As the Crow Flies
Page 55
“Would you like to be one of the spotters when the sale takes place next week?” Becky asked.
On the day of the Italian sale, Cathy was accused by Simon of being “full of beans” although in fact she had been unable to eat a thing that morning.
Once the sale had started, painting after painting passed its estimate and Cathy was delighted when The Basilica of St. Mark’s reached a record for a Canaletto.
When Sir Charles’ little oil replaced the masterpiece she suddenly felt queasy. It must have been the way the light caught the canvas, because there was now no doubt in her mind that it too was a masterpiece. Her immediate thought was that if only she possessed two hundred pounds she would have put in a bid for it herself.
The uproar that followed once the little picture had been removed from the easel made Cathy yet more anxious. She felt the accuser might well be right in his claim that the painting was an original by Bronzino. She had never seen a better example of his classic chubby babies with their sunlit halos. Lady Trumper and Simon placed no blame on Cathy’s shoulders as they continued to assure everyone who asked that the picture was a copy and had been known to the gallery for several years.
When the sale eventually came to an end, Cathy began to check through the dockets to be sure that they were in the correct order so that there could be no doubt who had purchased each item. Simon was standing a few feet away and telling a gallery owner which pictures had failed to reach their reserve price and might therefore be sold privately. She froze when she heard Lady Trumper turn to Simon, the moment the dealer had left, and say, “It’s that wretched Trentham woman up to her tricks again. Did you spot the old horror at the back of the room?” Simon nodded, but had made no further comment.
It must have been about a week after the Bishop of Reims had made his pronouncement that Simon invited Cathy to dinner at his flat in Pimlico. “A little celebration,” he added, explaining he had asked all those who had been directly involved with the Italian sale.
Cathy arrived that night to find several of the staff from the Old Masters department already enjoying a glass of wine, and by the time they sat down to dinner only Rebecca Trumper was not present. Once again Cathy felt aware of the family atmosphere the Trumpers created even in their absence. The guests all enjoyed a sumptuous meal of avocado soup followed by wild duck which they learned Simon had spent the whole afternoon preparing. She and a young man called Julian, who worked in the rare books department, stayed on after the others had left to help clear up.
“Don’t bother with the washing up,” said Simon. “My lady who ‘does’ can deal with it all in the morning.”
“Typical male attitude,” said Cathy as she continued to wash the dishes. “However, I admit that I remained behind with an ulterior motive.”
“And what might that be?” he asked as he picked up a dish cloth and made a token attempt to help Julian with the drying.
“Who is Mrs. Trentham?” Cathy asked abruptly. Simon swung round to face her, so she added awkwardly, “I heard Becky mention her name to you a few minutes after the sale was over and that man in the tweed jacket who made such a fuss had disappeared.”
Simon didn’t answer her question for some time, as if he were weighing up what he should say. Two dry dishes later he began.
“It goes back a long way, even before my time. And don’t forget I was at Sotheby’s with Becky for five years before she asked me to join her at Trumper’s. To be honest, I’m not sure why she and Mrs. Trentham loathe each other quite so much, but what I do know is that Mrs. Trentham’s son Guy and Sir Charles served in the same regiment during the First World War, and that Guy Trentham was somehow involved with that painting of the Virgin Mary and Child that had to be withdrawn from the sale. The only other piece of information that I’ve picked up over the years is that Guy Trentham disappeared off to Australia soon after…Hey, that was one of my finest coffee cups.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Cathy. “How clumsy of me.” She bent down and started picking up the little pieces of china that were scattered over the kitchen floor. “Where can I find another one?”
“In the china department of Trumper’s,” said Simon. “They’re about two shillings each.” Cathy laughed. “Just take my advice,” he added. “Remember that the older staff have a golden rule about Mrs. Trentham.”
Cathy stopped gathering up the pieces.
“They don’t mention her name in front of Becky unless she raises the subject. And never refer to the name of ‘Trentham’ in the presence of Sir Charles. If you did, I think he’d sack you on the spot.”
“I’m not likely to be given the chance,” Cathy said. “I’ve never even met him. In fact, the nearest I’ve been to the man was watching him in the seventh row at the Italian sale.”
“Well, at least we can do something about that,” said Simon. “How would you like to accompany me to a housewarming party the Trumpers are giving next Monday at their new home in Eaton Square?”
“Are you serious?”
“I certainly am,” replied Simon. “Anyway, I don’t think Sir Charles would altogether approve of my taking Julian.”
“Mightn’t they consider it somewhat presumptuous for such a junior member of staff to turn up on the arm of the head of the department?”
“Not Sir Charles. He doesn’t know what the word ‘presumptuous’ means.”
Cathy spent many hours during her lunch breaks poking around the dress shops in Chelsea before she selected what she considered was the appropriate outfit for Trumpers’ housewarming party. Her final choice was a sunflower-yellow dress with a large sash around the waist which the assistant who served her described as suitable for a cocktail party. Cathy became fearful at the last minute that its length, or lack of length, might be a little too daring for such a grand occasion. However, when Simon came to pick her up at 135 his immediate comment was “You’ll be a sensation, I promise you.” His unreserved assurance made her feel more confident—at least until they arrived on the top step of the Trumpers’ home in Eaton Square.
As Simon knocked on the door of his employers’ residence, Cathy only hoped that it wasn’t too obvious that she had never been invited to such a beautiful house before. However, she lost all her inhibitions the moment the butler invited them inside. Her eyes immediately settled on the feast that awaited her. While others drank from the seemingly endless bottles of champagne and helped themselves from the passing trays of canapés, she turned her attention elsewhere and even began to climb the staircase, savoring each of the rare delicacies one by one.
First came a Courbet, a still life of magnificent rich reds, oranges and greens; then a Picasso of two doves surrounded by pink blossoms, their beaks almost touching; after a further step her eyes fell on a Pissarro of an old woman carrying a bundle of hay, dominated by different shades of green. But she gasped when she first saw the Sisley, a stretch of the Seine with every touch of pastel shading being made to count.
“That’s my favorite,” said a voice from behind her. Cathy turned to see a tall, tousle-haired young man give her a grin that must have made many people return his smile. His dinner jacket didn’t quite fit, his bow tie needed adjusting and he lounged on the banisters as if without their support he might collapse completely.
“Quite beautiful,” she admitted. “When I was younger I used to try and paint a little myself, and it was Sisley who finally convinced me I shouldn’t bother.”
“Why?”
Cathy sighed. “Sisley completed that picture when he was seventeen and still at school.”
“Good heavens,” the young man said. “An expert in our presence.” Cathy smiled at her new companion. “Perhaps we should sneak a look at some more works on the upper corridor?”
“Do you think Sir Charles would mind?”
“Wouldn’t have thought so,” the young man replied. “After all, what’s the point of being a collector if other people are never given the chance to admire what you’ve acquired?”
“You obviously work in an art gallery.”
“I work at Trumper’s,” Cathy said proudly. “Number 1 Chelsea Terrace. And you?”
“I sort of work for Trumper’s myself,” he admitted. Out of the corner of her eye, Cathy saw Sir Charles appearing from a room on the upstairs landing—her first close encounter with the chairman. Like Alice, she wanted to disappear through a keyhole, but her companion remained unperturbed, seemingly quite at home.
Her host smiled at Cathy as he came down the stairs. “Hello,” he said once he’d reached them. “I’m Charlie Trumper and I’ve already heard all about you, young lady. I saw you at the Italian sale, of course, and Becky tells me that you’re doing a superb job. By the way, congratulations on the catalogue.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cathy, unsure what else she should say as the chairman continued on down the stairs, delivering a rat-a-tat-tat of sentences while ignoring her companion.
“I see you’ve already met my son,” Sir Charles added as he looked back towards her. “Don’t be taken in by his donnish facade; he’s every bit as much of a rogue as his father. Show her the Bonnard, Daniel.” With this Sir Charles disappeared into the drawing room.
“Ah yes, the Bonnard. Father’s pride and joy,” said Daniel. “I can think of no better way of luring a girl into the bedroom.”
“You’re Daniel Trumper?”
“No. Raffles, the well-known art thief,” Daniel said as he took Cathy’s hand and guided her up the stairs and on into his parents’ room.
“Well—what about that?” he asked.
“Stunning” was all Cathy could think of saying as she stared up at the vast Bonnard nude—of his mistress Michelle drying herself—that hung above the double bed.
“Father’s immensely proud of that particular lady,” Daniel explained. “As he never stops reminding us, he only paid three hundred guineas for her. Almost as good as the…” but Daniel didn’t complete the sentence.
“He has excellent taste.”
“The best untrained eye in the business, Mother always says. And as he’s selected every picture that hangs in this house, who’s to argue with her?”
“Your mother chose none of them?”
“Certainly not. My mother’s by nature a seller, while my father’s a buyer, a combination unequaled since Duveen and Bernstein cornered the art market.”
“These two should have ended up in jail,” said Cathy.
“Whereas,” said Daniel, “I suspect my father will end up in the same place as Duveen.” Cathy laughed. “And now I think we ought to go back downstairs and grab some food before it all disappears.”
Once they entered the dining room Cathy watched as Daniel walked over to a table on the far side of the room and switched round two of the placecards.
“Well, I’ll be blowed, Miss Ross,” Daniel said, pulling back a chair for her as other guests searched for their places. “After all that unnecessary banter, I find we’re sitting next to each other.”
Cathy smiled as she sat down beside him and watched a rather shy looking girl circle the table desperately hunting for her placecard. Soon Daniel was answering all her questions about Cambridge while he in turn wanted to know everything about Melbourne, a city he had never visited, he told her. Inevitably the question arose, “And what do your parents do?” Cathy replied without hesitation, “I don’t know. I’m an orphan.”
Daniel smiled. “Then we’re made for each other.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m the son of a fruit and veg man and a baker’s daughter from Whitechapel. An orphan from Melbourne, you say? You’ll certainly be a step up the social ladder for me, that’s for sure.”
Cathy laughed as Daniel recalled his parents’ early careers, and as the evening went on she even began to feel this might be the first man she would be willing to talk to about her somewhat unexplained and unexplainable background.
When the last course had been cleared away and they sat lingering over their coffee, Cathy noticed that the shy girl was now standing immediately behind her chair. Daniel rose to introduce her to Marjorie Carpenter, a mathematics don from Girton. It became obvious that she was Daniel’s guest for the evening and had been surprised if not a little disappointed to find that she had not been seated next to him at dinner.
The three of them chatted about life at Cambridge until the Marchioness of Wiltshire banged a spoon on the table, to attract everyone’s attention, then made a seemingly impromptu speech. When she finally called for a toast they all stood and raised their glasses to Trumper’s. The marchioness then presented Sir Charles with a silver cigar case in the form of a scale model of Trumper’s and from the expression on his face it obviously brought their host considerable delight. After a witty, and Cathy suspected not impromptu, speech, Sir Charles resumed his place.
“I ought to be going,” Cathy said a few minutes later. “I have an early start in the morning. It was nice to have met you, Daniel,” she added, sounding suddenly formal. They shook hands like strangers.
“Talk to you soon,” he said as Cathy went over to thank her hosts for what she told them had been a memorable evening. She left on her own, but not before she had checked that Simon was deep in conversation with a fair-haired young man who had recently come to work in rugs and carpets.
She walked slowly back from Eaton Square to Chelsea Terrace, savoring every moment of the evening, and was upstairs in her little flat above Number 135 a few minutes after midnight, feeling not unlike Cinderella.
As she began to undress, Cathy mused over how much she had enjoyed the party, especially Daniel’s company and the joy of seeing so many of her favorite artists. She wondered if…Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing.
As the time was now well past midnight she picked up the receiver assuming the caller must have dialed a wrong number.
“Said I’d talk to you soon,” said a voice.
“Go to bed, you chump.”
“I’m already in bed. Talk to you again in the morning,” he added. She heard a click.
Daniel telephoned a little after eight the following morning.
“I’ve only just got out of the bath,” she told him.
“Then you must be looking like Michelle. I’d better come over and select a towel for you.”
“I already have a towel safely wrapped round me, thank you.”
“Pity,” said Daniel. “I’m rather good at drying up. But failing that,” he added before she could reply, “would you join me at Trinity on Saturday? They’re holding a college feast. We only have a couple a term, so if you turn the invitation down there’s no hope of seeing me again for another three months.”
“In which case I’ll accept. But only because I haven’t had a feast since I left school.”
The following Friday Cathy traveled up to Cambridge by train to find Daniel standing on the platform waiting for her. Although Trinity High Table has been known to intimidate the most confident of guests, Cathy felt quite at ease as she sat among the dons. Nevertheless she couldn’t help wondering how so many survived to old age if they ate and drank like this regularly.
“Man cannot live by bread alone,” was Daniel’s only explanation during the seven-course meal. She imagined that the orgy must have ended when they were invited back to the master’s lodge only to find she was being offered even more savories, accompanied by a port decanter that circled endlessly and never seemed to settle or empty. She eventually escaped, but not before the clock on Trinity tower had struck midnight. Daniel escorted her to a guest room on the far side of the Great Court and suggested that they might attend matins at King’s the following morning.
“I’m so glad you didn’t recommend I make an appearance at breakfast,” said Cathy as Daniel gave her a kiss on the cheek before saying good night.
The little guest room that Daniel had booked Cathy into was even smaller than her digs above 135, but she fell asleep the moment she placed her head on the pillow and was woken only by a peal of bells that she assumed must be coming from King’s College Chapel.
Daniel and Cathy reached the chapel door only moments before the choristers began their crocodile procession down the nave. The singing seemed even more moving than on the gramophone record that Cathy possessed, with only the choristers’ pictures on the sleeve to hint what the real experience might be like.
Once the blessing had been given Daniel suggested a walk along the Backs “to get rid of any leftover cobwebs.” He took her hand, not releasing it again until they had returned to Trinity an hour later for a modest lunch.
During the afternoon he showed her round the Fitzwilliam Museum, where Cathy was mesmerized by Goya’s Devil Eating His Children. “Bit like Trinity High Table,” suggested Daniel before they walked over to Queens, where they listened to a student string quartet give a recital of a Bach fugue. By the time they left, the lights along Silver Street had started flickering.
“No supper, please,” begged Cathy in mock protest as they strolled back across the Mathematical Bridge.
Daniel chuckled and, after they had collected her case from Trinity, drove her slowly back to London in his little MG.
“Thank you for a wonderful weekend,” said Cathy once Daniel had parked outside 135. “In fact, ‘wonderful’ is quite inadequate to describe the last two days.”
Daniel kissed her gently on the cheek. “Let’s do it again next weekend,” he suggested.
“Not a hope,” said Cathy. “That is, if you meant it when you claimed you liked thin women.”
“All right, let’s try the whole thing without the food and perhaps even have a game of tennis this time. It may be the only way I’ll ever find out the standard of the Melbourne University second six.”
Cathy laughed. “And would you also thank your mother for that superb party last Monday? It’s been a truly memorable week.”
“I would, but you’ll probably see her before I do.”