Luke has little care for where they go or what they do. Those two people over there, the woman and her child, are his happiness. All else is nothing.
Daniel stood by the Wall watching. It’s cold. He didn’t feel it. What he feels is beyond cold. Shapes pass back and forth across the windows, the piano plays and people dance. He can see Julianna! She observes mourning and is dressed in black. It makes her skin shimmer. She is lovely, he’d forgotten how lovely.
Chinese lanterns and Christmas tree decorated in a carefree fashion a scene like this should have a banner stretched across the top, ‘Peace on Earth, Good Will to All Men.’
Here comes the dog for a pat and Matty for a kiss. Now he’s propped up on a stool at the piano helping a fellow perform a double-handed duet. Laughing! Look at his little face! That is one happy child.
Drawn by the warmth Daniel was tempted to knock on the door. He has an excuse Matty’s toy soldier. He could say he’d come to return it. When he does hand it over it will be with mixed blessings. An amulet, a blessing or curse, he doesn’t know. Throughout the whole of the trip, in and out of the refugee camps, it weighed heavy in his top pocket. A tiny thing, two or three inches of lead, it was an embodiment of the boy, a miniature Matty, and a token of what had was left behind. Now it is a reminder of what has been lost.
As Daniel watched the man came into view handsome in a dark blue jacket. Here’s a change! Under Eve Carrington’s patronage other than an appreciation of his business skills Daniel thought little of him. Latterly Callie tried to put business his way, an open cheque to fix the roof at Greenfields. Excuses were made, the Roberts firm overrun with work. That he is a Modern Midas everything he touches turning to gold is certain but that’s not why he refused the roof. It was a matter of principle, the principle being love of Julianna.
Oh! Daniel’s heart ached. They are dancing round the room and are caught momentarily in the window like a page in an illuminated manuscript.
Talking of manuscripts Adam Black, of the publishers A and C Black, has written expressing an interest in La Grande Jatte. He said as a lover of Suerat’s work he was keen to see Mr Greville Masson’s work in print.
What do you know? One door opens while another closes.
Here they come again passing the window Roberts’ arm about her waist and his hand cradling hers. Formal they keep proper space between one another and yet are welded together. One-two-three, one- two-three, Julianna’s gown swirling out they convey an image of courtly love, La Roman de la Rose, and yet their love is infinitely human. They are as one. They have kissed as well as dreamed, they have touched and have cried out! It shows in their faces, total absorption. They know one another and are no longer alone.
Daniel put the toy soldier on the window sill and walked away. With the hopes and plans of years defunct he is at a loss. Perhaps he could call Johnny Sargent, pop over to Montparnasse. Don’t they all call John when their dreams are tumbling? Dear old John, happy with his art. He is a miracle man but not even he can fix this. The cup has slipped from the lip and the liquid spilled.
Twenty Nine
Beloved Lie
Freddie toyed with his hat. ‘I think I’ll go out.’
Evie yawned. ‘Yes do.’
‘You don’t care if I go? Don’t mind bein’ alone?’
‘Not at all. I like being alone. Go and have fun.’
‘Fun? What kind of fun with everybody gone and none to call friend?’
‘The fun you usually find in deep water.’
Freddie glared at her. ‘I hate it when you are like this.’
Eve sighed and dipping the brush in the cerulean blue washed the canvas. This is the first time in days she’s felt like painting. It’s a good bright day, the light here in the Borghese gallery perfect. The maid has set up a tray of coffee and amaretto biscuits and for once Evie’s head is not crashing. All it needs is Freddie to stop procrastinating and go where he was always going to go.
‘What exactly am I like?’
‘Giving up on people.’
‘Who have I given up on now?’
‘Who have you not? Such a list it would take too long to tell.’
‘Then why bring it up?’
‘Because I’m wonderin’ when we last had a more dreary start to the year. Last year was fine and the year before that but this was ruined before it began. And d’you know why it was ruined?’
‘Tell me.’
‘You and your nasty habit of pickin’ up stray dogs and then kickin’ them out.’
‘If you are referring to Luke Roberts that particular hound wasn’t with us last year. He was in his Norfolk kennel.’
‘Don’t split hairs. We had him for a couple of days. I know because we played Tiger and he beat me every time.’
‘You’re easy to beat. Anyone can beat you at cards. Even me! Your face gives you away every time.’
‘I dare say it does. I ain’t like you, sis, all knotted up inside. I am a simple chap. I hang my heart on my sleeve.’
‘Yes and your fingers in my purse. How much money did you lose last night?’
‘Not overly much.’
‘That’s because Jamieson kept an eye on you. Left to your own devices you’d be minus your skin this morning never mind your shirt. The company you keep isn’t always the best.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk. When I think of some of the raddled creatures you’ve brought home I wonder we’re not dead in bed with our throats cut.’
‘Goodness, you are in a Gothic mood! I should avoid St Peters today if I were you and go look at some pretty Giotto paintings. You’ve been too long among the bruised and bloodied Caravaggio.’
‘Ha-ha, very amusin’. Anyway I’m off.’
‘Well be careful! The Basilica is a magnet for others beside layabout artists. I know you’re lonely but don’t let loneliness lead you into danger.’
‘I say, Evie, draw it mild, will you.’ Freddie picked up his sketch book. ‘I’m meetin’ a couple of fellows, not keepin’ a date with death.’
‘Oh, Io chiedo scusa! I do beg your pardon!’
Freddie took up his usual position by the Michelangelo Pieta and in so doing cannoned into the chap with the green muffler. Dizzy from too much to drink last night he held onto the rail. Here in the St Peter’s with thousands of years of the Holy Roman Church pressing down it’s easy to lose one’s balance.
When in Rome he always visits the Basilica. So much glorious art and treasure it’s the one place a chap can kick his heels and not feel he’s wasting time; it’s also a good for meeting one’s own. So far today no one particular person stands out. There is the one with the green muffler. He was here yesterday and the day before and seems interested. One must be careful. One mustn’t get it wrong. Usually there’s a sign, a look, a gesture or a way of wearing one’s clothes that helps a bumblebee recognise a flower. The day before yesterday it was Barnaby, a college lecturer from Pasadena here with a class of students. They met in the Sistine Chapel gazing at fifteenth century illuminated scrawl. ‘Can you read Latin?’ says Barnaby. Freddie lied. ‘Not a bit. Can you?’
They spent the day together Freddie elated and Barnaby reading the dedication on tombs. Come the evening there was no mention of tombs, only a back room and Barnaby’s lips pulling. Barnaby goes back to Pasadena tomorrow but did say they might meet here today to swap addresses. Now looking at his watch Freddie suspects the bumblebee has flown.
Chasing love is a constant preoccupation! Love or sex nowadays it’s much the same thing. Ideally Freddie should forget it and go back to the Villa and daub a canvas with Evie but there is something so tempting about the clandestine, the delicious glances and secret smiles. It only stops being delicious when one mistakes a wasp for a bee.
This is Freddie’s last weekend. Monday they leave for England. Her Majesty having at long last dropped off the throne Evie do
esn’t want to stay. She says they must return to London and show respect which includes wearing heavy mourning. Evie is already in black which is fine because it suits her. Freddie’s not so keen. He never liked the old lady. He met her once and thought her a crosspatch whereas Bertie, the Prince of Wales, is ever smiling. Black doesn’t suit Freddie, it makes him pasty looking. And why should they go back? What are they going back to? There’s the funeral and coronation to consider, and Evie does need to keep her Court position, but now with Luke and Ju-ju going their own way there’s nothing there for him and never will be.
It is raining and the sun is behind the clouds. It’s gloomy inside the Basilica yet the genius of Michelangelo shines out. Carved in white marble, Mary, the epitome of grief, cradles the body of her son. Knees spread, the folds of her gown heavy, she offers Him to the world. ‘Look what you did to my boy.’
Yes thought Freddie, heart aching, and look what I did to mine!
They were wrong to winter here. They ought to have gone to the Bahamas and taken in the sun. Romance was the plan this time in Rome, sex and plenty of wine. So far he’s indulged in both of the latter but without a hope of romance. Romance was Luke Roberts and brief moment of heaven. He won’t find another Wolf here, or, horrible thought, anywhere else.
Luke was here last year looking at the Michelangelo but wouldn’t stay. ‘I can’t!’ he would say. ‘I look at this and I see my mother when our Jacky died.’
The Wolf had a brother-cub who died. Freddie would have loved to have a brother. What boy doesn’t yearn for a man older and wiser to look up to? Pity about Luke, maybe if Freddie had kept a distance he would have a brother now instead of which Ju-ju Dryden has a husband.
Freddie blames Evie for the loss. She wouldn’t leave the man alone. If not crawling all over him she was pointing out his faults. That’s Evie, what she can’t cure she kills. An emotional nomad she’s always on the move, new fashions and old problems, fair-weather friends, and faithless lovers who steal her jewels while whispering love poems in her ear. It’s likely she sees her brother as a millstone about her neck, and to be fair his life weighed against hers then his side of the scales would crash to the floor.
Owen Passmore once lectured on the Maat Weighing of the Heart Ceremony. He said in measuring truth the ceremony rendered even Solomon obsolete.
Freddie liked the Doleful Don and would sit in on his lectures instead of his own curriculum. It was Evie who pushed for Cambridge. Sid said it was a waste of time. He was right. It is all so archaic! Amo, amas, amat, what has Latin to do with motor cars and cinematic pictures? The same with history; does anyone at Whites care who swam the Hellespont or what happened centuries ago between Greeks and Trojans? The telling of history should be left to the likes of Shakespeare and Berlioz. Such men of genius knew what to do with war and weeping women.
Freddie is giving up England. Paris is where he wants to be, or maybe New York. Who knows, an apartment Manhattan and a good atelier the likes of Johnny’s Carolus-Duran and he might have been another Michelangelo. Instead he paint daubs and having dropped in and out of Cambridge got sent-down for late night drinking. It is true he can’t go on like this. He did have hopes of Julianna. They could have had a home together. Not Charlecourt! Oh no! The family ghosts can jibber their arthritic bones along those draughty corridors forever and a day but Freddie will never join them! He wants a warm and comfortable place like the Nanny where he could grow a beard and sit on charity committees.
Now he is bored and wishes he’d brought Evie with him. Her beauty attracts all sorts of people, the straight and the curved.
‘Is Jamieson back yet?’ Evie enquired of the maid.
‘No, Milady.’
‘When he comes send him in please.’
Jamieson is gone to post the mail. As with the rest of the world Rome is agog with news of the Queen’s passing. What a fuss everyone makes, London in an uproar, people clamouring to see their new king. Poor Bertie! All the years of waiting and now it’s finally arrived he’ll be weary and feeling not a little guilty. Evie sent a formal letter of condolence to the Palace. Later when they are back in England she’ll send a more a personal note. It’s time they went home. The luggage is packed and the carriage prepared for the return journey. Evie won’t be sorry to go. Freddie is right; they shared a dreary Christmas here at the Villa with an aging Contessa and an even more antique Duke de Mantova. Dreadful, deaf and a little gaga, nobody understood a word anyone was saying. Even if it means being lonely they must return to civilisation.
Saturday week Godfather Fitzwilliam weds Charlotte Walbrooke. Evie is invited. She’ll not go. It is a mistake. Hugh will not be gaining a wife so much as laying claim to four walls and a ceiling. It is all so unnecessary. He doesn’t have to marry anyone. As Evie has pointed out over and again he has a home with them in Russell Square. Charlotte won’t make him happy. She claims kinship with Charles the First and is a fearful snob. She won’t let him be as his was. He’ll have to hide the Henna hair dye, ditch his corset, and quit his darling little vegetable garden. As a last resort she sent a wire. ‘To Huggy-Bear Fitzwilliam. ‘Hold fast. Stop. England expects every man to do his duty. Stop. But not to forfeit his prize marrows.’
Huggy Bear marries Saturday week and the bell tolls. Evie has no such qualms for Ju-ju Dryden’s forthcoming marriage. It’s true the dear girl will be cut from most society diaries and for a time maybe their union will bite into the Tea-Room business but she won’t care, not when she and her beloved son are tucked up safe and sound in the Wolf’s lair. There’s no question they are bound body and soul. Anyone with half an eye could see it. Nothing but death can prevent it and maybe not even that.
Evie can’t decide what she feels about losing them both. Naturally she wishes them well and wonders had she met another such person of that mould, male or female, she might’ve been content. While the Past continues to hammer the Present it’s no use wondering. From birth the ability to love easily has been denied Evie. That she loves anyone or anything is nothing short of a miracle.
Talking of love yesterday out walking Jamieson found a dog cowering in a doorway and brought it back. A pretty creature under all the dirt, a Pomeranian of all things, it sits by her now a cushion for a bed. She’s named it Sidney and hopes it will stay. Maybe she can learn to love a dog. One thing is sure a dog can’t hurt her. Nothing can hurt her. It’s all been done before and by so many.
‘My God!’
How absurd! Evie is weeping, tears running down her cheeks and for no particular reason. And look, the dog is crawling onto her lap and whining. They both weep, a dog and a bitch, and they don’t know why.
An hour passes and Freddie’s still in the same place. He pretends to sketch but all the while is looking.
The Pieta is a marvellous thing. People stand in silence, tourists, priests and laity they all want the same thing, to touch. It’s as well a glass screen keeps them at bay. If it were not there the Madonna wouldn’t be alone in her agony, she’d bear the pain of a million hands seeking comfort of her broken Son.
That fellow in the green muffler hovers. He too carries a sketch pad but he never draws. Freddie would like to approach him but is wary. It has been known for the Carabineer policemen to pose as inverts, and the when caught the poor chap pays the price either with his wallet or with his arse. And what if he does meet someone, will they stay or will they go like the rest. How many times does it happen? You meet a person. You like them and they seem to like you. Things happen, you smile, you are happy, flesh is met, but then afraid you will become a problem they bolt as Barnaby bolted.
Oh look! The fellow with the muffler is smiling!
Nervous, heart beating wildly, Freddie went to a side chapel and knelt down. For a while there was the shuffling of multiple shoes on stone and then one pair of boots, highly polished with a bright metallic clasps, arrive. Hands clasped in prayer the fellow knelt, long eyelashes on a smooth wh
ite cheek.
Stumbling, Freddie dropped his sketch pad.
It was picked up and handed it over.
‘Mi..mille grazie!’ Freddie stuttered
‘You are welcome.’
‘You speak English?’
‘A little.’
The fellow’s eyes were cold. Freddie shivered. ‘It is cold in here.’
‘In summer it is very hot.’
‘Yes.’
‘You come back again in summer?’
‘Perhaps.’
The lashes flickered. ‘I know a place that is warm. You like to go there?’
Freddie hesitated, something, he didn’t know what reined him back, a sense of not quite right. Then the fellow smiled and put out his hand. ‘I am Paolo.’
Freddie shook his hand. ‘How d’you do?’
‘How do I do?’The lashes quivered amused. ‘Come with me and find out.’
He found out alright, the first kick sending Freddie sprawling down the narrow stairs and into a wall. At first it was alright, he, Paolo, if that was his name, took them on a tour of the city. Freddie had thought he knew Rome. Paolo showed him otherwise. Born of the city he knew back street churches that tourists will never see. Moss-covered doors were open to him, crypts, and dark places where martyrs died and where Leonardo da Vinci wrote his name in stone. Freddie stood breathing in the ash of saints. Later as evening fell they went to a cafe and ate decent food and drank decent wine, and heard street musicians. It was a good day, which made what happened the more shocking.
They were waiting on the landing two of Paolo’s friends. That they had done this before, waylaid some poor English fag was evident since it was the insult accompanying every kick. ‘E sporco Inglese! Filthy, pox-ridden scum.’
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