The Tribulations of Hermione

 “Malcolm Turnbull, you stupid, heartless bastard,” Hermione sobbed, “you mean-spirited, selfish, arrogant low-life.” She had just received the news of her boyfriend’s death by way of a terse telephone call from a person whose name she did not quite catch. Grief-stricken and confused, Hermione spent the next four days weeping disconsolately and wishing she was dead. Why in the name of anything did he do it, she kept asking herself. Why? The enormity of Malcolm’s duplicity and then his suicide had shaken Hermione hard. She tried going out for a walk in her local park but that didn’t work as it was the park where she and Malcolm had spent many happy moments and every single tree, every path, every flower-bed reminded her of him. She attempted distracting herself by watching films on DVD but found herself unable to muster the concentration necessary to make sense of any film. It was all too much to take.

The weight of Hermione’s misery wore heavily on her. She lost weight. Her hair looked bedraggled. She took on the aspect of the melancholy Girl with Pigs in the painting by Thomas Gainsborough.

Hermione realised that something had to be done. But what? It occurred to her that it might help to speak to another human being, so she arranged to meet a friend for coffee on Saturday morning on the King’s Road in Chelsea. It was the right thing to do because little did she know that it would inadvertently result in a lightbulb moment. As she walked through Chelsea, Hermione stopped outside a small shop which sold prints of famous F1 images. Framed in the window was a painting of F1 racing cars.

Hermione stared at the picture for a couple of minutes, mesmerised. Then in a manner reminiscent of the biblical story of the conversion of Saul of Tarsus, the enthusiastic persecutor of Christians – immortalised in oil paint on canvas by the Italian Baroque painting genius, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, in the magnificent work The Conversion of St Paul – she had an epiphany.

Caravaggio, an exceptionally gifted artist, was a hell raiser and murderer but, when commissioned to produce a religious painting, invariably produced something so profound that admiring the work made (and still makes) one’s head reel in wonder. The paintings speak for themselves. Nobody needs to tell you the biblical story about how Saul, on his way to kill Christians, was blinded by a bright light and fell off his horse when he heard the voice of Jesus asking “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?” when you see this staggering picture. It is all there before your eyes.

Hermione realised at the moment of seeing the picture of the racing cars that the only way to exorcise the ghost of Malcolm Frederick Turnbull was to embrace the thing he loved: she had to cultivate an abiding interest in and love for all things Formula One. If she did this, her brain told her, she would forever be communing with Malcolm from beyond the grave. There was no time to be lost. She extracted her phone from her handbag and made a quick phone call.

“Eleanor, have you left home yet?”

“Don’t be silly, Hermione, the café’s only 30 seconds away from me. I’m still putting my face on!”

“Sorry to ruin your morning, Eleanor love, but I have to dash off somewhere urgently. I’ll phone you to rearrange our coffee. Byee!”

Hermione than dashed off home and got onto her computer. She typed in the words “Formula One” and began to peruse the numerous articles that popped up. The more she read, the more fascinated she became. She read about the early years: the days when F1 cars were not that far removed from street cars and driven by burly men like Juan Manuel Fangio and Alberto Ascari. She gasped at the tales of the danger years in the 60s and 70s when getting home after a day on the race track was a feat in itself; when talented young men like Jim Clark, Jochen Rindt, François Cevert and many others needlessly lost their lives. She smiled at the tales of mind games played in the 1990s between Nigel Mansell, Alain Prost and Ayrton Senna. She almost nodded off when she got to the years of control exercised by Michael Schumacher. By the time she got to the present day, she had been at her computer for nearly the whole day.

Hermione was puzzled by recent developments. How, she wondered, could it be that a sport so steeped in history could have got itself into such organisational difficulties that racing teams were falling off the edge by the day? The newspaper articles were scathing: “F1 in crisis” one headline screamed; “Formula One has lost its way” raged another; “F 1 can’t get a grip on costs” roared yet another. The issue causing all this consternation was the fact that costs had spiralled to such an extent that many F1 teams could not manage the financial commitments required of them. Two small teams, Marussia and Caterham had gone to the wall and it was feared that others could soon follow suit if something wasn’t done. Could these things have been contributing factors in throwing Malcom’s mind into such a tailspin that he was unable to cope with being alive?

Hermione made a quick decision. If F1 was in terminal decline, she had to see a live race before the end. The next race was in Texas, which was convenient because if there was a country she could never have enough of it was the United States of America. She would get tickets for the race in Austin. Finding a company called “Luxury F1 Holidays” on the internet was the work of an instant. The determining factor for Hermione was their sales pitch: “F1 is the pinnacle of motor sport; it shouldn’t be treated as a backpack trip”. She decided to phone them.

“I greet you in the name of Jee-Zos,” said the person who answered the phone.

“Eh? Is that Luxury F1 Holidays?” Hermione asked with some trepidation.

“I do beg your pardon,” said a posh voice. “My business partner who handles our West African luxury travel business is holed up in quarantine in Sierra Leone because of this whole Ebola business, so I am having to look after her clients as convincingly as I can until she gets back, which is rather more than I am used to, I must say, but there we are. Forgive me, I digress. How may we be of service?”

Moments later Hermione was the proud owner of US Grand Prix tickets, a Business Class ticket on British Airways, a lake view room in the Four Seasons hotel, luxury transport to and from the Circuit of the Americas and a guide to accompany her to the events in Austin during the 2014 United States Grand Prix. She had had to use the limitless American Express card daddy gave her “for emergencies” on the basis that if this was not an emergency, then what was? She was all set. Her mind was now firmly focused on things F1 and she found that she had developed a liking for the only F1 star the Americans recognised, Lewis Hamilton.

The flight to Austin on Wednesday was filled to the gunwales. As she leafed through her complimentary copy of High Life magazine she heard what she felt certain was a familiar voice.

“I didn’t think we were going to make this flight, Kaz. That was really close. I am sorry we didn’t have time to go to the lounge. It was all that fuckwit taxi driver’s fault! And my chickenshit boyfriend wouldn’t send his fucking plane over. I’ll tell him what I think about that, you wait! Anyway, I am glad I managed to get a call in to the manager at the Four Seasons and remind him about my salad. They prepare a special salad for me every time I go there . You’ve gotta try it, it’s delicious. Yum. The Nicole Special. Yum”

Hermione peered round using her magazine as a shield. To her horror, two ladies whom she recognised were walking down the aisle to occupy the two vacant seats across the aisle to her left. They were Malcolm’s Japanese widow, Kazumi, and Nicole Scherzinger. Oh buggeration!

Suddenly, going to the United States Grand Prix seemed an entirely different prospect for Hermione Urquhart Page.

Gitau

Halloween 2014

Suzuka and the Hermione embargo

“Hermione, my love,” the letter began, “if you are reading this, perhaps you will finally revisit your thinking about the Japanese and accept that what happened more than 70 years ago does not mean that they are all evil, heartless swine of Hell who deserve no better than to be shunned by the world for ever more. I am not lacking in sympathy for your late grandfather, Herm my darling, but it was an awfully long time ago and you didn’t even get to see him alive yourself. 

You won't gainsay that I have always agreed it was beastly that your poor grandfather died of dysentery as a prisoner of war at the hands of some heartless Japanese soldiers after the fall of Singapore in 1942; that was hard for your family.  You found it most upsetting that your family wrote to the poor sod every week, but the wicked Japanese did not even let a single letter or parcel get through to him. Bastards without a shadow of a doubt, I agree. Atrocious. Nevertheless, I have always asked you to have a bit of perspective in the twenty-first century.

Anyway, Herm, let that rest for now and let me get to the nub of things. How did it come to be that you caught me last week on Thursday morning in flagrante delicto with another woman in what you had assumed to be our bed? I swear to you Herm, that was never how I intended for you to find out about Kazumi. I meant to tell you everything later in the week. I was going to fess-up, Herm. Honestly, I was. And anyway how was I to know that you were going to come to the flat at 11 in the morning when you had never done so before, and on the very week when I was going to tell you about my girlfriend? Explain that.

Look Hermione, stop speed-reading this. Pour yourself a glass of wine - I left at least a couple of bottles of Chateau Lafite in the not-to-be-touched-on-pain-of-instant-death rack under my desk, so spoil yourself. Sit down comfortably, relax and read on slowly.

The whole thing with Kazumi began in the most surreal of ways. If you recall, you embargoed the Japanese Grand Prix many years’ ago because of the intensity of your hatred for all things Japanese. I implored you to reconsider, but you wouldn’t have any of it. I tried explaining to you that the three “S”s, Siverstone, Spa and Suzuka were Formula One’s Crown Jewels and that the only one I had not been to was Suzuka, but this broke no ice with you. I told you that I felt unfulfilled, that I broke out in a cold sweat every year when the build-up to the Japanese Grand Prix began, but you were not moved. I offered to fly out alone for just 3 days and stay in a budget hotel, but you would not even pay attention to me. Japan was Japan and it was not up for negotiation. Oh, Herm, how you made me suffer!

Well, this year, I told myself that things would be different; I was going to Suzuka, Hermione embargo or no Hermione embargo. My plan was to order my race and travel tickets and not breathe a word about them to you until the day before I was due to leave this week. That way, I figured, I would limit my time in the purgatory you would inevitably make of our flat.

.

On the morning when the tickets arrived a couple of months’ ago – I, of course, took the precaution of having everything delivered to me at work – I had a meeting in the West End and was travelling there by tube on the Central Line. It was a hot, busy day and we were packed into the fetid tube like bally sardines. The gods were smiling on me, though, because opposite me was the most bewitchingly beautiful Japanese girl I had ever seen in my life. She didn’t observe the unwritten rule of London Underground etiquette – perhaps it was just her natural confidence – and made eye contact with me for the entire time she was standing there. This was just as well because I could see that the heat and lack of air was seriously distressing her. 

The tube lurched and then came to a standstill mid-tunnel. Suddenly, I saw the girl’s legs begin to buckle and only just managed to grab her before she fell to the floor. As soon as the train stopped at the next station, I dragged her out, sat her down and gave her some of my water.

The girl recovered quickly enough and turned out to be very charming indeed. I asked her if she wanted a coffee and we went together to the nearest Café Nero. We got chatting and she told me her name was Kazumi and that she was an artist. This won’t make pleasant reading for you, Herm, and I am sorry to put you through this, but I have to tell you the truth – I was smitten. I felt as though I had been struck by a bolt of lightning. Anyway, I won’t labour you with any of the gory details, but Kazumi and I have been an item since.

Well, after you found us, we scuttled out of the flat as quickly as we could and got dressed in the corridor outside while you tried to lift your jaw from the floor. We decided to bring forward our travel plans to the weekend and have been holed up in a suite at the Mandarin Oriental since Sunday. 

Why am I splurging like this? Am I suddenly made of money? Well, Kazumi and I got married on Monday and I am happier than I have ever been. That’s what credit cards are for, Herm.

The funny thing is that I am not looking forward to the Grand Prix. Not that it will be a rubbish race, far from it. Suzuka always produces a right corker. It is the only figure-eight race track on the F1 calendar, it’s fast and it is very challenging. The trouble is the company Kazumi and I will be forced to endure at Suzuka. 

Do you remember the Pussycat doll, Nicole Sherzinger? You never seemed to like her much, did you Herm? Well, Kazumi, for her sins, loves her! We bumped into her in the hotel lobby and have been having drinks and meals with her a little too often for my liking. The bally woman has her jaw wired to the American electricity grid! She just won’t belt-up! She insists that we join her in the Mercedes team hospitality area like VIPs on Saturday and Sunday. I don’t mind telling you, Herm, but that went down like a cup of cold sick when I heard it.

As I write, Nicole and Kazumi are downstairs having cocktails but I can’t bring myself to join them. I mean to say, what is the bloody point of that. Or much, come to that.

I reckon the battle between Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg has now swung decisively in Hamilton’s favour. Rosberg is not a patch on Hamilton as a driver, but he has a good brain and he was doing Hamilton over in the brain department. Having now met Hamilton's bird, I think I have some idea why!

By the way, Herm, do you remember that quirky artist John Duffin whose work we discovered at the old Betty Morton Gallery in Brixton? Well, he has produced some wonderful new stuff on London recently. You ought to check it out.

I won’t be leaving Japan ever which, since you won’t come out here because of your crazy embargo, effectively means that you and I will never see one another again. After 12 years, I am deeply sorry to say goodbye like this, my darling Hermione, but I am sure you will have a happy life. You always were a toughie. Anyway, sayonara Herm. Look after yourself.

All my love

Yours aye

Malcolm”

The letter was emailed to Hermione Urquhart Page yesterday evening. This morning a framed oil painting by John Duffin depicting a typical London scene arrived at Hermione's flat accompanied by a note that said the following:

“Isn’t this lovely?

Malcolm”

Mrs Kazumi Turnbull returned to her hotel suite yesterday evening to find Malcolm Turnbull lying dead in his bath. He had slashed his wrists.

I never knew Turnbull to be a sentimental chap, so I think it would be consistent of him to have treated a diagnosis of terminal cancer in this practical manner.

The puzzling thing is, despite his professed love for Suzuka, he didn’t wait until Monday. Curious chap, Turnbull.

Gitau

1 October 2014