The Jester's Daughter, Page 2

TO THE INTERIOR.

  All enter.

  GEOFFREY: By the way, John, Brian's here as well. Arrived half an hour ago but had to sort out some little problem.

  JOHN: Oh? What brings him here?

  GEOFFREY: Why, has he upset you?

  JOHN: No, I didn't mean it that way – just that we don't see much of him these days.

  GEOFFREY: No, I suppose not. Apparently things have been rather hectic for the past year. But when we spoke the other day I mentioned that you were bringing Anne and he said he’d like to meet her.

  JOHN: Doing his godfatherly duty?

  GEOFFREY: Maybe. More likely simple curiosity. Now don't keep Anne hanging about – get her case up to her room. We haven't all that much time if we're not to keep dinner waiting.

  JOHN: Right–oh.

  FADE OUT.

  FADE IN TO THE DINING ROOM.

  Geoffrey, Helen, Anne, John and Brian are finishing dinner with coffee. There is a murmur of casual conversation.

  HELEN: More coffee, anyone?

  There are no takers.

  GEOFFREY: Shall we adjourn, then?

  All rise and make their way slowly out of the room, chatting quietly.

  CUT TO THE SITTING ROOM.

  Helen and Geoffrey lead in the party from the dining room. All but Geoffrey immediately take their customary seats.

  GEOFFREY: The usual, everyone?

  Nods all round.

  GEOFFREY: Right

  He dispenses the habitual drinks, finishing with a malt whisky for himself and for Brian, and sits next to him. He keeps the decanter between them. The tone of conversation is lightly ironic, never solemn even when it gets on to a serious topic.

  GEOFFREY: Right, everyone supplied? Help yourselves to refills. Splendid dinner, Helen, thank you.

  HELEN: Thank Mabel. I had very little to do with it.

  GEOFFREY: Maybe, but the planning is as important as the execution.

  ANNE (half–rising): Talking of execution, I'd better make my peace with her for holding things up.

  HELEN: Don't worry. I explained why. She'll understand you can't just leave a customer standing. She helps out in the village shop herself.

  ANNE: But I don't suppose she gets people who can't make up their minds whether to purchase or not.

  GEOFFREY: Don't you believe it. I've seen people dithering for ages, though it's usually over whether to take Granny Smiths or Cox's, or something of that sort.

  ANNE: And he didn't take it in the end. A pity; we particularly wanted to shift that painting.

  BRIAN: What's so special about it?

  ANNE: Doubtful attribution. Could be early Flemish, but the provenance is dodgy, and it might be a clever forgery. Greg took a gamble in buying it, and now he's getting cold feet.

  BRIAN: Might be worth taking a look.

  GEOFFREY: I didn't know professors of theology could afford the kind of price that Greg charges.

  BRIAN: I said taking a look, not writing a cheque. Purely out of interest.

  JOHN: I don't suppose Greg would thank you for showing it wasn't even a van Meegeren, just a pastiche by Joe Bloggs of Huddersfield.

  ANNE: I think Mr. Bloggs might resent that comment.

  BRIAN: But fortunately he isn't here. Anyway, my opinion doesn't count. It's only an amateur interest.

  GEOFFREY: But an unusually well–informed amateur interest.

  ANNE: I wonder – Oh, never mind.

  HELEN: No, go on, Anne. What is it?

  ANNE: It's nothing, really. I was just thinking of that picture in my room – you know, the one supposed to be of the jester's daughter.

  JOHN: What about it?

  ANNE: That's it. I wondered if Brian could tell us anything about it.

  BRIAN: Nothing that Greg couldn't, I'm sure. Presumably you've asked him?

  ANNE: Never tried. I doubt if Greg would give it a second glance. It isn't the sort of thing he'd bother with – not exactly a collector's item.

  GEOFFREY: Anne's being diplomatic. To call it third–rate would be flattering.

  JOHN: Why do you keep it, then?

  GEOFFREY: Well, it's apparently been here at least since the sixteenth century, and after it's hung on for so long it seems a pity to throw it out now.

  ANNE: I didn't know you were so sentimental.

  HELEN: Oh, he's an old softy really. Aren't you, dear?

  GEOFFREY: Not quite how I'd put it. But someone in Tudor times evidently thought it worth keeping, and it might be interesting to hear what Brian thinks. Would you like to fetch it?

  ANNE: Right. Shan't be long.

  Exit

  HELEN (urgently): John, I didn't have a chance to ask before. Any developments?

  JOHN: If you mean, "Have I popped the question?", no.

  HELEN: I didn't mean it quite as bluntly as that. But are there any signs of progress?

  JOHN (with slightly strained patience): Mother, I know you mean well, but it doesn't help.

  HELEN: But ...

  JOHN: It's no use going at it like a bull at a gate. Remember what happened with Monica.

  HELEN: Yes, but there's a difference between due caution and not moving at all. Isn't there, Geoffrey?

  GEOFFREY: Leave me out of this, dear. "Strike while the iron is hot," maybe, but strike too early and you lose the fish.

  BRIAN: I didn't know you went in for that sort of angling.

  GEOFFREY: Best kept quiet. But from my enormous experience, I'd say you can't be too careful where women are concerned.

  HELEN: I don't remember your being particularly backward when we were courting.

  GEOFFREY: Ah, but I was young and foolish then. John's had time to learn a bit more sense.

  HELEN: Oh, so it was lack of sense when you proposed to me, was it?

  GEOFFREY: Utter folly –

  HELEN: Really!

  GEOFFREY: – and extraordinary good luck that you accepted.

  HELEN: Well, perhaps John should trust his luck a bit more. What do you say, Brian? Or don't theologians believe in luck?

  BRIAN: Of course we do. But we generally call it "Providence" to make it sound more respectable. Or else put it into Greek, like everything else when we want to impress and don't really know what we're talking about.

  GEOFFREY: I never could get on with Greek. Managed Latin tolerably well, but not the other. Why on earth do you have to use such an awkward language?

  BRIAN: It's rather like the old alchemists; "When we have spoken plainly, we have said nothing."

  GEOFFREY: I might have guessed.

  BRIAN: But to be serious, it's chiefly to avoid terms that change their meaning with common use. And Greek is the language of ideas; the Romans were more engineers than philosophers.

  Anne returns carrying a small, wood–framed picture.

  ANNE: What's all this about philosophy?

  BRIAN: I was explaining why we use Greek technical terms. So that's the painting, is it?

  ANNE: Yes. Be careful; the panel's in rather poor condition.

  BRIAN: Better than we shall be at that age. Hmm, as you say, not particularly good.

  HELEN: Condition or quality?

  BRIAN: Both. It looks like the style of the Flemish school, say about fifteenth century, but pretty rough and ready.

  ANNE: Could it be an amateur imitation, do you think?

  BRIAN: I suppose it's possible. Or a student piece kept for sentimental reasons. Whether it's of the actual period I can't tell without proper tests, of course, but so far as I can see the materials look right. So does the craquelure, though that can be faked. But this can hardly be a deliberate fake; it isn't good enough.

  GEOFFREY: So you think it might be genuine?

  BRIAN: I see nothing to suggest otherwise – can't say more than that. (Passing it back to Anne) But you mentioned a Tudor interest.

  GEOFFREY: Yes. Apparently there's a letter in the Bodleian collection from the then Lord Ernscar to his cousin, mostly about other matters which wer
e why it was preserved. But as a footnote it mentions that this painting had come to light during renovations to the castle, that it was of no one important and in poor condition and he'd have thrown it out, only Lady Ernscar took a fancy to it so he was having it re–framed as a birthday present for her.

  BRIAN: So he knew who the girl was?

  GEOFFREY: There was a faint inscription on the back of the panel saying it was of Alison, daughter of Thomas Miller, who had been Fool at the castle in the 1400s.

  BRIAN (making to reclaim the picture): I didn't notice that.

  GEOFFREY: It was barely decipherable even then, the wood surface had deteriorated so much, and in the re–framing it was covered by a supporting panel.

  BRIAN: Yes, I see.

  GEOFFREY: The job must have cost umpteen times what the painting was worth. He evidently didn't stint things for his wife.

  HELEN: Good for him!

  GEOFFREY: That's probably what saved it. Later generations must have thought that anything so carefully preserved had to be valuable, despite appearances.

  ANNE: Is anything else known about Alison?

  GEOFFREY: Lady Ernscar evidently asked the same question. She had the parish register searched – it's disappeared since, of course – and found the baptism of an Alison Miller in 1421, but nothing about marriage or death.

  JOHN: Is that significant?

  BRIAN: Possibly not. The family could have moved away, though that was unusual. Or it might have been a different Alison Miller altogether who died in infancy, as would have been too commonplace to mention.

  HELEN: I wonder why Lady Ernscar took such an interest.

  GEOFFREY: Who knows? A distant relative, perhaps?

  BRIAN: I doubt it. Remember it was a clearly stratified society. People of different classes might be on quite friendly terms, but they wouldn't intermarry. No one of Lady Ernscar's status was likely to be descended from a servant, not even a privileged servant like the Fool. Or if by some chance she were, to admit it.

  ANNE: I wonder –

  HELEN: Yes?

  ANNE: No, I'm probably being silly.

  JOHN: Perish the thought!

  HELEN: Take no notice of him, dear. Let's have it.

  ANNE: Well, there's something about that picture that draws me to it. Maybe Lady Ernscar felt the same.

  HELEN: Draws you to it – in what way?

  ANNE: Sometimes, depending on how the light falls, the face seems terribly sad. I get a feeling of longing for something she can't quite grasp.

  JOHN: Sounds like a version of the usual frustration dream. I'd have thought it a good reason for getting rid of the thing.

  ANNE: But that would be like kicking a lame dog out of the way. I feel I want to help, only I can't see how.

  BRIAN: I suppose you could always try prayer.

  GEOFFREY (teasing): Some people drag religion into everything.

  BRIAN: In my profession you can hardly keep it out – despite some of the practitioners!

  ANNE (thoughtfully): I don't think I could pray to the Christian God.

  JOHN: You might try one of the others – Krishna, or Zeus even.

  GEOFFREY: I shouldn't risk Zeus. Not to be trusted with any tolerably attractive woman.

  BRIAN: But to be serious, Anne, what's your objection?

  ANNE: The inconsistencies; I just can't believe in them. He's supposed to be the compassionate, the all–merciful –

  JOHN: That's the Moslem one.

  BRIAN: Same God, different name. Go on, Anne.

  ANNE: – and yet you have him condemning people to eternal torment for mistakes committed in life.

  During the following dialogue Brian takes fairly frequent and substantial absent–minded sips from his glass, and Geoffrey surreptitiously keeps it well topped up. Others of the party take refills as required, John offering them to Anne.

  BRIAN: Ah yes, that old canard. It isn't God who condemns; it's the individual choice.

  HELEN: How can that be?

  BRIAN: It's standard theology that God wants to give his love to everyone and to have theirs in return. But it must be freely given. He won't thrust his love on those who, given a final irrevocable choice, won't accept it.

  HELEN: But surely no one would refuse.

  BRIAN: You probably wouldn't. But love – real love – is the hardest thing on earth to accept fully. It means abandoning the defences. Ultimately the whole lot, not just the outer earthworks that are the most we usually surrender in human relationships. It isn't lightly done. I couldn't do it, not yet, not without a lot of help.

  GEOFFREY: I don't remember your