The Heist

It’s 6:30 pm and I am seated at the British Airways gate, anxious to hear my flight number being called. Dulles to London – I need to go “across the pond” as Gram would say. As usual, I had arrived early; boarding was not scheduled to begin for another hour. I would rather wait at the gate than deal with the stress of long security lines or other untold snafus.

This time, though, my early arrival at the gate was not without trepidation. I was flying stand-by. It was the best I could do on such short notice.  The flight was fully booked, so I didn’t know if I would get on. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to get on, but I knew I had to. Residing in D.C., I was Gram’s closest living relative. And her closest in other ways, too, even if I hadn’t seen her in a dozen or so years.

I suddenly regretted not going to England more. Why didn’t I go? Oh, I know. I got married, had two kids. You know – a life. Gram understood. I think. We wrote letters to stay in touch. My two boys received cards every birthday and Christmas. Gram never forgot – not once. We could have gone to see her. Should have. Money was not a problem. And Gram would like the boys. I have no answer.

I received the Western Union telegram this morning. I didn’t even know telegrams still existed, but apparently they do. I knew it was from Gram even before I read it. Who else would send a telegram these days? Once I read the words typed on the yellow paper, my heart sank.

START. MILLIE. PLEASE COME. URGENT. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. LOVE YOU. GRAM. END

I immediately arranged emergency leave from work and brought the boys to a friend’s house. Jack, my husband, will pick them up this evening. I had to get to Gram. She is pushing ninety and not prone to histrionics. If she said it was urgent, I dared not wait. 

Gram lives by herself just outside of London, in a little flat on the banks of the Thames River. It’s a lovely two-bedroom flat, with colorful gardens and lush greenery overlooking the river. Gram loved to sit on her balcony and look at the gardens. They were kept neat and tidy by the association, in full British tradition. I hoped that hadn’t changed.

She’s on the second floor, so there were stairs. A while back, I had encouraged her to move somewhere with no stairs to climb – at her age – but she didn’t want to hear it. Gram never admitted to anything about her age. She still had long, jet-black hair, dyed of course, that she kept in a perfect bun. She was always immaculately dressed in a suit. Conservative and appropriate, but not business-like. 

In her younger days, Gram was apparently quite a looker. Many suitors called on her, even when I visited. Familial stories, unconfirmed, were that she had been married three or four times, including once to an Italian Count. The stories persisted, without evidence. To this day, I don’t know if they are true, but knowing Gram, I wouldn’t be surprised. Even as a child, I knew that if I asked Gram directly about this, I wouldn’t get an answer. “It wouldn’t be proper for a lady to discuss such things.” Gram was all about being a lady, teaching me to be a lady. Never a wrong foot forward, etc. So I never asked.

“Passenger Millie Llywelyn please see the gate agent. Passenger Millie Llywelyn.”

The announcement disturbed my reverie. I got up and walked over to the agent, who handed me a boarding pass. First Class. Lucky. Or did Gram pull some mysterious strings? Either way, I was grateful. I would be able to sleep on the flight to Heathrow. With sleep, I could handle most anything. I didn’t want to see Gram in her last moments on Earth. I wanted to remember her like I did now, a vibrant, aristocratic lady. I dreaded seeing her in decline, but I knew she needed me. I was as prepared as I could be.

I boarded with the other first-class passengers and settled into my seat. Bypassing dinner and other complimentary services, I fell fast asleep as soon as the wheels lifted off the ground. Before I knew it, the flight attendant was waking me to prepare for landing. 

Outside the terminal, I flagged a taxi. The cabbie knew the address and in less than an hour I was standing outside Gram’s building. It looked exactly as I remember it. I was happy about that. I climbed the stairs and found myself in front of the door marked 2C. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for what was beyond. Poor Gram. I took another deep breath and knocked twice.  I was about to knock a little louder when the door flew open.

*****

“G-G-Gram! It’s you!” I stuttered. Before me stood a lady looking far younger than her years. Vibrant and clearly alive. She smiled to see me.

“Of course it’s me, Millie. Who did you expect? Oh, forgive my manners, dear. Come on in.” Gram was dressed in her signature suit, hair tidy. She hadn’t lost a step, practically dancing down the long hallway to lead me to the formal living room.  

“I’ve done a few things to the place, since you were last here. Come and sit. Tell me about your boys.”

I still couldn’t speak. How had I been so wrong? Gram was the furthest thing from her deathbed. I was happy to see that, of course, but very confused.  Why the urgent telegram? I swallowed the lump in my throat and began my interrogation.

“Gram, you can’t imagine what I was thinking. I got your urgent telegram yesterday and caught the first flight out. We can chat, and I will tell you all about Jack and the boys, but first, what is the emergency?”

“Millie, can’t a grandmother ask to see her favorite granddaughter without a reason?”

“Really, Gram? I know you have something up your sleeve. Your telegram was urgent and came out of the blue. I thought you were seriously ill, deathly ill, even.”

“Oh, my dear. I’ve never felt better. But I do need you for something important. Time is of the essence. We must take care of this tomorrow. Would you like some tea?”

Nothing was going to rush Gram, so I relented and had some tea. I told her about Jack’s new job, how he loves it. I told her how much Oliver and Arthur have grown and showed her the latest pictures I had in my wallet. When the niceties were done, I pressed forward.

“Now, Gram. If we need to take care of something tomorrow, don’t you think you best tell me about it?”

“Fine, Millie. Do you remember all the lovely tourist places I have taken you to over the years?”

I had no idea where this was leading, but I was willing to play. “Sure, we went to Buckingham Palace to see the Changing of the Guards, did brass rubbings in Westminster Abbey, saw “Much Ado About Nothing” in Stratford-Upon-Avon, shopped and ate at Harrod’s. Um, we did lots of fun stuff over the years, Gram.”

“We did have a lot of exciting adventures. But you haven’t yet mentioned the one place you need to remember. Keep going.”

“OK Gram. Let’s see. We went to Brighton Beach and Hyde Park. I remember, that’s where Uncle Reggie and Aunt Gladys lived. Their flat took up the entire floor of their building and overlooked the park. They were quite rich, as I recall. Oh, and Windsor Castle, that’s where -”

“That’s it! Windsor Castle!” Gram said. “What was so special about Windsor Castle, if you can remember?”

“How could I forget? My favorite - I don’t know how many times we visited Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. You had to take me to see it every time I was in London visiting you.”

“That’s right, dear. You were fascinated by the lights that worked and the perfect miniature furnishings. It really is a most unique Doll’s House. Amazing in its detail. Most of the miniature paintings and even the books, are original works created by very famous artists. Not duplicates or prints. There was one painting, in particular, that I showed you every time. Do you remember it?”

“Of course. Great Uncle William’s painting. Of an old king….um…James the Fifth? Is that right?”

“Wonderful, Millie. Yes. You remember. Your Great-Great Uncle, Sir William S.H. Llewellyn - they spelled the family name differently back then. He painted the tiny portrait of James V of Scotland. The miniature portrait hung in the dining room, on one side of the fireplace. A place of honor.”

“OK Gram. Enough mystery. What’s this all about?”

“Well . . . back in my youth, I was quite the artist, among my other talents. Only I wasn’t as recognized as old Uncle Willie. No one was buying my art. One day, I decided to paint a miniature portrait of James V, copying the one in the Doll’s House. It was a magnificent copy! Only a master could tell the difference, and even then, he would have to look very closely to be sure. On one of our trips to see Queen Mary’s Doll’s House, I exchanged the portraits. It is mine currently hanging there, seen by millions of tourists. Has been for years.”

“Whoa. Gram. Seriously? I didn’t think you did anything wrong. Ever. How did you do it? Make the switch? There were always guards in the room, as I recall.”

“You helped me. Oh, you didn’t know it. You were only fourteen. Remember, you took the photo of the Doll’s House. No photography signs were posted but you missed them. You used a flash, and the guard came running. You were almost in tears, thinking they were going to take your camera away, but the guard just gave you a stern warning. That’s when I did it. The switch. I was never one to let an opportunity pass me by!”

“Holey moley!”

“So now we need to switch them back. The James V portraits. I have the original and the Doll’s House has my copy. We need to get mine back and put Uncle Willie’s in its place. Tomorrow, Millie. It has to be done tomorrow.”

“Whaaaaa? We need to un-steal what you stole? A reverse heist? Is that what you are saying? Is that why I am here -to take another photo in a no-photo zone?”

“Not exactly, dear. This time I will create the distraction and you will switch the paintings. I am elderly – something I am loathe to admit. I can fall or pretend a heart attack. I was a pretty good actress when I was younger, one of my other talents. When the guard is distracted, you take the portrait off the dining room wall and put the real one back in its place. No one will be the wiser. Simple.”

“Gram. Gram. Are you serious? Or crazy? This is not simple. There are a million reasons why we can’t do this. Why not just turn over the original? I don’t want to be writing my children from a London jail.”

“There is no time to argue, Millie. An inventory check is scheduled for next week so the exhibit will be closed. They are bringing in a master restorer to remove any varnish or discoloration on the paintings. He would certainly notice that my portrait of James V is not Uncle Willie’s. And he may be able to trace it to me. I will not have my reputation sullied. We must do the switch tomorrow. That is firm.”

It was no use trying to convince Gram that this wasn’t a good idea.  I tried arguing, pleading and reasoning. She was undeterred. She had already bought tickets to tour the Castle. Come to think of it, I can’t recall anyone ever winning an argument against Gram.  This evening, her record remained unblemished.

I tossed and turned all night going over our plan. Gram had given me Uncle Willie’s original portrait. I was to hide it in the inner pocket of my jacket. It was small enough to fit. She would create a distraction, and when the guard went over to assist her, I would take the fake portrait off the dining room wall and re-hang the original. Uncle Willie’s picture, as Gram referred to it. “Simple.” UGH.

*****

The next morning, I was too nervous to eat any of the porridge Gram made. She seemed to still have a heathy appetite, though. I was shaking as I dressed but I made sure James V was securely in the pocket of my jacket. 

Gram came out of her room and I swear if I didn’t know better, I would never guess she was ninety-ish. She didn’t look a day over sixty. She was very elegant in her suit, hair coiffed, and umbrella in hand. It wasn’t raining. She said the umbrella was her walking stick. It was a needed prop, she told me. 

Ready or not, we grabbed a taxi to Windsor Castle. We walked around the grounds a little, acting as typical tourists. Basically, we were waiting for the early crowds, in line to see the dollhouse, dissipate.

Gram never broke from character. It was as if she was a great actress starring in a film. When the crowds at the dollhouse thinned, she took my arm and said, “Come darling. Let me show you the most fascinating Doll’s House. It was built in the 1920’s and contains many interesting features. The lights even work. The books are not empty shells, but are actually books written by famous authors. And the paintings. You have to see how magnificent the paintings are. Come, my dear.”

Me? I was shaking in my boots. But I followed Gram into the room that housed Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. My breathing was shallow and fast, but there was no turning back.

The Doll’s House was in the center of the room on a table. We walked around the house three times, with Gram pointing out different features. I pretended to be peering intently into each room. I paid particular attention to the dining room where I saw the James V portrait by the fireplace.

Finally, on our fourth circle, when I was directly in front of the dining room, Gram walked ahead. She suddenly bent over, held up by her umbrella as she clutched her chest. I heard her moan and the guard walked over to her to see what the problem was. This was my chance.

I took the picture Gram gave me out of my pocket. Then I reached and took the same portrait off the dining room wall. I readied to make the switch, when some medical aide person bumped me from behind. They were running to assist Gram, and didn’t see me. Luckily, they didn’t see the miniature paintings, either.

Both paintings fell into my left hand, as I steadied myself with my right hand. Which was which? I couldn’t be sure. Scared, I put one of the paintings back in the dining room, next to the fireplace. The other went into my jacket pocket. No one saw anything. Did I just re-hang Gram’s painting, or was the switch successful? I had no way of knowing. There was no undoing what was done. 

The disturbance Gram had created was winding down. She apparently said she was feeling better. And the guard was back in position. I collected Gram with promises to take her to a cardiologist. And we left.

Gram stayed in character until we got back to her flat. It was no use telling her that I wasn’t sure which painting was hanging in the Doll’s House. If the restorer found a fake, she would find out soon enough. Why worry her – I was worried enough for us both.

The next morning, Gram took me to the airport. Yes, she still drives. That was something else I didn’t know. We said our good-byes. Despite everything, I really was glad to have spent time with her. I said it wouldn’t be another dozen years before I came back. I would bring Jack and the boys. . . if she promised to lower the excitement level. My heart can’t take it. 

I was listed stand-by once again, but again I found myself in a first-class seat. Coincidence? I didn’t even want to ask Gram. I just wanted to leave London as soon as possible. It felt safer to be state-side. 

Mid-air, I opened the gift she had handed me as I left. It was a beautiful jewelry box. She had hand-painted the outside -it was a perfect picture of me at age fourteen, looking at Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. I had to grin. Inside the box was a note and two miniature paintings. The first was a very familiar portrait of James V of Scotland. The second was a miniature portrait of Charlie Chaplin. I opened the note.

My dearest Millie,

It was wonderful to see you again. Please do come back with the boys. I’m sure they wouldn’t be bored. We can find some bit of excitement to fill the days.

Please enjoy my gift to you. I know you will recognize my painting on the outside of the box. You will never forget the first, or the last, time you visited Queen Mary’s Doll’s House.

Inside, I think you earned the portrait of James V of Scotland. Uncle Willie would want you to have it! And the Charlie Chaplin painting is a self-portrait. I will explain on your next visit.

All my love,

Gram

******************************************************

Note:   One interesting tidbit I found was that, in 1921, Charlie Chaplin had promised to donate a miniature portrait of himself to the Doll's House, but that portrait never appeared.