Mrs Midnight and Other Stories (35 page)

Before the end of the previous term Corcoran had made a point of befriending Carter-Benson, so it was quite natural that he should drop him an amusing e-mail about the ceremony he had witnessed. He mentioned the removal of the tapestry and the finding of Lincoln’s burial place. He used the word ‘desecration’ in connection with it, lightly but in such a way as to show that he was not altogether in jest. He also mentioned the stick-insect jibe. The result was altogether as he had wished. Carter-Benson e-mailed back full of indignation, saying that it was a violation of Lincoln’s heritage and of the beauty of the chapel. Carter-Benson, being one of the college chapel’s few regular undergraduate attendees, considered that he had a right to his strong views. He said, moreover, that ‘something must be done about this desecration’. Corcoran wrote back counselling caution, but not dismissing Carter-Benson’s call to action. He felt that he had lit the blue touch paper and could now retire to a safe distance and watch what followed.

V

There were times when Professor Drew wished that he was the Headmaster of a secondary school rather than the Master of an Oxford college. In that case, he told his wife Barbara, or Baroness Drew of Oswestry, as she was now styled, he could have called everyone together and said something like this:

‘I have been extremely disappointed to hear that there are some people in this college who seem to think it smart and clever to refer to the new benefaction to the chapel as “the stick insect”. This is not only a stupidly philistine reaction to a great work of art, it is also deeply disrespectful to a powerful religious symbol, and very ungrateful to one of the college’s most generous benefactors. There have also been a number of leaflets and notices pinned up throughout the college bearing the legend: “Swat the Stick-Insect”. Anyone caught displaying or distributing this leaflet will be sent down; anyone using the word “stick-insect” will be severely punished.’

‘But I can’t say that, dammit, more’s the pity,’ said Drew. ‘I can’t say or do anything. Even the dons occasionally refer to it as “the S.I.” ’

‘That reactionary old bastard Dr Corcoran is at the bottom of this,’ said Barbara.

‘No, Babs, honestly. I know he was against it, but he hasn’t said a word since it was installed.’

‘Not to
you
, maybe. But I bet he’s been spreading the poison around. The man’s a devious fascist: don’t underestimate him. Can’t you at least have Carter-Benson sent down?’

‘Babs, you know, I have absolutely no jurisdiction over disciplinary matters. That’s for the Dean. Anyway, we only know that Carter-Benson has written a letter of protest to the
Oxford Mail
which he was, I suppose, entitled to do. We have no absolute proof that he is behind the leaflets.’

‘Do something! You have to fight fire with fire,’ said Lady Drew. Her husband did not quite know what she meant by this, and neither did she. She was, after all, a politician.

One evening, as Corcoran was going to dine in Hall, the porter handed him a note from Lady Drew. It was a somewhat curt invitation to him to have a drink with her at the Master’s Lodging after dinner. He was intrigued, so told the porter to convey his acceptance to her. Then, before going in to Hall, he met Carter-Benson and had a few minutes’ conversation with him.

It was a fine May evening and when dinner was over Corcoran felt rather disinclined to spend it in the company of Lady Drew, whom he had never cared for. A casual observer might have attributed this dislike to a number of obvious dissimilarities between the two of them: unlike him she was feminist, New Labour, vegetarian, atheist, and dyed her hair a curious shade of dark red. As it happened, none of these mattered much to Corcoran who positively enjoyed the company of those he disagreed with. But Corcoran was a historian and though he doubted that the study of history could teach one anything useful except a decent academic discipline; his lifelong study of the politics of Ancient Greece had led him to one absolute conviction: that the pursuit of power was corrosive and those who dedicated their lives to it were not to be trusted. For that reason Corcoran did not object to the Master nearly as much as he did to his wife. Professor Conrad Drew was a vain man who liked power but mainly for the sensible reason that it provided him with agreeable trappings and privileges. He preferred it when people bent to his will, but he did not become frantic if they didn’t. His wife was hewn from a much harder rock.

The Master’s Lodging at St Paul’s was situated east of the chapel, one end of which formed part of its garden wall. Giacometti’s crucified Christ therefore had his back to the Lodging, shielded from it, not only by three feet of seventeenth-century masonry, but a dense clump of rhododendron bushes which bordered the lawn.

Lady Drew opened the door to Corcoran.

‘Hello, George. Do come in. D’you mind if I call you George? And you must call me Barbara.’ Corcoran shook hands with her. He was under no illusion that this invitation to use first name terms was not a power play. ‘Conrad sends his apologies. He’s been called away to some wretched meeting or other.’ The suggestion that her invitation had not been intended all along to be to a tête-à-tête was absurd. Corcoran permitted himself a smile. She ushered him into the library which had a fine bay window view over the garden towards the east wall of the chapel.

‘Do help yourself to port over there. Or there’s one of Conrad’s rather fine single malts. I’m afraid I’m going to stick to my herb tea if you don’t mind.’

Without comment Corcoran walked over to the sideboard and helped himself to a small Glen Gowdie which he diluted with an equal amount of Evian water. He would wait for her to make the first move.

After a few anodyne exchanges about the weather and university affairs, Lady Drew put on her concerned face and asked him how he had been ‘getting on’ since his wife died. Corcoran, who was passionately private about such things, gave the blandest possible response to her intrusion. He suspected that she had wanted to open up an area of vulnerability in him. Lady Drew did not appear deterred by his defensiveness.

‘I mean you’re eating properly and everything, are you?’

Corcoran smiled. ‘Do I look undernourished?’

Having been defeated in the preliminary skirmish, Lady Drew decided to press home her main attack.

‘As a matter of fact, I thought you and I might have a quiet word about this Giacometti business.’ Corcoran took a sip of his whisky and drifted in the direction of the bay window. ‘I think this silly hoo-ha about it being put in the chapel has gone on long enough, don’t you?’

‘Some people feel strongly about it.’

‘You for example. You haven’t exactly made a secret of your opposition.’

‘Unlike some, I am a regular attendant at chapel services. I suppose that gives me some right to express my views.’

‘I’m not saying you haven’t a right to your opinions. We are all entitled to them provided we act responsibly.’

‘Are you accusing me of acting irresponsibly, Lady Drew?’

‘Barbara, please. No of course not. But there’s Carter-Benson and that ridiculous A.C. Lincoln Society. I know they’re at the bottom of this. Now you are connected with it. All I am asking you to do—’

‘Barbara, let’s not argue about all this. It really is far too nice an evening for that sort of thing. Your garden is looking perfectly charming.’

There was a short pause, during which Lady Drew reconciled herself to the fact that Corcoran was as good a conversational tactician as he was. She smiled politely.

‘I redesigned it myself,’ she said. ‘The previous incumbent had put in the most appalling rockery which looked positively 1950s.’

‘Well, I must say you’ve done a splendid job.’

Lady Drew was not immune to flattery. She joined Corcoran at the window to reappraise her triumph.

‘I take a Zen approach to gardening,’ she said.

‘So I see,’ said Corcoran. Lady Drew looked at him sharply. Like most people who are clever but have no sense of humour, she was always on the look out for the possibility of being mocked. Corcoran’s face was a bland mask. She returned to her contemplation of the garden.

‘What I am saying, George, is that I have no objection to the A.C. Lincoln so long as it remains a dining club where little boys can get disgustingly drunk once or twice a year—it’s always the men who like that sort of thing, I notice, never the women—but when Lincoln is invoked as a kind of icon to exert pressure against anything progressive in this college I—Good God! What on earth is that?’

‘What?’

‘There! In front of the rhododendron bushes just below the chapel window. Can’t you see it?’

‘No. I’m afraid not. What is it?’

‘A sort of figure. Human, I suppose, only it looks more like a giant insect—you must be able to see it!’

‘I’m afraid not. Mind you my eyes are not what they were, and in the fading light—’

‘There! There! Look, it’s waving its arms about.’

‘No. Sorry! No joy. All I can see is the rhododendrons.’

‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you telling me you can’t see it at all?’

‘See what?’

‘That—thing with long thin legs and arms that’s sort of weaving about in front of the bushes. It looks—Well, it looks a bit like the Giacometti figure on the crucifix. It looks as if it’s got off the cross and is wandering about in my garden, dammit.’

‘That’s quite impossible.’

‘I
know
it’s impossible, George! Don’t patronise me! Don’t tell me what I already know. All I’m saying is that is what I am seeing. Are you sure you can’t see anything?’

‘Quite sure. Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Barbara. I’ll go out into the garden and take a closer look. You say it’s just below the east window?’

‘No! Don’t go!’

‘Why not?’

‘All right! Go! Go and see for yourself.’

After he had made a thorough inspection of the bushes in front of the chapel, Corcoran returned to report that he had found nothing untoward.

‘Can you still see it?’ he asked.

‘No. It’s gone.’

‘I wonder what it could have been.’

‘I have no idea. Look, would you mind? I’m rather tired and I have an awfully busy day tomorrow . . .’

‘Perhaps you’ve been overdoing it. Feeling a bit run down?’

‘I am
not
run down!’

‘Do you know what was in that herb tea of yours?’

‘George! Please! Would you mind? We’d love to have you round for a drink some other time, but just at the moment—would you mind?’

‘I quite understand, Barbara,’ said Corcoran, draining his glass of warm, peaty Glen Gowdie and making for the exit. As the lodge door closed behind him Corcoran heard Barbara utter a tiny shrill squeak of frustrated rage. Momentarily he felt a twinge of guilt.

The following evening Corcoran was invited once again for a drink after Hall, this time to Carter-Benson’s room.

‘I really shouldn’t be here,’ said Corcoran. ‘If Lady Drew knew I was with you she might put two and two together.’

‘She won’t,’ said Carter-Benson, ‘she’s down at the House of Lords. I think we’ve put the wind up her.’

‘Yes, and I’m beginning to feel rather guilty about that.’

‘It’s all in a good cause.’

‘How on earth did you come by that extraordinary figure? I must say, it alarmed me, even though you had given me an inkling of what was going to happen.’

‘Well, Dr Corcoran, it was all rather providential. You see Parsons and I have been planning this dramatised version of “Quieta Non Movere” for some time. I think he’s persuaded O.U.D.S. to do it as their major production in the Michaelmas Term at the Playhouse. Of course, the main problem was how to do the ghost of Jeremiah Staveley; then Parsons had this brain wave. He knows a bloke down in London who runs a puppet theatre, and they’re rod puppets, you know, not string ones. Each limb is attached to a thin rod which is invisible against a dark background, and it’s operated by people in masks and dark clothing. Well Parsons had the figure made and we’d been practising with it. And when you told me last night before Hall that you were going for a drink with Lady Drew, it seemed the ideal opportunity to try it out. Lincoln’s revenge and all that. We hid ourselves in that belt of rhododendrons by the wall at the edge of the garden and when you had got Lady Drew to come to the window we poked the puppet out of the bushes. It worked a dream. By the way, what made you pretend to the Drew that you saw nothing?’

‘I too have a feel for the dramatic,’ said Dr Corcoran.

VI

One evening, about a month later you might have heard two junior fellows of St Paul’s, a biochemist and an economist, talking in the main quad.

‘Have you heard the latest about our Giacometti Crucifix?’ said the biochemist, whose atheism tended towards a certain gleeful militancy.

‘No, but you’re obviously dying to tell me,’ said the economist, who, like most of his kind, believed and disbelieved in nothing in particular.

‘The Burne-Jones is coming back and the stick insect is to go. Our Master’s lady is the prime mover apparently.’

‘But why? I thought she was all for the Giacometti.’

‘It turns out to be a fake.’

‘Good grief! How did they discover that?’

‘It was the insurance people oddly enough. At Lady Drew’s insistence they were checking the provenance and discovered that things didn't quite add up. Then they did some chemical tests on the thing and found traces of some compound which Giacometti couldn’t possibly have used.’

‘It always sounded too good to be true.’

‘It looked it.’

‘Did Sir Bromley know?’

‘Of course. He must have done. Why else d’you think he wanted to offload it onto St Paul’s?’

‘I still think it’s rather a fine piece of work. The fact that it’s just a brilliant pastiche oughtn’t to devalue it. Whoever did it had developed the skill and technique, even the imagination of another artist to a remarkable degree. One might argue that that ought to make it even more valuable.’

‘But of course it won’t. Authenticity is all these days. Even with unmade beds and pickled sharks. It has to do with the mystique of the artist, a kind of surrogate religion, as if anyone needed such a thing. Now it’s been found out, the critics will be saying what a rotten stick insect it is after all. That is what comes of valuing the concept above the execution, something one could also say about the execution that pseudo-Giacometti has depicted. The pendulum has swung too far towards the former. As it is, the Giacometti Crucifixion has metamorphosed from a work of art to a work of shame. We shall have to hide it away somewhere.’