May 2011
Herbert Goldstone was an ordinary man – a very ordinary man; so ordinary that wherever he was, he could blend into the background almost to the point of invisibility. At school, he was one of thirty four in his class, and his teacher, Mr Jackson, had always addressed the children by their surname alone; he had reasoned that if he ever knew your first name it was because you were either very clever or very dim . . . and he had only ever known Herbert as, 'Er – you, boy!'
Herbert didn't have to try to be ordinary, it all came quite naturally to him: he enjoyed collecting stamps, he spent his evenings watching re-runs of old black and white Spencer Tracey movies over a cup of Ovaltine and always took his holidays at Warners in Skegness during the first two weeks in September, whatever the long range forecast predicted.
The decision to join the National Trust was by far the most exciting piece of novel thinking Herbert had accomplished for some years. It had all started on a wet Thursday morning, when there appeared to be little else to do at the holiday camp; as a rule he took little interest in the coach outings, but that day, when he had found there was one seat left on the 'Magical Mystery Tour', it looked like a much more interesting alternative to sitting in the club house reading Nigel Patterson.
The scenic drive over the Derbyshire High Peaks through a heavy thunderstorm was quite spectacular, but Herbert was getting progressively more and more worried that he had made a mistake. However, when the bus turned off the main road and through the huge wrought iron gates, emblazoned with the crest of Bess of Hardwick, his mood lightened. They drove up the steep winding drive through the wooded grounds, with Red Deer grazing peacefully in the dappled shadow of the ancient trees and drew to a stop outside the impressive Hardwick Hall.
At the gatehouse he paid his entrance fee and trailed behind the rest of the group down the gravel path, captivated by the imposing architecture: the elaborate colonnades, the mullioned windows and crenelated towers. But his moment of impulsive madness had come when he reached the entrance hall and presented his ticket to the lady behind the desk. She had smiled at him and had offered him today's admission fee back if he signed up to National Trust membership. Something about the twinkle in her eye and the unashamed grandeur of the great hall behind her had overcome his natural reserve and he had meekly accepted her form and reached for his wallet.
Now, every weekend he could manage he dragged the old Dayton Yellow Cortina out of the garage and, within the first season, he had covered all of the National Trust houses that he could reach easily within a day trip. In order to increase his area, he checked out a few inexpensive guest houses and he then had the excitement of the occasional weekend away to visit some of the more distant properties – he was absolutely determined to get his money's worth out of his annual membership fee.
But as Kingston Lacey was only five miles away from his home, it was inevitable that he visited this house much more regularly; so regularly, in fact, that he quickly got to know most of the volunteer staff and this newfound familiarity soon found himself playing games with them. As the volunteers migrated from room to room in the vast house, never staying for long in each one, they worked hard to acquaint themselves with as many interesting facts about that particular part of the property as they could. Herbert would try to catch them out by asking awkward, searching questions he had researched from the extensive guide book he had purchased on his very first visit.
He was, for the first time in his life, enjoying the feeling of belonging to something; having the staff acknowledge him by name and with a genuine smile when he arrived; sometimes being invited back to the Head Cook's cosy office for a coffee after the house had shut for the day.
It was therefore inevitable that, when the annual Spring Clean came around, William had asked Herbert if he would like to come along for the week and help out. It wouldn't involve anything too strenuous, he had insisted, just a bit of general housework: dusting, polishing and hoovering. It was difficult for him to refuse, not that he had wanted to, and so, on the last Monday morning in March, Herbert, in a pair of faded jeans, an old grey shirt and a heavy Arran cardigan queued up with the other volunteers, ready to do his duty and restore this beautiful house to its former splendour ready for the annual opening to the public the following week.
Godfrey Chandler, the House Manager ran his finger down the clipboard, assigning each volunteer to their chosen room and, as it was Herbert's first time, he was placed under William's supervision and they were allocated Lady Hartnell's bedroom, the Blue Room, which was, apparently, considered a comparatively easy task for his first time.
Despite its name, however, the Blue Room, was mainly white; it took its name from the pale blue Wedgewood style plaster which adorned the ceiling, the walls and the friezes; heavy enough to be prominent, but light enough to be delicate, and this, coincidentally, was one of Herbert's favourite rooms. Its centre piece was a beautifully ornate four poster bed with a crowned canopy, elaborate purple swags and hangings. On the opposite wall stood an enormous teak dresser; which, although it was very dark, the carving was so delicate and ornate that you could study it minutely for hours and never see the same picture in the woodwork twice.
The room was otherwise quite sparse apart from a surprisingly plain dressing table on which sat a beautiful vase, richly decorated with pink and white flowers, but looking painfully fragile. The catalogue said that, like the other furniture in this special room, the vase was priceless – Ming dynasty – and it certainly looked it to Herbert. He asked William if he wouldn't mind cleaning the vase, as he didn't trust himself to go anywhere near it.
Herbert had always lived alone, and was no stranger to housework, so he launched himself into the task with relish. He prided himself on his meticulous attention to detail and was finding it really satisfying removing the Winter's dust from the dresser with a soft bristled artist's brush and then bringing a Spring sparkle back to its rich colours with a thin layer of wax, lovingly applied with a soft yellow duster.
He was so engrossed in his task that, when William called a halt for a mid-morning coffee break, Herbert politely declined; with his little tin of Old English beeswax in one hand and his yellow cloth in the other, he had decided to finish this section of the dresser before he stopped. He was working on the massive legs, shaped like the foot of some mythical creature with enormous claws. Finally finished, he stood up, arched his aching spine and stepped back to admire his handiwork . . .
His heel caught the leg of the dresser . . .
The dresser rocked . . .
He threw his arms out in surprise . . .
His eyes recorded the scene in super-slow motion as the vase wobbled . . .
He snatched desperately towards it, his fingers brushing fine porcelain . . .
But only brushing . . .
To his horror, the vase toppled slowly but inevitably away from him, striking the thin carpet with a muffled thump and shattered like eggshell.
A few moments later, William returned from his coffee break, he found Herbert frozen to the spot, his heart racing and his mouth open in a silent scream, unable to comprehend the magnitude of the devastation spread out beneath him. Even when he heard the strangled, 'Oh - my - God!' behind him, Herbert could not move. He started to quiver as the adrenaline pumped his muscles into full flight mode, but there he stood, impotent and inert. It was only when William's hand dropped onto his shoulder that he turned, his eyes wide open in terror; the only words he could find in his catatonic brain were, 'It's priceless . . . it's bloody priceless!'
William set off at a run to find the House Manager and when he returned five minutes later with Geoffrey Chandler in tow, Herbert had barely moved an inch. His mind was racing; he was mentally mortgaging his house, his car and everything of value he owned, but knew that none of it came anywhere near to a fraction of the value of this unique treasure.
William tried to defuse the tension by asking, casually, 'Geoffrey, do you think, perhaps . . . the insurance . . . might cover a piece like that?'
Geoffrey shook his head slowly, 'Afraid not . . . far too valuable . . . '
Herbert gulped.
'Wouldn't touch it with a bargepole.'
Herbert groaned.
'It's Ming, you see . . . truly priceless.'
Herbert could feel the blood slowly draining from his face; a cold clammy hand seized his heart; his frightened rabbit eyes turned to the manager in utter despair, but Geoffrey was smiling.
'That's why the Trust had it copied . . . the real Ming is in a bank vault in Knightsbridge . . . and I am sure this reproduction will be fully covered!'