Sebastian was chatting to the ambassador when he heard the siren, but didn’t give it a thought until the ambulance came to a halt outside the hotel and two smartly dressed orderlies jumped out and rushed inside wheeling a stretcher.
“You don’t think—” began Sir John, but Sebastian was already running up the steps and into the hotel. He stopped when he saw the orderlies bearing the stretcher toward him. It only took one look at the patient for his worst fears to be confirmed. When they placed the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, Sebastian leaped inside, shouting, “He’s my boss.” One of the orderlies nodded while the other pulled the doors closed.
Sir John followed the ambulance in his Rolls-Royce. When he arrived at the hospital, he introduced himself and asked the receptionist on the front desk if Sir Giles Barrington was being seen by a doctor.
“Yes, sir, he’s being checked out in the emergency room by Dr. Clairbert. If you’d be kind enough to take a seat, your excellency, I’m sure he’ll come and brief you as soon as he’s completed his examination.”
* * *
Griff switched the television back on to catch the seven o’clock news on the BBC, hoping that Giles’s speech was still the lead story.
Giles was still the lead story, but it took Griff some time to accept who the man on the stretcher was. He collapsed back into his chair. He’d been in politics too long not to know that Sir Giles Barrington was no longer a candidate to lead the Labor Party.
* * *
A man who’d spent the night in room 437 of the Palace Hotel handed his key into reception, checked out and paid his bill in cash. He took a taxi to the airport, and an hour later boarded the plane back to London that Sir Giles had been booked on. On arrival at London airport he queued for a taxi, and when he reached the front of the line he climbed into the back seat and said, “Forty-four Eaton Square.”
* * *
“I’m puzzled, ambassador,” said Dr. Clairbert after he’d examined his patient for a second time. “I can’t find anything wrong with Sir Giles’s heart. In fact, he’s in excellent shape for a man of his age. However, I’ll only be sure once I’ve had all the test results back from the lab, which means I’ll have to keep him in overnight, just to be absolutely certain.”
* * *
Giles dominated the front pages of the national press the following morning, just as Griff had hoped he would.
However, the headlines in the first editions, Neck and Neck (the Express), All Bets Off (the Mirror), Birth of a Statesman? (The Times) had quickly been replaced. The Daily Mail’s new front page summed it up succinctly: Heart Attack ends Barrington’s chances of leading the Labor Party.
* * *
The Sunday papers all carried lengthy profiles of the new leader of the opposition.
A photograph of Harold Wilson aged eight, standing outside 10 Downing Street dressed in his Sunday best and wearing a peaked cap, made most of the front pages.
* * *
Giles flew back to London on the Monday morning, accompanied by Gwyneth and Sebastian.
When the plane touched down at London Airport, there wasn’t a single journalist, photographer or cameraman there to greet him; yesterday’s news. Gwyneth drove them back to Smith Square.
“What did the doctor recommend you should do once we’d got you home?” asked Griff.
“He didn’t recommend anything,” said Giles. “He’s still trying to work out why I was ever in hospital in the first place.”
* * *
It was Sebastian who pointed out to his uncle an article on page eleven of The Times that had been written by one of the journalists who’d been in the bar of the Palace Hotel when Giles collapsed.
Matthew Castle had decided to stay in Brussels for a few days and make further inquiries, as he wasn’t altogether convinced that Sir Giles had suffered a heart attack, even though he’d seen the whole incident unfold in front of his eyes.
He reported: one, Pierre Bouchard, the deputy president of the EEC, had not been in Brussels to hear Sir Giles’s speech that day, as he was attending the funeral of an old friend in Marseille; two, the barman who had phoned for an ambulance dialed only three numbers, and failed to give whoever was on the other end of the line an address to come to; three, the St. Jean Hospital had no record of anyone phoning for an ambulance from the Palace Hotel, and was unable to identify the two orderlies who wheeled Sir Giles in on a stretcher; four, the man who left the bar to meet the ambulance never returned, and no one paid for the two drinks; five, the man in the bar who said he was a doctor and claimed Sir Giles had suffered a heart attack hadn’t been seen since; and six, the barman didn’t report for work the following day.
Perhaps this was nothing more than a string of coincidences, suggested the journalist, but if it wasn’t, might the Labor Party now have a different leader?
* * *
Griff returned to Bristol the following morning, and as there wasn’t likely to be an election for at least another year, he spent the next month on a bender.
JESSICA CLIFTON
1964
21
“AM I MEANT to understand what this represents?” said Emma, looking more closely at the painting.
“There’s nothing to understand, Mama,” said Seb. “You’ve missed the point.”
“Then what is the point, because I can remember when Jessica used to draw people. People I recognized.”
“She’s past that phase, Mama; she’s now entering her abstract period.”
“I’m afraid they just look like blobs to me.”
“That’s because you’re not looking at it with an open mind. She no longer wants to be Constable or Turner.”
“Then who does she want to be?”
“Jessica Clifton.”
“Even if you’re right, Seb,” said Harry, taking a closer look at Blob One, “all artists, even Picasso, admitted to outside influences. So, who’s Jessica influenced by?”
“Peter Blake, Francis Bacon, and she admires an American called Rothko.”
“I haven’t heard of any of them,” admitted Emma.
“And they probably haven’t heard of Edith Evans, Joan Sutherland or Evelyn Waugh, whom you both admire so much.”
“Harold Guinzburg’s got a Rothko in his office,” said Harry. “He told me it cost him ten thousand dollars, which I reminded him was more than my last advance.”
“You mustn’t think like that,” said Sebastian. “A work of art is worth what someone will pay for it. If it’s true for your book, why shouldn’t it be equally true for a painting?”
“A banker’s attitude,” said Emma. “I won’t remind you what Oscar Wilde said on the subject of price and value, for fear you might accuse me of being old-fashioned.”
“You’re not old-fashioned, Mama,” said Sebastian, placing an arm around her. Emma smiled. “You’re positively prehistoric.”
“I admit to forty,” Emma protested, looking up at her son, who couldn’t stop laughing. “But is this really the best Jessica can do?” she asked, turning her attention back to the painting.
“It’s her graduation work, which will determine if she’s offered a postgraduate place at the Royal Academy Schools this September. And it might even make her a bob or two.”
“These paintings are for sale?” said Harry.
“Oh, yes. The graduation exhibition is the first opportunity for a lot of young artists to display their work to the public.”
“I wonder who buys this sort of thing?” said Harry, looking around the room, whose walls were covered with oil paintings, watercolors and drawings.
“Doting parents, I expect,” said Emma. “So we’ll all have to buy one of Jessica’s, you included, Seb.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Mama. I’ll be back here at seven when the show opens, with my checkbook ready. I’ve already chosen the one I want—Blob One.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“You just don’t get it, Mama.”
“So where is the next Picasso?” asked Emma, ignoring her son as she looked around the room.
“Probably with her boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know Jessica had a boyfriend,” said Harry.
“I think she’s hoping to introduce you to him tonight.”
“And what does this boyfriend do?”
“He’s also an artist.”
“Is he younger or older than Jessica?” asked Emma.
“Same age. He’s in her class, but frankly, he’s not in her class.”
“Very droll,” said Harry. “Does he have a name?”
“Clive Bingham.”
“And have you met him?”
“Yes, they’re rarely apart, and I know he proposes to her at least once a week.”
“But she’s far too young to be thinking about getting married,” said Emma.
“You don’t have to be a wrangler, Mama, to work out that if you’re forty-three and I’m twenty-four, you must have been nineteen when I was born.”
“But it was different in those days.”
“I wonder if Grandpa Walter agreed with you at the time.”
“Yes, he did,” said Emma, taking Harry’s arm. “Gramps adored your father.”
“And you’ll adore Clive. He’s a really nice chap, and it’s not his fault that he isn’t much of an artist, as you can see for yourself,” said Sebastian, guiding his parents across the room so they could look at Clive’s work.
Harry stared at Self Portrait for some time before he offered an opinion. “I can see why you think Jessica is so good, because I can’t believe anyone will buy these.”
“Fortunately, he has wealthy parents, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“But as Jessica’s never been interested in money, and he doesn’t seem to have any talent, what’s the attraction?”
“As almost every female student on the course has painted Clive at some time during the past three years, it’s clear that Jessica’s not the only person who thinks he’s good-looking.”
“Not if he looks like that,” said Emma, taking a closer look at Self Portrait.
Sebastian laughed. “Wait and see before you pass judgment. Though I ought to warn you, Mama, that by your standards you might find him a little disorganized, even vague. But as we all know, Jess always wants to look after any stray she comes across, possibly because she was an orphan herself.”
“Does Clive know she was adopted?”
“Of course,” said Sebastian. “Jessica never hides the fact. She tells anyone who asks. At art school it’s a bonus, almost a badge of honor.”
“And are they living together?” whispered Emma.
“They’re both art students, Mama, so I think it’s just possible.”
Harry laughed, but Emma still looked shocked.
“It may come as a surprise to you, Mama, but Jess is twenty-one, beautiful and talented, and I can tell you Clive’s not the only guy who thinks she’s a bit special.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting him,” said Emma. “And if we’re not going to be late for the prize-giving, we ought to go and change.”
“While we’re on that subject, Mama, please don’t turn up this evening looking like the chairman of Barrington’s Shipping Company, and as if you’re about to preside over a board meeting, because it will embarrass Jessica.”
“But I am the chairman of Barrington’s.”
“Not tonight, Mama. Tonight you’re Jessica’s mother. So if you’ve got a pair of jeans, preferably old and faded, they’ll be just fine.”
“But I don’t own a pair of jeans, old or faded.”
“Then wear something you were thinking of giving to the vicar’s jumble sale.”
“How about my gardening togs?” said Emma, making no attempt to hide her sarcasm.
“Perfect. And the oldest sweater you can lay your hands on, preferably one with holes in the elbows.”
“And how do you think your father should dress for the occasion?”
“Dad’s not a problem,” said Sebastian. “He always looks like a shambolic, out-of-work writer, so he’ll fit in just fine.”
“I would remind you, Sebastian, that your father is one of the most respected authors…”
“Mama, I love you both. I admire you both. But tonight belongs to Jessica, so please don’t spoil it for her.”
“He’s right,” said Harry. “I used to get more worked up about which hat my mother was going to wear on speech day than whether I might win the Latin prize.”
“But you told me, Papa, that Mr. Deakins always won the Latin prize.”
“Quite right,” said Harry. “Deakins, your uncle Giles and I may all have been in the same class, but just like Jessica, Deakins was in a different class.”
* * *
“Uncle Giles, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Clive Bingham.”
“Hi, Clive,” said Giles, who had taken off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt within moments of entering the room.
“You’re that with-it MP, aren’t you?” said Clive, as they shook hands.
Giles was lost for words as he looked up at the young man wearing an open-necked yellow polka-dot shirt with a large floppy collar and a pair of drainpipe jeans. But the mop of unruly fair hair, Nordic blue eyes and captivating smile made him understand why Jessica wasn’t the only woman in the room who kept glancing in Clive’s direction.
“He’s the greatest,” said Jessica, giving her uncle a warm hug, “and he should be the leader of the Labor Party.”
“Now, Jessica,” said Giles, “before I decide which of your pictures—”
“Too late,” said Clive, “but you can still get one of mine.”
“But I want an original Jessica Clifton to add to my collection.”
“Then you’ll be disappointed. The show opened at seven, and all of Jessica’s pictures were snapped up within minutes.”
“I don’t know whether to be delighted by your triumph, Jessica, or cross with myself for not turning up earlier,” said Giles, giving his niece a second hug. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, but you must take a look at Clive’s work, it’s really good.”
“Which is why I haven’t sold a single one. The truth is, even my own family don’t buy them anymore,” he added as Emma, Harry and Sebastian walked into the room, and immediately came across to join them.
Giles had never known his sister to wear anything that wasn’t extremely fashionable, but this evening she looked as if she’d just come out of the potting shed. Harry looked positively smart in comparison. And was it possible there was a hole in her jumper? Clothes are one of a woman’s few weapons, Emma had once told him. But not tonight … and then he worked it out. “Good girl,” he whispered.
Sebastian introduced his parents to Clive, and Emma had to admit that he wasn’t anything like his self-portrait. Dishy, was the word that came to mind, even if his handshake was a little weak. She turned her attention to Jessica’s pictures.
“Do all these red dots mean—?”
“Sold,” said Clive. “But as I’ve already explained to Sir Giles, you’ll find I don’t suffer from the same problem.”
“So is there none of Jessica’s work still for sale?”
“None,” said Sebastian. “I did warn you, Mama.”
Someone was tapping a glass at the far end of the room. They all looked around to see a bearded man in a wheelchair trying to attract everyone’s attention. He was scruffily dressed in a brown corduroy jacket and green trousers. He smiled up at the assembled gathering.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “if I could just have your attention for a few moments.” Everyone stopped talking and turned to face the speaker. “Good evening and welcome to the annual Slade School of Fine Art Graduate Exhibition. My name is Ruskin Spear, and, as chairman of the judging panel, my first task is to announce the winners in each category: drawing, watercolors and oil paintings. For the first time in the history of the Slade, the same student has come
top in all three categories.”
Emma was fascinated to discover who this remarkable young artist might be, so she could compare their work with Jessica’s.
“Frankly, no one will be surprised, other than possibly the winner herself, that the school’s star pupil this year is Jessica Clifton.”
Emma beamed with pride as everyone in the room applauded, while Jessica simply bowed her head and clung on to Clive. Only Sebastian really knew what she was going through. Her demons, as she called them. Jessica never stopped chattering whenever they were on their own, but the moment she became the center of attention, like a tortoise she slipped back into her shell, hoping no one would notice her.
“If Jessica would like to come up, I will present her with a check for thirty pounds and the Munnings Cup.”
Clive gave her a little nudge, and everyone applauded as she made her way reluctantly up to the chairman of the judges, her cheeks becoming more flushed with every step she took. When Mr. Spear handed over the check and the cup, one thing became abundantly clear: there wasn’t going to be an acceptance speech. Jessica hurried back to join Clive, who looked so delighted he might have won the prize himself.
“I can also announce that Jessica has been offered a place at the Royal Academy Schools in September to begin her postgraduate work, and I know that my colleagues at the RA are all looking forward to her joining us.”
“I do hope all this adulation doesn’t go to her head,” Emma whispered to Sebastian as she turned to see her daughter clutching Clive’s hand.
“No fear of that, Mama. She’s about the only person in the room who doesn’t realize how talented she is.” At that moment an elegant man sporting a red silk bow tie and a fashionable double-breasted suit appeared by Emma’s side.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Mrs. Clifton.” Emma smiled up at the stranger, wondering if he was Clive’s father. “My name is Julian Agnew. I’m an art dealer and I just wanted to say how much I admire your daughter’s work.”
Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Page 16