The Doom-Seeing Eyes of McGloin

‘I’ve been contacted by a chap named Clifton, an art historian, a bit of a name – have you heard of him?’

‘Yes,’ said Oran.  ‘He’s always on the news when they’ve installed a new commode somewhere.’

‘Oh well, that’s something.  I haven’t seen him on the box myself, but he’s keen to put on an exhibition of the Montescus we already have.  He’s currently cooking up an article for The Times about it.  Due to be published some time in the new year.’

‘You should get the Tout to write it instead?’ I chuckled.

‘The who?’

‘Ah, never mind.’

‘So how many do you have – paintings?’

‘Not many.  About thirteen now.  Fourteen with your stag.  We’re hoping to first put them on display at an antiques fair in Dun Laoghaire in the spring, then we’ll see where it goes from there.  I hope to have tracked down a few more by that time.’

‘Well, aren’t you in luck,’ I declared, stepping forward like everyone’s lord God and saviour.  ‘My boss has another one ready to go if you’re interested.  In fact, that’s why I came round.  He sent me to fetch you.’

‘Another stag, is it?’

‘A bird.  A martlet.’

‘What the bloody hell’s a martlet?’

‘A bird with no feet.’

‘Okay.  And it has the doom-seeing eyes of McGloin, does it?’    

‘They’re identical as far as I recall, but you’d want to have a look for yourself just to be sure.’

‘I shall.  If there’s more to be had in this place, I’ll have them.  Although I wouldn’t claim to be an expert in the authenticating of these things.  I can get a sense of what it is alright, but verifying whether it’s the real deal or not would be a job for the true experts.’

‘I’m not exactly that, but I can tell you it’s real alright,’ said Oran.  ‘I’ve a bit of experience separating the genuine articles from the dummies.  We’re an auctioneering family.’

‘Well then, you’re the very man to confirm if the bird is authentic or not.’

Then it was like someone had let one off in the room, for we were stopped in our tracks at the thought of Oran leaving the house again.  Phyllis, who had been pottering about in the backyard for a bit, came back in just as Mr Grant was making this bold suggestion. 

‘Him in the daylight?  Are ya quite mad?’

I felt it was my duty then to inform them of the renewed protest outside The Martlet and that it might not be safe for Oran to go there if indeed he chose to go.  This took some expositioning competence on my part as Mr Grant had no idea what was up in Earlship and in order to have him on the same page I had to be plain and concise about recent events in the area.

‘Nitwits,’ rasped Phyllis, when I was done with the briefing.  It was now an open secret that she wrote the B. Bluster letters, but she liked to let on she still had her anonymity and so expressed how dissatisfied she was with the reaction to her recent submission.

‘I can do it,’ said Oran.  ‘I can go along with you and check.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.  ‘I’d say wear a disguise but it would be of no use to you.  Even a blind man would spot someone of your proportions.’

‘Shouldn’t be any bother.’

‘Aren’t you afraid of more retaliation?’

‘I’m done with it.’

His agoraphobia was waning, it appeared.  I had witnessed him in doldrums lately and perhaps the spell had liberated him of heavier considerations.    

‘Brilliant,’ said Mr Grant.  ‘This town is doing Montescu’s name many favours today.  But here, tell me, not being a qualified expert, how indeed are you able to judge whether they’re real or not?’

‘One can’t know for sure,’ said Oran.  ‘But there are ways of testing.  I can bring a stethoscope and have a listen.’

‘A stethoscope?  Why?’

‘Good heavens,’ interrupted Phyllis.  ‘You didn’t believe all that guff – begging your pardon, Mr Grant – about the animals talking.’

‘Not likely,’ Oran said.  ‘We might be able to say something about its age if we listen closely to the craquelure.  There are always patterns.  We should also bring the stag with us to compare them.’

It seemed to be settled then.  Oran went to get out of his bedgown and into something more appropriate for outdoors:  a blue tracksuit with some cigarette holes in the bottoms – he was fifteen years a non-smoker.

Phyllis said she would stay at home, but a reluctance to do so was palpable.  Although the siblings were a cynical pair and not in the habit of revealing even the minimum of concern for the other, sometimes the bonds that held them together were overwhelming.   

‘Are you sure you won’t come?’ I asked her.

‘No, no, look at your great big selves.  Yous won’t need my help.’

It was true.  Oran was so massive that I couldn’t see anyone legitimately having a go unless they were made of hardened stuff.  He was so immense that I didn’t even think he’d fit in Mr Grant’s Skoda, which was only about four and a half feet from the ground.  But we got him in.  And the wild sika stag in the boot.