by Imogen Clark
I seem to have lost the power of speech. I just nod at her and hope that she can pick up from my face how grateful I am.
‘Good God, it’s Arctic in this wind,’ she says, choosing to ignore the struggle that I am obviously having to maintain my composure. ‘I’m sorry but I have to get back. I’ve got some stuff I have to deal with this afternoon. But here’s my address.’ She fishes in her bag for a notebook and quickly scribbles it down. ‘Shall we say around six?’
I take the paper from her without looking at it and nod, accepting the instruction like a small child.
‘Have you got plans for this afternoon? You could do worse than visit the Museum of Modern Art. If you keep your eyes open you might see something by yours truly,’ she adds with a wink. ‘Get yourself a postcard. I’ll see you at six.’
Then she heads off, leaving me alone. Seagulls circle overhead in their endless pursuit of food. I really am cold now. I need to get moving again but instead I just stand there and watch the waves break on the shore.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Annie, 1989
Annie sits next to the window and watches as the train pulls slowly into Rome. She’s the only one awake so far and she relishes the peace while it lasts. Rome has been sprawling, neither city nor country, for miles. The tall apartment buildings springing up from either side of the tracks are scruffy and unloved, each smeared with ugly graffiti in greys and reds. It reminds her of Ursula’s artwork from the old days: angry, defiant, refusing to toe the line. Do the people who live here mind that their homes are defaced with such discontentment? Do they even know?
Though it’s not yet eight, the temperature in the compartment is beyond what Annie feels comfortable with. She takes big, gasping breaths to cleanse her lungs but the stale air is not fit for purpose. As the train raced through the night, she’d wanted to fling the windows open, but apparently that would have been too noisy, with all the stopping and starting at the various stations along the line. Annie barely got any sleep anyhow because of the heat. Chicken and egg. Leaning over their luggage, which is piled up on the floor, she reaches up to open the window now. The air that rushes in is not exactly refreshing but it is better than what is rushing out.
How long they will stay in Rome? They have been zigzagging across Europe on a Grand Tour like a pair of wealthy Victorians. She has liked everywhere that she has been shown so far, except St Petersburg, where the open aggression of the authorities coupled with the terrible food shrouded their visit with a shadowy hue. Tilly kept telling her how daring they were to be behind the Iron Curtain, that it was a privilege to be where so few tourists ever went, but Annie didn’t get it and felt only relief when the train trundled back over the border into West Germany. Even though Germany was unfamiliar too, it felt more safely unfamiliar.
Now they are working their way down Italy. First Venice, then Pisa, then Florence and now Rome, flitting from place to place, following Tilly’s plan. Annie tags along after her, ready to look delighted on cue when she is shown yet another building or painting. Rome is a treasure trove of ancient history and stolen wealth, according to Tilly. When Annie thinks of England, she has to bite her lip to maintain control. She tries not to think of it at all.
A guard walks down the corridor outside, shouting something in Italian that Annie doesn’t understand but assumes is a suggestion that the travellers rouse themselves and get ready to disembark. The train goes on to Naples so there’ll not be much time on the platform. She leans over and touches Tilly’s arm gently. She stirs and then is awake almost at once. She scrunches up her eyes tightly, pings them back open and is then fully present. There are no in-betweens with Tilly, no grey areas.
‘We’re here,’ whispers Annie, instinctively careful not to wake their fellow passengers, despite the guard’s instruction.
Tilly shuffles in her seat, testing her back, her legs, to see how they have survived the journey. Rubbing at her thighs to bring some life back into them, she smiles at Annie.
‘Wait until you see the Colosseum,’ she says, eyes shining. ‘You’re going to love it. It’s incredible. Everything here is incredible. Thousands of years of history just sitting there. Honestly, atmosphere radiates out of the walls. Can you imagine how many people have walked on the pavements?’
Annie cannot imagine. In fact, she has no idea what Tilly is talking about, but she’s learned just to listen when she is being evangelical about something, as now. History seems to mean so much more to her than it does to Annie. Perhaps she listened harder at school? Tilly has seemed genuinely moved by some of the places that they have seen. Annie has tried to match her excitement but to her they are just buildings – and dilapidated buildings at that. It’s nice to keep in touch with the past but do they really need to keep everything?
‘The Romans are so blasé about what they have on their doorstep,’ Tilly continues as she folds the sweater that she has been using as a blanket and slots it back into her rucksack. ‘I mean, just take the Via dei Fori Imperiali.’
The Italian words roll off Tilly’s tongue as if she were born pronouncing them.
‘It runs right through the centre of Ancient Rome. You can virtually touch the Colosseum from a bus window. It’s ridiculous. Can you imagine us having lorries running right next to Windsor Castle? Not that it’s the same. I mean, Windsor has only been there five minutes next to the Colosseum.’
And then she is off again, dazzling Annie with what she knows.
The train comes to a juddering stop, which wakes the other woman in their compartment. She opens her eyes, takes in the sign for Rome on that platform and then closes them again. Tilly picks up her rucksack and steps over the woman’s outstretched legs, rolling her eyes at the inconvenience. She slides open the compartment door and they step out into the hustle and bustle of the station, which seems to begin in the train’s corridor. Travellers are pushing and shoving to get off, the guard is shouting and gesticulating wildly, and beyond, a tannoy calls out unrecognisable messages to all and sundry.
Annie drags her battered faux-leather suitcase out after Tilly, banging it down the steps and on to the platform. Tilly, whose smart rucksack presents her with none of the same logistical difficulties that Annie faces, does not notice. When they left England, Tilly promised to buy Annie a rucksack like hers. ‘Can’t have you looking like a gypsy,’ she said, but the rucksack has never appeared and Annie doesn’t like to ask. Tilly is paying for everything as it is. This doesn’t seem to bother her, but it makes Annie feel uncomfortable and she is reluctant to draw more attention to it than necessary. Annie finds it easier to ignore the fact that, yet again, she is financially dependent on someone else.
Tilly sets off, striding purposefully towards the end of the platform, waving at fellow passengers and calling out ‘Buon giorno’ as if they are all friends of hers. Tilly has friends the world over, or so it seems to Annie.
Annie struggles after her, using both hands to lug her heavy suitcase. Sweat patches are already forming on her back and they haven’t even had breakfast yet.
‘Do you think there might be a Left Luggage office?’ she calls out after Tilly, who either does not or chooses not to hear.
Out on the street, Rome is going about its business noisily. Horns pap and Vespas buzz up and down like angry wasps. There is much shouting and waving of arms, and everywhere Annie looks there are people looking busy but doing little. Tilly steers them off the main road and they stop at a little café and buy a slice of pizza, which they eat as they walk. When they started on this adventure they ate inside the cafés, not in the street.
A raggedy bunch of small, nut-brown children starts to gather around them and Tilly brushes them away with a flick of her wrist. In Pisa, Annie caught a gypsy woman slipping her hand inside Tilly’s handbag. She shouted at the woman in English and the woman screamed back in Italian but then left them alone to go and try her luck on another tourist. Annie was pleased that she had managed to avert disaster with her quick thinking but Ti
lly just shrugged, as if being pick-pocketed was the price one paid for foreign travel. She seems more cautious now, though, her confidence slightly dented.
It’s so hot that Annie can barely breathe. Never having left England before, her only experience of real heat is the summer of 1976, but this is much hotter than she remembers that being. At least they have left the bags at the pensione. The thought of pushing through the crowds dragging her case behind her makes her feel faint.
‘I’m taking you to the Trevi Fountain,’ says Tilly, looking triumphant, and when Annie shows no sign of recognition, she frowns at her. ‘You know. The film? Three Coins in the Fountain?’
Annie looks at her blankly. Tilly shakes her head and smiles fondly.
‘Frank Sinatra? No? How did you spend your childhood, darling? Well, tradition says that we have to throw a coin in the fountain to make sure that we come back to Rome.’
Right now, Annie is not sure that she ever wants to come back here. It’s dirty and smelly and far too hot but she won’t tell Tilly that. She trails after her friend, who is striding down the street like she’s on home turf. Then she sees a small shop cut into the wall. There are postcards displayed on rickety racks attached to its wooden shutters. She hesitates. Tilly will be cross but she doesn’t care.
‘Could I just have some money to buy a postcard and a stamp?’ she asks. ‘Please.’
Tilly sighs loudly.
‘What? Again?’ she asks, but she digs into her money belt, newly purchased after the near miss in Pisa, and pulls out a couple of 1,000 Lire notes. She waves them at Annie as if she is summoning a waitress in a strip joint.
Annie takes the money and makes her way across the narrow street to the shop. She runs a grubby finger up the rack, stopping at a painting that looks kind of familiar. In it, a naked man is almost touching fingers with an old man in a toga.
‘Ah,’ says Tilly coming up and standing behind her. ‘The Creation of Adam. I’ll take you there tomorrow. We can’t leave Rome without seeing the Sistine Chapel.’
Annie has seen inside enough churches to last her a lifetime and has no interest in another. Also, she’s not sure that a postcard of an entirely naked man is appropriate. Her hand moves on and she chooses a picture of an ornate white building with naked statues in front of it. Does no one wear any clothes here?
‘That’s it,’ breathes Tilly excitedly into her neck. ‘That’s the Trevi Fountain.’
Now that Annie looks a bit harder she can see a bit of water at the front. Not much of a fountain, though. She takes the card to the till and is served by a tiny and very wrinkled woman dressed entirely in black. Annie signals that she wants a stamp and the woman sells her one, which she sticks on to the postcard for safekeeping.
Back out in the street, Tilly links arms with Annie, pulls her into her and places a kiss gently on her cheek.
‘Are you happy, darling?’ she asks.
Annie hesitates for only a second but it’s long enough. Tilly pulls away and scowls.
‘Sometimes I wonder why you bothered coming. If you’re having such a bloody miserable time then you can always go back, you know. I’m not stopping you.’
‘I’m not,’ says Annie. ‘I’m having a great time. You know I am. It’s just hard . . .’
She feels the tears, the lump in her throat, which she swallows back down. There’s no point trying to explain how she feels to Tilly. She has tried before and got nowhere. She stuffs the postcard deep inside her bag so that Tilly won’t catch a stray glimpse of it and start again. She takes a deep breath and smiles brightly.
‘So: where’s this fountain then?’
Tilly’s anger is immediately appeased and she skips along next to Annie.
‘Well, if memory serves . . .’ she says and leads her along the street.
Annie follows obediently. Tilly is wrong, of course. She can’t go back. Joe has seen to that. She can never go back.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Cara, 2018
When I get back to the hotel, I check my phone. There is a message from Beth and I click on it urgently.
Hi. Mrs Jackson here! (How weird does that look?) I’m back!!!
Honeymoon was fab. Hotel to die for. Perfect beach. Delicious food etc etc . . . Feeling jealous yet?! But enough of me and my perfect life ;-) How was your Christmas and New Year? Any news? Can’t wait to see you. How are you fixed for a catch up? B xxx
‘Any news?’ I don’t really know where to start. I type out a quick reply.
Hi. Glad you had a great time. Really missed you. Am in San Francisco! Long story. Back day after tomorrow. Will tell all then. Bit of romance too! It’s all happening. Can’t wait to see you. C xxx
I smile to myself as I picture Beth reading my message and trying to work out what has been going on while she’s been away. Not knowing will kill her.
I scroll down the rest of the new messages. Nestled in amongst the others is one that makes my heart lurch. Simeon. My finger hovers momentarily over the button before I open it but then I click.
Cara Beloved. Just wondering how it’s working out with the new aunt. Maybe you can tell me all over a drink or maybe dinner? S.
He is persistent, I’ll give him that. For a moment, I let him linger in my mind’s eye but then I close him down. There’s no free space in my head right now and anyway I know that I’m no good for him. A lovely bloke like Simeon deserves so much more than I can give. I should just ignore him and let whatever we have going on fizzle out. History shows that my relationships never turn out well. I’m not great at letting people close and, sooner or later, they always discover the hole where my heart should be. It’ll be better for everyone if I just walk away before either of us gets hurt. A little pain now is better than being ripped apart when it all goes wrong later.
Reluctantly, I tap out a short reply promising to get in touch when I get home and wonder if he can read the goodbye between the lines.
A little later, when my taxi pulls up outside Ursula’s place, I have buried any thoughts of Simeon again. Ursula’s house is industrial-looking, boxy and flat-roofed with huge square windows. It’s painted an uncompromising gunmetal grey, or that’s how it looks in the semi-darkness. I knock on the door, realising, just too late, that I should have brought a bottle of wine or some flowers with me. I hear the sound of someone clattering down metal stairs inside, then the door flies open and there stands Skyler. Before she has even invited me in, she throws her arms around my neck and squeezes hard.
‘Cara!’ she screeches into my hair. ‘We’re cousins! Can you believe it? It’s going to be great! We’re going to be, like, best friends. I just know we are.’
After what feels like an age, she finally releases me.
‘Come in, come in,’ she says.
The house seems to be upside down, with the living rooms upstairs – to catch the views, I presume. Skyler leads the way up the steel staircase and I follow, my footsteps ringing out in the echoing space. There are paintings hanging on the walls but I don’t see any of Ursula’s characteristic red. These are also abstracts but softer and brighter with no dark corners or violent slashes of colour. I wonder if this is the new work she was talking about. The air smells faintly of turps.
At the landing, Skyler shows me into a lounge. It is a double-height room with a huge window that takes up the whole of one wall and very little furniture, just a couple of sofas and a chrome coffee table. Ursula is reclining on one of the sofas, glass of wine in hand. She nods at me as I enter but makes no effort to stand. Skyler, slightly breathless from the speed at which she took the stairs, buzzes around near me, offering to take my coat, get me a drink, show me the apartment.
‘For God’s sake, Skyler,’ Ursula says. ‘Will you calm down. You’re like a puppy. Give Cara some space. Go get her a drink. Come in, Cara. Sit down.’
She doesn’t pull her legs in to make space for me so I opt for the other sofa and perch on the edge. There’s not much sign of the warmth generated by our meet
ing this morning and all of a sudden I feel my guard rising, ready to protect myself should the need arise again.
I can hear Skyler opening a bottle in the kitchen. Ursula does not speak, just watches me with narrowed eyes, and it is a relief when Skyler comes bustling back in with a tray stacked high with bottles, glasses and a bowl of pistachios.
‘I didn’t know what you’d like so I brought red and white but we have beer or soda as well. Just say the word. And I’ve brought us some snacks. Oh, you don’t have a nut allergy, do you? I can just as easily take them away.’
I shake my head and smile at Skyler. ‘No. No allergies. White wine would be lovely, thank you.’
‘I just adore your British accent,’ she says as she pours a large glass for each of us. ‘You sound so regal. Does everyone in Britain sound like you?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Skyler,’ says Ursula. Her voice is impatient but not angry. ‘And anyway, you should be used to British accents.’
‘Oh, yours doesn’t count, Mom,’ says Skyler dismissively. ‘I just knew there was something about you,’ she continues, ignoring her mother and addressing me. ‘The minute you walked into the gallery, I could just tell. I didn’t know that we were cousins, of course,’ she adds. ‘Not straightaway. But I just felt like there was something between us, some kind of bond.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ says Ursula. ‘Will you shut up!’
But I ignore Ursula too.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘I felt that we would be friends, well, given half a chance.’
‘See!’ says Skyler, looking at her mother triumphantly. ‘Cara felt it too. We’re not all miserable, antisocial hermits like you, Mom.’
