‘Haggis!’ said Oliver and before Fergus could stop him the dog scurried into the room. ‘What a fantastic name.’
‘It amuses us, yes. But, come on, Haggis, here boy.’ The poor dog was grasped by the collar and shoved out of the room. ‘Off you go, no four-legged friends in here.’
Oliver giggled quietly as he took off, sliding in his penny loafers across the sprung wooden floor. He was headed for the first of four paintings, hanging one after another down the longest stretch of wall. Natural light flooded in through the handsome floor-to-ceiling windows opposite. Zoe must have come in earlier to draw the curtains.
Each painting was about five by three feet, maybe more if you included the frame, and all depicted stags, dogs or horses in various country settings. They were hanging from rails on brass chains, a lovely old-fashioned way to display a painting. Landseer, as is his wont, had encapsulated the grandeur and majesty of Scotland. Each one, I’d bet, would give The Monarch of the Glen a run for its money.
‘What a spectacular room,’ said Oliver.
Hey, I thought, why didn’t he remark on the paintings first?
‘It was in its day,’ said Fergus, moving towards him and leaving Zoe hovering alone. She’d clearly seen these paintings many times before. ‘Deemed the acme of taste. But now the parts that made it so, the panelled silk walls, the plaster ceiling, the gold leaf,’ Fergus’s hands dashed about above his head, ‘the cornice, the paint, the velvet curtains, the ragged pelmets, all let it down.’
‘But one can imagine the splendour,’ said Zoe, turning to me, her friendlier self back with us.
‘Yes,’ I smiled; she was right, those three magnificent chandeliers spoke for themselves.
I wanted to comment on the perfect symmetry and how much I liked this particular element of Adam style. But now was not the time. Fergus was back on point. ‘Rest assured,’ he said to Oliver, who had his face right up close to a canvas, ‘these paintings have been well cared for.’
‘Much better seen from afar,’ said Zoe. ‘Come here, Oliver, stand back.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, sliding backwards across the floor. ‘So majestic, you’re right, power really resonates from this perspective.’
Zoe beamed and Fergus put his arm around her shoulder.
I gave them a little bit of privacy and went to look at the painting furthest away. But without carpets in here sound travelled the length of the wall and I heard Fergus ask Oliver, ‘When did you say the exhibition’s going to be?’
‘It starts at the end of July, and it’ll run throughout the festival.’
‘Marvellous, how many pictures in total?’
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid.’
‘Aren’t you involved in the show?’ said Zoe.
‘No, no. I just value Scottish paintings on loan for insurance purposes. That’s the extent of my involvement.’
‘Who else are you visiting?’ Zoe wanted to know, and I felt a pang of jealousy for Oliver’s free pass into other people’s houses. Given my fascination with who people are and how they live, if I were Oliver I would have asked to visit the loo as soon as I arrived and certainly have accepted the offer of coffee – people’s choice of china can tell you many a thing. But the opportunity to pry was wasted on Oliver. He’d come to do a job and stuck to it.
‘We’re trying to get the McMurray Jigs to lend some,’ he said, moving back up close to a painting.
‘Splendid name that,’ said Fergus. ‘In full it’s actually Jig McMurray Jig.’
Oliver laughed, not too much – that would have been rude.
‘Are they loaning their collection?’ said Zoe.
‘They have two great pictures but they’re reluctant.’
Zoe looked at Fergus. ‘Do we really want to loan ours, angel?’
Oliver spun on his heel. ‘You must,’ he said; he couldn’t afford to lose his one and only deal.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Fergus. ‘Don’t worry about that. Now tell us, what else does your job involve? None of us have met someone in your role before.’ Fergus smiled at me.
‘Managing nineteenth-century picture sales, but I do like a job associated with an exhibition. It means I get to see the paintings without the crowds. I feel very lucky about that.’
Fergus swelled with pride. ‘Well, you must just give us a call if you’d ever like to come and see our collection again. We’re very open to that, aren’t we, darling?’ He turned to Zoe, who nodded with a half-smile. I’m not sure she likes the cut of Oliver’s jib but then again it could just be she’s tired from a late night.
‘Which department do you work in, Oliver?’ she asked.
‘British Paintings, from early Tudor portraiture through to the early nineteenth century. I noticed you have one of Gainsborough’s dogs downstairs.’
‘Yes?’ said Fergus and I perked up. This was a painting I liked a lot.
‘There’s currently strong demand for eighteenth-century artists, the golden age of British painting. Gainsborough is a favourite. You’d get a pretty penny or two for your picture.’ Oliver’s eyes cast over the peeling plasterwork as they traced his thoughts. ‘And if you have any seventeenth-century portraits by, say, van Dyck, we’ve had record prices for these recently. Also, if I may…’
Fergus interrupted him. ‘It’s very interesting to hear about the current market but I want to stop you there as we Muchtons like to keep hold of our collection.’ He put his arm around Zoe’s shoulders. ‘It’s about the only thing in our family’s history, other than the house of course, which has survived the ups and downs.’
‘No problem, but our art dealership has an excellent relationship with both established collectors and new buyers.’ Oliver looked hopeful.
‘Not for us,’ said Fergus and Zoe shook her head. ‘Now if you’re happy being left alone, we shall leave you to it?’
‘Yes. I might need some time up here.’
‘Susie,’ said Fergus, ‘I should think you’d like to linger a bit longer?’
‘Yes please.’ I turned to Oliver. ‘As long as I’m not in the way?’
‘No, not at
