The gallery was curiously busy that morning – or at least for the first part of the morning. Several sales were made, including that of a large and particularly fine McCosh study of ornamental fowls. This was, at least, a painting upon which Matthew could expound with knowledge and enthusiasm. He knew Ted McCosh, and was able to explain the trouble he took to mix his own paints and prepare his painting surfaces in exactly the way in which the seventeenth-century Dutch masters would have done, and the client, a large-bellied man from Angus, a ruddy-faced countryman who would have comfortably fitted in a Rowlandson etching, was delighted with his purchase. Could more such paintings be obtained? They could: Ted painted fowl industriously in his studio in Carrington. How contented the ornamental poultry looked in their sylvan setting. Indeed they did.
The sale of the McCosh lifted Matthew’s spirits, with the result that he suggested that both he and Pat should go for coffee that morning. They could leave a note to the effect that anybody who needed them could find them in Big Lou’s coffee shop.
Pat was relieved by the invitation. She was concerned that Matthew might be feeling resentful of her, and she was not sure whether she could manage to work with a disappointed suitor.
But there was none of this as they crossed the street to the coffee bar and picked their way down Big Lou’s hazardous steps, scene of a minor fall all those years ago by Hugh MacDiarmid on his way to what was then a bookshop.
Big Lou welcomed them from behind her counter. There were one or two customers there already, but no sign of Ronnie or Pete.
“The boys seem to be going somewhere else,” said Big Lou, shrugging her shoulders. “Pete owes me fifty pounds, so I think that’s the last I’ll see of them.”
“You shouldn’t lend money,” said Matthew. “You can see that they’re a bad risk.”
Mr Guy Peploe Makes an Appearance
275
“You might not say that if you wanted to borrow off me,” said Lou simply.
They sat down in one of the booths. Matthew stretched out, and smiled.
“Maybe we’re turning the corner,” he said. “Maybe the art market’s picking up.”
Pat smiled. She wanted Matthew to be a success, but she doubted whether it would be as the owner of a gallery. Perhaps there was some other business for which he would show a real aptitude. Perhaps he could . . . perhaps he could be a consultant. There were plenty of people who advertised themselves as consultants, but were rather vague about what exactly it was that one might consult them about. These people offered advice, and people appeared to pay for this advice, although the basis on which the advice was offered sometimes seemed a little bit questionable. There was a boy from Pat’s year at school who was already a consultant at the age of twenty. She had seen him featured in the style section of a newspaper as a “successful consultant”. But how could he advise anybody on anything, when he had not had the time to do anything himself?
Poor Matthew – sitting there with his cappuccino and his label-less shirt, looking pleased with himself because they had sold a few paintings – it would be good, Pat thought, to be able to help him find somebody, a girlfriend who would appreciate him; but how dull it would be for her, how dreary to wait for something to happen, when nothing ever would.
It was while Pat was thinking this, and Matthew was staring dreamily at the froth on the top of his cappuccino, that they heard Big Lou greet another customer.
“Mr Peploe,” she said loudly.
At the mention of the name, Matthew sat up and looked round at the newcomer. He saw a dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties, with a strong face and with eyes that seemed to be amused by something.
Big Lou caught Matthew’s eye. “This is Guy Peploe,” she 276
Mr Peploe Sees Something Interesting said, reaching for a cup from her counter. “Yes! This is Mr Peploe himself!”
Matthew looked confused. “Peploe?” he said weakly.
Big Lou laughed. “I met Mr Peploe a few days ago. He’s from the Scottish Gallery over the road. He said that they usually have their own coffee in the gallery, but that he would pop in and try mine. So here he is!”
“I see,” said Matthew. He looked at Pat for reassurance. This was dangerous.
“And I told him about your painting,” went on Big Lou. “And he said that of course he would look at it for you. He said you shouldn’t be shy. He’s always looking at paintings for people. And if it’s a Peploe, he’ll know. He’s Samuel Peploe’s grandson, you see.”
“Oh,” said Matthew weakly. “I haven’t got it with me. Sorry.”
“But you brought it in this morning,” said Pat. “I saw it. I’ll go and fetch it.”
Guy Peploe smiled politely. “I’d be very happy to take a look,”
he said. “I’m very interested.”
It was difficult for Matthew to do anything but agree. So Pat went back across the road to fetch the Peploe?, leaving Matthew sitting awkwardly under the gaze of Guy Peploe, who seemed to be quietly summing him up.
“I think I was at school with you,” mused Guy Peploe. “You were much younger than I was, but I think I remember you.”
“No,” said Matthew. “Somebody else.”
96. Mr Peploe Sees Something Interesting Pat came back with the Peploe? under her arm. On entering Big Lou’s coffee bar, she saw that Guy Peploe was now sitting opposite Matthew, engaged in conversation. She slipped into the booth opposite Guy Peploe and placed the wrapped painting on the table.
Matthew glanced at her, almost reproachfully. “I don’t think Mr Peploe Sees Something Interesting 277
that it’s a real Peploe,” he said. “I’ve never thought that, actually.
It’s Pat who said it was.”
Pat felt irritated that he should seek to cover his embarrassment by blaming her, but she said nothing.
Guy Peploe was staring at the wrapping. “We’ll see,” he said.
“I take the view that the best way of authenticating a painting is to look at it. Wouldn’t you agree? It’s rather difficult to say anything unless you’ve got the painting in front of you.”
Matthew laughed nervously. “Yes, I find it very difficult when people phone me up and describe a painting that they have. They expect me to be able to value it over the phone.”
“People are funny,” said Guy Peploe. “But you can never turn down an opportunity to look at something. You never know. You remember that Cadell that turned up in a charity shop a few years ago. Remember that?”
“Yes,” said Matthew, who did not remember.
“So perhaps we should take a look at this one,” said Guy Peploe patiently. “Shall I unwrap it?”
Matthew reached for the painting. “I’ll do it,” he said.
He pulled off the sealing tape and slowly unfolded the wrapping paper. Pat watched him, noticing the slight trembling of his hands. It was, for her, a moment of intense human pity.
We are all vulnerable and afraid, she thought – in our different ways.
Matthew removed the last of the wrapping paper and silently handed the picture over to Guy Peploe. Then he glanced at Pat, and lowered his eyes. At the counter, Big Lou stood quite still, her cloth in her hand, her gaze fixed on the Peploe? and Peploe.
Guy Peploe looked at the painting. He held it away from himself for a few moments, narrowing his eyes. Then he turned it round and looked at the back of the canvas. Then he laid it down on the table.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a Peploe – this isn’t.”
Matthew and Pat had both been holding their breath; now they exhaled together, and it seemed to Pat as if Matthew would continue to lose air until he deflated completely, leaving just 278
Mr Peploe Sees Something Interesting his skin, like an empty balloon. Instinctively she reached out for his hand, which, when she found it, was clammy to the touch.