by Roz Goldie
“Olivia, I had to see with my own eyes – but now I have. Thank God!” There were tears in the old man’s eyes.
The young man’s confusion was obvious to all.
Olivia Tebaldi spread her hands outwards and up to the sky. “Nico, did you think we didn’t know? I go to the library for news of Belfast – and we read all about your kidnap and miraculous release.”
There was a loud cheer and a round of applause from the assembled villagers.
“Now, we can celebrate!” Mario Tebaldi gestured to the long tables set out for a feast of Thanksgiving.
Over the next two days, Nico spent time talking to his grandparents and listening to them. He told them about Veronica Pilchard and confessed to asking her for a cigarette, to Olivia’s disapproval.
“Olivia, he was lucky to get out alive. Forgive the boy a small sin.”
They talked about the future prospects for Nico and themselves.
Mario was too old to farm and too frail to manage even the family allotment. Olivia was spritely for her years, but was also keen to make changes to their daily lives.
“I am thinking about selling the land to a developer. These days, there are few jobs in Italy – even in the Veneto – and fewer young people prepared to stay on the land.”
“Where will you go?” Nico could not imagine his grandparents being anywhere else, other than the farm where he had spent most of his childhood.
“Olivia thinks we should get an apartment. So, we will be moving away from Poggiduomo.”
“Will you not miss all your friends and neighbours?”
“Nico, you forget how old we are. Almost all my friends have died in the past few years. We go to mass and see friendly faces, but we are mostly alone. We have each other.”
“Before you sell the farm, will you visit me in Belfast? I would like you to see where I am – that it is safe, and I want you to meet the lady who saved me.”
Seeing his grandfather hesitating, he added, “I know a lovely woman, who speaks a little Italian and has a beautiful home where you could stay – just beside where I am now.” Nico planned to get accommodation of sufficient size to offer them a more permanent home – though whether or not they would accept was another matter.
Olivia Tebaldi had been listening, without interrupting, as the two men talked. She knew Nico was planning something – he was as transparent as he’d been as a young boy when he first came to live with them.
“Nico, tell us about the journey. We have never been outside Italy. How do we get to you, and how long will it take?” she asked as if she was not fully aware of how to make the journey.
“If you come before the end of October, you can get there from Verona airport, and it takes just three hours or so to get to Belfast. There, I will be waiting for you with a car.”
Smiling, as if she had heard some new information – since she already knew all these details through the library and internet – she nodded. “That sounds simple enough. What do you think, Mario?”
“From here, it would take us three hours to get to Bassano by bus!” Mario was taking his lead from granny, Tebaldi, understanding that she felt they should indulge Nico.
“And there’s no car to meet us and no Nico in Bassano!”
“Then, we shall come to Belfast and Nico.” Mario clapped his hands to his grandson’s delight.
* * *
Eliza Taunter’s next of kin were her parents. They were informed of her death and the unfortunate circumstances by the police. As they had never been to Belfast and knew no one from there, they were more than a little apprehensive about travelling to a former war zone where English folk were often unwelcome – at least from what they understood. Eliza had never invited them, and they had never wanted to visit.
Now, Gary and Stacey Taunter were obliged to do their parental duty, coming to Belfast to make funeral arrangements for their estranged daughter, relieved that her body had been formally identified by a local policeman. Eliza had rarely seen them over the years, keeping her parents as far away as possible. They were solid working people, who voted conservative, celebrated royal births and anniversaries, and knew their place in the social order. They thought of themselves as good citizens but of course, they were not bookish like Eliza and therefore, were beneath her. They would say they were proud of her but in truth, they were thankful of that distance and relieved to be rid of the dramatic scenes she so regularly created.
Since the body was to be released after a post mortem examination had been completed, they willingly agreed to have the remains collected by the nearest reliable undertakers – as recommended by the police liaison officer. They also took advice about modestly priced accommodation and settled for staying for a flexible number of days with Marianne Kelly.
Gary and Stacey Taunter arrived with hand luggage only, hoping to conclude their duties as soon as the funeral was over. Marianne was able to trace Eliza’s solicitor through the estate agent who had sold her the house – a sale that was very much to Eliza’s advantage, since she convinced the elderly Mrs Stock that it was only worth the pittance, which she was offering. Eliza was as unscrupulous in her business affairs as she was in matters scholarly – although Marianne did not consider her parents needed to hear that.
Gary Taunter was eager to end their stay as quickly as possible and without seeing the house or taking anything it contained, he put it on the market for immediate sale. Despite being informed that it required cleaning and some repair, he told the agent that the sale price was to reflect that.
“I simply want to leave all this unfortunate business behind us. As you can imagine, my wife is distraught by all this…”
Embarrassed by the possibility that a grieving parent might break down in the middle of his offices, the leading partner in Sells and Company cut in, “Quite so, Mr Taunter. I will see that our people take care of everything.”
* * *
Margaret thought the cottage she had inherited provided the perfect inducement to extract Veronica from Montague Road and the life of an itinerant. She’d heard Marianne Kelly on the radio and was shocked by her tone and manner. The woman was common and such a harridan! How could Veronica live there? She would not tolerate that situation for a moment longer.
The bungalow was on the outskirts of Glenbannock, built on a hill above the church some 100 yards outside the 30-mile limit. Margaret drove them both to their destination with desperate hopes of extracting Veronica from a vagrant existence in Belfast. As they arrived, the sun emerged from a cloudy sky. Margaret parked a short distance from the front door.
“We are at our journey’s end.” Margaret held out a small bunch of keys, pointing to a large mortise one. “That’s for the front door. You have a look for yourself. I’ll follow you after you’ve had time to get the feel of the place,” she smiled affectionately.
The house was bathed in autumnal sun, with a picture-book cottage garden and picket fence at the front. Veronica was enchanted. The house was modest but had been modernised, and Margaret’s cleaner, Molly Biggins, had been in to air the place, clean and dust every room. She had even brought flowers from Margaret’s garden, which Veronica recognised in the upstairs landing table. Even the heating had been turned on. Although it was not a large establishment, it seemed so spacious after living in one room for the best part of a month.
When she had inspected every room, she stood in the landing, enthralled by the enclosure that was the back garden. Rhododendrons and Japonica had grown over the decades to make a tall, thick blanket of hedging – protecting the house from the prevailing winds and giving almost total privacy from the nearby road. How could she refuse such an offer?
From below, Margaret called up the stairs, “Have you seen enough?”
“It’s fantastic, Margaret. It is just picture-perfect. I love it!” Veronica was like a schoolgirl, excited at the prospect of a new adventure.
“So, you would consider taking it on for a while?”
“Absolutely!” T
he muscles on Veronica’s face had lost their strain and the worn-down expression she had borne that morning had disappeared.
“Delighted to hear it. You can move in as soon as you like.” Margaret reminded herself that this was not to appear like an altruistic hand out, and smiled, “We can sort out finances later. In the meantime, can I ask a favour of you?”
“By all means, ask away!”
“I want to go back to the Stewart Gallery, and I want you to come with me. I can brief you on what to say to sound like an expert.”
“I’ll need a briefing – but yes, I’ll come with you. When do you want to do this viewing?”
“Could you make this evening?”
Veronica did not say she’d have preferred to move into the charming cottage because she was so grateful, feeling sure that Margaret was making the offer to get her out of bed-sit living. “Why not? I’m free.”
“Good. Why don’t we have a bite together and I’ll tell you what my thoughts are?” Taking on the role of the ebullient but still supercilious Lady Margaret Beightin, she replied to the invitation to view the paintings on sale at the Stewart Gallery with Veronica’s phone.
Unfortunately, Veronica lit a cigarette in the garden, and Margaret’s face darkened. “Veronica, I thought you had given up smoking!” Her voice was high-pitched and accusing. She was suddenly overcome with anger. “If you are going to stay in my cottage, you cannot smoke. You do realise that!” she snapped.
Veronica Pilchard was not a woman to be bullied. She was anxious to move into a place of her own, but not that keen to leave Wild Fern Alley – and now that she had experienced the sharpness of Margaret’s domination for the first time, she thought again. “Steady on, Margaret! It is not a crime.” Margaret frowned.
* * *
On his return to Belfast, Doctor Nicola Tebaldi was suddenly in demand at the university. He was the only person who was capable of taking over Eliza’s teaching and supervision commitments at a week’s notice. Assistant Dean Reynolds shed no tears at the news of the professor’s untimely death. However, replacing her immediately was now his top priority.
Returning to College Road and Jack’s house, Nico was summonsed to meet Reynolds to discuss ‘his prospects’.
Nico was held in good favour as both a researcher and teacher, as the Assistant Dean knew having already consulted the head of the School of Law before their meeting. His research and publications made him the perfect contender as her replacement – at least temporarily. Reynolds had a list and timetable of all Eliza’s teaching and supervision obligations, which lay on his desk as Nico entered.
“Good morning, Doctor Tebaldi. Please take a seat.” Reynolds did not pretend to any distress about the loss of Professor Taunter. “Very unpleasant business altogether, but I have my responsibilities, as you will understand. I have to find someone straightaway to undertake her commitments. Would you consider taking on this?”
Reynolds handed Nico the timetable of lectures, seminars and supervision sessions for the coming semester. He continued, “Now, I gather that you are more than well-acquainted with the professor’s area of expertise and that your record is exemplary, which is why I am taking this unusual course of action. Would you consider taking on these teaching and supervision duties?”
“Thank you, sir.” Nico carefully read the list of tasks, calculating how much of his time it would require. He did not make an immediate reply, and Reynolds coughed.
“Of course, someone can take on your post-doctoral obligations – I have spoken to the head of the School of Law, and that can be easily arranged.”
“That makes it more feasible.” Nico was astounded at the speed of change that was being proposed. He felt sure he could do as good a job as Eliza, but he was not a professor.
“As you know, the university has very strict equality policies when it comes to appointments. However, there is no problem about arranging a temporary contract.” Reynolds cleared his throat, “And once a person is doing very particular tasks and in a specialist area, they are frequently the chosen candidate, when a post becomes vacant.”
“I do understand the importance of those policies, sir.” Nico could hardly believe what he was hearing – if only by implication. This offer was of stratospheric promotion. “I do believe I could undertake these duties – although I would make minor changes to some of the modules, if that is permitted.”
“By all means, Doctor Tebaldi. By all means.” Reynolds’ relief was visible. “You would be doing me and the university a great favour if you could step into the breach!”
“Where would you like me to start?”
“If I might ask yet more of you, Doctor Tebaldi, you could start with the professor’s office. I am informed that her parents wish to donate her writings and books to the university.” He coughed, “And, to be blunt, the library does not have the space for these items.” There was a hint of distaste in his tone.
“I quite understand, sir. In fact, it would help me considerably if I could access her teaching materials.”
“Now, I have taken the liberty of having personnel draw up a contract,” he smiled, “in the hope that you would accept my offer. I think you will find the remuneration satisfactory.”
“I will liaise with the School Manager about the details, sir, and start preparation today.”
“Oh, in case I was not sufficiently clear, you are to take over Professor Taunter’s office.”
Nico left the meeting with Assistant Dean Reynolds in a state of euphoria. He was being offered the chance of a chair! As he strode across the quadrangle, he jumped in the air and kicked his heels together. He was actually quite confident about teaching these courses and was well aware of the topics Eliza’s students were researching.
His time in personnel was equally gratifying, not least as he was being offered a salary double his current income – to be reviewed after three months. The personnel officer was clearly pleased for Nico.
“I am not sure if this is official yet, but I may as well tell you – in the strictest confidence, of course. The post is to be advertised next month.” He winked mischievously.
“How interesting!” Nico’s said with a grin that spread right across his face.
* * *
The two women ate together at a bistro in Belfast City Centre, and Margaret told Veronica her thoughts on a probable art scam. Cressida had phoned Margaret to let her know what Sir John had said about procuring five paintings, and Margaret was now certain there was a link between Colliers and the Stewart Gallery.
Margaret explained to Veronica, “I heard John Colliers on the phone, mentioning le Brocquy – he’s a very important painter, sadly dead since 2012. That’s why I went with you to the gallery before. Now, a le Brocquy has miraculously come on the market – so soon after I asked Frederick Stewart about the possibility.”
“Yes, I remember you talking about that.”
“Well, not only has Stewart now got a le Brocquy, but he also has some other paintings I am going to view. By more than mere coincidence, they are by the same artists as the paintings Colliers has recently acquired – Cressida listed the artists for me.” Margaret left time for the idea to take root in Veronica’s impenetrable but sharp mind – hoping she would have some of her own thoughts on the matter.
“The Stewart Gallery will take its whack, of course,” she paused and looked at Margaret. “You know about the art world, Margaret. Tell me about Sir John Colliers and his pals.”
“I think he’s a pig! He looks like a pig and acts like a pig! I have known Cressida since we were at school, and I am very fond of her. He runs their home like a – oh, I don’t know, but he has worn her down over the years. Anyway, Cressida and I are going on a cruise together and it was when we were making plans that I heard him discussing le Brocquy. She phoned me this morning, and I gather he took possession of a bundle of pictures very recently.”
The word ‘bundle’ struck Veronica as an odd way to describe a collection of painting
s. She made a mental note without interrupting her friend.
“I think he has passed the pictures on to the Stewart Gallery – which is why I am pretending to have a few spare million and want to buy the le Brocquy.”
“Who else would there be that would have that interest and that amount of money?” Veronica was speeding ahead, assuming that if the gallery handled art that cost so much, there must be at least some very wealthy clients in the background.
“I imagine Clive Heedon would have an interest. He is also a pig, but an extremely wealthy one!” Margaret recalled the after-opening dinner with some repugnance. “Politics is virtually a side line for him. He is sufficiently well off that he needn’t work at all.”
“Now, that is extremely interesting.” Veronica’s face showed she was mentally typing up notes on her computer. “Would it be wise to mention his name when you are doing the viewing?”
Margaret ignored the fact that one does not ‘do’ viewing and smiled broadly. “I think that’s a very good idea – after all, I have met the man.”
Armed with a briefing on local watercolourists – for which Lady Beightin’s unnamed escort would show a decided preference – they left for the Stewart Gallery.
* * *
Eliza’s funeral was as strange as it was sad. Her parents knew none of the people who attended. Marianne and a handful of residents, whose homes backed onto Wild Fern Alley, came to pay their respects, along with Veronica and Jack. The university was represented by Assistant Dean Reynolds. Nico attended out of a sense of duty, as rural Italians always came to funerals in their locality. The news of Eliza’s murder had been in all the press and media, prompting Flag’s protester, Dwayne Butcher, to show up, awkward among a small crowd of liberals, pinkos and lefties as he saw them.
Veronica was the only face he recognised, and he was grateful when she nodded to him as he came into the crematorium.