“She loathed knitting,” I add, with emphasis. “That should go on the record. But she loved Grazia.” There’s a laugh around the church, which is good. I wanted there to be laughter.
“Of course, for us, her family,” I continue, “she wasn’t just a nameless girl in a painting. She was my great-aunt. She was part of our heritage.” I hesitate as I reach the part I really want to hit home. “It’s easy to discount family. It’s easy to take them for granted. But your family is your history. Your family is part of who you are. And without Sadie, none of us would be in the position we are today.”
I can’t help shooting Uncle Bill a steely gaze at this point. He’s sitting upright next to Dad, dressed in a bespoke suit with a carnation buttonhole, his face quite a lot gaunter than it was on that beach in the south of France. It hasn’t been a great month for him, all told. He’s been constantly in the news pages and the business pages, and none of it good.
At first, I wanted to ban him from this altogether. His publicist was desperate for him to come, to try to redress some of the bad PR he’s had, but I couldn’t bear the idea of him swaggering in, stealing the limelight, doing his usual Uncle Bill trick. But then I reconsidered. I started thinking, why shouldn’t he come and honor Sadie? Why shouldn’t he come and listen to how great his aunt was?
So he was allowed to come. On my terms.
“We should honor her. We should be grateful.”
I can’t help looking meaningfully at Uncle Bill again-and I’m not the only one. Everyone keeps glancing at him, and there are even a few nudges and whispers going on.
“Which is why I’ve set up, in Sadie’s memory, the Sadie Lancaster Foundation. Funds raised will be distributed by the trustees to causes of which she would have approved. In particular, we will be supporting various dance-related organizations, charities for the elderly, the Fairside Nursing Home, and the London Portrait Gallery, in recognition of its having kept her precious painting so safely these last twenty-seven years.”
I grin at Malcolm Gledhill, who beams back. He was so chuffed when I told him. He went all pink and started talking about whether I’d like to become a Friend, or go on the board, or something, as I’m clearly such an art lover. (I didn’t want to say, “Actually, I’m just a Sadie lover; you can pretty much take or leave all those other pictures.”)
“I would also like to announce that my uncle, Bill Lington, wishes to make the following tribute to Sadie, which I will now read on his behalf.”
There is no way on earth I was letting Uncle Bill get up on this podium. Or write his own tribute. He doesn’t even know what I’m about to say. I unfold a separate piece of paper and let a hush of anticipation fall before I begin.
“It is entirely due to my aunt Sadie’s painting that I was able to launch myself in business. Without her beauty, without her help, I would not find myself in the privileged position I occupy today. During her life I did not appreciate her enough. And for this I am truly sorry.” I pause for effect. The church is totally silent and agog. I can see all the journalists scribbling hard. “I am therefore delighted to announce today that I will be donating ten million pounds to the Sadie Lancaster Foundation. It is a small recompense, to a very special person.”
There’s a stunned murmuring. Uncle Bill has gone a kind of sallow putty color, with a rictus smile fixed in place. I glance at Ed, who winks again and gives me the thumbs-up. It was Ed who said, “Go for ten million.” I was all set to ask for five, and I thought that was pushy enough. And the great thing is, now that six hundred people and a whole row of journalists have heard him, he can’t exactly back out.
“I’d sincerely like to thank you all for coming.” I look around the church. “Sadie was in a nursing home by the time her painting was discovered. She never knew quite how appreciated and loved she was. She would have been overwhelmed to see you all. She would have realized…” I feel a sudden rush of tears to my head.
No. I can’t lose it now. After I’ve done so well. Somehow I manage a smile, and draw breath again.
“She would have realized what a mark she made on this world. She’s given so many people pleasure, and her legacy will remain for generations. As her great-niece, I’m incredibly proud.” I swivel to survey the painting for a silent moment, then turn back. “Now it simply remains for me to say: To Sadie. If you would all raise your glasses…”
There’s a stirring and rustling and clinking as everyone reaches for their cocktail glasses. Each guest was presented with a cocktail as they arrived: a gin fizz or a sidecar, especially mixed by two barmen from the Hilton. (And I don’t care if people don’t usually have cocktails at memorial services.)
“Tally-ho.” I lift my glass high, and everyone obediently echoes, “Tally-ho.” There’s silence as everyone sips. Then, gradually, murmurs and giggles start to echo round the church. I can see Mum sipping at her sidecar with a wary expression, and Uncle Bill grimly downing his gin fizz in one, and a pink-faced Malcolm Gledhill beckoning the waiter over for a top-up.
The organ crashes in with the opening bars of “Jerusalem,” and I make my way down the podium steps to rejoin Ed, who’s standing next to my parents. He’s wearing the most amazing vintage 1920s dinner jacket which he paid a fortune for at a Sotheby’s auction and makes him look like a black-and-white-movie star. When I exclaimed in horror at the price, he just shrugged and said he knew the 1920s thing meant a lot to me.