And Thereby Hangs a Tale (14 page)

'When is that?'

'Next October, in New York. We're preparing the
catalogue at the moment, and I can assure you your painting would attract
considerable interest.'

'But that's not for another six months,'
said the priest. 'By then I may not have a roof, just a swimming pool.'

When the service the following Sunday had to
be moved to a church on the other side of town, Grebenar felt that Our Lord was
giving him a sign, and most of his parishioners agreed with him. However, like
the lawyer, when it came to selling the painting they felt it had to be his
decision.

Once again, the Monsignor prostrated himself
before the masterpiece, wondering what his
great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather would
have done if faced with the same dilemma. His eyes settled on the thirty pieces
of silver scattered around Judas's feet. When he finally rose and crossed
himself, he was still undecided. He was about to leave the church, when he
found the stranger once again sitting in the front pew. The stranger smiled, but
did not speak. He extracted a cheque for seven hundred thousand euros from an
inside pocket, handed it over to the priest, then left without a word.

When they were told about the chance
meeting, several of Monsignor Grebenar's parishioners described it as a
miracle. How else could the man have known the exact sum that was needed to
repair the roof? Others looked upon the stranger as their Good Samaritan. When
a part of the roof caved in the following day, the priest handed the cheque to
the master builder.

The stranger returned within the hour and took
away the painting.

This tale might well have ended here, but
for a further twist that Monsignor Grebenar surely would have described as
divine intervention, but would have caused Herr Grebenar to become suspicious.

On the day the new roof was finally
completed, Monsignor Grebenar held a service of thanksgiving. The church was
packed to hear his sermon. The words 'miracle', 'Good Samaritan' and 'divine
intervention' could be heard on the lips of several members of the congregation.

When Monsignor Grebenar had given the final
blessing and his flock had departed, he once again thanked God for guiding him
in his hour of need. He looked briefly at the blank, newly painted white wall
behind the altar and sighed. He then turned his eyes to the brand new roof and
smiled, thanking the Almighty a second time.

After returning home for a simple lunch
prepared by his housekeeper, the priest settled down by the fire to enjoy the
Hertzendorfer Gazette, an indulgence he allowed himself once a week. He read
the headline several times before he fell to his knees and thanked God once
again.

Grebenar Museum burnt to the ground Police
suspect arson The London Times described the loss of Friedrich Bloch's work as
devastating, and far more significant than the destruction of the museum
itself. After all, the arts correspondent pointed out, Hertzendorf could always
build another museum, while the portraits of Christ and his twelve disciples
were works of true genius, and quite irreplaceable.

During his closing prayers the following Sunday,
Monsignor Grebenar thanked God that he had not taken the lawyer's advice and
transferred The Last Supper to the museum for safe-keeping; another miracle, he
suggested.

'Another miracle,' murmured the congregation
in unison.

Six months later, The Last Supper by Friedrich
Bloch (1643-1679) came under the hammer at one of the leading auction houses in
New York. In the catalogue were Bloch's Christ's Sermon on the Mount (1662),
while the portraits of the twelve disciples were displayed on separate pages.
The cover of the catalogue carried an image of The Last Supper, and its unique
provenance reminded potential buyers of the tragic loss of the rest of Bloch's
work in a fire earlier that year. The foreword to the catalogue suggested this tragedy
had greatly increased the historic significance, and value, of Bloch's only
surviving work.

The following day a headline in the arts pages
of the New York Times read:

Bloch's masterpiece, The Last Supper, sells for
$42,000,000.

 
'
PINK FORTY-THREE.'

'You've won first prize,' said Sybil
excitedly as she looked down at the little strip of pink raffle tickets on the
table in front of her husband.

Sidney frowned. He'd wanted to win the second
prize -- a set of gardening implements which included a wheelbarrow, a rake, a spade,
a trowel, a fork and a pair of shears.

Far more useful than the first prize, he thought,
especially when you've spent a pound on the tickets.

'Go and collect your prize, Sidney,' said
Sybil sharply. 'You mustn't keep the chairman waiting.'

Sidney rose reluctantly from his place. A smattering
of applause accompanied him as he made his way through the crowded tables and
up to the front of the hall.

Shouts of 'Well done, Sidney', 'I never win anything'
and 'You're a lucky bastard' greeted him as he climbed up on to the stage.

'Good show, Sidney,' said the chairman of Southend
Rotary Club, handing over a brand new set of golf clubs to the winner.

'Blue one hundred and seven,' the chairman announced
as Sidney left the stage and headed back to his table, the golf clubs slung
over his right shoulder. He slumped down in his chair and managed a smile when
his friends, including the member who had won the gardening implements, came
over to congratulate him on drawing first prize in the annual raffle.

Once midnight struck and the band had played
the last waltz, everyone stood and joined in a lusty rendering of 'God Save the
King'.

As Mr and Mrs Chapman made their way home,
Sidney received some strange looks from passers-by who had rarely seen a man carrying
a set of golf clubs along the seafront, and certainly not at twenty
to one on a Sunday morning.

'Well, Sidney,' said Sybil as she took the
front door key out of her handbag, who would have thought you'd win first
prize?'

'What use is a set of golf clubs when you don't
play golf?' Sidney moaned as he followed his wife into the house.

'Perhaps you should take up the game,'
suggested Sybil. 'After all, it's not long before you retire.'

Sidney didn't bother to respond as he climbed
the stairs. When he reached the landing he pushed open the hatch in the
ceiling, pulled down the folding ladder, climbed the steps and dumped the golf
clubs in the loft. He didn't give them another thought until the family sat
down for Christmas dinner six months later.

Christmas dinner at the Chapman household wouldn't
have differed greatly from that in a thousand other homes in Southend in 1921.

Once grace had been said, Sidney rose from his
place at the top of the table to carve the turkey. Sybil sat proudly at the
other end of the table while their two sons, Robin and Malcolm, waited
impatiently for their plates to be laden with turkey, Brussels sprouts, roast
potatoes and sage and onion stuffing.

Once Sidney had finished carving the bird, he
drowned his plate with thick Bisto gravy until the meat was almost floating.

'Superb, quite superb,' declared Sidney,
digging into a leg. After a second mouthful he added, 'But then, Sybil,
everyone knows you're the finest cook in Southend.'

Sybil beamed with satisfaction, even though her
husband had paid her the same compliment every Christmas Day for the past
eighteen years.

Only snippets of conversation passed between
the Chapman family as they dug contentedly into their well-filled plates. It
wasn't until second helpings had been served that Sidney addressed them again.

'It's been another capital year for Chapman's
Cleaning Services,' he declared as he emptied the gravy boat over the second
leg, 'even if I do say so myself.' The rest of the family didn't comment, as
they were well aware that the chairman had only just begun his annual speech to
the shareholders.

'The company enjoyed a record turnover, and
declared slightly higher profits than last year,' said Sidney, placing his
knife and fork on his plate, 'despite the Chancellor of the Exchequer, in his
wisdom, raising taxes to fifteen per cent,' he added solemnly. Sidney didn't
like Mr Lloyd George's coalition government. He wanted the Conservatives to
return to power and bring stability back to the country. 'And what's more,'
Sidney continued, nodding in the direction of his older son, 'Robin is to be
congratulated on passing his Higher Certificate. Southend Grammar School has
done him proud,' he added, raising a glass of sherry that the boy wouldn't be
allowed to sample for another year. 'We can only hope that young Malcolm' -- he
turned his attention to the other side of the table -- 'will,
in time, follow in his brother's footsteps. And talking of following in another's
footsteps, when the school year is over I look forward to welcoming Robin into
the firm where he will begin work as an apprentice, just as I did thirty-six
years ago.' Sidney raised his glass a second time. 'Let us never forget the company's
motto: "Cleanliness is next to Godliness."'

This was the signal that the annual speech had
come to an end, which was always followed by Sidney rolling a cigar lovingly between
his fingers. He was just about to light up when Sybil said firmly, 'Not until after
you've had your Christmas pudding, dear.'

Sidney reluctantly placed the cigar back on the
table as Sybil disappeared into the kitchen.

She reappeared a few moments later, carrying
a large Christmas pudding which she placed in the centre of the table. Once
again, Sidney rose to conduct the annual ceremony.

He slowly uncorked a bottle of brandy that had
not been touched since the previous year, poured a liberal amount over the
burnt offering, then lit a match and set light to the pudding as if he were a
high priest performing a pagan sacrifice. Little blue flames spluttered into
the air and were greeted by a round of applause.

Once second helpings had been devoured and
Sidney had lit his cigar, the boys became impatient to pull their crackers and
discover what treasures awaited them.

The four of them stood up, crossed hands and
held firmly on to the ends of the crackers. An almighty tug was followed by
four tiny explosions, which, as always, caused a ripple of laughter before each
member of the family sat back down to discover what awaited them.

Sybil was rewarded with a sewing kit. 'Always
useful,' she remarked.

For Sidney, a bottle opener. 'Very
satisfactory,' he declared.

Malcolm didn't look at all pleased with his India
rubber, the same offering two years in a row.

The rest of the family turned their
attention to Robin, who was shaking his cracker furiously, but nothing was
forthcoming, until a golf ball fell out and rolled across the table.

None of them could have known that this simple
gift would change the young man's whole life. But then, as you are about to
discover, this tale is about Robin Chapman, not his father, mother or younger
brother.

Although Robin Chapman was not a natural games
player, his sports master often described him as a good team man.

Robin regularly turned out as the goalkeeper
for the school's Second XI hockey team during the winter, while in the summer
he managed to secure a place in the cricket First XI as a bit of an
all-rounder. However, none of those seated around that Christmas dinner table
in 1921 could have predicted what was about to take place.

Robin waited until Tuesday morning before he
made his first move, and then only after his father had left for work.

'Always a lot of dry-cleaning to be done
following the Christmas holiday,' Mr Chapman declared before kissing his wife
on the cheek and disappearing off down the driveway.

Once his father was safely out of sight,
Robin climbed the stairs, pushed open the ceiling hatch and dragged the
dust-covered golf bag out of the loft. He carried the clubs back to his room
and set about removing the dust and grime that had accumulated over the past
six months with a zeal he'd never displayed in the kitchen; first the leather
bag followed by the nine clubs, each one of which bore the signature of someone
called Harry Vardon. Once he had completed the task, he slung the bag over his
shoulder, crept down the stairs, slipped out of the house and headed towards
the seafront.

When he reached the beach, Robin dropped the
bag on the ground and placed the little white ball on the sand by his feet. He
then studied the array of shining clubs, not sure which one to select. He
finally chose one with the word 'mashie' stamped on its head.

He focused on the ball and took a swing at
it, causing a shower of sand to fly into the air, while the ball
remained resolutely in place.

After several more attempts he finally made contact
with the ball, but it only advanced a few feet to his left.

Robin chased after it and repeated the
exercise again and again, until the ball finally launched into the air and
landed with a plop a hundred yards in front of him. By the time he'd returned
home for lunch, late, he considered himself to be the next Harry Vardon.