A Hallowed Place

by Caro Fraser

  ‘Oh, I told him I knew you wouldn’t mind,’ said Sarah. ‘See you in the morning.’ She gave Anthony a glance and a smile, too, then went upstairs.

  Anthony followed her thoughtfully with his eyes. ‘Do you think she had hopes of taking up a tenancy here?’

  Leo sighed. ‘Let’s just live with the present, shall we? Where Miss Colman is concerned, one doesn’t like to think too far ahead. See you tonight.’

  That evening, in the two-bedroomed flat in New Cross, Felicity pressed the buttons on the microwave and watched as two portions of Marks & Spencer’s pork in mustard sauce began to revolve slowly. ‘Vince,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘how long d’you think it’s going to take you to do your knowledge?’

  ‘Hang on a bit,’ said Vince, cracking open a can of beer, ‘I only got me blue book from the Public Carriage Office the other day. There’s fifty-six runs I’ve got to memorise.’

  ‘I don’t know why they call it the blue book when it’s pink,’ murmured Felicity. God, she felt tired. When she’d gone into the bedroom to change after work, it’d been all she could do to stop herself from snuggling under the duvet and just falling asleep there and then. ‘But how long, d’you reckon?’

  Vince shrugged. ‘Depends on your ability, doesn’t it? Just a question of keep goin’ out on the bike, getting meself up to speed. There’s a hell of a lot to learn. And they won’t call me up for my first appearance for another six months at least.’

  ‘But if you pass, say, in six months’ time, you could start renting your own cab, earning proper money?’ Felicity took two baked potatoes from the oven and put them on plates.

  ‘No chance,’ said Vince with a laugh. ‘Nobody passes first go off. It’s a lot tougher than it used to be. There was a time you could do it in nine months or so, but now it takes a good couple of years. Maybe three.’

  Felicity slowly peeled back the Cellophane from the microwave meal. ‘Two years?’ She’d had the idea that Vince could be running his own black cab in a matter of months. She’d even planned ahead, saved, happy to think that he could use the savings to rent a cab once he’d passed his knowledge. But when he began to talk in terms of years … She spooned the pork out on to the plates. If she had this baby, how would they live? She was earning so well at the moment, more than she had ever imagined she could, and they both took it for granted. Vince had always sponged off her, but she didn’t mind paying for everything for both of them if he was really serious about planning a means of making his own living in the long run. Doing the knowledge had been her idea, of course, but he’d taken it up with real enthusiasm. The notion of being a black cab driver appealed to Vince as having a certain amount of cred, and it meant that he would be his own boss. That was important, for Vince wasn’t the kind of man who took kindly to working for anyone. So far he’d demonstrated a commendable seriousness of purpose, going up to the Public Carriage Office, doing the medical, getting his blue book, purchasing a second-hand motor bike to roar round the streets, memorising routes, street names and traffic systems. Felicity had paid for the bike, as she paid for everything, but the important thing was that Vince was undertaking something that could pay off. For Vince, that was a first. But she couldn’t bank on it. She couldn’t just give up work and have a baby, and wait for him to pass his knowledge. It might never happen.

  Felicity brought their plates over and sat down. Vince held the can of beer over her empty glass. ‘You fancy some?’

  Felicity shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You all right?’ asked Vince. ‘You haven’t had a drink in days. Not like you, is it?’

  She smiled wanly. ‘No. Maybe I’m coming down with something.’ Why wouldn’t she just come out with it, tell him and have done? Because she guessed what his reaction would be. She knew Vince too well. All man. He’d be delighted, proud, without even giving a thought to the future. Vince was a great believer in things working out for the best. He lived from day to day, like a child. And that was the thing. She’d have two children on her hands and an uncertain future. Once Vince knew, there would be no way out. There would be no question of an abortion. He’d close all the doors, heedlessly. But this was one door she had to keep open, for the present, at any rate. So she picked up her fork and ate, and said nothing.

  ‘Just up here on the left,’ said Anthony, as Leo drove slowly up the narrow cobbled street. ‘There it is.’ They pulled up outside what had once been a brewery, but was now to be the home of Chay’s London Museum of Modern Art.

  ‘It’s quite a handsome building,’ said Leo. ‘What I can see of it.’ The brewery was set back from the cobbled street behind high walls, in which were set heavy iron gates. ‘Strange backwater, this, isn’t it?’ He got out of the car, locked it, and he and Anthony stood together on the pavement, gazing around.

  ‘There are some very fine Georgian houses just round the corner from here,’ remarked Anthony. ‘I gather from my father that it’s becoming something of an artists’ haven. Anyway, he’s found the right premises at the right address, so he’s pretty pleased.’ They passed through the iron gates and into a large cobbled courtyard, where a security guard was strolling. ‘A functional building like this was just what he needed. Lots of space, good light.’

  ‘It must be costing a fortune to do up,’ said Leo.

  ‘He’s got a grant from English Heritage to restore the fabric of the building, so that’s a start. And, of course, Lord Stockeld is chipping in a hefty sum to help fund the collection. The rest is all Chay’s own money,’ said Anthony. ‘But, as he said, there’s a good chance of lottery money once the trust is up and running.’

  They went in through the large front door, which stood open. They found themselves in a small vestibule, and beyond they could hear the sound of voices. Passing along a short corridor, they emerged into a large, airy room, as high as the building itself, with a gallery running round.

  Chay was at the far end, with three other people. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw Anthony and Leo. ‘Good to see you. Leo, let me introduce a few of your co-trustees. Tony Gear, MP, Derek Harvey, Graham Amery. This is Leo Davies, who’s going to add a bit of legal weight to the show. I’m afraid Lord Stockeld can’t be with us this evening. He’s in Frankfurt on business.’

  Leo shook hands with each man in turn, he and Amery giving one another a brief grin of recognition. From what he could recall of the Barrett’s Bank case a few years ago, Amery’s dapper, slightly self-deprecating air masked a fiercely conscientious and industrious personality, and Leo wasn’t surprised he had risen to become its chairman. Gear, in his mid-thirties, was some fifteen years Amery’s junior, a short, rotund creature, with bright, ambitious eyes set in a clever, schoolboyish face, and floppy dark hair. He was dressed in a nondescript grey suit and suede shoes. Leo had trouble recalling whether he was Labour, Conservative or Lib Dem. Certainly his face and his faintly aggressive, gravelly voice were familiar from news soundbites. He was a regular spokesman on some issue or other, but Leo couldn’t for the life of him remember what. Derek Harvey he recognised from the small, blurred black-and-white photograph which accompanied his column in one of the daily papers. He was taller than Leo had imagined, with curling grey hair and pouched, tired features, dressed in a long, shabby raincoat over jeans and a sweatshirt.

  ‘Quite a venture, this,’ remarked Derek Harvey. ‘Good location.’ He gestured round the lofty room. ‘This will be superb for large installation pieces.’

  ‘I was just showing everyone round,’ said Chay, ‘while we wait for Melissa. She rang to say she’s running late. Come through and I’ll show you the area that I’ve got marked out for the video installations. I think you’ll like it.’

  Chay led them through a series of high-ceilinged areas. Work had begun on whitewashing the brick walls and on fitting lighting. The floors were still littered with the debris of builders and electricians, and as the group picked its way among planks, spools of flex and pots of paint, Chay kept up a running comment
ary on the functions of each individual area.

  Eventually he glanced at his watch. ‘I think we’d better make a start,’ he said. ‘Melissa didn’t say how late she’d be.’ He led them all through to a long, low-ceilinged meeting room, which still smelt of fresh varnish. An oval table stood in the centre, surrounded by chairs, and everyone sat down.

  The meeting commenced in an orderly fashion. Chay, who was normally something of a laid back individual, had been galvanised by enthusiasm for his project, and had set about organising matters with surprising efficiency. It helped that Anthony had been drafted in to act as secretary and general legal consultant. For this Leo was grateful; he hadn’t wanted his own role in all this to be too onerous.

  Chay opened the meeting with a little speech about the aims of the project, then Leo added his signature to the others on the trust documents and a general discussion began about the museum’s collection policy. At this point Melissa Angelicos arrived in a fluster of scarves, bags and papers, and the meeting ground to a temporary halt. There was certainly something impressive about the woman, thought Leo, as he watched her murmur effusive apologies, darting smiles at each of them while introductions were made, settling herself into her chair with an exuberant flash of her long legs. Leo studied her covertly as Chay ran over the items which they had already discussed and Anthony produced the trust documents for her to sign. She was older than she appeared on television. Leo put her somewhere in her mid-forties. She possessed fine-boned, dramatic features, slightly coarsened by age, and a mane of ash-blonde hair which she wore carelessly pinned up. The slenderness of youth was toughening into wiry angularity in middle age, but Leo could see why men considered her attractive. Her movements were nervy and self-conscious, but her smile and general manner were charismatic, if a little hard.

  No sooner had Chay explained that they were discussing the museum’s collection policy than she launched into an enthusiastic endorsement of the work of a handful of young British artists recently exhibited at the Royal Academy and the Saatchi Gallery. ‘There are some absolutely wonderful pieces we could obtain - sado-kitsch, you might call them. Totally transgressive. After all, any new museum of this kind must show generosity towards native young talent, and some of the work that’s been shown is terribly exciting. Gayford’s Dwarf in Bondage, for instance—’

  Derek Harvey, who was sitting hunched over the table, still in his raincoat, interrupted her with a sigh. ‘Melissa, the core collection can’t concern itself with that kind of rubbish. If we’re going to convince the powers-that-be to give us public funding to acquire new works, the museum has to demonstrate a collections policy that is sound, that is looking for established, serious work by well-known artists. It’s not an exercise in promoting the kind of promiscuous, talentless work which your YBAs constantly produce, and which your television programme works so hard to sell. This museum is, I hope, about serious art.’

  There was a brief, embarrassed silence. Leo was bemused. Clearly a certain hostility already existed between Ms Angelicos and Harvey. He wondered if Chay had been aware of it.

  Chay scratched his designer stubble. ‘There’s something in what Derek says. I think for the core collection at least, we have to set our sights on well-established artists. People like Patrick Heron, Bill Woodrow, Warhol … Works that the general public can feel safe with.’

  Melissa laughed. It was a bright, scornful laugh with an icy edge. ‘If safety is what this project is all about—’

  Chay raised a hand. ‘Safety isn’t what it’s all about. Perhaps I used the wrong word. What I mean is that we need established names to convince people that this is fundamentally a museum with a really prestigious collection of twentieth-century art. That way we can get funding to acquire more - more -’ Chay groped in the air with thin fingers for the right word ‘—innovative, exciting work.’

  ‘But, basically, what you’re saying is that we have to take a philistine approach.’

  Chay sighed. Leo smiled to himself, intrigued, and glanced across at Anthony, who was doodling on a piece of paper and looking bored.

  ‘I don’t think you can call my plans for the video installation philistine,’ retorted Chay. ‘I’m planning on bringing in some of the most ground-breaking work in years. Anyway, if you want to be confrontational, perhaps you can turn your attention to the open-space area. That really does need something … transgressive to bring it alive.’

  At this, Melissa looked interested. ‘Open space? I didn’t know we had one.’

  ‘It’s at the back, where the brewery lorries used to park to load up. Come on, I’ll show you all before it gets dark.’

  Chay led them all out to the back of the building and indicated a large concrete yard. ‘This is all going to be broken up. I had no specific concept in mind, but it seemed to me that there must be some sort of interactive piece, an ongoing thing …’ He gestured vaguely.

  ‘Absolutely perfect,’ said Melissa. ‘I know a women’s collective who create fantastic organic pieces, dealing in rootedness and estrangement. This kind of open space will be absolutely marvellous for them to work in.’

  ‘Ask them to submit some ideas,’ said Chay. ‘We need it up and running in a matter of months.’

  They went back inside and arranged themselves around the table once more.

  ‘I was thinking about what Chay said earlier about the core collection,’ said Leo. He hadn’t spoken until now and Melissa glanced up. She had noticed on being introduced to him that he was a good-looking man, exceptionally so, but his City suit and apparently reserved demeanour set him, in her mind, among a certain unexciting type, rather like Graham Amery. She had assumed he might be Chay’s accountant. ‘A friend of mine in Paris tells me there may be a couple of good pieces by Anthony Caro corning on the market soon. We may be able to snap something up, if we move quickly enough.’

  ‘Anthony Caro is just the kind of thing we’re after,’ said Chay enthusiastically. ‘Is it an auction?’

  ‘No,’ said Leo, ‘this would be private. I told him that I could discuss prices with him next week, if the museum is interested.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Chay. Derek Harvey murmured in agreement, nodding.

  ‘Speaking of sculpture, I noticed that there’s going to be an auction of some pieces by that brick fellow, Carl Andre,’ said Tony Gear. ‘Maybe that’s something we should go for.’

  Chay nodded. ‘I’m thinking of employing a couple of junior staff in the next few weeks, people to whom we can delegate the business of actually purchasing works on the trust’s behalf. What we need right now are suggestions for acquisitions, then we can make collective decisions as we go along.’

  ‘Well, unless Derek is going to slap me down straight away—’ Melissa shot Derek Harvey a cold glance ‘—we might like to consider obtaining a work by Damien Hirst. I know his agent very well.’

  The meeting carried on for another half-hour or so and, apart from one more briefly abrasive exchange between Melissa and Derek, broke up amicably.

  ‘Do you want a lift back?’ Leo asked Anthony.

  ‘No, that’s all right. I’m going on for dinner with Chay. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Everyone made their way back through the gallery areas towards the main entrance. In the last and largest room, Leo stood for a few moments looking around him, studying the space and light.

  Melissa Angelicos sauntered over in his direction, glancing around. ‘Fantastic space, isn’t it?’ she remarked.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ replied Leo thoughtfully, ‘whether it’s big enough to take one of Thomas Schutte’s installations. Something like that would make a very impressive centrepiece.’

  Melissa looked at him appraisingly. ‘You’ve seen his work?’

  ‘I went to his exhibition in Düsseldorf last year. It was remarkable.’ He turned to smile at her. Melissa, like most women on whom Leo smiled, felt instant pleasure and faint excitement. ‘I have to confine my own collection of sculpture to rather
more conveniently sized pieces, of course,’ Leo added.

  ‘You collect, do you?’

  ‘On a modest scale. Mainly abstract works.’ They sauntered together to the door, talking about Leo’s collection. Melissa glanced at him frequently as he talked, rearranging her initial impression. She was a woman whose interest in people, especially men, was easily quickened, particularly if they were attractive. And she found Leo attractive, decidedly so. Already her mind was leaping ahead to the possibilities. Age made her less subtle these days, more ready to engage. She had lived through so many relationships that she no longer considered or reflected. Each relationship was briefer than the one before, and each one left her harder, and hungrier.

  By the time they came through the gates and into the darkening street, the others had gone.

  ‘That the last of you?’ asked the security guard.

  ‘I think so,’ replied Leo, glancing round. The guard nodded and clanged the gates together, then locked them.

  Melissa peered at her watch and gave an anxious little sigh. ‘God alone knows how I’m going to find a taxi around here. I suppose I’ll just have to walk up to Liverpool Street.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ Leo had no particular wish for Melissa’s company. He had been around women long enough to recognise the faintly predatory atmosphere which was gathering. But he knew he had no choice.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to take you out of your way, but if you happened to be going anywhere near Kensington …?’

  ‘I live in Belgravia,’ said Leo, ‘so it’s no trouble.’ Kensington was so close to Knightsbridge, so close to Joshua … He could just drop in, on the off chance. The memory of the night before seemed to have grown more and more intense in the last couple of hours. He had thought about the boy on and off all through the meeting. But he shouldn’t, he knew. He should not even consider compromising his dignity and pride for - for what? A mere boy. But such a boy.

  Suddenly he realised that Melissa was saying something to him. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch …’ Melissa repeated what she had said and Leo replied, ‘No, not far. I parked just up here.’