morning.’ She clasped Mervyn’s hand, then, turning to Rosemary: ‘This must be your charming daughter. Vy have you got empty glasses, vy didn’t anyone tell me you vere coming? I sack my housekeeper. You should have known!’ She turned furiously on David.
Fortunately at that moment Raymond came through the french windows. His suit was crumpled and much in need of Sir Mervyn’s pressing services, his eyes bloodshot, his face grey, but his smile as warm as ever.
‘My dear fellow, how lovely to see you, and dear Rosemary.’ He bent to kiss her.
‘No-one told me they vere coming,’ snapped Galena.
‘Never mind, we’re all in one piece,’ said Raymond evenly. ‘I’m late, Mervyn, because I’ve been looking for something really nice for darling Margaret. Why don’t you go along to the warehouse and browse around while I get out of this suit? David, dear boy, could you unload the car?’
By the time Raymond rejoined Mervyn, the dealer had reasserted itself. The barn which he used as a warehouse was high and cheerless. Normally Raymond would have turned off the overhead lights, and orchestrated the viewing, placing one carefully lit picture on an easel, its colours enhanced by some specially chosen flowers on a side table. Now he had to plunge straight in. He found Sir Mervyn rootling through stacked-up canvasses, frustrated they didn’t have any prices. One didn’t like to admit that one’s choice was determined less by a picture’s beauty than by its likelihood of rocketing in value.
‘Good trip?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ said Raymond lightly. ‘Grubbing around a sale room in Paris, I found a picture listed as a copy of a Gainsborough. I’ve got a gut feeling it’s the real thing. Can’t wait to get it back to my restorer in London. Now, about Margaret’s picture.’
But Sir Mervyn’s purple-veined nose was twitching.
‘What sort of price were you thinking about?’
‘If it were the real thing, about twenty thousand. Probably isn’t. Now, this is something Margaret might like.’ Raymond picked up his feckless wife’s painting of the wild-flower meadow. ‘I’m not going to tell you who this is by, a contemporary artist, very talented.’
‘Beautiful,’ Sir Mervyn murmured, ‘very serene.’
He mostly bought contemporary work, but also considered himself an authority on early English paintings. After all, a wife wasn’t sixty every day, and Margaret had been a tower of strength.
‘Could I have a look at the Gainsborough, even if it is dirty?’
The subject was a handsome couple, their children and a supercilious King Charles spaniel grouped in lush parkland. Age had turned the husband’s breeches yellow. The spaniel looked as though it had been rolling.
‘Stunning,’ gasped David, who’d popped in with bottles to check drinks.
Raising a hand to hush him, Raymond moved next to Mervyn, seeing who could maintain a silence longest. The ice melted in Raymond’s whisky.
‘Interesting,’ said Mervyn non-committally.
Raymond shook himself out of a trance, and smiled gently. ‘Indeed it is.’
Another silence ensued.
‘Can I see it without its frame?’
‘Certainly.’
Sir Mervyn put on his bi-focals, examining the picture on both sides. What’s he looking for? A sticker saying Woolworths, 5s 6d? wondered David. Turning, Raymond gave him a wink.
‘It’s not signed.’ Mervyn puffed out his cheeks importantly.
‘No, but the husband looks rather like Gainsborough in the early portraits. These artists love including themselves. And a very happy charming couple like you and Margaret.’
‘If it was Gainsborough, it would go up in value?’
‘Oh certainly. But I’m hoping whoever buys it appreciates it as great art.’
Like myself, thought Sir Mervyn smugly. People would certainly sit up to learn he’d bought Margaret a Gainsborough.
Raymond changed tack.
‘Probably isn’t a Gainsborough, but I know how Margaret loves dogs. Maybe a pupil did it. I’ll
Fortunately at that moment Raymond came through the french windows. His suit was crumpled and much in need of Sir Mervyn’s pressing services, his eyes bloodshot, his face grey, but his smile as warm as ever.
‘My dear fellow, how lovely to see you, and dear Rosemary.’ He bent to kiss her.
‘No-one told me they vere coming,’ snapped Galena.
‘Never mind, we’re all in one piece,’ said Raymond evenly. ‘I’m late, Mervyn, because I’ve been looking for something really nice for darling Margaret. Why don’t you go along to the warehouse and browse around while I get out of this suit? David, dear boy, could you unload the car?’
By the time Raymond rejoined Mervyn, the dealer had reasserted itself. The barn which he used as a warehouse was high and cheerless. Normally Raymond would have turned off the overhead lights, and orchestrated the viewing, placing one carefully lit picture on an easel, its colours enhanced by some specially chosen flowers on a side table. Now he had to plunge straight in. He found Sir Mervyn rootling through stacked-up canvasses, frustrated they didn’t have any prices. One didn’t like to admit that one’s choice was determined less by a picture’s beauty than by its likelihood of rocketing in value.
‘Good trip?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ said Raymond lightly. ‘Grubbing around a sale room in Paris, I found a picture listed as a copy of a Gainsborough. I’ve got a gut feeling it’s the real thing. Can’t wait to get it back to my restorer in London. Now, about Margaret’s picture.’
But Sir Mervyn’s purple-veined nose was twitching.
‘What sort of price were you thinking about?’
‘If it were the real thing, about twenty thousand. Probably isn’t. Now, this is something Margaret might like.’ Raymond picked up his feckless wife’s painting of the wild-flower meadow. ‘I’m not going to tell you who this is by, a contemporary artist, very talented.’
‘Beautiful,’ Sir Mervyn murmured, ‘very serene.’
He mostly bought contemporary work, but also considered himself an authority on early English paintings. After all, a wife wasn’t sixty every day, and Margaret had been a tower of strength.
‘Could I have a look at the Gainsborough, even if it is dirty?’
The subject was a handsome couple, their children and a supercilious King Charles spaniel grouped in lush parkland. Age had turned the husband’s breeches yellow. The spaniel looked as though it had been rolling.
‘Stunning,’ gasped David, who’d popped in with bottles to check drinks.
Raising a hand to hush him, Raymond moved next to Mervyn, seeing who could maintain a silence longest. The ice melted in Raymond’s whisky.
‘Interesting,’ said Mervyn non-committally.
Raymond shook himself out of a trance, and smiled gently. ‘Indeed it is.’
Another silence ensued.
‘Can I see it without its frame?’
‘Certainly.’
Sir Mervyn put on his bi-focals, examining the picture on both sides. What’s he looking for? A sticker saying Woolworths, 5s 6d? wondered David. Turning, Raymond gave him a wink.
‘It’s not signed.’ Mervyn puffed out his cheeks importantly.
‘No, but the husband looks rather like Gainsborough in the early portraits. These artists love including themselves. And a very happy charming couple like you and Margaret.’
‘If it was Gainsborough, it would go up in value?’
‘Oh certainly. But I’m hoping whoever buys it appreciates it as great art.’
Like myself, thought Sir Mervyn smugly. People would certainly sit up to learn he’d bought Margaret a Gainsborough.
Raymond changed tack.
‘Probably isn’t a Gainsborough, but I know how Margaret loves dogs. Maybe a pupil did it. I’ll
Similar Books
