The World According to Bertie

a lot to us. It’s a link with our country’s past. It’s part of our history.”

Big Lou was placatory. “I know, Robbie. I know.”

“Do you, Lou? Do you? You aren’t laughing at me, are you?”

She moved from behind the counter and went to stand beside Robbie. She reached out and put her arms around his shoulders. “I wouldn’t laugh at you, Robbie. I’d never laugh at you. You’re a good man.”

Big Lou was tall, but Robbie was slightly taller. He looked down at her. “I love you a lot, Lou,” he said. “I really do. You’re kind. You’re clever. You’re beautiful.”

A Theme for the Definitive Masterpiece 305

She caught her breath. Nobody had said that to her ever before. Nobody had called her beautiful, and now he had, this man, this man with all his funny notions, he had called her beautiful. So perhaps I am, she thought. Perhaps I’ve been wrong to think of myself as plain. There is at least one man who thinks otherwise, and that, for many women and certainly for Big Lou, was enough.

90. A Theme for the Definitive Masterpiece For Angus Lordie, the return of Cyril from durance vile had been a transforming event. The sense of emptiness, the list-lessness, that had afflicted him during the period of Cyril’s absence faded immediately, like a blanketing haar that suddenly lifts to reveal a morning of clarity and splendour. This, he thought, is what it must be like to be given a reprieve, to be told that one was well when one had imagined the worst. Now he had energy.

His first task was to pick up the brush that he had so dispirit-edly laid aside. The group portrait over which he had been labouring was finished with alacrity, and the sitters, who had appeared sombre and depressed, were invigorated by a few bold strokes: a smile there, a jaunty dash of colour there – they were 306 A Theme for the Definitive Masterpiece easy to rescue. Once that was done, though, there was the question of the next project, and Angus had been giving some thought to that.

The previous night, while taking a bath, it had occurred to him that there was no particular painting to which he could point and say: “That is my masterpiece.” Certainly, he had executed some fine paintings – although he was modest, Angus had enough self-knowledge to recognise that – but the best of these was no more than primus inter pares. Two of them were in the collection of the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, and one of them had gone abroad, to vanish into the private collection of a Singaporean banker – or was it a Singaporean baker? The dealer in Cork Street who had written to tell him of the sale had handwriting which was difficult to interpret, but Angus had hoped that it was a baker rather than a banker. He could imagine his Singaporean baker, a rotund man with that agreeable, genial air that seems to surround those who have made their money in food. He liked to think of him sitting there in his Singaporean fastness, appreciating his painting, nibbling, perhaps, on a plate of pastries.

Of course, Singapore was close to Malacca, where Domenica had conducted her recent researches into the domestic economy of contemporary pirates, and Angus had asked her on her return if she had ventured south.

“I went there for a few days after I left Malacca,” she had said. “You’ll recall the denouement of my researches? I felt that after that I should treat myself to a bit of comfort, and so I went to Singapore and stayed in the Raffles Hotel. Such luxury, Angus! The Indian doorman at Raffles has the most wonderful mustache – apparently the most photographed thing in Singapore!”

“There can’t be much to see if a mustache is the main attrac-tion,” observed Angus.

“Well, it’s a small place,” said Domenica. “And a big mustache in a small place . . . Mind you, it’s getting bigger.”

“The mustache?”

A Theme for the Definitive Masterpiece 307

Domenica smiled, but only weakly. There was occasionally something of the schoolboy about Angus, at least in his humour.

“No, Singapore itself is getting bigger. They have land reclamation projects and they’re inching out all the time. Their neighbours don’t like it.”

Angus was puzzled. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with them. Presumably they’re reclaiming from the sea.”

“Yes, they are. But the Indonesians have stopped selling them sand to do the reclamation work. And Malaysia gets jumpy too.

They don’t like to see Singapore getting any bigger, even if it’s just a matter of a few acres.”

“Neighbours can be difficult,” said Angus.

Domenica thought for a moment of Antonia and the blue Spode cup. There were parallels there, perhaps, with relations between Malaysia and Singapore. “Dear Singapore,” she said.

“They’re frightfully rich, and as a result nobody in Southeast Asia likes them very much. But I do. They make very rude remarks about them; it’s very unfair. And Singapore gets a little bit worried and feels that she has to expand her air force. But that leads to problems . . .”

Angus looked at Domenica quizzically.

“They can’t really fly very easily,” she explained. “Singapore is terribly tiny in territory terms. When the air force takes off, it has to take a sharp right turn or it ends up flying over Malaysian airspace, which they’re not allowed to do. So it somewhat hampers their style.”

Angus smiled. “I see.”

“So they keep the air force elsewhere,” went on Domenica.

Angus raised an eyebrow. “One would hope that they don’t forget where they put it,” he said. “It would be a terrible shame if one put one’s air force somewhere and then forgot where it was. I’m always doing that with my keys . . . Easily done.”

Domenica laughed again. “I think they have a book in which they write it all down,” she said. “Actually, they keep their air force in Australia.”

308 A Theme for the Definitive Masterpiece