Robert Rankin - The Witches of Chiswick

Will’s jaw dropped hugely open. There was no doubt about it at all. The Tinker in the painting, the Victorian painting, painted between eighteen fifty-five and eighteen sixty-four, was wearing a digital wristwatch. Will could clearly read the maker’s name engraved upon it, painted in minute detail: Charles Babbage and Company. Digital watchmakers to Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

“Mr Santos,” called Will, in a strangled kind of a voice. “Mr Santos, I think we have a problem here.”

Mr Santos huffed and puffed and wobbled as he waddled. “What is all this fuss and the raising of your voice?” he enquired of Will as he reached the lad’s desk and leaned heavily upon it.

“Something’s very wrong here,” said the lad.

“A focusing problem? You know the procedures, you’ve passed your grades.”

“Not a focusing problem.” Will beckoned his corpulent superior to view the screen. “I fear the painting has been tampered with. Or possibly that it is a twentieth-century forgery.”

“Hush and hush, such nonsense.” Mr Santos leaned low and loomed over Will. “Show me,” said he.

“It’s here.” Will enlarged the area of the Tinker’s wrist. The digital watch was displayed in all its wondrous detail.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Mr Santos’s breath was hot upon Will’s neck. The smell of his breakfast entered Will’s nostrils.

“A joke?” Will shook his blondy head. “Not on my part, I assure you. To tamper with such a work of genius would be nothing less than iconoclasm, in my humble opinion.”

“Quite so.” Mr Santos peered at the image again. Will knew well enough that Mr Santos was possessed of considerable knowledge regarding the art of the Victorian age. Will wasted a great deal of Mr Santos’s time each day asking him questions. He also exerted such a degree of flattery during the asking of these questions that Mr Santos was never aware of quite how much time was being wasted.

“What sort of brush could produce such fine detail?” Will asked. “Would it have been specially made for the artist by Winsor and Newton’s ? I recall you telling me a fascinating story about—”

“Be silent, lad; give me a minute.” Mr Santos gestured Will up from his chair and seated himself. He scanned the painting up and down, this way and that. Mr Santos made a puzzled face, and then a worried one, and then he said, “We’ll get you onto something else. I’ll call up another artist for you.”

“But I want Dadd,” Will said, his voice raised in protest. “I’ve been really looking forward to doing Dadd. He’s one of my favourites.”

“There’s no room for favourites. I’ll fetch you a new disc from my office. Remove this one and bring it to me there.”

“But,” said Will, “I want Dadd. I want Dadd.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet,” said Gladys. “Will wants his dad.”

“Silence, Ms Nanken,” bawled Mr Santos. “But me no buts, Starling. You just do what you’re told.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts at all, if you want to keep your job.”

Will looked down into the face of Mr Santos. The fat man’s forehead was beaded with perspiration. “As you say, sir,” said Will.

“Good lad.” Mr Santos eased his bulk from Will’s chair and took to waddling away. Will watched him go, and Will noted well those beads of perspiration: although a fat and wobbling waddler, Will had never before seen Mr Santos raise a sweat.

Will tapped keypads, closed the programme, pushed buttons on the drive unit and withdrew the disc that contained the works of Richard Dadd. Will turned it upon his palm. There was a mystery here, and clearly one that was beyond his remit to investigate. Will considered the disc. Once it left his possession, he was unlikely ever to see it again. He glanced furtively about. How long would it take to make himself a copy of the disc? There were one hundred and eighty-four paintings encrypted upon it, so a few minutes at most. But if he only copied The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke , it would be a matter of seconds.

Of course, if he were caught doing it, he could lose his job. There was a risk here.

Will weighed up the pros and cons and then decided upon his course of action.

Mr Santos took the disc from Will. He was replacing a telephone receiver as Will entered his office.

“Thank you,” said Mr Santos. “The situation is being dealt with.”

“So is the painting a forgery?” Will asked.

“That is for the experts to decide. I suspect later tampering. The painting was on public display for more than a hundred years. Someone with a perverse sense of humour and total lack of respect must have added the watch. Such things have happened before.”

“Have they?” Will asked. “When and to which paintings?”

“I’m moving you on to twentieth-century art,” said Mr Santos, ignoring Will’s question. “The works of Mark Rothko.”

“Oh no,” said Will. “Please, the twentieth century is of no interest to me.”

“Then perhaps you’ll wish to tender your resignation. I have a form here; would you care to fill it out now?”

“No,” said Will. “I’m the only winner of the cakes in my household. I have no wish to be unemployed.”

“Then just do as you are told.” Mr Santos handed Will the Mark Rothko disc. “And Starling, for your own sake, do not speak of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

“No,” said Will. “I don’t. Why?”

“The integrity of the collection. It must not be compromised.”

“Oh I see. So what will happen to the painting? Will it be cleaned and the offending wristwatch removed?”

“The painting will probably be destroyed.”

“ What ?” went Will. “But that’s outrageous!”

“These matters are not for us to question.”

“But sir, destroying such a work of genius because someone vandalised a tiny part of it – a tiny part that is not even visible to the naked eye – it’s ridiculous. It’s obscene.”

Mr Santos smiled ruefully. “You really care about these things, don’t you, Starling?” he said.

“So do you, sir,” said Will. “I know you do. When you talk to me about art, I can see how much you care.”

“Well, it’s out of our hands now. Perhaps it won’t be destroyed. Let’s both hope for that, eh?”

“Yes,” said Will. “All right. But Rothko? Do I really have to do Rothko ?”

“Not my decision.” Mr Santos raised his eyebrows. “Instructions from those on high. I’ll see what I can do to get you back on the Victorians. Just go to your desk and press on. Do you understand me?”

“I understand you, sir,” said Will. “And thanks.”

“Off you go now.”

And off Will went.

Will did Rothko all the morning, and Will really hated it. Whatever had been going on in the heads of twentieth-century folk. Admiring this kind of rubbish? A few splashes of colour on a colossal canvas: that was art, was it? No, in Will’s opinion, it was not. But Will was Will, and Will was young, and the young have very definite opinions about what they like and what they do not. Age blurs boundaries, broadens horizons, alters fixed opinions, but whether this is a good thing is anybody’s guess.

By lunchtime Will had had his fill of 1960s abstract art and had made a momentous decision. Thoughts had been whirling about in his head all morning, dangerous thoughts, risky thoughts. The sort of thoughts that could get him into a great deal of trouble, should those thoughts be actualised into actions.

“Come on then my lovely boy,” cooed Gladys. “Canteen time. Big pies on offer.” And she thrust out her abounding mammaries and winked coquettishly.