Death, Taxes and Nurses

A St. Valentine's Day Romance

***

"There are only three certainties in life," said Mike: "Death, taxes ... and nurses."

George guffawed but big Jake remained silent, his low bovine forehead creasing with the effort of thought.

"Our Mel's a nurse," he finally erupted in his bass rumble.

George stopped laughing and looked guiltily at Mike.

"Sorry, mate," Mike said, "I forgot about your sister. It was only a joke..."

"What was?" asked Jake.

"Er, you know. About nurses ... being one of life's certainties..." Mike's voice trailed off in embarrassment.

"But it's true," Jake assured him. "Mel always knew what she wanted since she was small. She was going to be nurse to some rich bloke and live in a big house and have servants to boss around. And that's what she done. She works for a Yank billionaire, Casper thingy, who lives in a big house on Park Lane."

That was probably the longest speech Jake had ever made outside a courtroom. George was impressed and quickly took the opportunity to get the conversation going again before Jake realised what Mike's joke meant.

"Casper Greenwood, the oil man?" he asked.

"That's him," Jake said.

"He's super-rich, he is. He's got a place in Oxfordshire. Owns the whole village. He's about ninety years old. Your Mel works for him?"

"Yeah. She's been in his helicopter and everything."

"Wow! I've seen the house on Park Lane. It's a mansion; like, about, fifty rooms."

Mike thought it was safe to enter the conversation again, saying:

"Yeah, but I bet they only live in three rooms: all those billionaires are as mean as hell."

"Not American ones, Mike," George insisted: "They throw their money around. Casper Greenwood's always buying art and stuff to save it for the nation. The Queen invited him to Buck House to thank him."

"That so?" Mike didn't argue. Jake had reverted to his usual uncomprehending silence.

"So how long has Mel worked for Casper Greenwood, Jake?" George wanted to know.

"A couple of years, maybe. ... She's coming home tonight."

The lads were keenly interested in this news. They remembered Jake's older sister, Melanie, as an exceptionally pretty girl who went off to become a nurse when they were teenagers. They could easily imagine her as a gorgeous twenty-four-year-old woman. Melanie was blonde, with a heart-shaped face, big wide-set blue eyes, a dazzling smile, long legs, erotic curves and large, mouth-watering breasts.

"Blimey!" said Mike. "If your Mel is nurse to some ninety-year-old geezer, then it's a wonder he hasn't already died of a heart-attack."

George laughed again, trying not to lick his lips in front of Jake while thinking of his sister in a nurse's uniform. Even Jake joined in the laughter after a few seconds, making a noise like a rusty bilge pump.

At 1pm, when the lads went back to work, Melanie was playing backgammon with Casper Greenwood in the oak-panelled drawing room of the Jacobean manor house on his Oxfordshire estate. Melanie had administered Casper's medications and, because there were no visitors today, was passing the time with him at board games. She was rolling the dice when Casper's personal secretary, Clara Beaufort, came in.

"Mr. Greenwood. I am just about to go to London. If you do not need Melanie, I'd like to offer her a lift."

"Are you going to visit your family this weekend, Melanie?" Casper asked.

"Yes, Mr. Greenwood, for a few days."

"Well, that's dandy. You should go with Clara."

"I've checked with Kelly, who arrived back this morning," Clara said, "and she's willing to replace Melanie for the rest of the day."

"That's fine. Do we have time to finish the game?"

"Of course, though we should go in the next half hour, if possible. I am due to meet Charles Webster at 4pm."

"Charles Webster?" Casper had forgotten the name.

"The art-loving tax-inspector."

"Ah, I remember him. Clara, you'll invite Charles to visit with us here and see the collection, now?"

"I will Mr. Greenwood. Thank you. He'll welcome it, I'm sure. ... Melanie, would you mind sparing an hour or so to help at the mansion? I need someone to escort Charles in the vault while he makes his inspection."

"Okay."

"Good, please be ready by half-past one."

It took Melanie another fifteen minutes to win the backgammon game; then she helped Casper get comfortable near the fire before she fetched Kelly, the beautiful red-haired nurse who alternated with Melanie's shifts. Melanie was delayed for a few minutes while the girls chatted and found she had no time to change out of her nurse's uniform, so she grabbed her raincoat and bags and ran to catch her lift.

Clara and Melanie sat in the back of the Bentley as it ploughed slowly through the dismal February weather toward London, while the driver, Arnold, silently cursed the heavy traffic that was keeping him away from his wife and home. Arnold had been married forty years to Mildred, the housekeeper of the Park Lane mansion, and still he regretted one week's absence from her while he was at the country estate.

Melanie asked:

"So, what's Charles like, Clara?"

"He's good at his job and ridiculously passionate about art. He visits Casper's collection more often than he really needs to, though he's always welcome, of course. At least he has good taste."

Melanie had meant: what does he look like? Always interested in psychology, she knew why Clara had not noticed whether Charles was good-looking or not; something Melanie herself always made a point of assessing, whether she was in love herself or, as now, unusually single.

The delays on the journey meant that they did not arrive at the London mansion until a quarter to four, when Mildred met them at the handsome portico'ed door to let them in. Clara let Mildred go back to her flat, adjacent to the mansion, to give Arnold a proper welcome, though this meant the women had time only to deposit their raincoats and luggage in their rooms before reappearing in the hall to let in their visitor.

At four o'clock to the second, Charles Webster rang the brass bell of Casper Greenwood's Park Lane mansion.

Clara opened the door.

"Ah, the taxman cometh," she said, shaking his hand warmly. "Come in, Charles, it's good to see you again."

"Thank you, Clara, it's kind of you to receive me."

Charles was not really a taxman: he worked for the Inland Revenue as an art-expert. His job was to assess the condition of art-works that were given to the nation in lieu of taxation. He obtained valuations of such donations for tax purposes and revisited them periodically to ensure they were kept in good condition.

This was his fourth visit in two years to the Greenwood collection. His real reason was not concern about the condition of the art-works nor his appreciation of the excellent pieces but the chance to see Clara again, with whom he was hopelessly, desperately and secretly in love.

Clara was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. She was twenty-eight, slightly over medium-height, with chestnut hair, grey eyes and the face of a southern Madonna. Slim and elegant, she was always beautifully dressed and manicured, needing little makeup on her immaculate light-brown skin. It was her cut-glass Home Counties accent that Charles fell in love with when he first telephoned her to request access to the collection. Now his heart melted into his feet whenever he saw her.

Clara introduced Charles to Melanie.

Because Clara was there, Charles had barely noticed the gorgeous blonde nurse standing beside his divinity. Now that he had looked at her lovely face, he couldn't help also observing that her outfit was halfway between a real nurse's uniform and the saucy postcard version of a nurse. Her skirt was a little too short, her shoes were stylish heels rather than flat pumps; her hat was for decoration rather than hygiene; her painted nails were too long for practical work; and her blouse was too tight (though Charles could not complain about seeing the outline of her luscious breasts). He also suspected her blonde shade came assisted by a bottle.

"How d'you do?" Charles politely shook hands with the pantomime nurse.

"Melanie also works for Mr. Greenwood," Clara explained. "She has kindly agreed to accompany you in the vault while I take care of some urgent paperwork."

Melanie smiled prettily at Charles but noticed a look of disappointment on his face that he struggled to conceal.

A rule of the house was that no guest be left alone in the secure vault that stored the part of the Greenwood collection not on display. Most of the London collection was in storage because Casper had been too frail to spend the winter in the damp, foggy town but had stayed on his summer estate. Nor was any member of his household or family occupying the mansion this Winter season. Charles would therefore see almost the whole collection, including the pretext for today's visit, the famous Raphael, 'Madonna with a Chaffinch', that Casper had bought to save it leaving the country and then generously presented to the nation.

Charles was disappointed because, on the previous three occasions, it had been just Clara with him in the vault. He had waited six months for the chance to be alone with her again; and this time he would speak. He would declare his undying love. He would say how wonderful, how beautiful, how perfect she was. Now the chance was gone again.

When he had hung his raincoat on the coat-rack, Charles followed Clara and Melanie to the rear of the entrance hall, down the stairs, along a corridor and through a strong fireproof door into the vault.

"It's a bit nippy," Melanie observed when they were inside.

"Yes, it's chillier than it should be," Clara agreed, looking at a thermometer by the door. It showed fifteen degrees. "The environment control system is meant to ensure a steady temperature and level of humidity but it's either been set too low or there is a problem with it. I'll go and check. If it's too cold, Charles, then you and Melanie can wait upstairs until it warms up."

"I'll be fine: I'm more worried about the art-works. Will it be too cold for you, Melanie?" he asked, considering her short skirt and short-sleeve blouse.

"No, it's okay, so long as it heats up a bit soon," she assured them.

"I'll ask Mildred to bring you down some coffee. Would you like her to bring you a magazine, Melanie?" Clara was concerned that Melanie would be bored.

"No, thanks, Clara," she said, brightly.

Melanie had been intrigued by the disappointment Charles showed when he learned that Melanie would escort him. She wanted to check her theory, so she would be happy to study Charles while he studied the paintings. It also helped that he was not bad-looking, in an intellectual, bookish kind of way. Aged about thirty, he was taller than her, with sandy hair over a high forehead, an aquiline nose and sensuous lips. Very pale from spending too long indoors looking at paintings, as an emaciated poet starving in a garret, he would have been a romantic pin-up for an earlier generation.

"Charles, you have everything you need?"

"Yes, thanks, Clara."

"Well, then, use the telephone when you've finished or if you need me. Dial '1' for the study."

Clara returned to her work, locking them in the vault as she left. The master control for the vault's heating system was in the hall. A trick Clara had been told when it had gone wrong once before was to turn it off, let it reset itself and turn it back on fifteen minutes later. Ten minutes after that, the vault would be at its proper temperature. She began this procedure and meanwhile returned to the study to attend to Casper's London correspondence.

Charles knew his way around the collection. Paintings were stored on wheeled racks that pushed into one wall. Drawings, prints and miniatures were in chests of drawers that formed flat-topped islands along the centre of the vault. Some cabinets toward the far end of the vault contained coins, jewellery, small sculptures and ivories.

Also at the far end was a small lobby with a toilet and washbasin. Between the cabinets on the other wall were cushioned benches. There was no natural light in the subterranean vault.

Melanie's entertainment at the puzzle of Charles did not last long: she saw he was hopelessly in love with Clara. Only a man besotted with another woman (and such a beautiful one as Clara) could be quite so indifferent to Melanie's own dynamic charms as Charles appeared to be. She filed away this information for later consideration and began to take an interest in how Charles worked. She had rarely seen anyone appear so serious and yet so elated as he examined (or, rather, adored, she corrected herself) the paintings.

So Melanie followed Charles about like an inquisitive cat, studying each painting after he had moved on from it, saying loudly "pretty," "okay" or "I don't like it." Charles didn't mind her comments but he didn't take them seriously, either.

When Charles got to his favourite Dutch Masters, he went slower, scanning every part of each painting, looking closely and stepping back and forth, staring for minutes at a time.

Once Charles stared at a painting so long that Melanie thought he had gone into a trance. When he finally looked away, she asked:

"What did you see in that painting, Charlie, that you didn't see in the others?"

Although Charles thought Melanie was idly passing her time by asking this question, he answered honestly, his own passion for art driving him to try to explain what he had seen.

It was a country scene by Meindert Hobbema, in which a deeply-rutted track led beside a still river to a cottage in the woods; its subtle palette of greys, olives and browns under a diffused light reflected in the water inspired a wistful contentment in the viewer. Beside the beauty of the subject, Charles tried to make the technical accomplishments of the painter comprehensible to Melanie.

From then on, they looked at the paintings together, with Melanie asking pertinent questions and Charles explaining their beauties with enthusiasm. Neither had yet noticed that it had got colder and that Mildred had not brought them down any coffee.

There was a good reason for this neglect. Ten minutes after she returned to the study to become absorbed in her work, Clara had received a telephone call from Kelly to say that Casper had collapsed with a suspected heart attack and been rushed to hospital. He had briefly regained consciousness there and asked for Clara as well as his family. There was something urgent he wanted to say to her and to his solicitor. He was stable but asleep now. Would Clara come back soon?

Clara agreed to return immediately and in her rush and concern for her employer, completely forgot about Melanie and Charles. She also forgot to turn the vault's heating system back on. Clara telephoned the housekeeper's flat and asked Mildred to meet her at the front door and for Arnold to bring the car back around.

Leaving her paperwork on the desk, Clara grabbed her coat and bag. She rushed out of the mansion just as Mildred arrived. Clara quickly told Mildred the bad news and asked her to lock up. Arnold soon pulled up with the limousine. Clara jumped into the car and Arnold put his foot down. On the journey, she telephoned the estate to say she was on her way, asking which of Casper's children and grandchildren had yet been informed.

Elizabeth, the oldest daughter, and her husband, Robert Moreton, were on their way from Gloucestershire. Messages had been left for Diana, the second daughter, who lived in the south of France, and for Vernon, the son, who ran the business in America. While Arnold broke the speed limit, Clara successfully contacted Diana, Vernon and all the grandchildren. This task kept her mind off the couple locked in the vault.

Clara never did ask Mildred to make coffee for Charles and Melanie; nor did Mildred or Arnold know that anyone was in the vault. Needless to say, while they found themselves becoming good friends, Charles and Melanie were oblivious to all the activity above their heads.

Because Melanie seemed to understand what Charles saw in the paintings and felt the same emotions as him, he was forced to reject his original opinion of her as a pantomime nurse. He now saw her as a bright girl with natural good taste who was only ignorant of art. This was something he could easily change; and he would enjoy doing so.

Melanie was in fact genuinely pleased by art and often wandered around the Greenwood galleries in London and Oxfordshire to absorb the atmosphere, even though she did not understand the paintings or sculptures deeply. She judged them by their subjects: she liked a painting of a dog or a sunset because she liked dogs and sunsets. Melanie was a quick learner, though, and the passion of this curious art-loving tax-inspector had inspired her to discover her own latent talent.

It was a Hendrick Avercamp snow-scene that was the ignition point for Melanie.

There were ice-skaters on a frozen river in front of a pink castle, with trees in the left foreground and a fence on the right. The river stretched its winding course to the horizon. The whole scene was joyful, if somewhat sentimental.

Sharing the fun of the skaters and the charm of the castle made Melanie imagine she was really in the painting, feeling the cold air, smelling the smoke from the wood fires, hearing the cries of laughter from the children and sharing the relief of the mother whose child had fallen unhurt on his bottom. The weight of the pale-grey sky pressed on her head, relieved by the unlimited freedom offered by the open river, on which she imagined she could skate all the way to the sea.

Melanie stared at the painting for ten whole minutes, her eyes eagerly seeking every detail but always returning to the centre to follow the liberating river to the horizon. Charles had noticed its effect on her and kept silent to avoid breaking her trance.

Melanie shook her head when she came back into the world.

"You felt it, didn't you?" Charles softly asked.

"Fuck me!" she said.

"Crude but appropriate."

"Do you feel like that every time you look at a painting you like, Charlie?"

"Not every painting I like, but many of them, yes."

"Fuck me," she repeated. "It's like being in love, isn't it? All your normal emotions are, like, amplified. Everything is extra sensitive. Everything feels sharp and new. I almost cried because of these two."

She was pointing at a young couple, obviously courting. He was helping her learn to skate. Somehow you could feel his concern for her and the thrill he felt in holding her by the waist, while she trembled with every kind of emotion.

Melanie's ability to appreciate and be moved by art made Charles positively admire her.

"I saw you go into a trance," he said. "You felt yourself in the painting. Do you ever 'lose yourself' in music?"

"Yes, when I'm dancing."

"I don't dance but I regularly lose myself in classical music. There are moments when I feel the notes are exactly right, that they can't be any other notes. A single wrong note will break the spell but when it is all the right notes, you feel that the composer is talking directly to your soul. Sometimes I feel so much joy listening to Bach it is actually painful ..."

Charles paused, not sure if he should be embarrassed by this admission. The glow on Melanie's face and the sparkle in her eye proved she understood.

"It's the same with painting," he continued. "Look at that absurd tower. This is Holland: there are no pink fairy-tale castles. It was probably a windmill in real life; but Avercamp is playing with us, making us enter his imagined world; and we go along because it's exactly right. The boughs of this tree carry on the line from the roof of the tower, down to the leg of this skater, drawing the eye into the middle of the painting. The colours do the same: the pink tower matches the clothes on these skaters: her skirt, his pantaloons and the vegetables in that basket; even the horse by the barn is pink. The eye follows the line of pink objects, just as it follows the line of the frozen river to the horizon."