Powell was caught by surprise and clearly could recall nothing of the face.
“The Italian Job. Turin. I drove the cab; you were in the back.”
Robert Powell’s unquenchable good humour saved the day.
“Of course. Turin. Been a long time. How are you, Trumpy? How are things?”
“Pretty good. Not too bad, can’t complain. Just popped by to see if you-know-who might have something for me.”
Powell took in the frayed shirt and shabby mac.
“I’m sure he will. Good to see you again. Good luck, Trumpy.”
“Ditto, old boy. Chin up, what?”
They shook and parted. The agent was as kind as he could be, but there was no work. A costume drama was going to shoot at Shepperton, but it was already cast. A very overcrowded profession whose only inexhaustible fuel was optimism and the chance of a great part tomorrow.
Back at his flat Trumpy forlornly took stock. Social Security provided a few pounds a week but London was expensive. He had just had another confrontation with Mr. Koutzakis, his landlord, who once again had repeated that rent was in arrears and his patience not quite as limitless as the sun of his native Cyprus.
Things were bad; in fact things could not get much worse. As a watery sun disappeared behind the tower blocks across the yard the middle-aged actor went to a cupboard and retrieved a package wrapped in hessian. Over the years he had often asked himself why he clung on to the dratted thing. It was not to his taste anyway. Sentiment, he supposed. Thirty-five years earlier, when he was a stripling of twenty, a bright and eager young actor in provincial repertory convinced of stardom to come, it had been bequeathed to him by his great-aunt Millie. He unwrapped the item from its hessian swathes.
It was not a large painting, some twelve inches by twelve, excluding the gilt frame. He had kept it wrapped through all the years, but even when he got it, it had been so dirty, so crusted with grime, that the figures in it were vague outlines, little more than shadows. Still, Great-aunt Millie had always sworn it might be worth a few pounds, but that was probably just the wishful romanticism of an old woman. As to its history, he had no idea. In fact the small oil had quite a story.
In the year 1870 an Englishman of thirty, seeking his fortune and having some knowledge of the Italian language, had emigrated to Florence to try his luck with a small endowment from his father. This was at the pinnacle of Britain’s Victorian glory and Her Majesty’s gold sovereign was a currency to open many doors. Italy by contrast was in its habitual chaos.
Within five years the enterprising Mr. Bryan Frobisher had achieved four things. He had discovered the delicious wines of the Chianti hills and begun to export them in great vats to his native England, undercutting the accustomed French vine-vintages and laying the foundations of a tidy fortune.
He had acquired a fine town house with his own coach and groom. He had married the daughter of a quite minor local nobleman, and, among many other decorations for his new house, he had bought a small oil painting from a secondhand shop on the quay near the Ponte Vecchio.
He did not buy it because it was well known or well presented.
It was covered in dust and almost hidden at the back of the shop. He just bought it because he liked it.
For thirty years, as he became British Vice-Consul to Florence and Sir Bryan, KBE, it hung in his library and for thirty years, each evening, he smoked his after-dinner cigar beneath it.
In 1900 a cholera epidemic swept Florence. It carried away Lady Frobisher, and after the funeral the sixty-year-old businessman decided to return to the land of his fathers. He sold up and came back to England, buying a handsome manor in Surrey and employing a staff of nine. The most junior was a local village girl, one Millicent Gore, who was engaged as a parlourmaid.
Sir Bryan never remarried and died at the age of ninety in 1930. He had brought almost a
“The Italian Job. Turin. I drove the cab; you were in the back.”
Robert Powell’s unquenchable good humour saved the day.
“Of course. Turin. Been a long time. How are you, Trumpy? How are things?”
“Pretty good. Not too bad, can’t complain. Just popped by to see if you-know-who might have something for me.”
Powell took in the frayed shirt and shabby mac.
“I’m sure he will. Good to see you again. Good luck, Trumpy.”
“Ditto, old boy. Chin up, what?”
They shook and parted. The agent was as kind as he could be, but there was no work. A costume drama was going to shoot at Shepperton, but it was already cast. A very overcrowded profession whose only inexhaustible fuel was optimism and the chance of a great part tomorrow.
Back at his flat Trumpy forlornly took stock. Social Security provided a few pounds a week but London was expensive. He had just had another confrontation with Mr. Koutzakis, his landlord, who once again had repeated that rent was in arrears and his patience not quite as limitless as the sun of his native Cyprus.
Things were bad; in fact things could not get much worse. As a watery sun disappeared behind the tower blocks across the yard the middle-aged actor went to a cupboard and retrieved a package wrapped in hessian. Over the years he had often asked himself why he clung on to the dratted thing. It was not to his taste anyway. Sentiment, he supposed. Thirty-five years earlier, when he was a stripling of twenty, a bright and eager young actor in provincial repertory convinced of stardom to come, it had been bequeathed to him by his great-aunt Millie. He unwrapped the item from its hessian swathes.
It was not a large painting, some twelve inches by twelve, excluding the gilt frame. He had kept it wrapped through all the years, but even when he got it, it had been so dirty, so crusted with grime, that the figures in it were vague outlines, little more than shadows. Still, Great-aunt Millie had always sworn it might be worth a few pounds, but that was probably just the wishful romanticism of an old woman. As to its history, he had no idea. In fact the small oil had quite a story.
In the year 1870 an Englishman of thirty, seeking his fortune and having some knowledge of the Italian language, had emigrated to Florence to try his luck with a small endowment from his father. This was at the pinnacle of Britain’s Victorian glory and Her Majesty’s gold sovereign was a currency to open many doors. Italy by contrast was in its habitual chaos.
Within five years the enterprising Mr. Bryan Frobisher had achieved four things. He had discovered the delicious wines of the Chianti hills and begun to export them in great vats to his native England, undercutting the accustomed French vine-vintages and laying the foundations of a tidy fortune.
He had acquired a fine town house with his own coach and groom. He had married the daughter of a quite minor local nobleman, and, among many other decorations for his new house, he had bought a small oil painting from a secondhand shop on the quay near the Ponte Vecchio.
He did not buy it because it was well known or well presented.
It was covered in dust and almost hidden at the back of the shop. He just bought it because he liked it.
For thirty years, as he became British Vice-Consul to Florence and Sir Bryan, KBE, it hung in his library and for thirty years, each evening, he smoked his after-dinner cigar beneath it.
In 1900 a cholera epidemic swept Florence. It carried away Lady Frobisher, and after the funeral the sixty-year-old businessman decided to return to the land of his fathers. He sold up and came back to England, buying a handsome manor in Surrey and employing a staff of nine. The most junior was a local village girl, one Millicent Gore, who was engaged as a parlourmaid.
Sir Bryan never remarried and died at the age of ninety in 1930. He had brought almost a
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