Guns in the Gallery

‘Oh, if you were a complete stranger, I’d ask for payment upfront. But because you’re local . . .’ said Bonita Green, thus deflating the Fethering convention that they didn’t know anything about each other.

‘Thank you so much, anyway, and I’ll—’

But Carole’s parting words were interrupted by the appearance from the back of the gallery of a man in his early thirties. He had floppy brown hair, and was dressed in an expensive pinstriped suit. The tie over his white shirt was of that lilac colour favoured by politicians.

‘Good morning, Mother,’ he said breezily.

‘Morning. Giles, this is Carole Seddon. My son, Giles.’

They exchanged good mornings.

‘I was actually just leaving.’

‘And has my mother given you an invitation to our Private View?’

‘No, I haven’t, Giles.’

He shook his head in mock reproof. ‘Dear, oh dear. Where’s your entrepreneurial spirit? I thought we agreed that you were going to hand out invitations to everyone who came into the gallery.’

‘Well, yes, but I—’

Ignoring his mother, Giles Green reached behind the counter and produced a handful of printed cards. ‘Something you won’t want to miss, Carole. Friday week. It’ll be the event of the Fethering social calendar. Have you heard of Denzil Willoughby?’

Carole was forced to admit that she hadn’t.

‘Only a matter of time. He’s going to be very big. Big as Damien Hirst in a few years’ time, I’ll put money on that. And he’s showing his new work here at the Cornelian Gallery. So there’s a chance for you, Carole, to be in at the beginning of something really big. Right here in Fethering you will have the opportunity to snap up an original Denzil Willoughby for peanuts . . . and then just sit back and watch its value grow.’

‘Well, I don’t often buy art, I must say.’ Don’t ever buy art, if the truth were told.

‘Then you must simply change your habits,’ asserted Giles Green. ‘It’s too easy for people to become stick-in-the-muds in a backwater like Fethering. But things’re going to change round here. Isn’t that, right, Mother?’

‘Well, Giles, I’m not sure—’

‘Of course they are. Here, Carole, you take two of these. Bring a friend.’

Carole Seddon looked down at the invitations which had been thrust into her hand. The image on the front looked like an explosion in an abattoir. And the Private View to which she was being invited was called ‘GUN CULTURE’.

TWO

‘It’s not my sort of thing,’ Carole protested, looking down once again at the Cornelian Gallery invitation.

‘How do you know what’s your sort of thing until you’ve tried it?’ asked Jude, a smile twitching at her generous lips. A well-upholstered woman of about the same age as Carole, she had a body which promised infinite comfort to men. As usual, her blonde hair was piled untidily on top of her head and she was dressed in swathes of brightly coloured layers. She and Carole were ensconced in their usual alcove at Fethering’s only pub, the Crown and Anchor. In front of them were their customary glasses of Chilean Chardonnay.

‘Well, art.’ Carole infused the word with a wealth of contempt. ‘I mean, my life’s always been too full to have time for the excesses of art.’

‘You’ve been invited to a Private View that lasts two hours. You don’t have to stay the full two hours. If you’re not enjoying it, you can leave after half an hour. Is your life so full that you can’t spare half an hour?’

‘Well . . .’ It was a question to which Carole really didn’t have a very good answer. Except for when Stephen, Gaby and Lily came to see her, or she went to visit them in Fulham, there weren’t that many demands on her time. There was taking Gulliver for his walks on Fethering Beach, of course . . . and diligently removing impertinent motes of dust from the surfaces of High Tor . . . then sometimes the final few clues of The Times crossword proved obdurately difficult . . . but Carole could always find a spare half hour. Too many spare half hours, she thought during her occasional moments of self-pity.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine for you,’ she went on. It was true. Jude had the knack of slipping easily into any social environment. ‘You’re used to dealing with arty people. I wouldn’t know what to say to them.’

‘You’d say to them what you’d say to anyone else. Anyway, they’re not going to be very arty. I mean, if Bonita’s inviting everyone who comes into the Cornelian Gallery to get a photo framed, it’s hardly going to be the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition, is it? There’ll be half a dozen people connected with the art world and, apart from them, all the usual Fethering faces. Nobody’s going to be quizzing you on your knowledge of Renaissance painting or your view of the Impressionists. It’s not going to be trial by ordeal.’