“I like what you have to offer, John,” he said, at last looking up, with his pen in his hand.
“When we come to renew the contract in a few weeks time, your offers will be one of the very first we will look at.”
I felt what remained of my nervous energy drain away. How could I recover from this?, I asked myself. After all my efforts, I had failed to actually close the sale. My intuitive perception hadn’t been enough and my technical titbits and all my posturing had been in vain. I couldn’t, like Haig, call the disaster a mere set-back or, like Montgomery, skilfully bring maximum force to bear somewhere else. I didn’t feel I had enough strength left in me to do either of these.
This was probably how Ribbentrop, Hitler’s Foreign Minister, had felt the day after the signing of the Pact with Moscow in 1939, which had removed the immediate Russian threat and given Hitler a freer hand elsewhere. Up until then, according to the details described in that particular book, everything had seemed to be working out exactly as Ribbentrop had planned, even better. Like me, how he must have soared in his own self esteem. His “boss” was delighted. But, contrary to what he had hoped would follow, Britain had kept her guarantee to Poland and the alliance with Italy hadn’t materialised. And I, after all my efforts and my optimism, hadn’t secured the contract with Cairns Décor, or sold even one fire extinguisher.
What I read had taken two days to transpire in Ribbentrop’s case had taken only minutes in mine, but my failure had been enough to send me into the same precarious situation that he had been in as he realised there was nothing he could do about the terrible events about to take place. His “boss” hadn’t been pleased either, to say the least. I would have that in common with him, too.
The idea of confronting another sales prospect only to end up in the same position as I was in now, filled me with horror and like Ribbentrop, I couldn’t just walk away. I had to face the consequences. What eventually befell him, he was hanged as a war criminal in 1946, was something I didn’t want to dwell on for what had just happened was bad, very bad, and my future looked almost, if not quite, as bleak as his had turned out to be.
chapter fourteen
As I drove into the estate, depressed, brooding on my failure to close the sale, my spirits rose slightly as I thought of the painting lying on the back seat. I wondered how much it would fetch.
I unwrapped it, as soon as I got in, and laid it on my lap. My great grandfather’s name, clearly written on the bottom right-hand corner, was something I felt good about, regardless of its crucial monetary value. But at the same time I was looking for something quite different from either of these things.
There was a smudginess about the faces of the two girls in the scene but it didn’t look so bad when I sat the painting on a chair across the room from me. From this distance the girls, and the sea in which they were splashing, came to life.
Could this picture be made to serve some useful purpose, like the one in the Sales Office? I asked myself. That scene on the riverbank had, at the very least, provided me with a framework on which to support my daydreams and had often taken the edge off the hopelessness of my surroundings. What could this one do for me?
Although I liked the sea, and I liked children, I couldn’t say that the picture made me want to join in their frolics. It certainly wasn’t a scene that inspired me or drew me into it. It wasn’t a picture that I would have chosen for myself, I had to conclude. But since I was thinking of selling it, not buying it, I knew the important question really was, how much would I get for it?
*
“It’s a John Grant, all right,” the art dealer announced, lifting the picture up to within a few inches of his nose.
“Have you had it for long?” he asked.
“Not long,” I told him. “I’m related to the artist,” I added hastily, to strengthen my image in these unfamiliar surroundings.
“And you are exactly …?”
“His great grandson.”
“How interesting. And do you have any more of his paintings?”
“Only this one, I’m afraid.”
“Well, it’s not one of your great grandfather’s better known paintings, Mr Grant,” he declared, “but I expect you will already know that.”
“I’m a bit out of touch,” I lied.
That the painting was genuine was not what I had come to find out. I already knew that. Nor did I really care if it had artistic merit, at least I thought at first I didn’t. but I could ask him if it had, at least for a start, before I got round to the more important question.
“And where does he fit into things nowadays?” I asked, as if I had some background knowledge of the art world.
“Well, he was influenced by McTaggart, and by the Dutch School with regard to the figures …,” the dealer began.
“But he’s still quite well thought of?” I asked, politely but anxiously.
“Oh yes. Absolutely.”
Laying the painting on an easel standing beside his desk, the dealer settled back in his chair, staring appreciatively at my great grandfather’s creation.
How different this was from sitting across the desk from Sears, I thought. Here, I was being treated with respect, as an owner of an oil painting, as a whole person. Sitting across the desk from people like Sears, the psychological advantage such people always had adding weight to their empty words and forcing you to agree with them, had been a humiliating experience. It looked like things were about to improve at last. This picture might be valuable enough to take some of the financial pressure off me, surely, I calculated.
“It’s not one of his better known paintings,” the dealer pronounced again, “but thanks for bringing it in, Mr Grant. It would be passed down to you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“From my Great Aunt.”
“And does she have any others?
“Oh yes,” I said, guessing that Bethea would have quite a few of what to her would be almost like family photographs.
“Well I’d be delighted to have a look at them. Works from his later period can fetch a very good price. Your Great Grandfather is becoming very popular with the collectors, I must say.”
“I’ll certainly mention it to her,” I said casually, basking in my status as a near relative of someone important.
I lifted the painting from the easel and studied it. “It’s not exactly my cup of tea,” I said in the same tone. “Kind of smudgy.” I added.
“That’s the influence of Israels,” he informed me, making me feel pleased that I had made what must have sounded like a perceptive and highly relevant remark.
“Israels?”
“The great Josef Israels. Grant was influenced by him. An art critic once described this particular aspect of his work, which was different from his usual style, as a crumbly impasto of disagreeable quality.”
“The critics don’t like him?” I asked, resentful of the fact that someone other than myself might not appreciate the work of my prominent family member.
“Oh no. Quite the contrary, the art dealer said, contradicting me. The man who wrote that was lambasted by his peers, actually, but it does touch on the ‘smudginess’, if I may use your word. Most of his paintings don’t have this particular quality and are quite beautiful.”
“Well I think I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I told him, my resentment quickly subsiding. “Thank you very much for being so informative and helpful.”
“My pleasure, Mr Grant. I hope you will indeed mention me to your Great Aunt, and that I might hear from her.”
I wrapped the painting in its bubbled plastic wrapping and slipped it into the carrier bag.
“Oh yes. He’s becoming a great collector’s item,” the dealer told me again, negotiating the easel and the desk to accompany me to the door.
My mood changing now, I began to feel like a ‘name-dropper’ and a fraud in these s
urroundings, with the only previous painting in my life hanging on the wall at Bartons. But the crucial question, which should have been put at the beginning rather than at the end of the visit, still had to be asked.
“What do you think it’s worth?”
“Oh, somewhere in the high hundreds,” the dealer declared. “If it had been from his later period it would have been worth a good deal more, considerably more. And of course, the smudginess doesn’t help.”
*
The amount the dealer had valued the painting at rang in my ears all the way back to the flat. A few hundred pounds would hardly pay the electricity bill, far less a fraction of the amount I had to find in the very near future.
As I sat in the chair beside the CD cabinet about to enlist the help of Chopin, I realised that, like some under-strength drug, the soothing effect of the music wasn’t going to be enough on this occasion. To be without hope was about as bad as it could get.
In my efforts to sell fire extinguishers I had not only stretched my powers of persuasion to the limit but I had also gone against that inner voice which condemned all the inaccuracies and half truths that most salesman so often had to utter.
Even if I had been successful, the financial rewards might still not have been enough to solve my problems anyway, I knew. But I hadn’t been successful. I had sold absolutely nothing.
To be without hope was certainly bad but, to have entertained false hopes, as I had been doing with this picture, seemed to be even worse. I had hoped it might fetch a few thousand pounds at least and had ended up with the prospect of only a few hundred.
chapter fifteen
As I went into the Old Toll Bar Big Tom spotted me and waved across like an old friend. The others were there too.
They certainly might come from a social group that I was unfamiliar with, that I found hard to define, but I no longer felt uneasy in their company. They seemed, for the most part, to be bright and intelligent and they certainly weren’t hampered, like I was, by thoughts on their uncertain pathway through life.
“You’re invited, John,” Big Tom said to me as I took my seat.
“Where to?”
“The caravan park,” Andy answered. “You’ll enjoy it.”
“Come on, John, say you’ll come,” Liz coaxed. We need a new face up there.”
They sat smiling at me expectantly and, without asking for any more information, I agreed to go. Rows of caravans would dull the memory of rows of shops and they would provide a change of scene from girls splashing about in the water, too. Just what I needed.
“You’ll like the place. Two six berth vans, and you get a marvellous view of the sea,” Karen said encouragingly.
“And the company’s really good too,” added Liz, rolling her eyes.
“When do we leave?” I asked, beginning to feel quite good about taking a trip like this.
*
As we unloaded our gear at the site, Big Tom carried the girls’ bags into their caravan, leaving them free to prepare refreshments.
The park was spacious, situated on high ground overlooking the sea, and a faint sound of music wafted towards us from a communal building we had passed on the way in. The only member of the group not wearing shorts, I was glad of the pair Andy threw across the caravan to me. I could see Liz and Karen at a table outside setting up some glasses and tumblers and Big Tom opening a bottle.
As we went out, Andy switched on his radio and screwed up his face to the strains of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, at once flicking the controls to produce a Country and Western sound. Tom dragged Liz towards him and forced her to dance with him round the table. I guessed from the way she was responding, manoeuvring him as she had done with me at the party that, if there was anything between them, he was going to have an easier task ahead of him with Liz than I was going to have with Linda. But I liked both of them a lot and felt good about the idea of them getting together.
I joined Andy and Karen, clapping in rhythm with the melody and shouting words of encouragement, while just beyond them, in contrast, lay the open sea, motionless and silent.
Later, we all made our way down to the beach to throw pebbles and paddle our feet.
This break wouldn’t solve anything, I thought forlornly, but my thoughts on selling, or rather on not selling, fire extinguishers began to fade into the back of my mind and with them the memory of my disappointing excursion into the art world.
The next day everyone seemed as content as I was to lounge on their deck chairs and be soothed by Country and Western music. The sun warmed us from a clear blue sky and only a beach ball that occasionally bounced among us, kicked by a group of youngish men playing outside a nearby caravan, disturbed us.
When the ball, this time hitting the table, knocked over an empty glass of lager, some of the dregs splashed onto Liz’s blouse and she sat up, startled.
Big Tom rose quickly and trapped the ball at his feet, as he had done a few times before but on this occasion, to my surprise, he didn’t kick it back. Instead, he looked enquiringly at Andy.
Staring in the direction from which the ball had come, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, Andy shook his head peevishly before signalling Big Tom, with a wave of his hand, to return the ball to its owners. As we settled back down on our chairs, the radio continued to emit its Country and Western sounds only to fall silent a few minutes later, as the beach ball knocked it off-station and nearly off the table.
Once again Big Tom rose quickly and trapped the ball at his feet while its owners, the group of youngish men, stood impatiently looking over at us for the ball to be returned.
Big Tom sat back down, placing the ball underneath his deck chair.
“They don’t really mean any harm,” Karen said to him soothingly.
“They don’t?” Andy asked her, a feigned look of innocence on his face.
“What do you think you’re f’n playing at?” a sweaty-looking man in vest and shorts shouted as he strode angrily in our direction.
“Who, me?” Tom asked, unconvincingly.
The man, joined now by one of his companions, glanced sideways at Andy, who had sat up and was leaning forward on his deck chair.
“Yes you. Give me the f’n ball,” he said to Tom. “And you can keep your face out of it,” he said, looking again at Andy.
Andy stood up.
“Don’t,” Karen said to him, reaching over to grab his arm.
“Don’t what?” Andy asked, sounding mildly indignant.
“Just don’t,” Karen repeated.
“Go on Tom,” she gently pleaded, “give them the ball.”
Tom remained seated, looking over at Andy.
“Oh give them the bloody thing,” Andy told him, glancing meekly at Karen.
“Do the women give the orders here?” the man asked Andy. “Come on, give me the f’n ball,” he said again to Tom.
This was not unlike what had happened outside Liz’s flat. It was as though Andy and Tom saw what was happening as some kind of game. A game they were familiar with, and were quite keen to play.
“On second thoughts I’m not sure we’re going to give you the ball,” Andy said, stepping closer to the man who glared at him, a look of disbelief on his face. He moved back as Andy took a further step towards him.
Tom, his size now becoming evident as he got to his feet, had meanwhile moved towards the man’s companion and was standing a few paces from him, his hands at first on his hips, then hanging loosely by his sides.
Karen looked over at me, shrugged, and shook her head in resignation. She had realised, as I could see reflected on the faces of the ball’s two owners, that Andy and Tom had made up their minds about something.
“We just want the ball,” the first man said, in a slightly subdued tone of voice.
“And if we don’t give it to you?” Andy asked, in a similar tone.<
br />
“We just want the ball,” the same man repeated. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“I don’t either. But you’re beginning to change our minds,” Andy said, looking over to watch Tom take a few steps closer to the man’s companion.
Tom’s would-be opponent looked well set up, and he looked fit, too. But it was obvious that a change had come over him. He no longer seemed sure about what he was doing there. He was backing away from Tom, and it was easy to see why.
“Look mate, I’m sorry we got off to a bad start with you,” the other man said to Andy. “The heat’s going for us.”
“And the ball?” Andy asked him.
“It won’t come near you again.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” Andy said, his face expressionless.
“I’m sorry about all this,” the main said, in a polite tone of voice, glancing at Karen.
“Oh give him the bloody thing,” Andy said to Tom.
*
As we settled back down on our deck chairs, the threat caused by the ball removed and the radio back on station, I saw again that Andy had to be more than a fire extinguisher salesman. As I had watched him stand facing that man, although he wasn’t much taller than I was myself, or much broader when he was wearing a suit, he had seemed perfectly at home with the idea of having to resort to violence. He had shown no trace of nerves and had looked capable of moving quickly and becoming a serious obstacle if he got in anyone’s way. The man and his companion had obviously seen this too. And then there was Big Tom, which said it all. Andy definitely wasn’t a stranger to this kind of thing, and Big Tom seemed to be in his element.
“Anyone fancy a swim?” Liz asked, after a while.
Am I Being Followed? Page 11