Ickington, formidable High Court judge and whose soubriquet, Sickie-Dickie, his grandson shared.
Dickie giggled. ‘No, not for quite a bit actually, and the air is really blue! Even the court ushers are beginning to complain.’
‘Ah well,’ I replied vaguely, ‘I daresay something will romp home … So, er, why have you brought me these pretty flowers? I hope you haven’t spent all your pocket money on them.’
He shook his head, saying that a mere ninepence had been spent as they were some of the florist’s rejects.
I complimented him on his grasp of economy, but asked again why he should have produced such a bouquet. ‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ I twittered. ‘A passing whim, perhaps?’
He looked puzzled. ‘What?’
‘A whim, Dickie. Was it something you suddenly thought of on the spur of the moment?’
He shook his head. ‘Mr Winchbrooke said that if I called in with the invitation he would let me off my lines. So here I am!’ He beamed, and then looking past me, added, ‘And is your nice dog still here?’
I confirmed that Bouncer was still in residence and that he could see him shortly – but in the meantime what invitation was he talking about?
Thrusting a hand into his blazer pocket, he drew out a crumpled piece of cardboard and passed it over. ‘It’s time for the school concert again,’ he explained, ‘and Mr Winchbrooke said that personal delivery would save on the postage.’ Typical!
‘I see,’ I said dryly, ‘so I take it the flowers were not his idea.’
‘Oh no, Miss Oughterard,’ the child exclaimed earnestly, ‘that was my idea. It’s what Grandpa calls “useful gallantry”, and Grandpa knows a thing or two!’ He seemed to cogitate for a moment before adding, ‘Probably a bit more than Mr Winchbrooke, I expect.’
A just assessment no doubt, but before I could say anything, Dickie’s eye had again turned to the end of the passage where Bouncer was now hovering. ‘Good old Bouncer!’ the boy squeaked rapturously. ‘I say, Miss Oughterard, have you got any of those nice custard tarts that I could feed him with? I think he likes them!’ He turned to Bouncer. ‘Don’t you, old boy?’
After a faint hesitation the dog wagged its tail obligingly, and I shoved the pair of them into the kitchen to gorge themselves sick.
Returning to the drawing room I found Nicholas slumped on the sofa in a cloud of smoke, a languid hand rhythmically stroking the air. Fearing he was preparing for a further assault on ‘La Mer’ I looked for a diversionary tactic and hastily supplied him with another glass of port.
This worked, for taking a sip, he said, ‘Your visitor sounded not unlike a castrated elf. Who was it – one of those poor little tykes the Jehovah’s Witnesses always seem to have in tow?’
I explained that it was not a Jehovah’s Witness but merely Judge Ickington’s grandson delivering an invitation to the Erasmus Revels, an annual event of searing sobriety to which half the county was summoned in the hope of augmenting the school’s reputation and revenue … mainly the latter.
Nicholas looked vaguely interested. ‘Oh, was that the kid who found the naughty photographs in Topping’s study?’
‘Yes, but fortunately he doesn’t have a clue what they were about, and thanks to me thinks it was some rehearsal for a pantomime.’
Ingaza gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Poor little sod, he’ll learn soon enough.’ We exchanged knowing nods as elders do when speaking of the young.
We chatted some more and even put on a jazz record. But its sinuous strains were suddenly echoed from the doorway where Maurice stood looking thunderous. He gave another yowl, and tossing his head stared indignantly towards the kitchen. From that region I heard faint sounds – a dog’s bark and a squeal of laughter. O lord, I had forgotten Sickie-Dickie! Excusing myself to Nicholas, I went to investigate.
‘Well,’ I said, surveying an upturned chair and the crumb-strewn kitchen, ‘you’ve obviously both had a good time.’
‘Oh yes, Miss Oughterard,’ Dickie exclaimed, ‘it’s been wizard. I’ve been practising leapfrogging with the chair – we do it at school. And dear old Bouncer let me have half his cakes. Wasn’t that nice?’
I glanced at the dog who looked distinctly bilious. ‘Yes, he has his moments of generosity,’ I murmured. ‘Now, Dickie, I think it’s time you bustled off, otherwise Matron will be worried, and I have a visitor who I must attend to.’
He nodded. But then, slipping his hand in his trouser pocket, said, ‘Oh, I quite forgot, would you be kind enough to translate this for me, Miss Oughterard? Some of it’s in English but there’s a lot in French. We’ve only just started that and I can’t do it for toffee – can’t tell a de from a le. Can you?’
‘Well,’ I said modestly, ‘French is one of my few accomplishments, so perhaps I can help.’ I put out my hand, into which he thrust a piece of crumpled paper.
‘It’s the new French master,’ he explained, ‘he says we have to collect little ponces and copy them out and put them into English. I don’t know what a ponce is but I expect this will do. I got it out of Mrs Markham’s coat pocket.’
‘You did what?’ I said sharply. ‘That doesn’t sound very polite.’
He shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t suppose it matters. She came to visit Mr Winchbrooke and he said I should help her off with her coat. It was a jolly big coat and jolly heavy and I nearly fell over. This slipped out of the pocket and I was going to stuff it back, but just then Smidge Minor came by and gave me a whopping wink and I started to giggle. And then when I did pick it up Mr Winchbrooke had already taken the lady into his study. So Smidge and I ran off to play. Anyway, here it is, and I don’t suppose she has missed it.’
I ran my eye over the note. It was hardly a pensée but a brief little missive, terse yet oddly effusive – and fortunately did not strain my linguistic skills.
Ma plus chère,
Well, it’s over. Mission complete – and thanks to you it all went brilliantly! Quelle triomphe!! Il faut fêter ça. Mais pas encore – un peu trop dangereux (so hold on to your châpeau!). Will contact when the dust settles et quand tout va bien.
Entretemps, vagues des baisers
If the note had once been in pristine condition it certainly wasn’t now, being crumpled and grubby and with a splodge of ink covering what presumably had been a signature. It bore the hallmarks of Sickie-Dickie’s paws.
‘You’ve made an awful mess of it,’ I said sternly.
He gave a rueful grin; and then as I guided him in translating the French bits, asked, ‘But why are the kisses vague?’
I explained that they were not vague but waves. ‘It’s a figure of speech. It means lots and lots of them. That’s rather nice, don’t you think?’ I said brightly. The child looked dubious and said he thought it was soppy – and in any case why was it dangerous to celebrate? He liked celebrating, especially when it was his birthday which, he informed me with studied care, was very, very soon.
Luckily before the vital date could be confided Nicholas came in to announce his departure – which was just as well for I was feeling tired and the dog looked seedy (or possibly vice versa).
‘I’m off,’ he announced. ‘Got to see a man about a Rembrandt.’
‘Huh! That’ll be the day,’ I snorted, and was about to hustle him out, when there was a squeak from Dickie.
‘Oh I say, are you that Mr Ingaza?’
‘What Mr Ingaza?’ Nicholas replied cautiously.
‘The one that Mummy says is as sharp as a ferret and the best slippery art dealer on the south coast.’ The boy beamed up at Nicholas and added, ‘I think that is very im … im … pressive! It is an honour to meet you, sir.’ (Clearly Matron had been teaching the boys their social graces.) A small hand was extended, which, after a moment’s glazed hesitation, the ferret shook.
Exploiting such burgeoning camaraderie, I suggested that as it was getting dark Nicholas should give his young admirer a lift back to Erasmus House. I sensed it was not a proposal that the former favoured, but pressed on regardless. ‘Oh yes,’ I said gaily to Dickie, ‘and Mr Ingaza’s French is very good. He can tell you all the words for sea, sky, gulls, clouds and even angels. That will impress your French master! In fact if you are lucky he might even sing you a famous French song which contains all those words. Wouldn’t that be nice?’
Dickie nodded, while Ingaza closed his eyes.
After they had gone I set the kitchen to rights, swept up the pastry crumbs, removed some globs of custard from the dog’s basket (evidently too much even for Bouncer’s gross palate), and with a sigh of relief lit a cigarette and settled down with the evening paper.
Such repose lasted for about five minutes as for some reason the contents of Dickie’s note kept playing in my mind. It had been a curious little thing and not quite what one would expect to find in the pocket of Alice Markham’s fur coat. Still, it is amazing what people stash away in moments of distraction or impatience. I recall Francis as a boy raiding Pa’s overcoat for some loose change; he was out of luck, but instead fished out a silk stocking and a partially chewed gobstopper – both presumably stowed in some haste, though whether at the same time we could never decide.
The note’s scrawled brevity and casual mix of French and English suggested it had been dashed off in a mood of rapt elation – albeit tinged with wary relief. Obviously something of mutual benefit had been gained but whose disclosure, initially at any rate, might be unwise. The piece had a collusive, intimate ring and the emphatic use of ‘baisers’ clearly indicative of a close relationship. But was Alice the recipient, or had she herself penned the thing and failed to send it?
Such musing was curtailed by Maurice, who, having eventually gained access to the kitchen yet evidently finding Bouncer unresponsive, had sidled in to needle me. This I endured for a brief while; and then tiring of the game thrust him aside and went up to the studio to put finishing – and with luck lucrative – touches to my current canvas.
It was only later, in the middle of the night and unable to sleep, that my mind once more turned to the wording of Dickie’s note. Again the style struck me as somewhat gushing and the bits of French affected – and wasn’t the term waves of kisses a trifle excessive, especially when underlined? I sighed and gave a mental shrug … oh well, presumably some people were like that: emotionally florid. I turned over and had just closed my eyes determined to sleep, when I was suddenly assailed by an image of the spume-topped waves lashing the shore at Birling Gap and of Elspeth’s pink bathing cap dipping and diving like some beleaguered duck. Despite the warmth of the bed I shivered. My God – rather her than me, poor woman!
Fortunately sleep did come but it was hardly soothing. The grey waters continued to pound, the cap bobbed helplessly … and splashing about like a roguish walrus was, of all people, the Reverend Albert Egge, shouting, ‘Ma chère, ma chère, n’ayez pas peur. Be not afraid – let us frolic in the briny, just toi and moi!’
It was with some relief that I awoke to Bouncer’s cold nose and the morning sun.