Corduroy Mansions

84. James Reveals His Good Eye

William returned, smiling; Freddie de la Hay’s aberration had been confined to his Belgian Shoes and nothing else had been eaten. So while Marcia finished preparing the coquilles St Jacques, he went to the telephone to dial the number of the flat downstairs. Dee answered and confirmed that Caroline was in; she had a friend round, Dee said, but she was sure that she would be happy to speak.

‘My friend Marcia and I need some advice on a painting,’ William said to Caroline when she came to the phone. ‘I wonder if you would be able to come up for a drink, or coffee, later on? Perhaps you would look at it.’

‘You’ve bought a painting?’ asked Caroline. ‘How exciting.’

‘Not quite bought,’ said William. ‘Sort of . . . sort of found, I suppose.’

‘Even more exciting,’ said Caroline. ‘And of course I’d be happy to come up. May I bring my friend, James? He’s doing the course with me but he knows much more than I do. He could be helpful.’

That, said William, would be perfect, and rang off. Then it was time for the coquilles St Jacques, which Marcia had cooked to perfection. They ate them in silent mutual enjoyment. There was no real need to say anything, at least on William’s side, as he felt quite happy and replete. The new arrangement with Marcia, which removed all the threat from an otherwise tricky situation, was an unmitigated relief. Eddie was no longer living in the flat and inflicting his music on him - another cause for relief, if not outright celebration. And although he had lost a Belgian Shoe, his John Lobb shoes had escaped the attentions of Freddie de la Hay. The world, or his very small corner of it, could have been in a far worse state, and he was grateful for it. And for the scallops and Sauvignon blanc too.

When Caroline and James arrived half an hour later, William and Marcia were ensconced in the drawing room, Marcia on her sofa and William in his chair. Marcia had made no attempt to persuade William to sit on the sofa with her - a sign, he thought, of her better understanding of the relationship between them. So James was able to sit next to Marcia while Caroline occupied the small tub chair alongside William’s armchair.

William asked James about his course and where it would lead. ‘I’d like to work for a gallery or one of the auction houses,’ James explained. ‘I’ve been promised an internship at the end of the course, and that might help. But there are lots of people after those posts. Everybody wants to do that sort of thing. Or everybody who has a degree in the history of art, that is.’

‘Well, it must be wonderful work,’ said William. ‘I sometimes go to the wine auctions at Sotheby’s. I understand the excitement.’

‘I’d like to work in the Old Masters department,’ said James. ‘I wish!’

‘James has a very good eye,’ said Caroline. ‘He really does.’

‘Go on,’ said James modestly. ‘Just because . . .’

‘No, you do,’ Caroline persisted. ‘Remember when we saw that Brescia-school painting and everybody said that it was something else, and you said, no, it was Brescia. Even Professor Marinelli was wrong about that. And what he doesn’t know . . .’

James laughed. ‘Beginner’s luck.’

‘Well, we won’t be showing you anything special,’ said William.

‘What will you be showing us?’ asked James.

William shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It looks old - or it looks old to me. But I suppose that somebody could paint something today and make it look old.’

‘Of course they could,’ said James. ‘They’d have to make their own paints, of course - you can’t get modern paints to do the trick. Everything painted with modern paints - paint out of a tube - looks far too chalky and white. You need to mix pigments with varnishes and a drop of oil. That enables you to get the light effect that you find in Old Masters. You put on layer after layer and the light shines through.’

‘James knows how to do it,’ said Caroline. ‘James could have been a great painter if he wanted.’

James blushed. ‘You’re really flattering me tonight, Caroline. I couldn’t.’

As they spoke, Marcia looked on, bemused. She was wondering about the nature of the relationship between the two students - were they just friends or was there something more between them? It was difficult to tell. He was obviously the sensitive type, which meant that he might not be interested, but one could never tell. It was quite wrong to assume that just because a man tucked his legs underneath him, as James was doing on the sofa next to her, and lowered his eyelids when he spoke - it was wrong to assume just because he did those things that he would not be interested in Caroline. And even if he was not interested in her, it was clear to Marcia that Caroline was interested in James. Any woman could tell that.

For his part, William was wondering what Caroline saw in James. That was a very peculiar way to perch on the sofa, but then everybody was so peculiar these days, in William’s view, one could not read anything into anything. Caroline was really very attractive, but William wondered whether James was even aware of it. He rather thought James was not, and he felt a momentary pang of regret. Here was an attractive, physical girl, obviously in desperate need of a boyfriend, and here was he, William - too old even to be considered by her - while this boy seemed to take her completely for granted. It was all very depressing. He thought of Eliot’s poem, and of wearing the bottoms of one’s trousers rolled. Prufrock, was it? Am I Mr Prufrock in the flat above? Is that what I am to her?

‘Shall I get the painting?’ he said.

James clapped his hands together. ‘Yes, let’s see it. I can’t wait. Ooh!’

William smiled at the Ooh.

‘Before you get it,’ said Caroline, ‘tell us where you found it.’

‘In a wardrobe,’ said Marcia.

The two students looked at her in astonishment, while William went out of the room to fetch the painting from his study. When he came back, he held it turned away from them. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said.

They did, and he turned the painting round. They’ll say something disparaging, he thought; a cheap nineteenth-century souvenir of the Grand Tour - something like that.

‘Open your eyes now.’

James let out a gasp. Then he muttered, ‘Caspita!’

‘Who was he?’

James looked up at William. ‘Sorry. He wasn’t an artist - caspita is an Italian exclamation. It expresses how I feel looking at . . . looking at this painting.’

And you? thought William, turning to gauge Caroline’s reaction.

Caroline said nothing at first. Then, glancing at James, she frowned. A shadow came over her and it was as obvious to William as a thundercloud in the sky. He looked again at James, who had reached out to take the small painting from William’s hands and was holding it out in front of him. There was no shadow there - just astonishment, and unmistakable, spontaneous delight.