Chapter 2: Past Perfect

3. A Confused Day

Bill Riggs was waiting for me at the arrival hall of Terminal 3 at Heathrow Airport. He was, actually, looking fresher and more vigorous than he had ever appeared in Singapore. For a short while we gossiped about mutual friends in Singapore, about my forthcoming book and about his own work in his London firm. Then, as if by prior arrangement, we turned to business. I started by expressing my doubts respecting the outcome.

“So you think that both sides have a shaky case?” Bill asked.

“I think so. The outcome depends on the Judge’s assessment of the truthfulness of the witnesses. If he accepts our version of the facts, my Report is bound to convince him that we acted in the manner of reasonable and well informed bankers.”

“And if he accepts their version?”

“We are sunk; but, then, their case is as uncertain as ours. Their Expert is bound to make a comparable concession.” Pausing for a moment, I added anxiously: “Do you agree?”

“I do. Actually, we’ve arranged a meeting with the other party in our office at 3.00 pm. It would be good if you could attend; they are bringing their expert. I only hope you are not too tired?”

“I slept on the ‘plane; so I should be alright.”

After I had unpacked my suitcase, I dropped onto the bed and stared apprehensively at the ivory coloured telephone. Closing my eyes in resignation, I picked up the receiver and dialled my home number. For a while the telephone kept ringing. I was about to replace the receiver when I heard the click.

“I was sleeping!” As always, Pat’s complaining voice irritated my ears.

“You told me to ring you as soon as I reached the hotel.”

“You didn’t tell me you will get there so early! Here it is after midnight.”

As always, Pat’s nagging voice was pushing me into a corner. She was an intelligent woman but, unfortunately, quite incapable of looking beyond the horizon imposed by her background. A professional man’s commitment to matters entrusted to him had remained incomprehensible to her.

“Oh, all right then; ring me when you have news”. The click of the receiver dropping back into its cradle was music to my ears.

When I had recovered, I picked the receiver, smiling with anticipation. “So you have arrived safe and sound in your hotel, Uncle? Do you have a nice room?”

“A suite; and a nice one at that; but something is remiss: You are not in London”.

“We’ll soon put this right.” she was laughing happily now.

“The sooner the better; and you know I was tempted to ring you from the ‘plane. But got confused”

“That’s not like you – I mean, when you’re on a case.”

“Not the case; the catalogue we talked about when we last spoke; you see, the house near Woodstock: it belonged to an old friend; the banker Arthur Smithies. Does his name ring a bell?”

“Of course it does; you kept telling ‘her’ about him again and again.” Yuan Ming invariably referred to herself in days past – to the little girl of my early days in Singapore – in the third person.

“You even drew his sketch, without having ever seen him!” I reminded her. “I still have it; you called it: ‘Uncle’s friend Mr Arthur’.”

For a moment both of us were silent. Then, unexpectedly, she asked: “The yellow milk jug; have you really seen it before?”

“I have; it was in a catalogue he showed me when we met in 1981 in the Athenaeum.”

“No wonder it looked familiar to you; so you came face to face with your past during the flight. I want to know all about it. But look, Uncle, before you start telling me, have you had something to eat; and aren’t you tired?”

“We had breakfast on the ‘plane; but, yes, I’m tired.”

“You sound it; so have a shower and go to bed; and when are you going up to Woodstock?”

“Tomorrow, if I can get away from the case; we have a meeting this afternoon; a last minute attempt to settle, I suspect.”

“Then you must have a good rest now. Ring me again when you are back from Woodstock. I’ll come over soon.”

As I had anticipated, the meeting in Bill Riggs’ office failed to produce a settlement. Shortly after it started, all of us realised that the conflict was not between the two companies, which had to continue trading with each other, but the two executives who had negotiated the contract: Philip Whitehead and Tony Blackburn. All attempt to reason with the two fighting cocks failed. After some three exasperating hours, in which they traded thinly veiled insults, they brought the meeting to a stormy end.

Notwithstanding their exasperation, Bill and his counterpart in the other camp had a confidential exchange, in which each agreed to explore the possibility of a sensible settlement with people at the top. Another meeting was, accordingly, scheduled for the next day. I could not hide my relief when Bill said, with a twinkle in his eye, that the presence of experts would not be required.

I went to bed early but, as was to be expected, woke up in the early hours of the morning. Feeling too comfortable to get up, I kept musing about the role of chance in a man’s life. Meandering through my life story, I recalled Fortuna’s intervention in my early childhood, when we were refugees in Marseilles. Father had secured us a visa to Australia but mother, who had turned an ardent Zionist after the Anschluß, insisted that we wait for another three days for a visa to Palestine. I often wonder how my life would have proceeded if that visa had not been issued in time. What would a boyhood in Sydney have been like?

Later on, in my teens, chance induced me to dash my mother’s hopes of seeing her only son studying medicine. A spell in the Courts of Law in Tel Aviv, during a break between two examinations conducted on the premises of the neighbouring Department of Education, roused my interest. Some further visits during the long vacation convinced me that my future was in the Law. It amused me to think that, if the examinations had been held in a different part of town, I might have ended up as yet another physician who lacked a genuine desire to cure the sick.

Even my unexpected decision to abandon my legal practice and read for a doctorate in Oxford was triggered off by a chain of events beyond my control. To start with I had been turned down by the woman I loved. I was deflated and soon started to avoid my friends. Shortly thereafter a Judge, whom I respected, told me I lacked the attributes of a courtroom advocate.

I knew that some good law firms would gladly offer me an appropriate backroom position. But I was too young and too ambitious to compromise and, in consequence, felt my world was caving in. When a former classmate returned to Tel Aviv with enthusiastic accounts of his two years in Oxford, I decided to apply for admission. Again, Fortuna smiled: despite my indifferent undergraduate results, my research record opened Sesame.

My two years in Oxford had a profound effect on my future. To a point, the successful completion of my Oxford project was due to the devoted guidance of my two supervisors and to my own perseverance. Fortuna, though, had once again displayed her subtle hand. She had directed my feet to Crawford & Co. and to the office of the firm’s Managing Partner, Arthur Smithies. Initially, his readiness to assist me was triggered off by his interest in my subject. His resolve was bolstered when he discovered our common interest in art.

“Coincidence” I deliberated. “You think you are in charge and assert proudly that you make your own decisions; but where would you be if Fortuna had turned her back on you?”

4. Reflections on the Oxford Train

Later in the morning, I took the express train to Oxford. As I leafed again through the catalogue of the forthcoming auction, I identified some further pieces of porcelain I had seen before. I also recognised a number of the traditional English paintings of the estate: they had been displayed in Birchin Lane.

As the express train sped out of London, my thoughts centred again on my late benefactor. Some four weeks after our initial interview, I had received a parcel with documents relevant to my quest. Some came from the archives of his own bank; others from merchant banks that had, originally, sent me discouraging replies; and others still were from the private collections of certain families. He had, in addition, enclosed a set of standard forms of letters of credit used by London banks during the 19th century. The only task left to me was to find the connecting threads and to consider the significance of individual clauses. Thanks to Arthur Smithies, I had proved my case.

Arthur Smithies assistance did not end there. A hand written letter, accompanying the parcel, encouraged me to call on him when I came to London. During the succeeding months, we had many a lunch in Crawford & Co.’s cafeteria or in a nearby restaurant.

Later in the year, I started to send him the drafts of the chapters of my thesis. Naturally, I did so only after they had been perused by my supervisors. By then, most blemishes had been eliminated. Frequently, though, Arthur Smithies, drew my attention to some remaining inconsistencies of language and of textual analysis and added, in the margin, remarks which assisted me to further polish up my plain style.

Another indication of his goodwill was my constant receipt of catalogues of different auction houses in London. Some came houses of whose existence I had been unaware. In time it dawned on me that a dedicated collector could, occasionally, get real bargains at the less renowned sales rooms. Generally, the trick was to sit or stand at the far end of the room, where others did not notice you, and to raise your hand at the right moment.

On some occasions, my eye caught Arthur Smithies. I recall how, in an auction in Chelsea, I spotted him in one of the front rows, engrossed in his catalogue and looking as calm and as composed as ever. His expression did not change when the auctioneer picked up a handsome cup and saucer. Just a slight nod of his head indicated that he had entered the arena. Within a few seconds he was locked in a dog fight with another front-bencher who raised his hand excitedly at each prompting of the auctioneer. Then, within less then a minute, the skirmish was over. Arthur Smithies shook his had slightly and immersed himself again in the catalogue. I realised that Arthur Smithies was not prepared to pay more for a piece than its worth.

I saw Arthur Smithies less regularly during the months following this episode. The thesis was nearing completion. My main task during the period was to verify citations, to ensure I had not overlooked any major legal decision and, generally, to get on with the menial tasks of preparing the indices, tables of cases, a bibliography and an abstract. This type of work was best carried out in my own room off Oxford’s Abingdon Road. But even so, I went up to London from time to time, occasionally for an auction but, more often, to consult texts which were not available in Oxford. Usually, when I finished my work in the respective reading room, I took a train to Bank Station in order to call on Arthur Smithies. We had by then become friendly and, in many ways, a trip to London appeared incomplete without a short meeting with him. Brian Davies was another person I used to visit when work took me to London. Our common interest in art laid the foundation for an acquaintance.

What had impressed me most during the entire period was Arthur Smithies ingrained dignity and self-control. The only occasion on which I found him out of humour took place on a bleak November day. I was reading The Times in the waiting room, when a loudly dressed gentleman, smirking victoriously, was escorted to the lift by Brian Davies, whose face was set. As I entered Arthur Smithies room, I was startled to see he was ruffled.

“Is something the matter, Mr Smithies?” I asked as he invited me to sit down.

“Not really” he said, after a pause. “But some customers can get under your skin.”

“May I possibly ask what happened? Is it an unpleasant default situation?”

“Nothing like it. If a customer gets into difficulties without fault, we seek to accommodate. This is why we’re so careful when we accept new customers. No; that fellow, whom you must have seen leaving my room, was haggling with me about the rate of interest on his firm’s overdraft!”

“Is this uncommon?” I asked, surprised.

“No; of course not; and, again, if a customer is decent when he raises the matter, we bend backward to help him. It was the way he went about it.”

His eyes projected indignation. I, in turn, feared to intrude. It seemed best to keep mum. In the event, Arthur Smithies went on without any prompting on my part.

“I think I told you about Timberflashings in Nova Scotia; we have been their bankers for years and still issue all their letters of credit. It has been a good business relationship since the turn of the century. But things changed when the firm was taken over by an American group. I suppose it is only natural that the new owners want to use an American bank. I would have no right to resent that. But instead of a straight change over they are constantly haggling with us.”

“Are they unpleasant when they do?”

“Plain rude is the word. That fellow told me that Chase offered them a line of credit at ½ per cent below ours; and when I said we provide a different service, including the investigation of ventures with new potential clients, he said they didn’t need our help. And the way he put it: ‘All we want is a cheap line of credit; and we can look after ourselves; so if your bank can’t give us a better rate of interest, we’ll take our business elsewhere’.”

“What did you say?” I could not help asking.

“I needed time to control my temper; so I kept studying the file. In the end I agreed to reduce our rate by ¼ of a per cent. When he continued to haggle, I told him that I couldn’t cut our profit margin any further. He said he would think it over.”

“I believe he’ll accept” I said.

“I think you are right” he said, regaining his composure as people do when they have given vent to their feelings. Then, with a ghost of his usual smile, he added with a mental shrug: “I suppose he was bluffing. Chase may have offered him a better rate than ours but probably tagged on some extra charges. Still, this round goes to him. So be it. What I can’t stand is his downright rudeness. Let him take his business elsewhere if he wishes; he’ll soon find out which bank furnishes the better service; we are proud of our record!”

To my relief, Arthur Smithies dismissed the unpleasant incident from his mind over a pleasant lunch in a nearby pub. As I took my leave, he asked whether I had given some thought to what I wanted to do after the completion of my research work.

“Not really” I told him; “I’ve been too busy with the thesis.”

“In its final form it is fine.”

“Thanks,” was all I could bring out, adding “and thanks for all you help.”

“It has been a pleasure,” he said with his usual warm smile.

Some five weeks after this conversation, I handed my thesis in at the University’s Registry. Dreading the wait whilst it was being read by the examiners, I decided to spend the Christmas break with my father in Vienna. We had pleasant evenings together in the theatres, in the two opera houses and in a wine-and-dine taverns in Grinzing. During the days, I kept roving through the antique shops. Eventually, I found the type of item I had been looking for: a cabinet cup and saucer, with excellent paintings of Schloß Schönbrunn. It bore the Habsburg Shield and an incised number showing that it had been produced in 1804. The colours, though, were still as fresh as when the pieces had come out of the kiln.

Two days later, I was on my way back to London. The Registry at Oxford had sent me an urgent letter, advising that my oral examination, known as the ‘viva’, had been set for January 12. The neatly packed cabinet vase was in my briefcase, placed carefully under my seat at the back of the aeroplane.

When the examination was over, I got ready to leave England. The friendly expression on my examiners’ faces had been reassuring. After taking my leave from my supervisors, I proceeded to London to express my thanks to Arthur Smithies.

“So all is well with your thesis,” he said as soon as I entered his office. “But, of course, I have been confident all along; and what are your plans now?”

“I had been thinking of returning to Tel Aviv. But there has been an unexpected development. The University of Singapore has offered me a post in its Faculty of Law. The letter was waiting for me when I came back from Vienna.”

“Singapore?” he said, surprised.

“A chap who used to work in the Bodleian Law Reading Room went there last year. A few months ago he urged me to apply for a newly created Assistant Lectureship. They took so long about it that I assumed they turned me down. Then, out of the blue, came the letter with the offer.”

“Have you accepted?”

“I have. I thought a few years in the East would be interesting and the tropical climate ought to be good for my asthma.”

“What a strange coincidence,” he observed after a pause. “We have been planning to ask whether you may wish to join the Bank as a cadet. I thought it best to wait until you finished your thesis.”

“I wish I had known,” I said, crestfallen.

“It’s alright; don’t you worry about it. Spending some time in Singapore is a good idea. I’m sure you’ll find the East fascinating. And for how long do you plan to go?”

“They have given me a three years contract.”

“We’ll keep our offer open for that period. And we’ll take your new experience into account when we work out the details of an arrangement, that is, if you remain interested to join us in …”.

At that point I was, suddenly, jolted back into the real world surrounding me. A man in uniform, who had just entered the carriage, requested all passengers to have their ticket ready for inspection. Looking out of the window, I realised we had already passed Reading. Before long, the train stopped in Oxford.

5. Surprise at the Preview

For a few moments I stood undecided outside the Station. A glance at my watch told me it was 12 noon. After a brisk walk, I boarded the double Decker to Woodstock, where a shuttle bus was waiting to convey idlers and enthusiasts to the preview of the items to be sold in the auction of the estate of the late Sir Arthur Smithies.

As planned, I started with the porcelain. The yellow-ground cream jug looked even more attractive on the shelf of a mahogany display cabinet than in the photograph and, despite a meticulous examination, I spotted no hairline crack to its handle. It was only when I completed my inspection of the wares that it dawned on me that one item was missing. There was no trace of the cabinet cup and saucer I had brought to my late friend from Vienna. A further march around the cabinets confirmed the position. After a slight hesitation, I stopped one of the attractive attendants:

“Excuse me; I’d like to know: are there any other porcelain pieces here?”

“Only what you see in the cabinets” she said, surprised.

“Is there no Vienna cup, or cup and saucer?”

For a few moments she skimmed quickly, professionally, through the catalogue. When she finished, she shook her head: “No; there’s no such piece.”

Where was my gift? I remembered vividly how pleased he had looked when he examined the cup and saucer. “It is a lovely set, Berger. I really like it. Thanks.”

His delight had been genuine. Why, then, did my gift not figure in the auction? Although I had never joined the ranks of his bank and had met him only once after our last conversation in his office, we had kept in touch for years. His short letters had been marked by their warmth and by his interest in my career. He had, I was confident, remained a friend to the end. Dismissing my initial nagging doubts, I concluded that Arthur Smithies would not have parted with the cup and saucer. Had they, by sheer bad luck, been broken or stolen?

After some time, I turned back to the rooms and started to inspect the furniture. Once again I experienced the sensation of unreality that had overcome me on the flight to London. The rooms looked too grand, too impersonal, to have constituted a home. They created an ambience different from Arthur Smithies’ old office in Birchin Lane. Although his fine rosewood desk, the upholstered chair and the two paintings on the wall had produced gentrified airs, the general atmosphere in the room imbued relaxed comfort. There had been no trace of the grandeur that marked the rooms in his Woodstock abode.

In an attempt to solve the riddle, I had a close look at the paintings on the walls. Most were English hunting scenes and galleons braving stormy seas. Then, as I cast my eye on three frames mounted one above the other on a narrow wall, I froze in my steps. Sandwiched irreverently between two common hunting scenes, hung an art work I had good reason to recognise. The small abstract study in colours entitled ‘Dawn’ was singed ‘Yuan-Ming, S’ore 1981’.” I had stood by her side when she had put the finishing touches to it.

For a while, the world kept spinning around me. When it steadied, I had another close look at the drawing to ensure I had not experienced a mirage. A light touch of the fine rice paper with my finger tips settled any remaining doubt. I had come face to face with a work executed by Yuan Ming .

My friendship with young Yuan Ming and her brilliant father, the antiques dealer Tay Fang-Shuo alias Dr Alfred Cheng, M.A., Ph.D. (Cantab), is a saga of its own. I had met them by chance in 1962, when my feet led me to their shop in the heart of Singapore’s old China Town. The tasteful display of artefacts in their show window had prompted me to cross the threshold although, at that time, I had not developed an interest in Chinese antiques.

Within a few months I had become a close friend of the father, whose profound understanding of both Chinese and European art amazed me. I had also become Yuan Ming’s favourite uncle. I used to help her with her home work, taught her to swim and, occasionally, when Tay and his wife attended functions in their temple, took her for a drive to Johore Bahru or Kota Tinggi. Shortly after her tenth birthday, she started to frequent my office in the University, arriving by taxi straight from school. At the beginning, Tay and I were concerned for her safety. To soothe us, she promised to stop a taxi only if she knew the driver.

It was at about that time that I discovered Yuan Ming’s artistic talents. Even before then, I had been aware of her preoccupation with colours and of her ability to recall the very finest shades of paintings on ceramics. On one occasion, when I challenged her, she drew an exact replica of a polychrome vase I had purchased on my first visit to their shop.

Later on, she showed me a small sketchbook with her drawings, insisting that I tell no one about it. In the event, it had taken me ten months to persuade Yuan Ming to share our secret with Tay. By then, she had developed into a skilled and imaginative young artist.

We remained close even after I married a local Chinese girl in 1963. For a reason I have never managed to work out, I kept my friendship with the Tays to myself. Still, my stand was right. To forestall a storm that would have followed her discovery of this friendship, I reduced my trips to Chinatown from three to two per week. In the event, no cloud appeared on the horizon during my days at the University. Then, to my dismay, I lost touch with my friends after I left Singapore in 1966.

Years later, I stumbled into their new shop during a year I spent as Visiting Professor in the old institution, by then renamed ‘the National University of Singapore’. To my relief, our friendship had stood the test of the lengthy period of separation. Soon I was, once again, making my pilgrimage to their shop two or three times a week. Tay, alas, was looking frail and, except when we talked about art and ceramics, remained withdrawn. But, even so, I was glad to understudy him again.

By then, Yuan Ming, whom I recalled as a young teenager, had bloomed into an attractive self assured woman. She was just as lively and as active as my little friend used to be but had learned to hide her nerves behind a calm and dignified front. Although she was too small to be considered a beauty, she still had her big black eyes, her luscious long hair and, above all, the directness of manner that had captivated my heart in days gone bye.

As I had expected, she remained devoted to art. After a short spell in Cambridge, she moved to Los Angeles. By the time I rediscovered them, she had become a reasonably well known artist, shuttling between California and Singapore and spending her breaks in the PRC, where she mastered the finer details of Chinese painting.

Conceptually, her work manifested maturity. To my disappointment, though, her brushes had lost some of their original freshness: gone was her rare ability to create shapes by a skilful manipulation of the finer shades of their colours. She was, instead, using a technique involving the execution of clear lines outlining each individual subject. With the exception of occasional pieces, in which she employed her earlier skills, I thought the work of the adolescent girl had been superior to the work of the mature young artist. Undoubtedly, the latter’s stroke and handling of the brush had reached new heights; so did the composition of her drawings and paintings. All the same, something was remiss.

Yuan Ming spotted my misgivings straightaway. After a while, she came up with a suggestion.

“You say your wife is going to spend a few weeks with her church friends in Tainan?”

“She is; so we can go to Changi Point a few extra times; and how about a quick trip to Sydney? You’ll love Circular Quay and Balmain.”

“I can’t leave Dad alone; not at the moment. But how about a full day painting safari? There is a lovely spot in the Bukit Timah Reserve. Why don’t I pick you up in Pandan Valley at about 6.00 o’clock on Sunday. You can manage to get up early, once upon a time, can’t you, Respected Uncle?”

‘Dawn’ was drawn that Sunday, by a brook on the slope of a hill. Yuan Ming had used her Chinese brush, dipping it in the ink-pots and executing each stroke with a single confident movement of her hand.

She kept working spontaneously, without a pause, just as she used to do in the old days. Then, after what appeared to me an eon but was in reality but a short span of some thirty minutes, she nodded her head and said with satisfaction: “That’s that; let’s see what you think of it.”

Turning my head, I took in my breath in. The liquid shapes, outlined by the colours alone, sparkled in the gentle morning sun. She had captured the very moment of dawn, with the sun emerging in the horizon, with the rays of soft light engulfing the branches of the trees and caressing the transparent water in the brook. A man and a small girl, sitting on his lap with her arm around his shoulders, were displayed in silhouette in the background. The masterfully executed drawing created an atmosphere of lightness and harmony.

“What do you think of it?”

“It’s beautiful; just plain beautiful” I told her. The perfection of her stroke and of the composition compensated for the one and only shortcoming of the brilliant work: the colours were not as effervescent and as imaginatively employed as in her works of days gone bye. I knew, however, that she was once again on the right track.

To my relief, she did not ask any questions. Having signed the sheet of rice paper, she stamped it with her ‘chop’ – the classic Chinese artist’s seal – and wrote “Dawn” in the margin.

Later in the day, after she had rested, Yuan Ming went back to her easel. The finished work showed a middle aged man and a young woman, admiring a small brook fermenting in the hot sun. In the background, a girl in her early teens and a young man were smiling at them.

“Yuan Ming” I begged; “please, let me have it. I know what you are telling us.”

“It’s yours” she affirmed with a smile; “shall I name it ‘Ablaze at Noon’?”

“Of course” I assured her; “an is it part of set?”

“It’s meant to be; but I’m too tired to draw the other two today; they are ‘Dusk’ and ‘Stormy Night’. I’ll have a go next week.”

Yuan Ming displayed the full set in her next exhibition in Los Angeles. She placed a ‘sold’ tag on ‘Ablaze at Noon’. ‘Dusk’ and ‘Stormy Night’ were snapped up by a New York art dealer. ‘Dawn’ was purchased by an Englishman, described by Yuan Ming as a ‘real cute gentleman, mildly spoken, conservatively dressed and not at all stuffy: a kindly sort of fellow with a twinkle in his eye.’

So ‘Dawn’ had been acquired by Arthur Smithies. He was an art connoisseur. But, then, why was this masterpiece hanging on this ridiculous wall, sandwiched between two dull oils? Trying hard to hide my wrath, I proceeded resolutely to the shuttle bus.

Back in the hotel, I dropped on the bed for a nap before dinner. When I woke up, the room was pitch dark: I had slept some six hours. Realising Yuan Ming was waiting, I grabbed the receiver:

“I’ve been waiting for your call. You alright, Uncle? Where have you been?”

“Asleep on the bed; I just dozed off when I came back from Woodstock.”

“Dozed off with all your clothes on?”

“Well, yes. Sorry to have given you a fright.”

“Something wrong?” she asked anxiously.

“No” I told her; “but the house in Woodstock is upsetting.”

“Let’s hear about it.”

Suppressing my discovery of ‘Dawn’, I dwelt on the missing cup and saucer and the incongruity of the rooms.

“So you think this was not Arthur Smithies’ type of house?”

“It wasn’t; and he wouldn’t have parted with my gift.”

“But people change.”

“I know; but I didn’t think it would happen to him. Still, I suppose I am making too much of it: a storm in a tea cup.”

“I wouldn’t say that; but is this all, Uncle?”

“Well … just about it,” I prevaricated. “But look, when will you be here?”

“Soon; I’ll call your when I’m in Chelsea” she replied, referring to a flat she had acquired some five years earlier on.

6. Reunion

Next morning I put in my appearance in Bill Riggs’ office. As expected, neither camp had assumed the courage to cross swords with its own fighting cock. Disgusted, I spent the day polishing up my Expert’s Report, incorporating in it references to yet another bundle of documents that had materialised from nowhere. When I finished, I took a train to Knightsbridge, to make some purchases. After dinner, I prepared myself for the meeting with Counsel.

This meeting took almost the entire day. When it was over, I went back to the hotel. A voice message conveyed that Yuan Ming had arrived in her flat. She had taken the long flight from Los Angeles in her stride. Her smile greeted me when I entered the restaurant, in which she had booked a table. Having placed our orders, she enquired about my case. I, in turn, was eager to hear about the details of her forthcoming exhibition. Relieved to hear that everything was in place, I proceeded to ask about her personal life. To my dismay, it turned out that she and her latest boyfriend had split.

Instantly, I felt a pang – not the reaction of a suitor, but the quiet ache of a father, who fears that his daughter may grow old and alone after he’s gone. I then concluded that Yuan Ming was still dreaming about a perfect spouse. A dependable, considerate and charming man, who would give her interests a higher priority than his own: an ideal man and perfect spouse. I suspected such paragons of virtue could be found in literature but not in real life. Still, Tay and I had persuaded young Yuan Ming that art did not tolerate compromises. She sought to apply the same unbending yardstick to her personal life.

It seemed best to change the subject. For a while, we recalled anecdotes of the old days in China Town. We then discussed my forthcoming appearance as Expert Witness and, eventually, turned back to her imminent exhibition.

“So everything is alright now” I concluded.

“With my exhibition – yes, Uncle, it is. But I do want to know what went wrong when you went to Woodstock; I know there is something you’re hiding from me. So why not tell me? It’s something you saw in that silly house – isn’t that so, Uncle?”

“There is something; but, please, please, let me tell you later.”

“When?”

“After your exhibition!”

“After my exhibition? But I’m coming with you to the next preview in Woodstock; so I’ll sure see for myself. So why not tell me now?”

She was, of course, right. My design of steering her away from the undignified wall was now bound to fail; perhaps it had been unsound at its inception. Without waiting for my reply, she sped on: “I thought it had something to do with the house; so I went through that silly catalogue of yours till I got a splitting headache. But I couldn’t find a thing. And look here, Uncle; I don’t see how furniture or ceramics can have anything to do with me. So it must be a drawing.”

“So that’s it,” she said when she had taken in the change in my expression. “You came across one of my drawings. But what’s so terrible about that?”

“It’s they way they treated it” I said bitterly, and without further prompting told her what had taken place in the preview, keeping from her only that the painting was ‘Dawn’.

“Uncle,” she said when I had finished, “don’t you see you are being unreasonable?”

“Unreasonable?” I spluttered angrily. “They placed your work of art between two ludicrous 19th century paintings, executed by a Philistine of an unskilled amateur.”

“But who arranged the preview items?”

“Some nincompoop!”

“So that’s it, Uncle. Somebody insulted your Yuan Ming by keeping her work in the shadow. Somebody you don’t even know. And off you go, hitting the roof.”

“I did not hit the roof! I remained as cool as cucumber.”

“With flashing eyes? I can just imagine the scene. Remind me to have a good look at the cucumbers when we next shop in Harrods’ Food Stalls!”

“They don’t sell them there,” I said weakly. “But, honestly, I don’t see how you can take this bullshit so calmly.”

“But, Uncle, if you had kept your cool, you could have offered them more than the upper estimate and walked away with it.”

“It never occurred to me.”

“No, you were too angry, Uncle. And to think that Dad and I tried to teach you to take things easy! But, it doesn’t matter. Only next time don’t you hide things from me and don’t give me a fright.”

7. A Rising Young Banker

Back in my hotel room, my mind reverted to my days as a research student. Banking practice entailed field research, which drove me to London. Notwithstanding its high academic profile, Oxford had never become a commercial centre. Further, some books were not available there.

In all my spells n Lodon, a call on the building in Birchin Lane was imperative. Indeed, the walk from the Middle Temple Library, which housed the best American law books collection in Britain, to Birchin Lane became a pilgrimage. Usually, my object was to call on Sir Arthur Smithies. But yet another friendship – with Brian Davies – was in the making.

Initially, it was a formal acquaintanceship. True, I knew that, like myself, Brian was interested in art. We talked about famous painters and draftsmen when he led me to Arthur Smithies’ office or to the adjacent waiting room. I knew, further, that Arthur Smithies trusted Brian Davies implicitly. All the same, he was in my eyes an appendage – something in the nature of a personal assistant or of body guard – to Arthur Smithies, the head of Crawfords.

This impersonal link turned into a much closer relationship after I ran into him one day over lunch. I was looking for a table in Lyons Corner House when Brian Davies – who had spotted me before my eye fell on him – asked me to join his table. He was lunching with a plain looking and conservatively dressed girl, a few years younger than himself.

Following the introduction, Ruth Brown observed that Brian had told her a lot about me. From the brief exchange that followed, I gathered that Ruth was aware of my background and that Brian had referred to my research topic as well as to my interest in porcelain and in prints.

“A largely academic interest at this stage,” I confided. “Good pieces are well beyond my reach.”

“But I’m sure the right day will come,” she responded. “And, like Brian, you are getting ready for it.”

We went on chatting. Ruth, I realised, was not the flamboyant type of girl a man would date in anticipation of a good time or a casual affair. She was a homely girl with a traditional outlook on life. Her strength was in her character. She had the makings of a steady wife and a good mother. She would be proud to look after her husband, to bring up a solid family and to run a good home.

“Where have the two of you met?” I took the courage to ask.

“In a Christmas party given by Crawfords,” she told me willingly. “One of the secretaries asked me over.”

Ruth was curious about my background. She wanted to find out as much as possible about Israel and, in particular, about Jerusalem. To my relief, she did not ask any personal questions. I, too, steered carefully. Ruth, though, was forthcoming. She told me that her father was the foreman of small industrial firm, that she had two brothers and two sisters and that the family home was on the outskirts of greater London. It took her more than an hour to commute to the city, where she was employed as a teller in a local bank. In contrast to her, Brian did not volunteer any information about his own background. Still, from a casual observation I gathered he shared a flat in Marble Arch with some friends.

I saw more of Brian and Ruth in the course of the ensuing months. Occasionally we lunched together in one of the inexpensive eateries in the City. Some other times we had afternoon tea together. Usually, Brian led the conversation to art. His interest was mainly in modern prints of French based artists. He disliked the German expressionist I admired and found ceramics uninspiring. Ruth, invariably, kept out of the conversations but did her best to feign interest. She came to life when the three of us went to a matinee or an early evening show in Piccadilly.

I had no doubt these two would get married before long. They would – I sensed – enjoy a happy marriage and bring up a large family. What baffled me was that they kept postponing their day. Did one of the families raise objections?

The real reason for the waiting period emerged one day, when I spotted them in a Wimpy Bar in Holborn. To my surprise, both looked out of countenance. Brian tried to clear his expression as soon as he spotted me but Ruth remained overtly distressed. Initially, I thought it best to ignore the clouds and appear at ease. But I had come to know them too well to prevaricate.

“Is something the matter?” I asked.

“Not really” said Brian, whilst Ruth’s face remained set. “We have been making our plans for the future but always come up against a snag.”

“What is it?”

“We want to have a place of our own,” Ruth came to life. “But we can’t afford something suitable and comfy! We have enough for a nice house way out London or some crummy property closer to the City.”

“A Hobson’s Choice,” agreed Brian. “I hate the idea of commuting – wasting some two or three hours on the train day in and day out; and I know all about lousy accommodation!”

“I understand,” I pressed on. “But look, you’re Arthur Smithies right hand man. Can’t you …”

“ … I’ve been telling Brian to have a chat with him,” interposed Ruth.

“But Crawfords does not grant housing loans. Arthur Smithies might make an exception, but he won’t think the better of me,” Brian had spoken firmly.

“But couldn’t he introduce you to a building society?”

“We can approach one of them directly,” explained Brian; “but, Peter, we don’t have enough for a deposit.”

The subject of housing continued to crop up in many later conversations. In the end, Fortuna came to their aid. One of Brian’s colleagues was granted a fellowship by an American University. He asked Brian and Ruth to take care of his flat in Bayswater during the two years he planned to spend overseas. This enabled them to tie the knot. I was one of the few guests invited to their modest ceremony. Another guest was Sir Arthur Smithies.

The memory of that delightful occasion remained fresh in my mind over the years. Stretched comfortably on my bed in the hotel following my evening with Yuan Ming, I kept meandering about what I knew of Brian’s later career. I had been out of touch with him for a long time. But the snippets that had trickled through, suggested he had done well.

8. ‘Dawn’ and Mr Smithies

Next morning I called on Bill Riggs in order to discuss some aspects of our case. Just before lunch I went over to Chelsea. This time we proceeded to Soho, to a restaurant in the heart of Chinatown. For a while we talked about Yuan Ming’s flat in Katong. I had been looking after it since my return to Singapore. When we were done, Yuan Ming reverted to the forthcoming auction in Woodstock.

“Uncle, my drawing in Woodstock – is it ‘Dawn’?”

“Well … yes, it is. I was going to tell you on the way to the preview.”

“No wonder you imploded; you loved it and wanted to have it.”

“I did; still do: but you have to exhibit and sell your best pieces.”

“Yes, I know.” Opening her sketchbook, she went on: “Is this Arthur Smithies?”

It was an excellent portrait of my late friend. Looking older than when I had seen him last, in the Athenaeum, he appeared slightly stooped and his shoulders sagged more pronouncedly than I recalled. What impressed me most, though, was his expression. Although it registered his usual composure and benevolence, Yuan Ming’s sketch brought to the front an aura of independence verging on lonesomeness. She had portrayed a self-assured man, whose pride saved him from any manifestation – perhaps even the inner admission – of failure. He appeared too proud, too constant, to feel sorry for himself or to become disenchanted with life; but his face reflected no inner happiness.

“It’s him alright” I told her. “But it’s not the way I saw him.”

“Where do we differ?”

“First, I thought there was something grand about him; you don’t display this. Secondly, I didn’t sense his loneliness, although I recognised that he was very much his own man.”

“You knew him when he was considerably younger and, I suspect, when he was at his peak. I, Uncle, saw an aging man, determined to retain his self-assurance and dignity. I think you told me that his bank was taken over by an American multinational; perhaps this brought his heyday to an end.”

“And there is one other point,” I told her. “You sketched a confirmed old bachelor. I used to think he had a wife and children. The biography in the catalogue came as a surprise!”

“What on earth made you think he was married, Uncle? I knew he was single.”

“To start with, something in his mannerism projected the airs of a family man. And, in any event, a dependable and warm hearted man like him was bound to attract women who wanted to set up a steady home and enjoy a good family life.”

“I spotted the latter element; not the former. But, of course, not every man who attracts women gets hooked. And, Uncle, you saw him in his bank, which he must have treated as his family. No wonder you confused the issues. But, then, did he ever mention a wife or family?”

“Coming to think of it, he didn’t. All I knew was that, in those days, he lived in Mayfair. I had assumed that he was too reserved to talk about his personal life.”

“Perhaps this was what he wanted you to think! No, Uncle, the element of self-sufficiency, of loneliness, portrayed in my sketch told its own tale. I knew he was a nice and kindly man; but he wasn’t prepared to give up one single shred of his personal freedom.”

“Did anything he say reinforce your conclusion?”

“Not what he said, but what he didn’t say. Most men who buy a piece tell me their wife would love it or that it’s just what she wants for their sitting room. Some even say they’ll come back to have a second look with ‘the missis’; others talk about their daughter or son, and tell me proudly how talented they are and how they, too, like to draw; but not Arthur Smithies. He spoke like an art critic or a connoisseur. He understood what I was trying to do; and he appreciated it; but he remained detached. So I knew.”

“Please, tell me all about your encounter with Arthur Smithies.”

“He turned up on the last day of the exhibition, in the late afternoon. I suspect he didn’t plan to visit us but dropped in by chance. He stopped at the entrance like someone who hadn’t made up his mind; for a while he looked around him and only then stepped in. Most viewers were already gone, so I watched him. You see, Uncle, we don’t get many patrons from Britain; and so I was intrigued.”

“What did you do?”

“I kept watching him. He was not impressed with the mainstream of my works. But he showed interest when he looked at the other paintings, where I used ‘her’ old technique. When he reached the set we drew in the Bukit Timah Reserve, his expression changed altogether: it became animated and, Uncle, he broke into an appreciative smile. He moved closer to see the title of the drawings, took a few steps back to look at each drawing from a distance, came closer again and then turned around like somebody requiring attention. So I walked over and asked if I could help him.”

“Did you tell him you were the artist?”

“No, I didn’t; but he knew straight away; don’t ask me how. He first asked where I had drawn these pieces. He then raised questions about the technique and, very discreetly, inquired where I got my training. He was not surprised when I told him I used a Chinese technique but Western concepts. I suspect he had worked that out for himself.”

“How do you know he grasped the subjects and the ideas behind them?”

“I asked if he wanted me to explain. He said he thought he understood what I was aiming at and, rather shyly, ran through the four drawings and said he would like to get any piece still available.”

“So what did you do?”

“I told him that ‘Dawn’ was available. He jumped at it and – you know – declined the 15% discount I offered him.”

So Arthur Smithies had not changed his benign life philosophy. Even years after he became my mentor, he was willing to spend time or money on what appeared supportable in his eyes.

“Did he contact you again?”

“He did. First I got a Christmas card, in which he told me ‘Dawn’ graced his sitting room. A few months later, he sent me a handwritten note, saying that a well known London art critic had seen ‘Dawn’ and thought well of it. A Christmas card, which he sent two years later, mentioned that ‘Dawn’ was admired in an exclusive show of contemporary art.”

“Did you reply?”

“He never gave an address; so I assumed he intended to keep it a one way correspondence. But, Uncle, that show had an effect on my career! You remember I told you I had been invited to send drawings and sketches to a well known gallery in Paris and to another in Amsterdam?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the owners of the two galleries got interested in my work when they saw ‘Dawn’.”

So cause and effect had played their role. Still, chance – my beloved Fortuna – had directed Arthur Smithies’ feet to the exhibition in Los Angeles. Without her intervention, ‘Dawn’ may have remained unrecognised. Yet another fine painting ignored by collectors.

“Was ‘Dawn’ his first preference?”

“He said so. When I asked ‘why’, he answered: ‘I admire the harmony in the composition and the blending of the scenery with the dreams of the little girl and the man’s aspirations for her.’ I had the feeling, Uncle, that, for just a moment, he lost his detachment and, perhaps, was talking to himself. But look, Uncle, I must really go ahead with that call to Hong Kong. Why don’t you order our meal while I make it?"

Yuan Ming used her handphone. At first she spoke in Cantonese but soon switched to Mandarin. I concluded that she was negotiating with two parties: a Hong Kong businessman and a Mainland Chinese, who came to the Colony to clinch the deal. Instantly, I felt my usual apprehension for her safety. Would the pitcher go to the well once to often?

To calm my nerves, I tried to concentrate on Yuan Ming’s sketch of Arthur Smithies. A closer scrutiny convinced me that it was satirical. She had contrasted his declining physique with his urge to maintain the pose of days past.

Like all her other portraits, Yuan Ming’s sketch of Arthur Smithies reflected her wit and objectivity. It was not malicious. My image of him differed because I had hero worshipped him. My tinted glasses had obliterated the dents in Arthur Smithies’ armour – the flaws that had been discerned by Yuan Ming’s impartial eye.

Her diagnosis of Arthur Smithies in his later years was borne out by what I had gleaned from other sources. My own communications with him, following my departure from England, had been too tenuous to enable me to form a clear impression. All I knew was that he had retained his elegant style of writing and his sharp but constructive critical facility. I knew also that he had remained well inclined toward me. That much transpired from our correspondence. But his letters and occasional cards told me little about his own life and plans.

Fixing my eyes on Yuan Ming’s sketch, I asked myself whether Arthur Smithies had always been as she saw him or whether a subtle change, produced by the ravages of time, had turned the man I knew into the replica portrayed by her? Seeking to find an answer, I commenced to rove through our communications following my departure from England.

Shortly after my arrival in Singapore I had sent him a number of postcards with scenes of the town. He, in turn, kept sending me cuttings from catalogues. Later on, during my second year in Singapore, I wrote to advise him that I had decided to remain in academia. Quite apart from the liking I had developed for my new abode and its mild tropical climate, I had by then cemented my friendship with Tay and Yuan Ming. I was too happy to yearn for a career in grey and eternally drizzling London. He sent me a charming reply, using the occasion to attach some comments on an article I had published in an English periodical.

Toward the end of the same year, I went for a short spell to Vienna and for just one week to London. Naturally, I went down to Crawford & Co but, to my disappointment, Arthur Smithies was out of town. Brian Davies, too, was unavailable.

I made my next attempt to see him during my study leave. A fortnight after our arrival in London. I was about to enter the building n Birchin Lane when, to my amazement, I saw that the old and elegant placard had been replaced by the insignia of the First National City Trust Co. Inc., a well known American multinational bank. For a while I stared at it dumbfounded. Then, hidden beneath the large letters of the new owners’ name, I spotted a small brass table. It read: ‘Formerly Crawford & Co. – founded 1756.’

When I recovered, I stepped in. The new Head Porter, who used to be the second in command, recognised me instantly.

“We haven’t seen you here for a while, Sir.”

“I’ve been away, in Singapore. Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you, Sir; thank you. You look well, if I may say so. Must be nice and warm out there in the East.”

“It is indeed. But tell me please, is Mr Smithies available?”

“I am afraid he is no longer with us, Sir.”

“Do you know whether he is in London?”

“I believe he is in Scotland. Mr Brian Davies may have his address.”

“Is he still with the bank?”

“He is indeed. Shall I let him know you are here?”

Brian Davies had put on weight and projected the image of a successful executive on his way up. After a drink in his office, we went for lunch. Over the first course, we exchanged our personal news. I was delighted to learn that Brian had been appointed the Head of the Overseas Department – a fine achievement for a man in his mid thirties. Brian, though, did not tell me much about his post. He was, rather, eager to talk about his domestic life.

“Mary Jane arrived over two years ago,” he said proudly. “She talks quite a bit already. And we are told our next one will be a boy. He is due soon.”

“Congratulations,” I said warmly; “do you intend to have a large family?”

“Jonathan will have to be the last; Ruth is having a tough time. I wish we were living closer to the City so that I could go home for lunch.”

“I thought you had intended to buy a house in Bayswater when your landlord came back from the States?”

“We still couldn’t afford a good house in inner London; so we settled on a house in Stanmore.”

“Where exactly is Stanmore?”

“I keep forgetting you are not from these pArt, Peter,” he chuckled. “Stanmore is on the outskirts, just within greater London. Forty minutes by train.”

“That’s a long ride.”

“Some of my colleagues commute from as far as Oxford!”

As before, Brian enjoyed his food. Still, when the waiter had served the main course, Brian turned, at long last, to the subject I was most interested in.

“You must wonder what has happened to the old bank? Did Arthur Smithies tell you about the takeover?”

“I received his last letter about half a year ago; and ‘no’, he didn’t say anything about a takeover.”

“They were still negotiating at that time; I suspect he thought the deal would fall through.”

“What actually happened?”

“You could call it a ‘palace revolution’, although a ‘family skirmish’ is more to the point.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“You knew that Crawford & Co. was a partnership, didn’t you?” Without waiting for my reply, he went on. “Arthur Smithies had the biggest share. All the other partners were members of the two families: the Smithies and the Crawfords. Well, some of them started to get concerned about the drop in profits.”

“I thought the bank was doing well?”

“In some ways it did. New clients from Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands were investing their funds with us. This, incidentally, was why Arthur Smithies was keen to have you join us: he needed somebody to handle our German speaking clientele. Still, at the other end of the scale, we were losing some of our older clients, like Timberflashings. Crawfords was too small to stem the onslaught of some of the foreign banks. Arthur Smithies’ idea of gradually transforming the firm into an investment bank was sound: the private investor’s first two priorities are ‘the personal touch’ and confidentiality. Here the multinationals cannot compete with the small aristocratic banks.”

“So what went wrong?”

“The family partners became too impatient; and too greedy. All they saw was the periodic fall in profits. Some asked Arthur Smithies to buy them out but, of course, demanded too much. When he refused, one of them approached First National. It was common knowledge that they were looking for a target in London and, as expected, they jumped at the opportunity. Initially, Arthur Smithies sought to fend them off. Regrettably, some family partners tried to use the take-over bid as a club to beat a better price for their holdings out of Arthur Smithies.”

“He would not have appreciated that!” said I.

“He hated it! Some eighteen years ago, when Crawfords went through a post War crisis, Arthur Smithies gave up his practice at the Bar and took over the management of the Bank. He salvaged it. I am told that nobody said: ‘thank you’. This may not have mattered to him then; perhaps he didn’t expect a show of gratitude. But he took a dim view of the family’s conduct during the last few years. In the end, he made his own deal with our new masters. Being an honest man he looked also after the interests of the rest: but he made his own decision and put the remaining partners before a fait accompli.”

“How did they take it?”

“With varying degrees of ill grace. Although Arthur Smithies secured a fair deal, they felt slighted because he had not consulted them. I believe their resentment was the real cause of an ugly scene, made by the son of one of one partners and the daughter of another.”

“What happened?”

“The two – who I think are engaged to be married – turned up one morning. The young man, who was in a foul mood, started by voicing his unhappiness with the deal and then accused Arthur Smithies of making an unfair profit out of it. You see, Arthur Smithies bargained for a termination bonus based on the loss of the salary paid to him as the bank’s managing partner. The young man argued that this sum was taken out of the price payable for the assets so that its payment reduced the amount due to each partner for his share.”

“What did Arthur Smithies say?”

“I could see he was taken aback. But, even so, he tried to explain to them that it was a severance payment, to remunerate him for his years of service to the bank – a golden handshake. I believe the girl accepted this. She must have realised how deeply Arthur Smithies had been offended and wanted to avoid a family quarrel. Unfortunately, the young man wouldn’t be silenced. He told Arthur Smithies that he had taken legal advice and, on its basis, was satisfied that the payment was in the nature of a bribe! He concluded by saying: ‘This is not something the family expected from you, our upright uncle Arthur!’.”

“The bloody cheek! What did Arthur Smithies do?”

“You should have seen his face. For just a moment I feared he would lose his temper and yell at them. Then, within a matter of seconds, he managed to control himself and just kept staring at them in silence. When he had cooled down, he said in a measured tone: ‘As you have already consulted your legal advisers, the matter has to be settled through them. I shall refer their letter to my own solicitors. And now I have to get ready for my next appointment; so please excuse me. Mr Davies will show you out’.”

“You must have felt very awkward to be in the middle?”

“I was too absorbed in what was going on to think of myself.”

“And so did you just see them out?”

“Not immediately. The girl said they were only repeating the lawyer’s opinion. Arthur Smithies did not bother to reply. Then the young man asked if there was any message for his father. Arthur Smithies replied: ‘So he is a party to this affront. Very well, then. You can tell him that I shall sign the take-over agreement on the appointed day. Under clause 17, the agreement comes into operation only if it is signed by all the partners within the immediately following ten days. If they do not sign, I shall take the necessary steps to dissolve the partnership. And now I must really ask you to leave.’ The young man said: ‘As you wish.’ The girl tried again to salvage the situation. She mentioned the high esteem in which Arthur Smithies was held by the family and said he had always been her favourite uncle. When she finished, Arthur Smithies said: ‘What a pity it has all come to end in this way.’ He then picked up the file lying in front of him and immersed himself in it. They then left.”

“Was there a sequel?” I wanted to know.

“Not that I know of. By the end of the ten days period, all the partners had signed on the dotted line.”

“What I can’t understand is how any responsible solicitor could tell his client that a ‘golden handshake’ constituted a bribe? That young ass must have consulted an octogenarian!”

“No, Peter: he consulted a law student!” Noting my amazement, Brian Davies went on: “When I saw them out of the building the girl chided her fiancé for his rudeness. He had been asked to reason with uncle Arthur, with the object of convincing him to pay a percentage of his ‘golden handshake’ over to the family. Nobody had asked him to stage a confrontation. Well, her words cut no ice with that chap. Appearing quite unruffled, he told her that he was certain a ‘nice old stick’ like their worthy uncle Arthur would do the right thing after thinking the matter over. He would be scared by the damage to his ‘bloody reputation’. She retorted that uncle Arthur hadn’t looked frightened to her. She then scolded the young man for alleging they had consulted a lawyer, when all he did was to discuss the matter with a law student in Cambridge. The young man muttered he still thought Arthur Smithies would cave in; to which she replied: ‘We’ll see’.”

“And they had this row in front of you, Brian?”

“Quite so. You see, Peter, these young rich upstArt, with their arrogance and bloody airs, regard somebody in my position as a sort of a butler. So they take no notice of my presence. Still, I didn’t repeat what I had heard to Arthur Smithies: he would not have wanted to know and, in any event, it would have made no difference. He had decided to sever his ties with the family there and then; and I don’t blame him.”

“What happened to Arthur Smithies after the completion of the take-over. The porter told me he was in Scotland.”

“He declined an offer for a non-executive directorship of First National but considered an offer to join another bank – an emerging investment bank with a background similar to Crawfords’.” He hesitated for a moment and then added, slightly embarrassed: “I think you can guess who they are. Then came the offer to put him in charge of the restructuring of CBC Corporation…”

“Who are they?”

“A substantial industrial firm; the main shareholder is the Crown. About one year ago the Annual General Meeting resolved to relocate the headquarters to Edinburgh. Arthur Smithies appeared the right man to be put in charge. He considered the proposition for a fortnight and accepted. I suspect he wanted to be away for a period.”

“Did he look after the interests of his old employees?” I asked, wondering what would have been my fate had I joined Crawford & Co.

“He did us proud! You realise all of us had been handpicked by him. He knew some would not fit in with the new management. So he interviewed each employee to see if he wanted to remain in the bank or preferred to make a move. Quite a few of the old guard got excellent jobs in other banks in the City through him. I could have moved to Brownlows but decided to stay put. If you had joined us, he would have secured you an opening in one of the established foreign investment banks.”

“So, by and large, it was a painless take-over.”

“For everybody, except, I think, for Arthur Smithies himself,” concluded Brian Davies.

A few days after that lunch with Brian Davies, I wrote to Arthur Smithies at his new address in Edinburgh. We exchanged letters periodically during my ten years in New Zealand but, to my regret, never managed to meet.

My impressions of Arthur Smithies’ Odyssey during these years were, in consequence, based entirely on his letters and postcards. Unlike mine, which provided an outline of my life and career, his communiqués told me little about himself. Usually he started by commenting on the latest offprint of an article I had sent him or expressed his thanks for the copy of a new book. Frequently, he included an appendix with comments and notes and, occasionally, incorporated observations respecting banking practice.

He also used to refer to interesting auctions or exhibitions he had attended or to his main news as, for instance, that he had completed his assignment in Edinburgh and was pleased to be back in London. But, even on this specific occasion, he did not furnish any details respecting the work he had carried out.

Shortly after his return to London, he wrote that he had moved from Mayfair to Epping, where he had found a house suitable for his ever growing collection of furniture and artefacts. A few months later, I was delighted to read that he had been constituted the Chairman of the Board of Directors of a major public corporation. He savoured the prestige involved but, all the same, regretted that the new position did not engender the process of decision making to which he had been accustomed at Crawford & Co. “Occasionally,” he wrote “I miss the hurly-burly.”

Later still – a few weeks after we had missed one another in 1974 – he told me he had resigned his appointment in that public corporation and set himself up as an arbitrator in commercial disputes. A passage in the relevant letter was revealing. “My room in my old chambers in the Middle Temple has once again become my headquarters. I am glad I have kept it all these years.” After a further few years, when I was already back in Singapore, he told me had decided to retire, explaining: “A sensible boxer knows when to quit the ring.”

As my mind skimmed through the letters we had exchanged over the years, it dawned on me that, in more than one way, they had remained formal. I continued to address him as “Dear Mr Smithies” (or ‘Sir Arthur’) whilst his letters opened with “My Dear Berger”. Neither of us had ever referred in our correspondence to the mishaps, to the disappointments and to the occasional upheavals that close friends discuss with one another. He had, for instance, not referred to his split with the rest of his family. I, in turn, had never adverted to my matrimonial problems.

We had also been careful in commenting on each other’s personal decisions. I recalled that, when I advised him of my appointment to the Chair in Wellington, he had observed: “I only hope you will be able to pursue your interest in porcelain from out there.” Notably, the very same letter included one of the only two comments he had ever made about my personal life. “From all I hear,” he had written, “Wellington is a nice place; hopefully your wife, who is accustomed to life in a hustling and bustling town like Singapore, will find it congenial.” The other comment, written when I told him I had been appointed to a Chair at Monash University in Melbourne, went in the same direction: “I am sure you will find a larger University a new challenge. Your wife, I trust, is looking forward to life in a large town like Melbourne.” He had been less direct when I told him, a few years later, that we had decided to return to Singapore. Having expressed his warm congratulations on my new appointment, he added: “So you have decided to settle in your wife’s old home town”.

As Yuan Ming kept discussing her forthcoming deal with the overseas parties, I continued to reflect on my correspondence with Arthur Smithies. Then, just as she ended the call, the waiter placed the meal I had ordered in front of us. They chef had taken his time but, then, the dishes were freshly cooked.

“And you were thinking of Arthur Smithies whilst poor me was busy negotiating the grand deal,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“I have indeed; and I like your sketch.”

“Thanks; but you better snap back into the present; or I’ll gobble up all the food: I’m as hungry as a horse!”

“As a mare, surely?”

“Sure, Uncle, sure,” she burst out laughing; “when you get fed up with the law, you may devote yourself to teaching bright school children the sequence of tenses, the declination of verbs and ancient grammar.”

“All right,” I replied. “And so your deal is all settled?”

“We’ll see; I’ll know for sure tomorrow. And I may not have to go to China after all. They’ve sent some pieces over here and I’m going to examine them tomorrow morning. If they are O.K., I can clinch the deal from London and make the final arrangements from Hong Kong.”

9. A Grand Deal

Next morning I took the underground to Bank Station. When I embarked at the Lombard Street exit, I was overcome by an urge to walk over to Birchin Lane. A glance at the front of the well known building revealed that it had changed hands again. It now housed the Administration and Finance Section of a major British bank. I was about to turn back on my heels, when I heard a voice addressing me: “Can I help you, Sir?”

He, too, had aged. Streaks of salt and pepper interlaced his previously light hair and his face was wrinkled all over. But his ruddy appearance and his army bearing continued to give him an aura of robustness.

“It is a long time since you called last, Sir.”

“Some twenty years or so. And how have you been keeping?”

“Can’t complain, Sir, can’t complain; and how are you? You look well, if I may say so.”

“Thank you” I said. “And I see the old building has new owners.”

“They bought it some five years ago. It became too small for First National.”

“The premises are no longer sort of open to customers.”

“No, they aren’t; but would you like to have a look?”

As I followed him, I noticed that his right knee was stiff. Despite his effort to hide his impediment, he was limping.

“A touch of the gout,” he said without bitterness. “Knee is painful in the morning but gets better later in the day.”

“Are you undergoing treatment?”

“Not really; it’ll come right sooner or later,” he answered as he let me in.

The well was gone. So was the elegant mezzanine floor. Rows of small cubby box offices, set apart by thin partitions, occupied what had once been a spacious interior. Even the staircase looked narrower and the modernised lifts lacked in charm.

“I think I have seen enough. But tell me, the old board room – is it still the same?”

“The room is still there; but I am afraid the panelling is gone. The polishing process became too expensive, what with the cost of flying the workmen over from Italy. So First National had it stripped off. The new pine panelling looks just as good but doesn’t have the cool touch.”

“What a pity” I said as he closed the door behind us. “And tell me, is Mr Brian Davies around?”

“I am afraid not, Sir. He left First National years ago. I hear he went out to the Gulf to set up their banking system. But he may be back in England now. And Sir Arthur Smithies passed away last month. The poor gentleman. He made sure First National did the right thing by us.”

“I was sorry to hear of his demise. Actually, I went to the preview of his estate earlier this week.”

“I am going next week, Sir. I hope to get the painting of the galleon battling the storm off Yarmouth I like this painting. It used to hang in the Partners Room. It sort of reminded me of home.”

“I think it’s there. So are you from Yarmouth?” I told him.

“We are; and my wife is looking forward to going back when I finish here.”

“All the best luck in the world to you then” I said, touched by his show of loyalty to his home town. “And take care of yourself …”

“ … Bates” he interceded with a grin. “Roger Bates.”

When I got to Bill Rigg’s office, I discovered that the trial had been postponed because the judge had come down with a bout of ‘flu. To avoid a series of delays a new date had been set some two weeks after the vacated day. Shrugging my shoulders, I took a taxi to Chelsea.

As soon as I entered the flat, Yuan Ming showed me a few ceramics pieces, mainly T’ang and Song. The purchasers had demanded a second opinion. She wanted me to examine the ones in front of us. On this occasions, my work with her late father stood me in good stead. Following a careful perusal, I concluded they were genuine.

“These pieces are perfect: best T’ang and Song items I’ve seen for years” I told her.

“They are,” she agreed. “Once they are out of China, they’ll fetch a fortune.”

For a while, I kept staring at her. Strange thoughts raced through my mind. Why was she implicated in such a shady deal, involving the smuggling of a national treasure out its home country?

“You wonder why I’m doing it?”

“Well, yes. Shouldn’t this find remain in China, as part of the national heritage? You are not doing it just for the money, Yuan Ming?”

“No, of course, not. I have enough; not that my 3 per cent cut is to be sneezed at. But, no, money is sure not my motive. Like the two principals, I want to help get these pieces to a safe place, where there are no political lunatics who destroy works of art out of ideological zeal. That, Uncle, is the main motive. When the dust has settled, the treasure will be bequeathed to a suitable museum. ”

“I understand,” I assured her. “But I hope you can clinch the deal from here: if you get caught in something like this in China, I’ll never see you again.”

“Some of the people involved are right at the top; so the risk is negligible” she said with a smile. “But you are right – it’s dangerous because they may look for a scapegoat if somebody blows the whistle. So I better try to settle it now.”

I sat beside her as she made her call to the United States. This time she spoke in Hokkien and so I could grasp occasional phrases. Outwardly, she remained calm and her voice kept its even resonance. But I could sense the tension that was mounting inside her. As soon as she finished, she smiled at me apologetically and dialled a number in Hong Kong.

“And so you clinched the deal?” I asked when she ended the call with a satisfied grin.

“I have. But I had to reduce my commission to 2 per cent.”

“But you don’t have to travel to China?!”

“No, I don’t! And, Uncle, you can keep the pieces we examined. They are a bonus – for a long suffering uncle.”

“They are worth at least £10,000.00; perhaps more!”

“But you are not going to sell them, are you? I’m sure you’ll place them on the shelves of Dad’s cabinets.” She was referring to the ceramics collection, including Tay’s pieces, which we kept in the flat in Katong.

“True” I said. “He would have liked them! Also, such works of art should not be sold to a rich ignoramus, who might smash them in a fit of rage when his next currency speculation misfires or when his latest mistress elopes with his chauffeur!”

“What language” she laughed. “The way you talk, Uncle, I might forget you are a sedate lawyer charging resolutely for every minute of your precious time!”

“It all goes for a good cause,” I protested.

“Like buying extravagant gifts for your niece?”

“Coming to think of that,” I told her, “I might as well show you what I have bought for your birthday. I’d rather give it to you now than in six days.”

“Don’t tell me it’s another piece of jewellery!”

“No, it isn’t: just you have a look!”

An animated expression crept over her face when she picked up the Harlequin. He was gracefully dancing away from the small scent bottle, shaped as the trunk of an oak, against which he had been leaning. Like me, she was captivated by the dynamic movement of his right arm and his left leg, by his beckoning hand which invited an unseen Columbine to join him and by his enigmatic smile. Although he was less than two inches tall, he had all the attributes of a rococo sculpture.

“He is adorable” she said after a pause. “And I love his costume. Yes, Uncle, he’s cute: I’d like to dance with him!”

“Do you like him better than the Chinese pieces you just gave me?”

“Yes, I do” she said readily; “the porcelain is almost as good as Chinese porcelain; and the colours are just as fresh and project the same harmony…”

“Why, then, do you prefer him?”

“Because he is a real man – with his own dreams. He talks to me and, yes, I should like to dance with him. Thanks Uncle.” Placing him caressingly beside the larger, imposing yet perfect Chinese pieces, she concluded: “Look, Uncle, he dwarves these pieces.”

“They have their own elegance” I said with unease, thinking of her father.

“They do; but my Harlequin is the real thing.” Looking at me searchingly, she added: “Dad, too, knew it; but was loath to admit it.”

It was raining hard that evening. So we ordered a pizza and prepared a few dishes. I proved my ability as a chef by baking a soufflé. Over this dinner we planned our next day trip to Woodstock and a journey to the Continent. After we had washed and dried the dishes, Yuan Ming brought up an old subject:

“Uncle, when you first came to Dad’s shop in Chinatown, you didn’t even look for it? You just stepped in on the spur of the moment?”

“You could say that; but I liked the tastefully arranged show window.”

“Suppose you had walked bye with your head in the clouds; or suppose you hadn’t lost your way at all that day?”

“Well?” said I.

“We might have never met. What do you think would my life have been like, Uncle? Do you think I would have become an artist?”

“And why not? You had the talent all along.”

“But what were Dad’s plans for me?”

“He wanted you to become a scholar like himself.”

“But was I born to be a scholar? Did I have the desire to search for knowledge?”

“Perhaps not; but your Dad tried to get you there.”

“But can you change a child’s orientation altogether? Come, come, Uncle , you spent hours teaching ‘her’ to write …”

“And you always got the top marks in school for your essays!”

“Because ‘she’ wrote them under your vigilant eye. But did she have a natural gift?”

“Perhaps not. Still, under your Dad’s guidance you became skilled in writing Chinese!”

“Because I loved the beauty of the script. So I worked hard to perfect my technique; and Dad was proud of me: sometime he couldn’t resist bragging. But he knew I was no scholar.”

“Still, you could have become a great traditional Chinese artist? Even as things stand, you have been recognised by some of the best masters of China!”

“So I have – but my work would have been sterile. Yet another Chinese artist labouring for years to perfect her stroke; and could I have produced ‘Dawn’ or ‘Ablaze at Noon’.”

“You would not have conceived the idea; I’m not sure why.”

“I’ll tell you why, Uncle. Someone had to draw me away from the narrow constraints of my own culture and early upbringing. ‘She’ needed somebody to assure her that she had the right to think for herself; and so you stepped into our shop; and helped ‘her’ to open her eyes!”

“But your Dad was as much of an individualist as me. He, too, made a fetish of your independence.”

“He did, Uncle; and he was an individualist. Still, he was plagued by a desperate need to cling to the image of a traditional Chinese scholar: detached from life, patient even if open eyed, and imperturbable.”

“And when he delivered his sparkling lectures in English?”

“For these he turned himself into his image of a Cambridge scholar, changing his clothes, his manner of speech and even his demeanour. But here, too, he clung to an ideal.”

“What are you telling me, Yuan Ming?” I asked bewildered.

“In his heart of heArt Dad remained a traditional Chinese. As you know, he understood the West and its ideals. He liked much of what the West offered him. But his core remained untouched.”

“And you, Yuan Ming – aren’t you still a Chinese girl?”

“In appearance only. But when all is said and done, Uncle, I am a bit like you. You, Uncle, are no longer a real Viennese or Israeli. Today, you think, speak and write in English – not in one of your two mother tongues. So you’ve become a cross cultural person …”

“A mongrel?”

“ … quite. But remember, thoroughbreds are dull; mongrels are cute.”

“And you, Yuan Ming, what are you?”

“In many ways, I’m still Chinese. But like you, I have travelled far away from home.”

“But how – in which direction?”

“I went for a search for myself: a search for individuality. This, Uncle, is the fetish of the West: the ideal which separates West from East. Even if Dad had conceived the idea of ‘Dawn’, the topic would have disturbed him. In his eyes, it would be untraditional and vulgar.”

“He never tried to stop you,” I protested lamely.

“True; he didn’t. He was a fair minded man. Perhaps he also realised that the old order had to give way. But he didn’t approve. No, Uncle, you had to bring out ‘her’ talents.”

Once again, there was a lull in our conversation. Both of us were recalling the old days affectionately. They had been happy. Seen through a kaleidoscope, the bright colours had moved into the centre.

After a short lull, Yuan Ming resumed her discourse: “Let me tell you, Uncle, what my life would have been like if we hadn’t met. No doubt, ‘she’ would have taken over Dad’s shop …”

“ … you did in any event.”

“So I did,” she agreed, “and ‘she’ would have made just as good a job of it even if you hadn’t stepped into her life. ‘She’ had the ability and the business acumen. The shop would have become her career. ‘She’ would not have become a scholar: ‘she’ was too pragmatic. So your grown up Yuan Ming would have ended up as one of the leading Chinese art dealers …”

“ … you are now!” I interceded firmly.

“Now I’m one of the top twenty or so; if ‘she’ had grown up without meeting you, the sky would have been the limit! I could have been in the top three!”

“Do you have regrets?”

“Of course not. You see, ‘her’ dreams would have been quenched at source and I should have missed out on my real vocation. Also, I should probably be unhappily married to a successful Chinese businessman, with a degree in ‘systems engineering’ or some such other frightful subject.” Pausing for a minute, she went on: “And if I had come across my Dancing Harlequin, I should have thought he was cute; but the wish to dance with him would have never crossed my mind.”

Back in my lonely hotel room, I kept thinking of what Yuan Ming had told me. Initially, I was disturbed by her harsh judgment of her late father. Then, as I meandered through my own experiences with him, I realised she had hit the nail on its head. In many ways, Tay’s outlook had resembled Arthur Smithies’. True, there were marked differences between the roads chosen by the two men. Tay Fang-Shou had devoted his life to the study of plastic art whilst Arthur Smithies had pursued a career in the City. Both, though, had an aesthetic drive and an admiration for creativity. They had also possessed the instincts of connoisseurs and patron of the Art. These qualities enabled the two men to recognise the merits of alien cultures. At the same time, each of them had remained engrossed in his own milieu.

Naturally, I was aware of the demarcation between Tay and my nephews and nieces in Singapore. It was the same gap that separated Arthur Smithies from Roger Bates, the ageing porter at the building in Birchin Lane. Unlike Arthur Smithies, Roger Bates did not doubt the precepts and the norms of his strong English background. What would Roger Bate have told his pals in the pub after a visit to Paris or to Vienna? Undoubtedly, he would have described each town as quaint; and he would have had much to say about the food, the taverns and the attractive girls. His main sentiment, though, would have been: “it’s good to be back at home, where everything is just right”.

Tay and Arthur Smithies were as far removed from Roger Bates and from my tunnel-visioned nephews and nieces as Yuan Ming and I were ahead of the two of them. Unlike Tay and Arthur Smithies, Yuan Ming and I were prepared to question the very ethos of our own respective backgrounds and cultures. To us, both the idols of the home and the platitudes of the market place had lost their authority. Brian Davies, I reflected, might have travelled in the same direction but, in the event, did not take the cosmopolitan ticket.

“Yes, Yuan Ming,” I whispered although I knew my thoughts could not be transmitted to her flat in Chelsea, “eons ago our paths had crossed due to Fortuna’s whim. But that chance meeting had its own lasting effect on both of us.”

10. Last meeting with a friend

We made our way to Woodstock in a rented car. Firm in her belief that wealth ought to be enjoyed, Yuan Ming hired a Rover. As always, she handled the car far more confidently and aggressively than myself. Frequently she took advantage of the chivalry displayed by male drivers on the road, remunerating their gallantry with an appreciative smile.

For a while I continued to admire the progress made by her. Then, compulsively, my mind strayed back to Arthur Smithies. Although Yuan Ming’s sketch and searching assessment of his personality had revealed the dents in his armour, I continued to recall him with my usual affection and gratitude. As Yuan Ming entered the M4, adroitly overtaking in the process another woman driver who screamed an obscenity at her, my mind focused on my very last meeting with my late friend: our conversation in the Athenaeum in 1981.

It had taken place during a week which I spent in London in respect of my first engagement as an expert witness. After my spell in the witness box, our QC invited me, together with a colleague from King’s College, to have lunch in the Athenaeum. Looking around me when the waiter served the main course, my glance rested for a moment on an elderly gentleman who was sitting on his own at a nearby table. By sheer coincidence he raised his head. Our eyes met and, instantaneously, I recognised him.

His hair had gone grey and he had lost some weight; but he did not look as frail as in Yuan Ming’s sketch. I sensed that he had retained his presence and had aged with dignity. Offering my excuses to my host, I stepped over and joined Arthur Smithies.

“It has been a long time since we last met, Mr Smithies”.

“Too long, Berger, far too long.”

“And how are you keeping? You look well, if I may say so.”

“Thank you; I do look after myself; except that I take on more cases than I ought to.”

“Surely, you do continue to enjoy your role in the City?”

“I suppose I do; it’s the life to which I’m accustomed; occasionally, though, I feel the need to have more time for myself: for my collection mainly. But, tell me, Berger, how are you getting on? And thanks again for the books and offprints you send me from time to time. I enjoy reading them.”

“Thanks” I said, touched “and, actually, I’m fine. As I mentioned to you in my last letter, I’m spending one year of sabbatical leave in Singapore. My wife loves it.”

“And has she accompanied you to London?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve come out for just a few days – to give evidence as an expert witness on banking practice.”

“And how is it going?”

“No too badly.”

“I’m glad it’s going smoothly,” he said with approbation. “I told them you were the right man for the job when the subject cropped up in a recent conversation.”

“I’ve wondered who had mentioned my name to Paine and Pine, Mr Smithies. It was most kind of you to think of me.”

“Oh, I just mentioned your name; I’m sure they decided to call you in reliance on your publications.”

“But I’m sure your support was essential, and thanks again. But please tell me, Mr Smithies, how do you find Epping? Do you commute to London every day?”

“Not really, just about two or three times a week. When we have an arbitration going, I stay in the club. And, yes, I do like Epping. A small town with a life of its own but with easy access to the City.”

“And how is your collection?”

“It has grown,” he responded with a smile. “I find good furniture and pieces of porcelain irresistible. Soon my house will become too small to contain them. The rooms begin to look cluttered. And how is your collection?”

“Getting quite substantial!” I told him proudly.

“Which shows that both of us are hooked on collecting,” he said. Then, as if embarrassed by his joke, he added in haste: “And have a look, I just received a catalogue of a forthcoming sale of the estate of a keen collector from Torquay.”

Opening the catalogue at the pages displaying the porcelain items, he drew my attention to the yellow milk jug.

“Isn’t it lovely?” he asked.

“Exquisite,” I confirmed. “You’ll bid for it, no doubt?”

“There are a few other good pieces in the sale; but I think this is the best. Have a look for yourself.”

For a few moments both of us were engrossed in the Meissen pieces displayed in the catalogue. He was about to make a remark about a lovely vase, but changed his mind and said: “But I think you better rejoin your table; Bailey has just glanced in our direction.”

“Oh, I suppose they are really discussing some other forthcoming case,” then, realising that our conversation had gone on for quite a while, I conceded resignedly, “but you are, of course, right. Still, I am delighted we have, at long last, met again.”

Getting ready to rise and take my leave, I was overcome by profound sense of gratitude. Settling back into my chair and trying hard to control my voice, I turned back to him: “But before we part, Mr Smithies, there is just one more thing I have got to say to you. I do want to thank you for all you have done for me and for all your concern and assistance over the years. In more than one manner, you have set me on my way. I am – and will always remain – deeply grateful to you.”

Even as I spoke, I experienced a sense unease. I had used the words of a young man at the outset of his career expressing his thanks to his teacher. Coming from myself, an academic in mid life with a sound track record, they sounded out of place. Had I made a fool of myself? My fears were allayed by the change in Arthur Smithies’ expression. It told me I had not spoken in vain and that my outburst had fallen on receptive ears. He had understood what I meant and was moved. For a few moments he remained lost for words. Then, in his usual, even, voice, he replied:

“I think you give me too much credit, Berger. There were, of course, your supervisors in Oxford and don’t you underrate your research and perseverance. But I do appreciate what you have just said; and believe me it has always been a pleasure.”

He was about to add a few words in the same vein but, after a hurried glimpse at the other table, cut himself short: “Once again, thanks for what you have just told me. But I really think you ought to return to your table. Otherwise, old Bailey might conclude I’ve kidnapped his guest.”

Having rejoined my host, I used a lull in the conversation to glance in Arthur Smithies’ direction. Outwardly, he appeared immersed in his catalogue; but a satisfied expression brightened his face. Shortly thereafter, when I looked over again, his table was vacant; Arthur Smithies had left unobtrusively.

11. Re-estimate

“You have been in a far away country, Uncle,” said Yuan Ming as I turned back to her. “Do you always neglect your lady friends when they act as chauffeurs?”

“Sorry,” I said contritely, “just for a moment I was thinking of …”

“Arthur Smithies” she broke in “your last encounter with him, ‘me think’!”

“Spot on. But how did you know?”

“I know you. And that encounter, Uncle, it took place shortly before you found Dad and me?”

“So it did. I stumbled into your shop some ten days after I had returned to Singapore.”

“Yes, Uncle; and you told me about that episode two or three days before we drew ‘Dawn’; it was interesting to listen to you: it confirmed that you hadn’t changed at all; just as I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“You, Uncle, have always been constant in your affiliations; once you accepted a person, he could do no wrong.”

“You are probably right” I acknowledged.

“I believe I am; but there is something I’ve never fully understood. You see, you have always been grateful to your two supervisors and also to those of your Deans who helped you on your way. But, somehow, you felt much more deeply indebted to Arthur Smithies. It was the type of relationship you had with Dad. I think I know the reason, but why don’t you tell me.”

“All right,” I nodded. “You see, my two supervisors and my Deans belong to one and the same world: to the Universities. Academia is an open ended society, in which able students can race ahead regardless of their background or station in life. I have benefited greatly from my two years in Oxford, have remained grateful to those who gave me their support and, in turn, have endeavoured to render the same assistance to my own gifted students and also to young colleagues. As you know, I’m proud of those who are presently overtaking me in my own field.”

“And Arthur Smithies?” she asked.

“He represented a different world. The aristocratic English banks are closed shops, opening their ranks mainly to young Englishmen from the right professional background. It helps if an applicant has a good University degree; but the pedigree is just as important.”

“And you were flattered by the interest which a member of this class showed in your work and by his offer to appoint you to his staff?”

“Yes, Yuan Ming; but it wasn’t just the assistance which he gave me and the offer. It went much deeper than that. You see, I had, really, no right to make any demands on him or on his bank. There was no social or professional norm that required him to be at my service. I was touched by his generosity.”

“It boosted your confidence as well, didn’t it?” she probed.

“It did indeed. It was good to know that my work was well thought of by one of London’s leading bankers, just as it was good to know later on, in Singapore, that your Dad approved of my progress in the study of Chinese porcelain. And, Yuan Ming, he too encouraged me out of sheer kindness.”

“And because he liked you; which – I’m certain – also motivated Arthur Smithies. But then, Uncle, why did you look so sad just now: not just sad but deflated.”

“It’s the cup and saucer which I gave him. I still can’t understand why they have vanished without a trace. Also, he told you ‘Dawn’ graced his sitting room; so why is it displayed on that ridiculous wall?”

“I see; but, remember, he wrote that letter to me when he was still living in Epping; and, oddly enough, the house in Woodstock doesn’t appear to have a proper sitting room. Judging from the catalogue, there is a library, a smoking room, a spacious lounge, a dining room, a King Arthur bedroom and bathroom and so on; but there is no sitting room!”

“True,” I said; “but, of course, he could have hung ‘Dawn’ on the main wall of any one of the living rooms!”

“So he could,” she countered; “but don’t you think that a man, who likes to relax in a comfy sitting room, would arranges to have such a place when he renovates his new house?”

“It didn’t occur to me,” I said bewildered; “still, I roamed about in the rooms and none answers the description. So what is your explanation?”

“I haven’t got one at present,” she smiled at me; “but I won’t be surprised if we find a simple answer to our big questions when we have had a closer look at the house.”

When we alighted from the shuttle bus, which conveyed us from the car park to the house, Yuan Ming pulled my arm gently.

“Let the others go in first, Uncle. The pieces won’t run away. I’d like to have a good look at the grounds.”

The shrubs of the garden at the back of the house had been carefully trimmed and the lawns neatly mowed. The beds of flowers had been meticulously weeded. Yuan Ming’s eyes savoured them. Her glance, though, kept sweeping back to the house. When we had completed our round, she turned to me: “Well, what do you think of the house? It’s quite big?”

“Isn’t it?”

“And how many rooms of it have you seen?”

“Seven or eight – on the first and second floors.”

“But there are three stories?”

“I assumed the remaining rooms were the servants’ quarters.”

“But how many rooms are there altogether?”

“Twenty or so, I suspect. Actually, I only saw the rooms facing the front garden. We had no access to the other rooms.”

“They can’t all be servants’ quarters! Let’s try to find out what is in them” she suggested, leading the way to the main entrance.

A Christie’s employee, identified by his tag as Alan Jones, came over to meet us shortly after we had entered the house. He had noticed my reaction when I had seen ‘Dawn’ on the wall near the entrance to the hall. Concerned about my patent displeasure, he had asked a specialist from their Chinese art department to have a look. Based on his assessment they had revised their assessment.

“The artist’s full name, I gather, is Cheng Yuan Ming” he told us.

‘Cheng’ was the Mandarin pronunciation of Yuan Ming’s surname. Like her father before her, she used the Hokkien version – Tay – in her everyday life but transliterated the character as ‘Cheng’ when signing her works. Confident that Alan Jones was unaware of the peculiarities of Chinese writing, I told him: “I see; actually, Miss Tay is from Los Angeles; and she knows the artist.”

“Do you know her well?” asked Alan Jones.

“Rather,” said Yuan Ming, unperturbed, “I don’t always approve of her work, though.”

“Let me then show you the one we have,” he volunteered, adding for my benefit “we have found a more prominent place for it.”

‘Dawn’ was now displayed on the main wall of the library. For a few minutes the three of us concentrated on it. I could feel Yuan Ming’s hand clutching mine.

“And do you approve of this piece?” asked Alan Jones.

“I’ve got to agree with Uncle; I think it’s OK,” she conceded.

“You may have some firm competition when you bid for it,” Alan Jones said to me. “We have sent details of it to a number of American dealers and three have cabled for photographs.”

“So you won’t have a chance for a steal, Uncle; what a pity” said Yuan Ming sweetly.

“Oh, I don’t mind that: this painting deserves to go to the highest bidder.”

“Quite so” said Alan Jones, whose eyes had moved surreptitiously from Yuan Ming to me and back to her. “Well, and can I show you any other item, Miss Tay?”

“Uncle tells me there is a nice oil by Tissot.”

“Let me show it to you,” he said approvingly.

Alan Jones took us for a tour of the European paintings. When he was done, Yuan Ming observed: “The late Sir Arthur must have been a man of taste and Uncle tells me he was also a discriminating collector. Why then all this cluttering? These rooms look like art galleries!”

“The paintings were not displayed simultaneously,” he explained readily. “The bulk was kept in one room. I gather Sir Arthur rotated them periodically on the walls of the living areas.” Turning to me he added: “And so you knew the late Sir Arthur? And have you have been to this house before?”

“I knew him when he was the Managing Partner of Crawfords,” I confirmed. “He was a fine banker. But I have not visited him here in Woodstock.”

“Unfortunately, he did not complete the renovation of the house” advised Alan Jones.

“It is a rather large house,” interceded Yuan Ming.

“It is indeed; and in an excellent location.”

“I agree,” she said. “And may I ask: what is going to happen to it?”

“The executors have asked us to auction it.”

“I wonder if Uncle and I could see the remaining rooms; we have been searching for a house in the Oxford area for some time.”

Alan Jones’ expression did not change: his face displayed no surprise. He was, patently, far more sophisticated than I had thought.

“I’m afraid the rest of the house has been sealed off for the time being. But I can arrange for a viewing some time next week. We should have appointed an agent by then.”

“We travel to the Continent tomorrow,” she answered. “But we’ll be back for the auction.”

“Then I’ll try to arrange something for that day – after the auction. But, you know, this is a rather big house: probably too big for a holiday home. Would you like me to ask the agent to show you some other properties as well?”

“That would be splendid” she agreed readily.

After a perusal of the porcelain pieces, Yuan Ming and I made our way back to the shuttle bus. Soon we were again in the car park. As soon as we were on the way, Yuan Ming turned back to our search.

“Did you have a good look at the frames of the paintings?”

“Can’t say I did; why?”

“The pressure marks suggest that they were placed on the floor, leaning against each other. So Arthur Smithies did rotate the mainstream of his paintings: but not ‘Dawn’.”

“How do you know? Because there are no pressure marks on its frame?”

“That’s one reason; and did you notice the stains along the left side of the frame?”

“I didn’t; I simply couldn’t take my eyes off the drawing itself.”

“I know; your friend Alan Jones noticed it too; he gave you a perplexed look!”

“Oh well; but what is the significance of these stains on the frame?”

“ ‘Dawn’ had not been placed on the floor, Uncle. The stains were caused by dampness. So ‘Dawn’ was hanging on a wall with damp spots. There are no signs of dampness in any of the rooms we have seen!”

“So ‘Dawn’ was displayed on a wall in a room of the sealed off part of the house?”

“Yes, Uncle; and I wonder what else we’ll find there when we get in.”