Aunt Margaret's Lover (32 page)

'Hmm,' said Fisher, noncommittally.

'It gets to the heart of the matter, do you see, Linda? You have to destroy to recreate, sully to make pure again. This image' - and here I fixed Fisher with a very hard look - 'is the essence of innocence corrupted.'

'Yes, yes, I do see,' said Julius, unlocking his jaw for a moment. Now that it had been explained, he could gaze with a connoisseur's licence on those swollen naughty bits cavorting so girlishly.

Fisher closed the box. 'And you see that it is all in perfect condition. Quite untouched, I should say, from the day
it
was bought. It's a handsome set, a
very
handsome set. I shall ask Margaret to let me keep it here until you have made your decision.'

He took out his card and wrote a number on the back of it. 'This is my number in the country. I should be grateful if you could keep it discreet, but if you need to talk to me during the next couple of months and I'm out of town, do ring.' He ushered them towards the door, a hand on each of their elbows. Lowering his voice, he said. 'I do so hope this can be made to happen. Let us keep in touch.'

In return Linda gave him a smile that would have done credit to a patient about to undergo surgery. If she had said, 'Oh, thank you, Doctor,' I would not have been surprised.

'What on earth is going on?' I said in the restaurant.

'Keep your voice low, please,' said Fisher, graciously accepting the menu from the waiter. 'This is one of my regular haunts. The duck is very good.'

'Bugger the duck. I'm speechless
..
.'

'You are clearly not. And you never
are.
I hoped you would leave it all to me.'

'All what?'

'The sales pitch.' He looked over the top of the menu. His eyes were sparkling with wicked good humour. 'Now, just be quiet and leave the
rest
to me and concentrate on food. Then you can tell me all about this new lover of yours. He seems very nice -- if a little . . .'

'A
little
what?' I leapt in, feeling stung for some reason.

Fisher raised an eyebrow. 'I was merely going to say, a little different from what I expected.'

'What did you expect?'

'Someone altogether safer, I suppose.'

'Safer?'

'Mmm,' said Fisher, studying the menu, 'someone quite dull who wouldn't threaten the status quo. This one is . . . well . . . quite pretty and I should have thought the kind you might well fall in love with. Have you?'

'Nope,' I said, also studying the menu. 'And I don't intend to, either.'

We ordered and sat back sipping mineral water, Fisher having sent back the wine to be cooled properly.

'Tell me what all this is with Linda and Julius. You were talking complete rubbish.'

'So were you, my dear. And very convincing it was too.'

'But you're a respected art dealer. It's your profession. People rely on your honesty.'

Fisher smiled.
'1
am now extremely old and extremely tired of the way things are devalued nowadays. And so I play a bit of a game that will hurt no one and may do some good. After all, remember the sainted art historian Bcrenson. Half the world thought he was God. And after he died, half the world discovered they had bogus Titians. But no one really minded.' He touched the wine bottle that was held out to him and nodded. 'None of it matters to those who care about art. Only the more money-minded need be concerned.'

'But it's nice to know that the canvas you own was once touched by the master's hand - that's the inner link.'

'Quite. And those who understood that refuted the post-Berensonites and went on believing that what they had was genuine Titian. It came to the same thing. Belief. People believe what they want to believe. Otherwise, I imagine we would all shoot ourselves.' He leaned forward and looked positively fierce for a moment. 'Remember this. Art is the bridge with the realm of the spirit - the necromancy of humanity. That is something you should know, or remember if you had forgotten.'

I blinked. He was being more than usually profound. 'Talking of which,' I said, 'Saskia said she was going to write to you. Has she?'

He looked surprised. 'Saskia? How nice. No. Not yet.'

'When she does' -
1
fingered the tablecloth -- 'will you .
..
um
...
be a little circumspect?'

'I always am,' he said. But he looked a
little
too intrigued.

He asked me to leave the portfolio with him and to trust him. If I could have raised an eyebrow, I would have. 'After that performance?' I chided. He shrugged, amused. 'But the duck was good . ..?' He said, 'In some areas I am utterly trustworthy.'

Chapter Four

Dad said that if he did get a show in London, why didn't I show with him? What a compliment. Skiing was great. Sorry you missed your trip. Never mind, Paris will be nice instead
. Gather ye rosebuds, I'll be ho
me soon!

Elizabeth was a canny lass and an even cannier ageing Queen. Marriage she had flouted, virginity (and thus the status of available sweetheart) she espoused. Her dearest Leicester had married illicitly, disposed of his wife and then upped and died, leaving her bereft. And her new favourite, the handsome, dashing, desirable Essex, had overreached himself to end his days on a traitor's block. Personally, I think that when she finally signed his execution order, Elizabeth was remembering his comment to a friend about her 'bent old carcase' rather than the fact he had tried a spot of political usurpation. In love, which would be the worse betrayal?

Men. You can't live with 'cm, and you can't live with 'em.

So must Elizabeth have said to her mirror each night thereafter before blowing out the candle on her ageing face. I doubt she was always a virgin, but she sure as hell became one again once the looks started to go. However, with her red wigs, her toilette that could take a day, her essential femininity, which was quite literally allowed full reign, she turned herself into the greate
st actress of what was probably
the most theatrical period of our history. And proved herself to possess such consummate skill in the role of Virgin Regnant that long after her teeth had fallen out and her skin had wrinkled to a walnut, she still got wooed nightly by a band of courtiers unable to do other than suspend reality and become a willing, participatory audience.

From beginning to end she never failed to appeal to the gallery, as conscious of playing a part as she was of the part she played. She gave out only what she chose, and very sensibly always took control. She did not give a furbelow for what people might think, which is why it all worked,
liyou
don't care, then nobody else will. So nightly, and sometimes in matinee, she would strut her stage. Masques and dancing were part of the ritual. What it must have been like in the last few years for an Elizabeth who was nearly seventy, toothless and bald, as well as tired out from the excesses of successful states
-
womanship, to step a light pavane scarcely bears thinking about. Yet Mary Fitton, maid of honour, would lead in the time-honoured masque and afterwards Her Majesty would be wooed to dance. Once the sovereign asked Mary what she represented in the fancy dress, and the maid replied, 'Affection.'

The Queen puckered her lip scornfully. 'Affection!' she croaked. 'Affection is false.' Yet still she rose to dance. It would not do to crumble. Let the ritual and the romance flourish to the end.

And if her Shakespeare, and mine, was the honey-voiced descendant of Ovid, past master of the rituals of love, then it was well for us both - ageing virgin and temporary lover -that whilst enjoying the honey and the melting, sweet phrases, we should also remember that, 'Honeydew comes from the backsides of aphids.'

It does not do to let too much pink light in without being conscious that beyond this is always darkness. I am quite sure that had Bacon given up physics for entomology and passed on this great aphid fact to his Queen, she would have added to her little personal homily in front of the candlelit mirror, 'Ah, verily, verily, Mr Bacon, one would do right well to remember that,' and danced on, ni
ghtly
, in the masque with the merest hint of wryness in her smile.

So Oxford and I had enjoyed our ritual,
our
masque. Alas, alack, as Elizabeth might have said, to make progress in the world it helps to be one of a pair. I cannot say that I approve, but it is so. Not surprising, really, when you consider how close we are to the animals. A bachelor badger or a single stoat gets the bum's rush wherever they may try to park themselves within the tribe. All right, we humans have come a long way. We don't leap on the necks of single women and bite them in case they are out to steal our mates, or clash with our antlers if we see a man getting too close to our female counterparts, but try going to a dinner party as a single gel and chatting to an attractive partnered man and just
see
.
..

It seemed perfe
ctly
fitting that we should spend Christmas apart, he with his family in Suffolk, whom I had never met and did not choose to. Falsity can go only so far before it becomes unpalatable, and we could both imagine the eager eye of a caring mother on this new companion in her widower son's life. When I suggested to Verity that we spend the festive occasion together, she raised her eyebrows and said, 'Festive? Huh!' But I knew she was relieved. Me too. Without Saskia it would have been hard to spend Christmas alone.

Oxford went off to Suffolk about a week before Christmas, and now that I had time to think, suddenly I felt bad about Jill. I had not seen her since my visit with Oxford, and we had scarcely talked on the telephone. Communication between us had trailed away. My fault probably. Deciding to make amends, I rang up to invite myself. I realized at once there were creases to smooth because she sounded far from her exuberant old self, but she cheered up a little when I said I would be coming alone. Perhaps she was ready for some serious one-to-one attention, I thought to myself - long mornings of sitting up in bed together putting the world to rights. It occurred to me that she must, in any case, be feeling pretty glum as Giles was spending Christmas in Holland.
'
Cherchez la femme!’
I said cheerily, but she didn't laugh.

David must be feeling lost, too - especially as Jill had decided not to visit Amanda. That meant the two of them would be spending the holiday alone - unheard of. Maybe, I speculated, they planned to have a romantic few days
a deux.
But when he briefly came to the phone, he didn't exactly sound like a man who had a romantic yuletide tryst with his wife to look forward to. 'I hope we'll get a chance to talk,' he said
sotto voce,
which was unlike him.

I set off on a bright, clear December morning. As I drove, I thought of the last few months with pleasure. It had been a great big treat and nobody's fingers had got burned. I had just about got it through to Oxford that it was all perfectly fine. He harboured the male view of the thing, which was that 'men must work while women must mourn', and several times showed his anxiety about how I would feel once he had gone. It wasn't arrogance, but the automatic masculine assumption that when they are off and doing they leave behind a bereft, passive female. I wasn't having any of that. As I passed through Stamford, I remembered the time we had set out on this journey together, and how we had stopped at the George for tea. How pleased with myself I had been. That feeling had never left me, not really, apart from the occasional fear that I might be going in too deep. I still felt that the arrangement was successful and honourable and had worked. But what my friends would say about him when he suddenly upped and left for South America was curious to contemplate. No doubt when I defended him, they would call me brave. Ah well. Maybe I could tell them one day.

I got to Jill's about an hour or two earlier than I had expected, after deciding not to do a detour at Hexham after all. Jill rushed out of the house to greet me with sparkling eyes and pink cheeks, which she attributed to my arrival. As I followed her through into the kitchen I was about to say,

'You look like I feel after a night of lust,' when I saw there was someone seated at the table. At first I thought it was David, but my eyes re-registered to make out a man older than him, a man with a refined but slightly weathered face, a green shooting sweater, and brown hands that clutched a mug of tea. He had a charmer's smile and gave me the creeps.

'This is Charles Landseer. Charles, my friend Aunt Margaret from London.'

'Sounds like a title,' he said easily. He stood up and shook my hand.

'Any relation to
the
Landseer?' I asked.