Unbearable Lightness of Scones

81. Best-Laid Plans

By unspoken agreement, Angus and Matthew did not talk about Lard O’Connor’s painting in the taxi back to Queen Street station. They had been moved by Lard’s obsequies, and by the eulogy delivered by his former teacher. And, as is always the case on such occasions, they had been reminded of their own mortality. I must paint my great painting, thought Angus; time is running out. And perhaps I should get married too, if anyone will have me. Domenica? She would be ideal – at least she knows what I’m like – but there’s the problem with Cyril, which is irresoluble. Could he live on the landing, in some sort of heated kennel? Antonia would veto that, although with her drug-dealing she’s hardly in a position to criticise anybody for anything.

“You know that woman,” he said to Matthew, once their train journey had started. “You know that woman who lives opposite Domenica?”

“Not really,” said Matthew. “Domenica introduced me to her once at the end of Cumberland Street. She said something about saints.”

“She’s meant to be writing a book about Scottish saints,” said Angus. “She goes on about them. All these peculiar saints who lived in places like Whithorn. Apparently virtually everyone was called a saint in those days. You just had to put a few stones together, call it a church, and you became a saint.”

Matthew did not think it was that easy. Nothing was easy in those days. “Life was pretty hard,” he said. “There was a great deal of darkness. In the metaphorical sense, of course.”

“And now?” asked Angus. “No darkness?”

“Oh, there’s darkness,” said Matthew. “We happen to live in a country where there isn’t – at the moment. But it could change. All that would be needed would be for people to become ignorant again. And they are.”

Angus looked around the carriage. Virtually everybody was reading. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Well,” said Matthew, “did you see that survey published in the papers the other day where people were asked if they believed Winston Churchill ever existed? A quarter of them said they thought he was mythical.”

Angus reflected on this for a moment. There had also been the question of Scottish history. There were surveys all the time which showed that people had no idea who they were or why they were there. Perhaps he should execute a great painting – a great allegorical painting – entitled Who Am I? which would show the link between past and present. But nobody painted like that any more. He would be laughed at in the Royal Scottish Academy. He would be ridiculed. Paintings today had to reflect nothingness and confusion, not order and intellectual coherence.

He decided to return to the subject of Antonia. “That woman may be writing about saints, but…” He leaned forward to address Matthew confidentially. “She’s a drug-dealer. A big one.”

Matthew looked startled. “In Scotland Street? Under Domenica’s nose?”

“Yes,” said Angus. “I overheard her placing a big order. She talked about the stuff being cut to her satisfaction. She talked about being careful, as she did not want to go to prison. It was perfectly obvious what was going on.”

For a few moments Matthew said nothing. Then, “The problem in these cases is always: what do you do?”

Angus snorted. “That’s the problem in life in general, surely.”

“Perhaps. But do you go to the police? And what about us, Angus? What do we do about Lard’s painting?”

Angus sat back in his seat. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. But first things first: should we really call it Lard’s painting? Was it ever his?”

“He brought it to us.”

“Of course. But do you think for one moment that it belonged to that aunt of his in Greenock?”

Matthew had to agree that this was unlikely.

“So it’s stolen property,” said Angus. “Every bit as stolen as the Duke of Buccleuch’s da Vinci was – before they recovered it.” He paused. “And you can’t just sit on stolen property.”

Matthew took the point. “So what do we do? We know that the painting must have been stolen. Do we take it to the police?”

“I see no alternative,” said Angus. “They’ll see if it’s on their list of stolen paintings.”

“And if it isn’t?”

Angus shrugged. “I suppose they give it back to the O’Connor family. To Frankie O’Connor.”

Matthew greeted this with silence.

“And yet,” Angus conceded. “And yet. The painting isn’t theirs. It really belongs to the nation, in my view – that is, if no proper owner comes forward.”

Matthew was thinking. “If we give it to the police, we still have a problem. Frankie O’Connor. He’s not going to take kindly to that. And those people, you know what they’re like… We’re in danger, Angus.”

Angus had to agree: Frankie O’Connor would certainly not take kindly to hearing that the painting had been given to the police. Unless… “He’s only expecting a painting,” Angus said suddenly. “He won’t have the first clue which painting. The old switcheroo, Matthew!”

Matthew waited for further explanation.

“I have plenty of portraits in my studio,” said Angus. “We merely put one of these in the frame that currently holds the Raeburn. Mr. Francis O’Connor will be perfectly happy. In fact, we can offer to buy it from him. The new Raeburn, that is.”

Matthew was not immediately convinced, but as their journey continued, Angus managed to persuade him that this was their best course of action. “I have the perfect candidate for the switch,” he said. “I have a portrait of Ramsey Dunbarton in the studio that I really don’t know what to do with. His widow, Betty, didn’t want it – she claimed that she didn’t want her memories of Ramsey to be disturbed by a painting. So we’ll pass that on to Frankie.”

“But does he look at all like Burns?”

“No,” said Angus. “But I’ll touch it up a bit. I’ll use acrylic. Dries in an instant. I’ll give him the Robert Burns treatment. Poor old Ramsey.”

“Who was he?” asked Matthew.

“He was a lawyer in Edinburgh. A very fine man, in his way. He was terrifically proud of having played the Duke of Plaza-Toro in The Gondoliers at the Church Hill Theatre.”

“We all have something,” mused Matthew. And what, he wondered, was he proud of? Elspeth Harmony, he decided. He was proud that he had married Elspeth Harmony, that she had thought him worthy of her. And Edinburgh. He was proud of Edinburgh too, and of Scotland; and why not? Why should one not be proud of one’s country – for a change?