To Cut a Long Story Short

‘I would expect nothing less of you, Bill,’ said Henry.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Henry?’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘And while you’re at it, I also require that the kora we are holding in the Contingency Fund be converted into sterling.’

‘I’m not sure …’ began Bill.

‘Mr Paterson, I don’t have to remind you that there are several other banks in St George’s, who for years have made it clear how much they would like to have the British government’s account.’

‘I shall carry out your orders to the letter, First Secretary,’ replied the bank manager, ‘but I wish it to be placed on the record that it is against my better judgement.’

‘Be that as it may, I wish this transaction to be carried out before the close of business today,’ said Henry. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘You most certainly do,’ said Bill.

It took Henry another four hours to reach the capital. As all the streets in St George’s were emp

ty, he assumed that the news of the President’s death must have been announced, and that a curfew was in force. He was stopped at several checkpoints - grateful to have the Union Jack flying from his bonnet - and ordered to proceed to his home immediately. Still, it meant he wouldn’t have to drop into Mrs Davidson’s bazaar and pick up the cheque for two hundred kora.

The moment Henry arrived back home he switched on the television, to see President Narango, in full-dress uniform, addressing his people.

‘Be assured, my friends,’ he was saying, ‘you have nothing to fear. It is my intention to lift the curfew as soon as possible. But until then, please do not stray out onto the streets, as the army has been given orders to shoot on sight.’

Henry opened a tin of baked beans and remained indoors for the entire weekend. He was sorry to miss Bill’s fiftieth, but he felt on balance it was probably for the best.

HRH Princess Anne opened St George’s new swimming pool on her way back from the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur. In her speech from the poolside, she said how impressed she was by the high diving board and the modern changing facilities.

She went on to single out the work of the Rotary Club and to congratulate them on the leadership they had shown throughout the campaign, in particular the chairman, Mr Bill Paterson, who had received an OBE for his services in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.

Sadly, Henry Pascoe was not present at the ceremony, as he had recently taken up his post as High Commissioner to the Ascensions - a group of islands which isn’t on the way to anywhere.

THE RECLINING WOMAN*

‘YOU MAY WONDER why this sculpture is numbered “13”,’ said the curator, a smile of satisfaction appearing on his face. I was standing at the back of the group, and assumed we were about to be given a lecture on artists’ proofs.

‘Henry Moore,’ the curator continued, in a voice that made it clear he believed he was addressing an ignorant bunch of tourists who might muddle up Cubism with sugar lumps, and who obviously had nothing better to do on a bank holiday Monday than visit a National Trust house, ‘would normally produce his works in editions of twelve. To be fair to the great man, he died before approval was given for the only casting of a thirteenth example of one of his masterpieces.’

I stared across at the vast bronze of a nude woman that dominated the entrance of Huxley Hall. The magnificent, curvaceous figure, with the trademark hole in the middle of her stomach, head resting in a cupped hand, stared out imperiously at a million visitors a year. She was, to quote the handbook, classic Henry Moore, 1952.

I continued to admire the inscrutable lady, wanting to lean across and touch her - always a sign that the artist has achieved what he set out to do.

‘Huxley Hall,’ the curator droned on, ‘has been administered by the National Trust for the past twenty years. This sculpture, The Reclining Woman, is considered by scholars to be among the finest examples of Moore’s work, executed when he was at the height of his powers. The sixth edition of the sculpture was purchased by the fifth Duke - a Yorkshireman, like Moore - for the princely sum of PS1,000. When the Hall was passed on to the sixth Duke, he discovered that he was unable to insure the masterpiece, because he simply couldn’t afford the premium.

‘The seventh Duke went one better - he couldn’t even afford the upkeep of the Hall, or the land that surrounded it. Shortly before his demise, he avoided leaving the eighth Duke with the burden of death duties by handing over the Hall, its contents and its thousand-acre grounds to the National Trust. The French have never understood that if you wish to kill off the aristocracy, death duties are far more effective than revolutions.’ The curator laughed at his little bon mot, and one or two at the front of the crowd politely joined in.

‘Now, to return to the mystery of the edition of thirteen,’ continued the curator, resting a hand on The Reclining Woman‘s ample bottom. ‘To do this, I must first explain one of the problems the National Trust faces whenever it takes over someone else’s home. The Trust is a registered charity. It currently owns and administers over 250 historic buildings and gardens in the British Isles, as well as more than 600,000 acres of countryside and 575 miles of coastline. Each piece of property must meet the Trust’s criterion of being “of historic interest or natural beauty”. In taking over the responsibility for maintaining the properties, we also have to insure and protect their fabric and contents without bankrupting the Trust. In the case of Huxley Hall, we have installed the most advanced security system available, backed up by guards who work around the clock. Even so, it is impossible to protect all our many treasures for twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.

‘When something is reported missing, we naturally inform the police immediately. Nine times out of ten the missing item is returned to us within days.’ The curator paused, confident that someone would ask why.

‘Why?’ asked an American woman, dressed in tartan Bermuda shorts and standing at the front of our group.

‘A good question, madam,’ said the curator condescendingly. ‘It’s simply because most petty criminals find it almost impossible to dispose of such valuable booty, unless it has been stolen to order.’

‘Stolen to order?’ queried the same American woman, bang on cue.

‘Yes, madam,’ said the curator, only too happy to explain. ‘You see, there are gangs of criminals operating around the globe who steal masterpieces for clients who are happy that no one else should ever see them, as long as they can enjoy them in private.’

‘That must come expensive,’ suggested the American woman.