“Do you know what that was?’ Domenica asked. “Do you two realise what we witnessed?”
“A meeting,” said Pat.
“Yes,” agreed Domenica. “But that was a very special meeting. That, you see, was the Annual General Meeting of the Edinburgh Establishment!”
95. Mr Guy Peploe Makes an Appearance
The next day Pat decided not to tell Matthew about her extraordinary experiences. She had thought that he would be particularly interested in their unexpected witnessing of the Annual General Meeting of the Edinburgh Establishment, as this was a story that any Edinburgh person might be expected to hear with particular relish. The Establishment could be seen in public, of course, at certain events, or on the golf course at Muirfield, but very few people would have imagined that it went so far as to convene an annual general meeting. Nor would most people know who the chairman of the Edinburgh Establishment was, and Pat had been looking forward to breaking that news to Matthew. But when she saw him, with his deflated look and his sense of defeat, she could hardly bring herself to reveal to him just how much excitement there had been the previous evening. If he asked her, she would say that she had done nothing very much, for that, she suspected, was what Matthew himself would have done.
The gallery was curiously busy that morning – or at least for the first part of the morning. Several sales were made, including that of a large and particularly fine McCosh study of ornamental fowls. This was, at least, a painting upon which Matthew could expound with knowledge and enthusiasm. He knew Ted McCosh, and was able to explain the trouble he took to mix his own paints and prepare his painting surfaces in exactly the way in which the seventeenth-century Dutch masters would have done, and the client, a large-bellied man from Angus, a ruddy-faced countryman who would have comfortably fitted in a Rowlandson etching, was delighted with his purchase. Could more such paintings be obtained? They could: Ted painted fowl industriously in his studio in Carrington. How contented the ornamental poultry looked in their sylvan setting. Indeed they did.
The sale of the McCosh lifted Matthew’s spirits, with the result that he suggested that both he and Pat should go for coffee that morning. They could leave a note to the effect that anybody who needed them could find them in Big Lou’s coffee shop.
Pat was relieved by the invitation. She was concerned that Matthew might be feeling resentful of her, and she was not sure whether she could manage to work with a disappointed suitor. But there was none of this as they crossed the street to the coffee bar and picked their way down Big Lou’s hazardous steps, scene of a minor fall all those years ago by Hugh MacDiarmid on his way to what was then a bookshop.
Big Lou welcomed them from behind her counter. There were one or two customers there already, but no sign of Ronnie or Pete.
“The boys seem to be going somewhere else,” said Big Lou, shrugging her shoulders. “Pete owes me fifty pounds, so I think that’s the last I’ll see of them.”
“You shouldn’t lend money,” said Matthew. “You can see that they’re a bad risk.”
“You might not say that if you wanted to borrow off me,” said Lou simply.
They sat down in one of the booths. Matthew stretched out, and smiled.
“Maybe we’re turning the corner,” he said. “Maybe the art market’s picking up.”
Pat smiled. She wanted Matthew to be a success, but she doubted whether it would be as the owner of a gallery. Perhaps there was some other business for which he would show a real aptitude. Perhaps he could … perhaps he could be a consultant. There were plenty of people who advertised themselves as consultants, but were rather vague about what exactly it was that one might consult them about. These people offered advice, and people appeared to pay for this advice, although the basis on which the advice was offered sometimes seemed a little bit questionable. There was a boy from Pat’s year at school who was already a consultant at the age of twenty. She had seen him featured in the style section of a newspaper as a “successful consultant”. But how could he advise anybody on anything, when he had not had the time to do anything himself?
Poor Matthew – sitting there with his cappuccino and his label-less shirt, looking pleased with himself because they had sold a few paintings – it would be good, Pat thought, to be able to help him find somebody, a girlfriend who would appreciate him; but how dull it would be for her, how dreary to wait for something to happen, when nothing ever would.
It was while Pat was thinking this, and Matthew was staring dreamily at the froth on the top of his cappuccino, that they heard Big Lou greet another customer.
“Mr Peploe,” she said loudly.
At the mention of the name, Matthew sat up and looked round at the newcomer. He saw a dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties, with a strong face and with eyes that seemed to be amused by something.
Big Lou caught Matthew’s eye. “This is Guy Peploe,” she said, reaching for a cup from her counter. “Yes! This is Mr Peploe himself!”
Matthew looked confused. “Peploe?” he said weakly.
Big Lou laughed. “I met Mr Peploe a few days ago. He’s from the Scottish Gallery over the road. He said that they usually have their own coffee in the gallery, but that he would pop in and try mine. So here he is!”
“I see,” said Matthew. He looked at Pat for reassurance. This was dangerous.
“And I told him about your painting,” went on Big Lou. “And he said that of course he would look at it for you. He said you shouldn’t be shy. He’s always looking at paintings for people. And if it’s a Peploe, he’ll know. He’s Samuel Peploe’s grandson, you see.”
“Oh,” said Matthew weakly. “I haven’t got it with me. Sorry.”
“But you brought it in this morning,” said Pat. “I saw it. I’ll go and fetch it.”
Guy Peploe smiled politely. “I’d be very happy to take a look,” he said. “I’m very interested.”
It was difficult for Matthew to do anything but agree. So Pat went back across the road to fetch the Peploe?, leaving Matthew sitting awkwardly under the gaze of Guy Peploe, who seemed to be quietly summing him up.
“I think I was at school with you,” mused Guy Peploe. “You were much younger than I was, but I think I remember you.”
“No,” said Matthew. “Somebody else.”
96. Mr Peploe Sees Something Interesting
Pat came back with the Peploe? under her arm. On entering Big Lou’s coffee bar, she saw that Guy Peploe was now sitting opposite Matthew, engaged in conversation. She slipped into the booth opposite Guy Peploe and placed the wrapped painting on the table.
Matthew glanced at her, almost reproachfully. “I don’t think that it’s a real Peploe,” he said. “I’ve never thought that, actually. It’s Pat who said it was.”
Pat felt irritated that he should seek to cover his embarrassment by blaming her, but she said nothing.
Guy Peploe was staring at the wrapping. “We’ll see,” he said. “I take the view that the best way of authenticating a painting is to look at it. Wouldn’t you agree? It’s rather difficult to say anything unless you’ve got the painting in front of you.”
Matthew laughed nervously. “Yes, I find it very difficult when people phone me up and describe a painting that they have. They expect me to be able to value it over the phone.”
“People are funny,” said Guy Peploe. “But you can never turn down an opportunity to look at something. You never know. You remember that Cadell that turned up in a charity shop a few years ago. Remember that?”
“Yes,” said Matthew, who did not remember.
“So perhaps we should take a look at this one,” said Guy Peploe patiently. “Shall I unwrap it?”
Matthew reached for the painting. “I’ll do it,” he said.
He pulled off the sealing tape and slowly unfolded the wrapping paper. Pat watched him, noticing the slight trembling of his hands. It was, for her, a moment of intense human pity. We are all vulnerable and afraid, she thought – in our di
fferent ways.
Matthew removed the last of the wrapping paper and silently handed the picture over to Guy Peploe. Then he glanced at Pat, and lowered his eyes. At the counter, Big Lou stood quite still, her cloth in her hand, her gaze fixed on the Peploe? and Peploe.
Guy Peploe looked at the painting. He held it away from himself for a few moments, narrowing his eyes. Then he turned it round and looked at the back of the canvas. Then he laid it down on the table.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a Peploe – this isn’t.”
Matthew and Pat had both been holding their breath; now they exhaled together, and it seemed to Pat as if Matthew would continue to lose air until he deflated completely, leaving just his skin, like an empty balloon. Instinctively she reached out for his hand, which, when she found it, was clammy to the touch.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “You never really thought it was. It’s all my fault for raising your hopes.”
Guy Peploe looked at Matthew. “Yes,” he said. “I can well see how you could have thought it was by Peploe. You must have a good eye.”
This kind remark may have been meant, or it may not; Pat could not tell. She thought it likely that he was just being kind, and certainly it was a generous thing to say. It would have been easy for him to have dismissed their hopes out of hand, and thus belittled Matthew; but he had not done that. Instead, he had been courteous.
Guy Peploe now picked up the painting and touched it gently with his forefinger. “The paint’s all wrong, I’m afraid,” he said. “My grandfather painted on absorbent surfaces. This meant that the linseed oil was drained out of the paint and as a result the surface has a lovely, scratchy texture to it. He worked on board, you know. He bought pieces of wood which he would then put in the top of his paint box and work on right there. Sometimes there are grains of sand in the paint because he would be painting on the beach.
“And then there’s the subject. This is Mull, of course, but it’s not quite the right angle for Peploe’s work. My grandfather used to go up to the northern part of Iona and paint Mull from there. There were one or two beaches that he liked in particular. All the paintings he did of Mull from Iona are from that perspective.” He paused, squinting at the painting before him. “Now that over there is definitely Ben More, but it’s Ben More from a rather strange angle. I’m not sure if this view is real at all. It’s almost as if somebody has taken bits of Mull and stuck them together. I’m sorry, but that’s what it seems like to me.”
“But what about the signature?” asked Pat. “That SP in the corner there.”
Guy Peploe smiled. “Signatures can be misleading. Some artists never signed their work and yet signatures appear on them later on. That doesn’t mean that the picture in question is a forgery – it’s just that somebody has added a signature.”
“Why would they do that?” asked Matthew.
“Because they think that the painting’s genuine,” explained Guy Peploe. “And it may well be genuine. But then they think that the best way of shoring up their claim that it’s by the artist in question is to add a signature – just to add an extra bit of certainty!”
“And did Peploe sign?” asked Pat.
“Yes,” said Guy Peploe. “He signed works that he was particularly pleased with. He did not use SP, as far as I know.”
As he spoke, Guy Peploe suddenly leaned forward and examined the painting closely. “You know, there’s something rather interesting here,” he muttered. “Yes, look. I’m pretty sure that this is an overpainting. I think that there’s another painting underneath.” He held the painting up so that the light fell upon it from a different angle. “Yes, look at that. Look just above Ben More there. Can you see the shape of … yes, the shape of an umbrella?”
They looked, and yes, at a certain angle, there appeared to be the shape of an umbrella. But what would an umbrella be doing above Ben More? The West did indeed get a lot of rain – but not that much.
97. More about Bertie
Irene and Bertie always arrived punctually for Bertie’s session of psychotherapy with Dr Fairbairn, and the famous analyst, author of that seminal study on Wee Fraser, was always ready for them. They saw him jointly, which Dr Fairbairn explained was the best way of dealing with an issue in which two parties were involved. “I could ask you about Bertie, and Bertie about you,” he said. “And in each case I would get a very different story, quite sincerely put. But if I speak to both of you at the same time, then we shall get closer to the truth.” For a moment he looked doubtful, and added: “That is, if there is such a thing as the truth.”
This last comment puzzled Bertie. Of course there was such a thing as the truth, and it seemed inexplicable that an adult, particularly an adult like Dr Fairbairn, should doubt its existence. There were fibs and then there was the truth. Could Dr Fairbairn not tell the difference between the two? Was Dr Fairbairn perhaps a fibber?
“I fully understand,” said Irene. She was pleased that Dr Fairbairn had invited her to sit in on the therapy sessions, as she enjoyed listening to the sound of his voice, and she delighted in his subtle, perceptive questioning. His manner was suggestive, she had decided; not suggestive in any pejorative sense, but suggestive in the sense that he could elicit responses that revealed something important.
That morning, as Dr Fairbairn ushered them into his consulting room, she noticed that there was a new copy of the International Bulletin of Dynamic Psychoanalysis lying on the top of his desk. The sight thrilled her, and she tried, by craning her neck, to make out the titles listed on the cover. Mother as Stalin, she read, A New Analysis. That looked interesting, even if the title was slightly opaque. It must have been all about the need that boys are said to feel to get away from the influence of their mothers. Yes, she supposed that this was true: there were boys who needed to get away from their mothers, but that was certainly not Bertie’s problem. She had a perfectly good relationship with Bertie, as Dr Fairbairn was no doubt in the process of discovering. Bertie’s problem was … well, she was not sure what Bertie’s problem was. Again, this was something that Dr Fairbairn would illuminate over the weeks and months to come. It was, no doubt, his anxieties over the good breast and what she had always referred to as Bertie’s additional part. Boys tended to be anxious about their additional parts, which was strange, as she would have imagined an additional part was something to which one might reasonably be quite indifferent, in the same way one was indifferent to other appendices, such as one’s appendix.
And then there was another, quite fascinating article: Marian Apparitions in Immediate Post War Italy: Popular Hysteria and the Virgin as Christian Democrat. That looked very interesting indeed; perhaps she could ask Dr Fairbairn whether she could borrow that once he had read it. The Virgin tended to appear in all sorts of places and at all sorts of times, but there was sometimes a question mark over those who saw her. Rome urged caution in such cases, as did Vienna …
Bertie sat down next to Dr Fairbairn’s desk while Irene sat on a chair against the wall, where Bertie could not see her while he was talking to the psychotherapist.
“How do you feel today, Bertie?” asked Dr Fairbairn. “Are you feeling happy? Are you feeling angry?”
Bertie stared at Dr Fairbairn. He noticed that the tie he was wearing had a small teddy-bear motif woven into it. Why, he wondered, would Dr Fairbairn wear a teddy-bear tie? Did he still play with teddy-bears? Bertie had noticed that some adults were strange that way; they hung on to their teddy bears. He had a teddy bear, but he was no longer playing with him. It was not that he was punishing him, nor that his teddy bear, curiously, had no additional part; it was just that he no longer liked his bear, who smelled slightly of sick after an unfortunate incident some months previously. That was all there was to it – nothing more.
“Do you like teddy bears, Dr Fairbairn?” asked Bertie. “You have teddy bears on your tie.”
Dr Fairbairn smiled. “You’re very observant, Bertie. Yes, this is a rather amusing t
ie, isn’t it? And do I like teddy bears? Well, I suppose I do. Most people think of teddy bears as being rather attractive, cuddly creatures.” He paused. “Do you know that song about teddy bears, Bertie?”
“The Teddy Bears’ Picnic?”
“Exactly. Do you know the words for it, Bertie?”
Bertie thought for a moment. “If you go down to the woods today …”
“You’re sure of a big surprise!” continued Dr Fairbairn. “If you go down to the woods today/ You’d better go in disguise. And so on. It’s a nice song, isn’t it Bertie?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “But it’s a bit sad, too, isn’t it?”
Dr Fairbairn leaned forward. This was interesting. “Sad, Bertie? Why is The Teddy Bears’ Picnic sad?”
“Because some of the teddy bears will not get a treat,” said Bertie. “Only those who have been good. That’s what the song says. Every bear who’s ever been good/ Is sure of a treat today. What about the other bears?”
Dr Fairbairn’s eyes widened and he scribbled a note on a pad of paper before him. “They get nothing, I’m afraid. Do you think that you would get something if you went on a picnic, Bertie?”
“No,” said Bertie. “I would not. The teddy bears who set fire to their Daddies’ copies of The Guardian will get nothing at that picnic. Nothing at all.”
There was a silence. Then Dr Fairbairn asked another question.
“Why did you set fire to Daddy’s copy of The Guardian, Bertie? Did you do that because guardian is another word for parent? Was The Guardian your Daddy because Daddy is your guardian?”
Bertie thought for a moment. Dr Fairbairn was clearly mad, but he would have to keep talking to him; otherwise the psychotherapist might suddenly kill both him and his mother. “No,” he said. “I like Daddy. I don’t want to set fire to Daddy.”
“And do you like The Guardian?” pressed Dr Fairbairn.
“No,” said Bertie. “I don’t like The Guardian.”
“Why?” asked Dr Fairbairn.