Pandora (14 page)

‘How clever to know Greek things,’ said Rosemary.

She’s really nice, decided David, watching her tossing new potatoes in chopped-up mint and melted butter. Rosemary for remembrance. She’d certainly remember dentist appointments, and the names of collectors’ wives and children, and whether they were coming to dinner. And all that dry-cleaning dosh would make an ascent up the social scale so much easier.

‘Supper,’ announced David triumphantly, then groaned, for, staggering up the lawn, a leaning tower of pissed artist, his eyes red as traffic lights, his face creased by sheets, his body not remotely covered by Galena’s crocus-yellow dressing gown, came Casey Andrews.

Not a trace of anguish that Casey must have been down here screwing Galena and was about to screw up any deal showed on Raymond’s face.

‘My dear Casey,’ he murmured, ‘what an extraordinary coincidence. I’ve been showing your pictures to Sir Mervyn, who you know is a great fan. Perhaps you’d like to explain them to him yourself?’

‘My work defies explanation,’ said Casey pompously, helping himself to a huge Scotch.

‘We’d better lay another place,’ whispered Rosemary.

‘And put arsenic in his sea trout,’ whispered back David, letting his lips touch her very clean ear.

‘Thrilling for Daddy to meet such a famous artist,’ giggled Rosemary, ‘but isn’t he awful?’

‘We’re about to dine, Casey,’ said Raymond firmly, ‘but I suppose we can wait another five minutes.’

‘I’ll have another gin then,’ said Sir Mervyn.

Wearily Raymond led them off to the warehouse. Such were their monumental egos, he daren’t leave them alone.

By the time they returned, Galena had vanished, but dinner couldn’t be held up any longer. The boys were drooping; Casey and Mervyn both drunk. Searching for his wife, Raymond discovered her back in the Blue Tower sketching a naked Rupert, who was asleep like the young Endymion, his legs longer than Maud’s. Raymond didn’t know which was more beautiful, Rupert or Galena’s drawing of him.

On the chair near the door was a far more explicit drawing of Rupert, entitled:
Orgasm – July 26th
. Raymond flipped it over. So that was where the July page of the calendar had gone.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ he hissed. ‘This place is like a whorehouse. First Casey, then Rupert – don’t you give a stuff the effect it has on the boys, David and the servants?’

‘I tell you, I need new models. This one’ – she waved her pencil at Rupert – ‘sits like a rock, he’s got the stillest face I’ve ever seen.’

Somehow Raymond gained control of himself.

‘Dinner’s ready, I don’t imagine he’s staying.’

He glanced up at the Raphael, particularly at Hope, with her sweet soothing smile.

‘You lying jade,’ he told her bitterly.

After dinner, they had more drinks outside. Casey, who’d eaten most of the sea trout, was getting stuck into the kümmel. Having been impressed by other artists’ portraits on the dining-room walls, Sir Mervyn asked Casey if he’d be interested in painting Margaret. Having decided that Margaret would probably be as plain as her daughter Rosemary, Casey said he didn’t do portraits.

‘Don’t be silly, Casey,’ chided Galena.

‘I like the work of that Froggy who also exhibits at the Belvedon,’ said Mervyn, who didn’t understand professional jealousy.

‘Etienne de Montigny?’ Galena glanced mockingly at Casey.

‘That’s the fellow, got some of his racy stuff.’ Then, checking across the terrace that Rosemary was still totally preoccupied with David: ‘Mind you, I keep it away from the wife.’

Casey, who couldn’t bear any competition, rose to his feet, blotting out a rising moon more effectively than any gathering black cloud.

‘Wait one minute, I want to show you something.’

Unable to sleep because of the din, Alizarin crept into the spare room overlooking the terrace. Lurking undetected on the balcony, he breathed in the sweet tobacco smell of buddleia which that afternoon had been covered in butterflies. The moon looked like a slice of lemon waiting to be dropped into one of Sir Mervyn’s gins and tonic. Why were grown-ups so thirsty? They didn’t run about much.

Alizarin detested Casey Andrews. He was so loud, bossy and rude to his father. He was also disgusting, with food in his beard and bogeys in his hairy nose, which this evening he had buried in a stinking piece of cheese before deciding to cut himself a piece. Alizarin shuddered. But worst of all was the way Casey monopolized his mother. He’d seen the horrible giant slide his hand over Galena’s bottom once too often. Alizarin was a stoical little boy, but, aware he was his mother’s favourite, he felt neglected.

To the left he could hear the sound of blinds rattling up, as sleeping pigeons were roused by Casey’s noisy return from Galena’s studio.

‘Come and give me a hand,’ he yelled to David. ‘Careful, the paint isn’t dry. Who says I can’t do portraits?’ he asked boastfully as the canvas was leant against a bench, and one of the terrace lights retrained onto a huge nude of Galena.

There were gasps followed by stunned silence. Half-woman, half-goat, Galena’s lips were drawn back from her long yellow teeth in a hideous grimace, vine leaves entwined her horned head, a Gauloise glowed between a cloven hoof, bouncing pink udders hung below her belly button, with a bleeding slit below.

The stunned silence continued.

‘I’ve called it:
In Season
,’ said Casey sententiously.

‘Interesting,’ volunteered Sir Mervyn.

Raymond was quivering with rage. But Alizarin lurking on the balcony was quicker.

‘It’s a horrible painting,’ he shouted. Then, as everyone jumped and looked up: ‘My mother’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and she hasn’t got long teef and her bosoms don’t hang down.’

And before anyone could stop him, he tipped an entire tin of hen’s-diarrhoea-green emulsion all over the canvas and the furious upturned face of Casey Andrews.

‘You bastard,’ spluttered Casey.

‘You horrible little bourgeois,’ screamed Galena. ‘How dare you destroy great vork of art?’

‘Bollocks,’ drawled a voice.

It was a barefoot Rupert, back in his white shirt and breeches, with a great grin on his face.

‘Evening, Raymond. Evening, Mervyn, sorry I didn’t get back to you over that sponsorship deal, I’ve been abroad. And well done, you,’ he shouted up to a trembling Alizarin, ‘fucking marvellous.’

Then he walked towards the dripping canvas.

‘That painting is perfectly frightful. Any self-respecting goat would take you to court, Casey.’ Peering at the few bits not drenched in green emulsion: ‘And I don’t think your brush strokes are very smooth either. I certainly won’t employ you to paint my stable doors.’

‘How dare you!’ roared Casey.

‘Very easily.’ Turning to bolt, Rupert looked frantically round for his moved car. Having located it under the plane tree, however, he had to wait for Badger, who was bidding a lingering farewell to a smug-looking Maud. This enabled Casey to catch up with him and grab him by his shirt.

‘You little weasel.’

‘And you’re about to go pop.’ Swinging round, Rupert smashed his fist into Casey’s furious face.

For the second time that day, England’s self-confessed greatest painter passed out cold. A second later, his wife Joan Bideford came storming up the drive on a Harley Davidson.

‘I thought I’d find you here, Casey,’ she bellowed.

‘Can I have your autograph, Mr Campbell-Black?’ said Jupiter admiringly.

‘What a brave little chap that Alizarin is,’ sighed Rosemary as she and David loaded Mrs Robens’s dishwasher.

‘Would you like a walk round the garden?’

‘Yes please.’ Then, as soon as they drew out of earshot: ‘That painting’s Mrs Belvedon, isn’t it, and she had two chaps here, Casey and Rupert?’

David nodded.

‘What a tart! Raymond’s such a dear. He always remembers one’s name and gives one a kiss at parties.’

‘He’s wonderful,’ said David.

Rosemary had a nice voice, he decided, slightly raucous, but definitely patrician. It turned him on.

Having waved Rupert off, Raymond went upstairs to see the boys and found Rosemary saying goodnight to Alizarin.

‘You were very brave to pour paint on that revolting man.’

‘Shall I show you a picture I’ve done of him?’

‘Yes, please.’

Rosemary didn’t realize Alizarin had put Casey’s red roaring face on the body of Gluttony, portrayed in the Raphael.

‘It’s awfully good!’ She couldn’t stop laughing. ‘I’d love to buy it, would you accept two pounds?’

‘Rupert Campbell-Black’s already given me a tenner,’ said Alizarin. ‘You can have it for ten shillings.’

‘I think you’re going to need a really good dealer to handle the business side,’ said Rosemary smiling up at Raymond.

Rosemary drove home to her parents’ house near Oxford. Mervyn, very drunk, couldn’t stop laughing. Not for nothing did his colleagues call him ‘Pissed-as-a-Newton’.

‘Bohemians always behave like that. We’ve been seeing life, Rosie. Damned attractive woman, that Galena, good painter, going to buy more of her stuff.’

Rosemary was about to say she thought Galena was a slut, when her father switched to Rupert.

‘His father Eddie’s got a marvellous shoot. Rupert’s going to do some adverts for us. Bloody good-looking chap.’

David’s much nicer-looking, thought Rosemary, and he’d taken her telephone number.

At Foxes Court at four in the morning, they were woken by thunder and deluge. Checking his garden when he got up, Raymond was distraught to find all his delphiniums snapped in two, their proud blue heads hanging. Galena, helped by David, cooked lunch: beef goulash, dumplings with sour cream and lemon and cranberry sauce.

‘You did well yesterday, Evangelista,’ she said mockingly, and kissed him briefly on the mouth.

David was in turmoil. Perhaps he should get out now, escape back to Yorkshire, out of charm’s way.

Despite a black eye and green hair Casey as well as Joan stayed on for lunch as if nothing had happened. For pudding there was cherry pie. Alizarin was dreamily counting his cherry stones: ‘Rich man, poor man, bugger man, thief.’

Galena burst out laughing. ‘It’s your father who’s the bugger man.’

Raymond threw down his napkin and walked off into the garden. David tracked him down in the boathouse by the river, crying helplessly.

‘My delphiniums, my delphiniums.’ Raymond groped for a green silk handkerchief. ‘So sorry, whole thing’s been a bit of a strain.’

David patted Raymond awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘It’s my fault. You asked me to look after Mrs Belvedon. I’m utterly on your side, we all are. She’s such a bitch.’

Raymond looked up, eyes streaming.

‘Will you come and work in the gallery when you come down from Cambridge?’

David’s face lit up the gloom of the boathouse like a Leonardo.

‘I can’t think of anything more wonderful. Despite the dramas, this has been the happiest summer of my life.’

On 6 April 1971, on the alleged anniversary both of Raphael’s birth and his death, Galena gave birth not to wads of francs and Deutschmarks, but to a third son, Jonathan. Five weeks premature, early for the last time in his life, Jonathan was a charming, indolent Aries, who smiled, ate and, unlike his elder brothers, slept through the night.