A Quiver Full of Arrows, Page 2

  The colonel’s firstborn, the Reverend Alexander Heathcote, was at the time presiding over a small flock in the parish of Honiton in Devon. After burying his father with military honors, he placed the little Ming Emperor on the mantelpiece of the vicarage. Few members of the Mothers’ Union appreciated the masterpiece, but one or two old ladies were heard to remark on its delicate carving. And it was not until the Reverend became the Right Reverend, and the little statue found its way into the Bishop’s Palace, that the Emperor attracted the admiration he deserved. Many of those who visited the palace and heard the story of how the Bishop’s grandfather had acquired the Ming statue were fascinated to learn of the disparity between the magnificent statue and its base. It always made a good after-dinner story.

  God takes even his own ambassadors, but He did not do so before allowing Bishop Heathcote to complete a will leaving the statue to his son, with his grandfather’s exact instructions carefully repeated. The Bishop’s son, Captain James Heathcote, was a serving officer in his grandfather’s regiment, so the Ming statue returned to the mess table in Halifax. During the Emperor’s absence, the regimental trophies had been augmented by those struck for Ypres, the Marne and Verdun. The regiment was once again at war with Germany, and young Captain James Heathcote was killed on the beaches of Dunkirk and died intestate. Thereafter, English law, the known wishes of his great-grandfather and common sense prevailed and the little Emperor came into the possession of the captain’s two-year-old son.

  Alex Heathcote was, alas, not of the mettle of his doughty ancestors and he grew up feeling no desire to serve anyone other than himself. When Captain James had been so tragically killed, Alexander’s mother lavished everything on the boy that her meager income would allow. It didn’t help, and it was not entirely young Alex’s fault that he grew up to be, in the words of his grandmother, a selfish, spoiled little brat.

  When Alex left school, only a short time before he would have been expelled, he found he could never hold down a job for more than a few weeks. It always seemed necessary for him to spend a little more than he, and finally his mother, could cope with. The good lady, deciding she could take no more of this life, departed it, to join all the other Heathcotes, not in Yorkshire, but in heaven.

  In the swinging sixties, when casinos opened in Britain, young Alex was convinced that he had found the ideal way of earning a living without actually having to do any work. He developed a system for playing roulette with which it was impossible to lose. He did lose, so he refined the system and promptly lost more; he refined the system once again, which forced him to borrow to cover his losses. Why not? If the worst came to the worst, he reassured himself, he could always dispose of the little Ming Emperor.

  The worst did come to the worst as each one of Alex’s newly refined systems took him progressively into greater debt until the casinos began to press him for payment. When finally, one Monday morning, Alex received an unsolicited call from two gentlemen who seemed determined to collect some eight thousand pounds he owed their masters, and hinted at bodily harm if the matter was not dealt with within fourteen days, Alex caved in. After all, his great-great-grandfather’s instructions had been exact: the Ming statue was to be sold if the family honor was ever at stake.

  Alex took the little Emperor off the mantelpiece in his Cadogan Gardens flat and stared down at its delicate handiwork, at least having the grace to feel a little sad at the loss of the family heirloom. He then drove to Bond Street and delivered the masterpiece to Sotheby’s, giving instructions for the Emperor to be put up for auction.

  The head of the Oriental department, a pale, thin man, appeared at the front desk to discuss the masterpiece with Alex, looking not unlike the Ming statue he was holding so lovingly in his hands.

  “It will take a few days to estimate the true value of the piece,” he purred, “but I feel confident on a cursory glance that the statue is as fine an example of Pen Q as we have ever had under the hammer.”

  “That’s no problem,” replied Alex, “as long as you can let me know what it’s worth within fourteen days.”

  “Oh, certainly,” replied the expert. “I feel sure I could give you a floor price by Friday.”

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Alex.

  During that week he contacted all his creditors and without exception they were prepared to wait and learn the appraisal of the expert. Alex duly returned to Bond Street on the Friday with a large smile on his face. He knew what his great-great-grandfather had paid for the piece and felt confident that the statue must be worth more than ten thousand pounds. A sum that would not only yield him enough to cover all his debts but leave him a little over to try out his new refined, refined system on the roulette table. As he climbed the steps of Sotheby’s, Alex silently thanked his great-great-grandfather. He asked the girl on reception if he could speak to the head of the Oriental department. She picked up an internal phone, and the expert appeared a few moments later at the front desk with a somber look on his face. Alex’s heart sank as he listened to his words:

  “A nice little piece, your Emperor, but unfortunately a fake, probably about two hundred, two hundred and fifty years old but only a copy of the original, I’m afraid. Copies were often made because…”

  “How much is it worth?” interrupted an anxious Alex.

  “Seven hundred pounds, eight hundred at the most.”

  Enough to buy a gun and some bullets, thought Alex sardonically as he turned and started to walk away.

  “I wonder, sir…” continued the expert.

  “Yes, yes, sell the bloody thing,” said Alex, without bothering to look back.

  “And what do you want me to do with the base?”

  “The base?” repeated Alex, turning round to face the Orientalist.

  “Yes, the base. It’s quite magnificent, fifteenth century, undoubtedly a work of genius, I can’t imagine how…”

  * * *

  “Lot Number 103,” announced the auctioneer. “What am I bid for this magnificent example of…?”

  The expert turned out to be right in his assessment. At the auction at Sotheby’s that Thursday morning I obtained the little Emperor for seven hundred and twenty guineas. And the base? That was acquired by an American gentleman of not unknown parentage for twenty-two thousand guineas.

  THE LUNCHEON

  She waved to me across a crowded room at the St. Regis Hotel in New York. I waved back, realizing I knew the face, but I was unable to place it. She squeezed past waiters and guests and had reached me before I had a chance to ask anyone who she was. I racked that section of my brain which is meant to store people, but it transmitted no reply. I realized I would have to resort to the old party trick of carefully worded questions until her answers jogged my memory.

  “How are you, darling?” she cried, and threw her arms around me, an opening that didn’t help as we were at a Literary Guild cocktail party, and anyone will throw their arms around you on such occasions, even the directors of the Book-of-the-Month Club. From her accent she was clearly American and looked to be approaching forty but, thanks to the genius of modern makeup, might even have overtaken it. She wore a long white cocktail dress and her blond hair was done up in one of those buns that look like a cottage loaf. The overall effect made her appear somewhat like a chess queen. Not that the cottage loaf helped, because she might have had dark hair flowing to her shoulders when we last met. I do wish women would realize that when they change their hair style they often achieve exactly what they set out to do—look completely different to any unsuspecting male.

  “I’m well, thank you,” I said to the white queen. “And you?” I inquired as my opening gambit.

  “I’m just fine, darling,” she replied, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  “And how’s the family?” I asked, not sure if she even had one.

  “They’re all well,” she replied. No help there. “And how is Louise?” she inquired.

  “Blooming,” I said. So she kne
w my wife. But then not necessarily, I thought. Most American women are experts at remembering the names of men’s wives. They have to be, since on the New York circuit they change so often it becomes a greater challenge than The Times crossword.

  “Have you been to London lately?” I roared above the babble. A brave question, as she might never have been to Europe.

  “Only once since we had lunch together.” She looked at me quizzically. “You don’t remember who I am, do you?” she asked as she devoured a cocktail sausage.

  I smiled.

  “Don’t be silly, Susan,” I said. “How could I ever forget?”

  She smiled.

  I confess that I remembered the white queen’s name in the nick of time. Although I still had only vague recollections of the lady, I certainly would never forget the lunch.

  * * *

  I had just had my first book published and the critics on both sides of the Atlantic had been complimentary, even if the checks from my publishers were less so. My agent had told me on several occasions that I shouldn’t write if I wanted to make money. This created a dilemma because I couldn’t see how to make money if I didn’t write.

  It was around this time that the lady, who was now facing me and chattering on oblivious to my silence, telephoned from New York to heap lavish praise on my novel. There is no writer who does not enjoy receiving such calls, although I confess to having been less than captivated by an eleven-year-old girl who called me collect from California to say she had found a spelling mistake on page forty-seven and warned me she would ring again if she discovered another. However, this particular lady might have ended her transatlantic congratulations with nothing more than goodbye if she had not dropped her own name. It was one of those names that can, on the spur of the moment, always book a table at a chic restaurant or a seat at the opera which mere mortals like myself would have found impossible to achieve given a month’s notice. To be fair, it was her husband’s name that had achieved the reputation, as one of the world’s most distinguished film producers.

  “When I’m next in London you must have lunch with me,” came crackling down the phone.

  “No,” said I gallantly, “you must have lunch with me.”

  “How perfectly charming you English always are,” she said.

  I have often wondered how much American women get away with when they say those few words to an Englishman. Nevertheless, the wife of an Oscar-winning producer does not phone one every day.

  “I promise to call you when I’m next in London,” she said.

  And indeed she did; almost six months to the day she telephoned again, this time from the Connaught Hotel to declare how much she was looking forward to our meeting.

  “Where would you like to have lunch?” I said, realizing a second too late, when she replied with the name of one of the most exclusive restaurants in town, that I should have made sure it was I who chose the venue. I was glad she couldn’t see my forlorn face as she added with unabashed liberation:

  “Monday, one o’clock. Leave the booking to me—I’m known there.”

  On the day in question I donned my one respectable suit, a new shirt which I had been saving for a special occasion since Christmas, and the only tie that looked as if it hadn’t previously been used to hold up my trousers. I then strolled over to my bank and asked for a statement of my current account. The teller handed me a long piece of paper unworthy of its amount. I studied the figure as one who has to take a major financial decision. The bottom line stated in black lettering that I had a total balance of thirty-seven pounds and sixty-three pence. I wrote out a check for thirty-seven pounds. I feel that a gentleman should always leave his account in credit, and I might add it was a belief that my bank manager shared with me. I then walked up to Mayfair for my luncheon date.

  As I entered the restaurant I observed too many waiters and plush seats for my liking. You can’t eat either, but you can be charged for them. At a corner table for two sat a woman who, although not young, was elegant. She wore a blouse of powder blue crepe de Chine, and her blond hair was rolled away from her face in a style that reminded me of the war years and had once again become fashionable. It was clearly my transatlantic admirer and she greeted me in the same “I’ve known you all my life” fashion as she was to do at the Literary Guild cocktail party years later. Although she had a drink in front of her I didn’t order an apéritif, explaining that I never drank before lunch—and would like to have added, “But as soon as your husband makes a film of my novel, I will.”

  She launched immediately into the latest Hollywood gossip, not so much dropping names as reciting them, while I ate my way through the crisps from the bowl in front of me. A few minutes later a waiter materialized by the table and presented us with two large embossed leather menus, considerably better bound than my novel. The place positively reeked of unnecessary expense. I opened the menu and studied the first chapter with horror; it was eminently put-down-able. I had no idea that simple food obtained from Covent Garden that morning could cost quite so much by merely being transported to Mayfair. I could have bought her the same dishes for a quarter of the price at my favorite bistro, a mere one hundred yards away, and to add to my discomfort I observed that it was one of those restaurants where the guest’s menu made no mention of the prices. I settled down to study the long list of French dishes, which only served to remind me that I hadn’t eaten well for over a month, a state of affairs that was about to be prolonged by a further day. I remembered my bank balance and morosely reflected that I would probably have to wait until my agent sold the Icelandic rights of my novel before I could afford a square meal again.

  “What would you like?” I said gallantly.

  “I always enjoy a light lunch,” she volunteered. I sighed with premature relief, only to find that light did not necessarily mean “inexpensive.”

  She smiled sweetly up at the waiter, who looked as if he wouldn’t be wondering where his next meal would be coming from, and ordered just a sliver of smoked salmon, followed by two tiny tender lamb cutlets. Then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before adding, “And a side salad.”

  I studied the menu with some caution, running my finger down the prices, not the dishes.

  “I also eat lightly at lunch,” I said mendaciously. “The chef’s salad will be quite enough for me.” The waiter was obviously affronted but left peaceably.

  She chatted of Coppola and Preminger, of Al Pacino and Robert Redford, and of Greta Garbo as if she saw her all the time. She was kind enough to stop for a moment and ask what I was working on at present. I would have liked to reply something about how was I going to explain to my wife that I only had sixty-three pence left in our joint account, but I actually discussed my ideas for another novel. She seemed impressed but still made no reference to her husband. Should I mention him? No. Mustn’t sound pushy, or as though I needed the money.

  The food arrived, or that is to say her smoked salmon did, and I sat silently watching her eat my bank account while I nibbled a roll. I looked up only to discover a wine waiter hovering by my side.

  “Would you care for some wine?” said I, recklessly.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said. I smiled a little too soon: “Well, perhaps a little something white and dry.”

  The wine waiter handed over a second leather-bound book, this time with golden grapes embossed on the cover. I searched down the pages for half bottles, explaining to my guest that I never drank at lunch. I chose the cheapest. The wine waiter reappeared a moment later with a large silver salver full of ice in which the half bottle looked drowned, and, like me, completely out of its depth. A junior waiter cleared away the empty plate while another wheeled a large trolley to the side of our table and served the lamb cutlets and the chef’s salad. At the same time a third waiter made up an exquisite side salad for my guest which ended up bigger than my complete order. I didn’t feel I could ask her to swap.

  To be fair, the chef’s salad was superb—although I
confess it was hard to appreciate such food fully while trying to work out a plot that would be convincing if I found the bill came to more than thirty-seven pounds.

  “How silly of me to ask for white wine with lamb,” she said, having nearly finished the half bottle. I ordered a half bottle of the house red without calling for the wine list.

  She finished the white wine and then launched into the theater, music and other authors. All those who were still alive she seemed to know and those who were dead she hadn’t read. I might have enjoyed the performance if it hadn’t been for the fear of wondering if I would be able to afford it when the curtain came down. When the waiter cleared away the empty dishes he asked my guest if she would care for anything else.

  “No, thank you,” she said—I nearly applauded. “Unless you have one of your famous apple surprises.”

  “I fear the last one may have gone, madam, but I’ll go and check.”

  Don’t hurry, I wanted to say, but instead I just smiled as the rope tightened around my neck. A few moments later the waiter strode back in triumph weaving between the tables holding the apple surprise in the palm of his hand, high above his head. I prayed to Newton that the apple would obey his law. It didn’t.

  “The last one, madam.”

  “Oh, what luck,” she declared.

  “Oh, what luck,” I repeated, unable to face the menu and discover the price. I was now attempting some mental arithmetic as I realized it was going to be a close-run thing.

  “Anything else, madam?” the ingratiating waiter inquired.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Just coffee,” she said.

  “And for you, sir?”

  “No, no, not for me.” He left us. I couldn’t think of an explanation for why I didn’t drink coffee.

  She then produced from the large Gucci bag by her side a copy of my novel, which I signed with a flourish, hoping the headwaiter would see me and feel I was the sort of man who should be allowed to sign the bill as well, but he resolutely remained at the far end of the room while I wrote the words “An unforgettable meeting” and appended my signature.