A Game of Consequences

by Shelley Smith

  ‘Do you, Mr. Ransome? Well, we are not going to quarrel over 2.5%, I am sure.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Tom said in an acid tone.

  The amiable discussion was suspended at this juncture by the arrival of the Herr Baron, a gaunt, quiet, rather dingy, elderly man with a long nose that twitched like a vole’s. He stood before the painting, leaning both hands on his cane and listening to the dealer’s enthusiastic exposition.

  ‘You think I should buy it then?’ he said at last in a low dry voice like the rustle of fallen leaves.

  ‘Herr Baron, you know it is never my policy to advise my clients,’ Strauss said. ‘But I think you would be annoyed with yourself later if you let it go.’

  ‘You think so?’ The baron’s nose twitched. ‘The price is too high. Much too high.’ He mentioned a sum in Deutsch Marks. ‘That’s my figure.’

  ‘I have not set the price, Herr Baron.’

  ‘Well, well, that’s not my concern. Discuss it with the owner and let me know.’ He stumped away.

  Strauss pursed his lips and shrugged. Now it was Mr. Ransome’s decision.

  ‘What was his offer in pounds?’

  ‘Five hundred thousand.’

  ‘I think it’s a try on. Don’t you? You know him.’

  ‘I very much doubt if he will change his mind. But take your time and think it over. Go for a walk, have a drink, have a meal at the Golden Apple … ’

  Of course Tom had no intention of turning down half a million (minus 22.5% — or even 25% if it came to it), he wasn’t a complete idiot. He walked along the Unter den Linden, strolled through the Tiergarten, had something to eat, sat in a cinema for a couple of hours, and then went back to the Kurfurstendamm and announced that he had decided to accept the baron’s offer.

  But when Strauss returned from the telephone his round rosy face was glum. The clear baby-blue eyes met Tom’s and he sighed heavily. ‘Mr. Ransome, I am sorry. The Herr Baron too has been thinking it over and he would like to leave the matter in abeyance until after his return from Rio de Janeiro in a couple of weeks.’

  Tom’s face reddened with anger.

  ‘That’s that then. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Frankly, I wouldn’t recommend you to. He won’t come back for it, if I know my gentleman. I could try to sell it for you elsewhere, of course.’

  Tom gave him a cold glance. He was not going to be hooked like that again. Why didn’t Herr Strauss buy it himself? Very odd, considering he thought it so fine and had been so ecstatic about it.

  Herr Strauss said there was nothing he’d like better, but before he could expend that amount of money he would have to consult with his partners. That was the way of things these days, no one was his own master. He smiled and shrugged and belched politely into his hand.

  This second failure rattled Tom. It evoked in him a superstitious fear that the picture was unlucky. He could not understand what was happening, it was so different from his imaginings. For all his knowledge of the trickery and machinations of the art trade, it never occurred to his simple mind that these men so many hundreds of miles apart had laid a plot against him.

  Thus it came about that the Velázquez was purchased by Karl Nöckelheim (after a somewhat lengthy contest) for a million and a quarter Swiss francs (about £350,000). There could not have been a happier conclusion: each was secretly delighted with his own cleverness.

  Karl knew how pleased his colleagues would be with his successful handling of the deal. It meant that they had got this prize for a little over a hundred thousand pounds each. It would cut up very handsomely between them when it was finally disposed of.

  As for Tom, he was more than content. It was still a vast sum, a fortune, the kind of money people won on the pools. More solid and convincing to him somehow than a million could ever be. It meant luxury for the rest of their lives. It was enough to secure him a numbered account in a Swiss bank, where the money could be safely hidden and never traced. All the bad days were over. The thought that he would be able to give his family everything they wanted, was a vivid joy springing up in his heart like a fountain of living water. After all their hardship it was wonderful to be able to go out and spend extravagantly on buying them all presents.

  He was in a fever of excitement, concocting plans day and night. As soon as the financial arrangements were completed, Tom set off for Belgium.

  He found them on the sands. Biddy saw him first, and screamed; ‘It’s Daddy!’

  They rushed at him. He held out his arms and gathered them up, squeezing them so tightly that they squealed. ‘My little puddings,’ he said, covering their small faces with kisses. He only set them down in order to embrace Kate. His little gypsy wife was browner than ever She looked much younger, her face had filled out, and she smelt deliciously of the sea. ‘God, how I’ve missed you,’ he murmured, brushing her salt-sticky hair away with his mouth.

  ‘But what on earth are you doing here, darling?’

  ‘I thought I’d give you a surprise.’

  ‘You did that all right. Why didn’t you let us know?’

  ‘Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, would it? I was lonely without you all. I didn’t see why I should be left out of all the fun, so I decided to pop over and see what you were all getting up to without me.’

  ‘What have you been getting up to yourself, I’d like to know,’ said Kate, with that uncanny wifely intuition women always come up with. But really it was not so uncanny or remarkable, for he looked as if he was positively fizzing over with some mysterious excitement.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘why don’t we get into the car and drive off to some splendid patisserie and stuff ourselves with gorgeous Belgian cakes, and there’ll be a prize for the one who eats the most.’ He swept them along before him.

  ‘What are you doing!’ Kate cried, pulling at his sleeve as he approached a sleek pale-yellow Mercedes.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Silly of me, this isn’t my car. Here!’ He handed her the keys. It was a moment of the most exquisite pleasure. He watched her frowning bewilderment.

  ‘What are these for?’ she said, staring at the ring of keys glinting in her hand.

  ‘It’s what you have to use, dear, to get into a car and start it up. You remember. It’s yours, Kate. A little present from a loving husband. Look,’ he handed her the log-book: ‘it’s in your name, there on the first page … Kathleen Ransome. Do you want to try it?’

  He took the key from her as she made no move and still looked stunned and uncomprehending; ‘Let’s open it anyway, because there are presents inside for the children.’ They were fished out and received with astonishment, incredulity, and wild excitement. What had happened? Where had all these things come from?

  Tom stood there laughing and telling them how clever Daddy had won the big prize on the pools, and how they were going to have a wonderful holiday and not go back to England for ages and ages, and when they did they would have a house of their own again, in the country this time so they could have ponies to ride …

  ‘And a cat?’

  ‘And a dog?’

  Anything. Anything they wanted.

  *

  ‘Fancy not telling me! How could you bear to keep it to yourself?’ Kate said when they were in bed, lying in each other’s arms.

  ‘How could I bear to miss seeing the look on your dear face when you heard? It was worth waiting for, believe me.’

  EIGHT

  To have put 3000 miles of ocean between oneself and England and to be 600 miles away from the nearest landfall can justly be described as having ‘got away from it all’.

  Bermuda — that undelineated dot on the maps — is a limestone rock of seven islands, like a fishhook, with a hundred or so smaller ones clustering round in a sapphire sea patched with turquoise and jade. In the clear windswept air the islands greet the eye like the bright shadowless washes in a child’s picturebook. The harbours teeming with craft. The coloured houses with their dazzling limestone
roofs as white as the great clouds sailing across the sky with the speed of the old Bermuda sloops running the blockades with gunpowder and arms and rum. The very landscape spoke of piracy on the high seas and desperate ventures for life or death in the 17th century: Wreck Hill, Mangrove Bay, Spanish Point, and the narrow crooked streets in the old town named One Gun Alley, Blockade Alley, Old Maid’s Lane … It was a romantic place for a holiday, with its exotic flora, its caves and coves, its boating, swimming, fishing, and undersea explorations.

  Not really Jeremy’s scene perhaps, but he seemed to enjoy it all immensely, rather to Aurora’s surprise, once he had got over the boredom of the daily round of golf with his host and the evening game of bridge. After a week of abominably dull rounds, Francis too was thankful not to have to waste his game on him. Jeremy did his best to be a civil and entertaining guest, but he slid out of playing his part in the foursome more and more.

  ‘Sorry, old love,’ he said contritely when Aurora chided him, ‘but I really cannot stand Francis, he’s so unbearably stuffy. After one hour with him I’m practically reduced to dry sobs.’

  Aurora grinned. She never could resist him in a boyish mood. ‘He is rather dull,’ she admitted. ‘Poor Sylvia.’ Poor Sylvia was nearly sixty, Francis sixty-eight. Much too old for Jerry. It was only natural he wanted to be with people his own age.

  And he was being so sweet to her at this time, she could not be so unreasonable as to refuse to let him have his fun in his own way; after all it was his holiday too.

  Aurora with her white skin never went sunbathing on the pink sands, never participated in all the aquatic sports that played such a large part in the island’s activities, so she didn’t know about Nancy Collingwood.

  Everyone else knew. Even Sylvia, and she was not going to let Aurora find out about it if she could help it. Sylvia had known about the affair almost from the first; had heard about it from that fount of all scandal, the hairdresser’s. Her heart was in her mouth every time Aurora went to have her hair done, for fear that some damned woman would speak of it at the top of her voice above the noise of the dryer. Probably the assistants were used to such crises on the island and were quick to lay a warning hand on a customer’s arm and put a finger to the lips; for it never happened.

  Aurora only thought, when he looked flushed or dreamy or came back to the villa unexpectedly late, that he had found his way into some really big gaming set.

  That is until some woman at a cocktail party said to her with a bright smile: ‘I’m so disappointed not to meet your husband, I’ve heard so much about him.’ And a moment later added: ‘What a charming girl Nancy Collingwood is, don’t you think?’

  Aurora said: ‘I’m afraid I don’t know her.’

  ‘Oh!’ The woman assumed a look of embarrassment, as of one who is suddenly aware she has made a gaffe. ‘I naturally thought … ’ she gave a quick nervous smile and drifted away with just the merest giveaway glance at Aurora over her shoulder.

  Aurora said to her cousin on the way home:

  ‘Tell me about Nancy Collingwood.’

  ‘Nancy Collingwood?’

  ‘Come on, Sylvia. You know everyone there is to know here and all about them.’

  ‘She’s no one of any importance. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Someone seemed to think I must know her. I wondered why. It seemed to have some connection with Jerry.’

  ‘Just one of the crowd he goes around with.’

  ‘I knew you knew. Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘My dear, I’m quite sure it’s nothing serious. A holiday romp, that’s all. Much better not to take any notice.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Sylvia shrugged evasively.

  ‘A bodysnatcher, would you say?’

  Sylvia glanced at her cousin: ‘Darling, don’t — Yes, I daresay that would be a pretty fait description.’

  ‘How the hell did that bloody woman know about it?’

  ‘You know how it is in a small community like this, nothing but tittle-tattle from morning till night. They only have to see somebody coming out of someone else’s house to jump to the happy conclusion that they must have been to bed together. Francis says it should have been called Wagtongue Island,’ she said with a little laugh.

  ‘I’m not jealous, my dear. What I don’t like is everyone knowing about it; being laughed at behind my back and pitied.’

  ‘It’s only one small item of gossip among so many. You mustn’t mind. We have so little to talk about here.’

  *

  ‘A letter from Tom,’ Jeremy said, coming back from the Post Office with the mail.

  Aurora dear (it said),

  Not so much as a PC from you since you left, which I hope means you are having a wonderfully happy time and have quite forgotten all the tribulations of Upperdown.

  I can assure you all is in good order here. But I have some rather exciting news of my own to report: a job has turned up for me at last! After all your kindness I’d hate you to feel I was letting you down, but I’m sure you’ll understand that it’s too good a chance to let pass. It’s all been very hurried, as they need me at once. I’m all packed up and ready to go, and am in fact leaving today, the 18th.

  Rest assured that I’ll see to it that all is made secure before I leave, and the keys deposited at the bank. Also some papers for Jerry, please tell him. Give the old lad my love, and my warmest thanks to you both. I can never express what your friendship has meant to me and I hope that somehow some day I shall be able to repay you.

  Affectionately yours,

  Tom

  ‘Blow me down! He’s pulled it off. I never thought he’d do it,’ Jeremy, reading over her shoulder, exclaimed on a note of amused astonishment before he could stop himself.

  Crossly his wife asked him what he meant.

  ‘That he’s found a job. What else could I mean? Good for him!’

  ‘Yes, of course, you would take his part. Why is it that there’s never a single person in the world on whom one can rely? I did think Tom at least would have the decency to honour his obligations. The more you do for people the less gratitude they show.’

  ‘You could hardly expect him to throw up a job merely to suit your convenience, after all the poor chap’s been through these last years. Have a heart! The 18th. What’s the date today?’

  ‘The 23rd.’

  He counted with his fingers on the table, and gave a childish shiver of glee. ‘He’s been gone five days. Well, good luck, old son, wherever you are.’

  ‘He doesn’t even say where he’s going or what the job is.’

  ‘Obviously written in a great hurry. What does it matter anyway? I don’t suppose we shall ever meet again.’

  *

  Francis and Sylvia Wingate, as highly regarded members of the community, were invited with their guests to a banquet at Government House on the 25th. It was one of the few social distinctions the islands had to offer: it sorted out the people who mattered from the rest.

  ‘You won’t forget about tonight,’ Aurora reminded her husband that morning.

  ‘What about tonight?’

  ‘That we’re dining with the Governor.’

  ‘As if I could forget!’ Jeremy said, turning up his eyes.

  ‘Well, all right. But please don’t be late, it will upset our hosts. They take it seriously even if you don’t.’

  He waved a hand in what might have been an acknowledgement or a mere airy farewell as he ran lightly down the steps and disappeared between the oleander hedges.

  One thing that could be said for Jeremy, he was always punctilious in matters of courtesy, so when time passed and he did not return, Aurora began to fidget uneasily. Something must have happened to him. A misadventure boating perhaps. Didn’t Sylvia think so?

  ‘I’m sure not. We’d have heard, wouldn’t we, Francis? News travels fast on the islands.’

  ‘It hasn’t far to travel.’

  They waited for him till the last possible mo
ment permitted by protocol; and when they drove, elegantly arrayed, up the hill to the Governor’s house, the sun had set in a fleece of purple clouds against a sky of burnished gold. An exquisite spectacle. But their pleasure in the ravishing scene was marred by the prospect of having to make excuses for Jeremy’s absence — excuses which everyone would know to be a fabrication.

  Almost everybody there would know — or guess — where he was. (News does indeed travel fast in the islands.) And those in the know were in the happy position of being able to acquaint those less well-informed.

  ‘I’ll never forgive him. Never,’ Aurora promised her cousin.

  It was an absurdly grandiose affair, resembling one of those occasions depicted in the novels of Ronald Firbank of some unreal exotic land where all is grandeur, scandal, languor and fantasy, and the very leaves on the voluptuously-scented trees seem to susurrate salacious gossip. Here the conversation was formal, smiling, polite, with the occasional tinkle of laughter like ice when a glass is raised: but Aurora had an impression of eyes glancing sideways, lips murmuring scarcely above a whisper, fingers raised to mask smiling mouths; and she had the irrational conviction that she was the subject of those glances, smiles, and murmurs. It was not pleasant. She did not enjoy herself, and was glad when it came to an end.

  But Nancy Collingwood’s birthday party was a far more riotous affair which went on diligently wrecking the quiet of the night into the small hours. When Jeremy came rolling home Aurora created a scene, naturally. She’d had a wretched time, while he’d been enjoying himself. He’d spoilt the evening for all three of them and his behaviour had been unpardonable.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m sorry. I simply forgot. There’s no need to make a major production out of it,’ he said, slumping down on the bed and kicking off his sandals. ‘I’ll apologise to everyone tomorrow, in Hebrew, French, and Greek.’