‘Anything else?’ asked Henry.
‘Just a note from the High Commissioner’s office with a suggestion for your trek up into the hills with the President: take a case of fresh water, some anti-malaria pills and a mobile phone. Otherwise you could become dehydrated, break out in a fever and be out of contact all at the same time.’
Henry laughed. ‘Yes, yes and yes,’ he said, as the phone on his desk rang.
It was Bill, who warned him that the bank could no longer honour cheques drawn on the Swimming Pool Account, as there hadn’t been any substantial deposits for over a month.
‘I don’t need reminding,’ said Henry, staring down at Mrs Davidson’s cheque for twenty-five kora.
‘I’m afraid the contractors have left the site, as we’re unable to cover their next stage payment. What’s more, your quarterly payment of £1.25 million won’t be yielding any surplus while the President looks so healthy.’
‘Happy fiftieth on Saturday, Bill,’ said Henry.
‘Don’t remind me,’ the bank manager replied. ‘But now you mention it, I hope you’ll be able to join Sue and me for a little celebration that evening.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Henry. ‘Nothing will stop me.’
That evening, Henry began taking his malaria tablets each night before going to bed. On Thursday, he picked up a crate of fresh water from the local supermarket. On Friday morning his secretary handed him a mobile phone just before he was due to leave. She even checked that he knew how to operate it.
At nine o’clock, Henry left his office and drove his Mini to the Victoria Barracks, having promised that he’d check in with his secretary the moment they arrived at General Olangi’s village. He parked his car in the compound, and was escorted to a waiting Mercedes near the back of the motorcade that was flying the Union Jack. At 9.30, the President emerged from the palace and walked over to the open-topped Rolls-Royce at the front of the motorcade. Henry couldn’t help thinking that he had never seen the General looking healthier.
An honour guard sprang to attention and presented arms as the motorcade swept out of the compound. As they drove slowly through St George’s, the streets were lined with children waving flags, who had been given the day off school so they could cheer their leader as he set off on the long journey to his birthplace.
Henry settled back for the five-hour drive up into the hills, dozing off from time to time, but was rudely woken whenever they passed through a village, where the ritual cheering children would be paraded to greet their President.
At midday, the motorcade came to a halt in a small village high in the hills where the locals had prepared lunch for their honoured guest. An hour later they moved on. Henry feared that the tribesmen had probably sacrificed the best part of their winter stores to fill the stomachs of the scores of soldiers and officials who were accompanying the President on his pilgrimage.
When the motorcade set off again, Henry fell into a deep sleep and began dreaming about Bermuda, where, he was confident, there would be no need to build a swimming pool.
He woke with a start. He thought he’d heard a shot. Had it taken place in his dream? He looked up to see his driver jumping out of the car and fleeing into the dense jungle. Henry calmly opened the back door, stepped out of the limousine, and, seeing a commotion taking place in front of him, decided to go and investigate. He had walked only a few paces when he came across the massive figure of the President, lying motionless at the side of the road in a pool of blood, surrounded by soldiers. They suddenly turned and, seeing the High Commissioner’s representative, raised their rifles.
‘Shoulder arms!’ said a sharp voice. ‘Try to remember that we are not savages.’ A smartly dressed army captain stepped forward and saluted. ‘I am sorry for any inconvenience you have suffered, First Secretary,’ he said, in a clipped Sandhurst voice, ‘but be assured that we wish you no harm.’
Henry didn’t comment, but continued to stare down at the dead President.
‘As you can see, Mr Pascoe, the late President has met with a tragic accident,’ continued the captain. ‘We will remain with him until he has been buried with full honours in the village where he was born. I’m sure that is what he would have wished.’
Henry looked down at the prostrate body, and doubted it.
‘May I suggest, Mr Pascoe, that you return to the capital immediately and inform your masters of what has happened.’
Henry remained silent.
‘You may also wish to tell them that the new President is Colonel Narango.’
Henry still didn’t voice an opinion. He realised that his first duty was to get a message through to the Foreign Office as quickly as possible. He nodded in the direction of the captain and began walking slowly back to his driverless car.
He slipped in behind the wheel, relieved to see that the keys had been left in the ignition. He switched on the engine, turned the car around and began the long journey back down the winding track to the capital. It would be nightfall before he reached St George’s.
After he had covered a couple of miles and was certain that no one was following him, he brought the car to a halt by the side of the road, took out his mobile phone and dialled his office number.
His secretary picked up the phone.
‘It’s Henry.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad you phoned,’ Shirley said. ‘So much has happened this afternoon. But first, Mrs Davidson has just called to say that it looks as if the church bazaar might raise as much as two hundred kora, and would it be possible for you to drop in on your way back so they can present you with the cheque? And by the way,’ Shirley added before Henry could speak, ‘we’ve all heard the news.’
‘Yes, that’s what I was calling about,’ said Henry. ‘We must contact the Foreign Office immediately.’
‘I already have,’ said Shirley.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That you were with the President, carrying out official duties, and would be in touch with them just as soon as you returned, High Commissioner.’
‘High Commissioner?’ said Henry.
‘Yes, it’s official. I assumed that’s what you were calling about. Your new appointment. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ said Henry casually, not even asking where he’d been appointed to. ‘Any other news?’
‘No, not much else happening this end. It’s a typically quiet Friday afternoon. In fact, I was wondering if I could go home a little early this evening. You see, I promised to drop in and help Sue Paterson prepare for her husband’s fiftieth.’
‘Yes, why not,’ said Henry, trying to remain calm. ‘And do let Mrs Davidson know that I’ll make every effort to call in at the bazaar. Two hundred kora should make all the difference.’
‘By the way,’ Shirley asked, ‘how’s the President getting on?’
‘He’s just about to take part in an earth-moving ceremony,’ said Henry, ‘so I’d better leave you.’
Henry touched the red button, then immediately dialled another number.
‘Bill Paterson speaking.’
‘Bill, it’s Henry. Have you exchanged our quarterly cheque yet?’
‘Yes, I did it about an hour ago. I got the best rate I could, but I’m afraid the kora always strengthens whenever the President makes his official trip back to his place of birth.’
Henry avoided adding ‘And death’, simply saying, ‘I want the entire amount converted back into sterling.’
‘I must advise you against that,’ said Bill. ‘The kora has strengthened further in the last hour. And in any case, such an action would have to be sanctioned by the High Commissioner.’
‘The High Commissioner is in Dorset on his annual leave. In his absence, I am the senior diplomat in charge of the mission.’
‘That may well be the case,’ said Bill, ‘but I would still have to make a full report for the High Commissioner’s consideration on his return.’
‘I would expect nothing less of you, Bill,’ said Hen
ry.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Henry?’
‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘And while you’re at it, I also require that the kora we are holding in the Contingency Fund be converted into sterling.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’ began Bill.
‘Mr Paterson, I don’t have to remind you that there are several other banks in St George’s, who for years have made it clear how much they would like to have the British government’s account.’
‘I shall carry out your orders to the letter, First Secretary,’ replied the bank manager, ‘but I wish it to be placed on the record that it is against my better judgement.’
‘Be that as it may, I wish this transaction to be carried out before the close of business today,’ said Henry. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘You most certainly do,’ said Bill.
It took Henry another four hours to reach the capital. As all the streets in St George’s were empty, he assumed that the news of the President’s death must have been announced, and that a curfew was in force. He was stopped at several checkpoints – grateful to have the Union Jack flying from his bonnet – and ordered to proceed to his home immediately. Still, it meant he wouldn’t have to drop into Mrs Davidson’s bazaar and pick up the cheque for two hundred kora.
The moment Henry arrived back home he switched on the television, to see President Narango, in full-dress uniform, addressing his people.
‘Be assured, my friends,’ he was saying, ‘you have nothing to fear. It is my intention to lift the curfew as soon as possible. But until then, please do not stray out onto the streets, as the army has been given orders to shoot on sight.’
Henry opened a tin of baked beans and remained indoors for the entire weekend. He was sorry to miss Bill’s fiftieth, but he felt on balance it was probably for the best.
HRH Princess Anne opened St George’s new swimming pool on her way back from the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur. In her speech from the poolside, she said how impressed she was by the high diving board and the modern changing facilities.
She went on to single out the work of the Rotary Club and to congratulate them on the leadership they had shown throughout the campaign, in particular the chairman, Mr Bill Paterson, who had received an OBE for his services in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.
Sadly, Henry Pascoe was not present at the ceremony, as he had recently taken up his post as High Commissioner to the Ascensions – a group of islands which isn’t on the way to anywhere.
THE RECLINING WOMAN*
‘YOU MAY WONDER why this sculpture is numbered “13”,’ said the curator, a smile of satisfaction appearing on his face. I was standing at the back of the group, and assumed we were about to be given a lecture on artists’ proofs.
‘Henry Moore,’ the curator continued, in a voice that made it clear he believed he was addressing an ignorant bunch of tourists who might muddle up Cubism with sugar lumps, and who obviously had nothing better to do on a bank holiday Monday than visit a National Trust house, ‘would normally produce his works in editions of twelve. To be fair to the great man, he died before approval was given for the only casting of a thirteenth example of one of his masterpieces.’
I stared across at the vast bronze of a nude woman that dominated the entrance of Huxley Hall. The magnificent, curvaceous figure, with the trademark hole in the middle of her stomach, head resting in a cupped hand, stared out imperiously at a million visitors a year. She was, to quote the handbook, classic Henry Moore, 1952.
I continued to admire the inscrutable lady, wanting to lean across and touch her – always a sign that the artist has achieved what he set out to do.
‘Huxley Hall,’ the curator droned on, ‘has been administered by the National Trust for the past twenty years. This sculpture, The Reclining Woman, is considered by scholars to be among the finest examples of Moore’s work, executed when he was at the height of his powers. The sixth edition of the sculpture was purchased by the fifth Duke – a Yorkshireman, like Moore – for the princely sum of £1,000. When the Hall was passed on to the sixth Duke, he discovered that he was unable to insure the masterpiece, because he simply couldn’t afford the premium.
‘The seventh Duke went one better – he couldn’t even afford the upkeep of the Hall, or the land that surrounded it. Shortly before his demise, he avoided leaving the eighth Duke with the burden of death duties by handing over the Hall, its contents and its thousand-acre grounds to the National Trust. The French have never understood that if you wish to kill off the aristocracy, death duties are far more effective than revolutions.’ The curator laughed at his little bon mot, and one or two at the front of the crowd politely joined in.
‘Now, to return to the mystery of the edition of thirteen,’ continued the curator, resting a hand on The Reclining Woman’s ample bottom. ‘To do this, I must first explain one of the problems the National Trust faces whenever it takes over someone else’s home. The Trust is a registered charity. It currently owns and administers over 250 historic buildings and gardens in the British Isles, as well as more than 600,000 acres of countryside and 575 miles of coastline. Each piece of property must meet the Trust’s criterion of being “of historic interest or natural beauty”. In taking over the responsibility for maintaining the properties, we also have to insure and protect their fabric and contents without bankrupting the Trust. In the case of Huxley Hall, we have installed the most advanced security system available, backed up by guards who work around the clock. Even so, it is impossible to protect all our many treasures for twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.
‘When something is reported missing, we naturally inform the police immediately. Nine times out of ten the missing item is returned to us within days.’ The curator paused, confident that someone would ask why.
‘Why?’ asked an American woman, dressed in tartan Bermuda shorts and standing at the front of our group.
‘A good question, madam,’ said the curator condescendingly. ‘It’s simply because most petty criminals find it almost impossible to dispose of such valuable booty, unless it has been stolen to order.’
‘Stolen to order?’ queried the same American woman, bang on cue.
‘Yes, madam,’ said the curator, only too happy to explain. ‘You see, there are gangs of criminals operating around the globe who steal masterpieces for clients who are happy that no one else should ever see them, as long as they can enjoy them in private.’
‘That must come expensive,’ suggested the American woman.
‘I understand that the current rate is around a fifth of the work’s market value,’ confirmed the curator. This seemed to finally silence her.
‘But that doesn’t explain why so many treasures are returned so quickly,’ said a voice from the middle of the crowd.
‘I was about to come to that,’ said the curator, a little sharply. ‘If an artwork has not been stolen to order, even the most inexperienced fence will avoid it.’
He quickly added, ‘Because . . .’ before the American woman could demand ‘Why?’
‘. . . all the leading auctioneers, dealers and galleries will have a full description of the missing piece on their desks within hours of its being stolen. This leaves the thief in possession of something no one is willing to handle, because if it were to come onto the market the police would swoop within hours. Many of our stolen masterpieces are actually returned within a few days, or dumped in a place where they are certain to be found. The Dulwich Art Gallery alone has experienced this on no fewer than three separate occasions in the past ten years, and, surprisingly, very few of the treasures are returned damaged.’
This time, several ‘Whys?’ emanated from the little gathering.
‘It appears,’ said the curator, responding to the cries, ‘that the public may be inclined to forgive a daring theft, but what they will not forgive is damage being caused to a national treasure. I might add that the likelihood of a criminal be
ing charged if the stolen goods are returned undamaged is also much reduced.
‘But, to continue my little tale of the edition of thirteen,’ he went on. ‘On September 6th 1997, the day of Diana, Princess of Wales’s funeral, just at the moment the coffin was entering Westminster Abbey, a van drove up and parked outside the main entrance of Huxley Hall. Six men dressed in National Trust overalls emerged and told the guard on duty that they had orders to remove The Reclining Woman and transport her to London for a Henry Moore exhibition that would shortly be taking place in Hyde Park.
‘The guard had been informed that because of the funeral, the pick-up had been postponed until the following week. But as the paperwork all seemed to be in order, and as he wanted to hurry back to his television, he allowed the six men to remove the sculpture.
‘Huxley Hall was closed for the two days after the funeral, so no one gave the incident a thought until a second van appeared the following Tuesday with the same instructions to remove The Reclining Woman and transport her to the Moore exhibition in Hyde Park. Once again, the paperwork was in order, and for some time the guards assumed it was simply a clerical error. One phone call to the organisers of the Hyde Park exhibition disabused them of this idea. It became clear that the masterpiece had been stolen by a gang of professional criminals. Scotland Yard was immediately informed.
‘The Yard,’ continued the curator, ‘has an entire department devoted to the theft of works of art, with the details of many thousands of pieces listed on computer. Within moments of being notified of a crime, they are able to alert all the leading auctioneers and art dealers in the country.’
The curator paused, and placed his hand back on the lady’s bronze bottom. ‘Quite a large piece to transport and deliver, you might think, even though the roads were unusually empty on the day of the theft, and the public’s attention was engaged elsewhere.
‘For weeks, nothing was reported of The Reclining Woman, and Scotland Yard began to fear that they were dealing with a successful “stolen to order” theft. But some months later, when a petty thief called Sam Jackson was picked up trying to remove a small oil of the second Duchess from the Royal Robing Room, the police obtained their first lead. When the suspect was taken back to the local station to be questioned, he offered the arresting officer a deal.
The New Collected Short Stories Page 21