Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  “The Valentina is lovelier than ever,” she replied, emphasizing the name. “Speaking of which, as I was tidying up under the bed, I discovered, quite to my amazement…” Just as she was about to launch her missile, her father stood over her and handed her a glass of red wine.

  “It’s a Bordeaux. Terribly good. Had it in the cellar for years.”

  She thanked him and tried to resume, but once more she was interrupted. This time by a thick, reedy voice, wavering like the strings of a badly played violin. She recognized it at once as belonging to her grandmother.

  “Am I missing a party?”

  They all looked up in surprise to see Lavender Arbuckle in the doorway in her frilly nightcap and dressing gown, leaning heavily on a walking stick.

  “Mother,” said Thomas, appalled at the sight. During the daytime, in her clothes, she passed for normal. In her nightcap and dressing gown she looked frail and tremulous as if she had stepped straight out of a coffin.

  “Well, I don’t like to miss a party.”

  Margo put down her glass and pushed herself up with a weary huff.

  “Lavender, it’s only Alba. She’s popped in for a drink,” she explained.

  Lavender frowned, her small face resembling that of a bird with shiny eyes and a tiny beak.

  “Alba? Do I know an Alba?” Her voice rose in tone and volume as she peered down her powdered nose at her granddaughter.

  “Hello, Grandma!” Alba said with a smile, not bothering to stand.

  “Do I know you?” she repeated, shaking her head so that the trims on her nightcap waved about her ears. “I do not believe that I do.”

  “Mother…” Thomas began weakly, but Margo stalked past him.

  “Lavender, it’s jolly late. Wouldn’t you be happier in bed?” She took the older woman by the elbow and began to usher her out of the room.

  “Not if there’s a party. I don’t like to miss a good party.” She resisted the attempts to shift her and hobbled into the room. Thomas dithered, puffing on his cigar while Margo stood, hands on hips, shaking her head in disapproval.

  Lavender sat down on the upright reading chair that Thomas used for browsing through the Sunday papers. It was large and comfortable and positioned under a bright standing lamp. “Well, is no one going to offer me a drink?” she barked.

  “What about a brandy?” suggested Margo, leaving her husband hovering in the middle of the room and making her way to the drinks table.

  “Goodness, no. It’s a party. A Sticky Green would hit the spot. What do you think?” She turned to Alba. “A Sticky Green!” Her cheeks glowed pink.

  “What’s a Sticky Green?”

  “Crème de Menthe,” muttered Thomas, frowning.

  “A very common drink,” Margo huffed, and poured the old lady a brandy.

  Alba, although vaguely amused by her grandmother, was anxious to tell her father about the picture. The wine had made her head light and suitably numbed her nerves. She was ready to face them, to demand the truth, and she expected to be indulged. Glancing at the large silver clock on the mantelpiece she realized that she didn’t have much time before her father and the Buffalo would wish to retire to bed.

  “How long are you staying?” she asked her grandmother, not bothering to disguise her impatience.

  “And who are you again?” was the icy response.

  “Alba, Mother!” interjected Thomas in exasperation. Margo handed Lavender the brandy and returned to her own chair and her own drink. One of her little dogs trotted in and jumped onto her knee, where she stroked him with her large, capable hands. Lavender leaned toward Alba.

  “They think I’m on my last legs, you see, so they’ve brought me home.” She heaved a sigh, contemplating The End. “This is the final station. I’ll go soon and they’ll bury me next to Hubert. Never thought I’d grow old. One never does. Nothing terribly wrong with me, though. My mind’s going a bit, but apart from that there’s fight in the old girl yet!” She knocked back her brandy. She suddenly looked shrunken and sad. “This room used to buzz with parties when Hubert and I were young. Used to fill it with friends. Of course, in those days, one had plenty of friends. They’re all dead now, or too old. No energy left for parties. When one is young one fully expects to live forever. One imagines one can conquer everything, but one cannot conquer the Grim Reaper. No, he comes and takes us all, kings and tramps alike. Still, we all go when our time is up, don’t we? Every dog has his day, Hubert used to say, and I’ve had mine. Are you married? What was your name?”

  “Alba.” Alba stifled a yawn. It was sometimes hard to understand what her grandmother said; her mouth seemed to contain the entire fruit bowl, never mind the odd plum. She sounded like a grand old duchess from another century.

  “A woman is nothing without a man by her side. Nothing without children. One gains a certain wisdom when one is old. I am old and wise and thankfully my children will live on after I am gone. There’s a great sense of satisfaction in that, which one can only appreciate when one is old.”

  “One must also get one’s beauty sleep, don’t you think?” said Alba, draining her glass.

  “Quite, my girl, quite. Though at my great age I don’t see much point in sleeping. After all, it won’t be long before I’m sleeping for eternity and goodness, I’ll grow bored of that. Too much sleep is a bad thing. Good gracious, is that the time?” She sat up abruptly, fixing her eyes on the clock. “I might not wish to sleep but my body’s a creature of habit and I no longer have the strength to fight it. It was a pleasure,” she added, extending her hand to Alba.

  “I’m your granddaughter,” Alba reminded her, not unkindly but her tone was impatient.

  “Good gracious, are you? You don’t look like one of us at all. Arbuckles are all fair and you’re very dark and foreign-looking, aren’t you.” Once again she peered down her nose.

  “My mother was Italian,” she reminded her grandmother, and to her horror, her voice came out high-pitched and emotional. She looked up at her father, who remained in the middle of the room, puffing madly, his face flushed. The Buffalo showed nothing of her true feelings and stood up to escort her mother-in-law out of the room.

  When Margo returned she dropped her shoulders and sighed heavily. “Oh dear, she really is losing her marbles. Would you like to stay the night, Alba?” Alba seethed. Margo was treating her like a guest in her own home. Unable to contain her frustration any longer, she opened her handbag and pulled out the scroll.

  “I found this under my bed. It must have been hidden there for years,” she said, waving it in the air. “It’s a drawing of Valentina by Daddy.” She held her father with those strange pale eyes of hers. She noticed the Buffalo’s shoulders hunch with tension as she exchanged nervous glances with her husband. Alba was furious.

  “Yes, Daddy, it’s beautiful. Let me remind you when you drew it. In 1943, in the war, when you loved her. Do you ever remember her?” Then turning to Margo she added icily, “Do you let him remember her?”

  “Now Alba,” Margo began but Alba’s voice rose above hers as she continued to put into words thoughts that had for years fermented in her head. Like wine left too long, they now tasted bitter.

  “It’s as if she never existed. You never talk about her.” She coughed to clear her throat and to loosen her vocal cords, but they simply ached with despair. “How can you let another woman obliterate your memory of her? Why such cowardice, Daddy? You fought in the war, you killed men far stronger than you and yet you…you…you deny me my own mother for fear of upsetting Margo.”

  Margo and Thomas both stood rooted to the ground in silence. Neither knew how to respond. They were used to Alba’s outbursts but this was unexpectedly vitriolic. Only the smoke from the remains of Thomas’s cigar disturbed the absolute stillness of the room. Even the dogs were too afraid to move. Alba looked from one to the other, knowing that she had let her feelings spiral out of control, but there was no going back now. The words had been fired and couldn’t be retracted, eve
n if she had wanted them to be. At last Margo spoke. Clenching her jaw in order to remain composed, she suggested that this was something best discussed between father and daughter. Without saying good night she left the room. Alba was pleased to see her go.

  Alba walked over to her father and handed him the scroll. He took it and looked at her for a long moment. She stared back defiantly. But there was no fight in his expression, just an immeasurable sadness. Such sadness that Alba had to turn away. Without a word he placed his cigar in the ashtray and sat down in the reading chair his mother had vacated moments before. He didn’t open the scroll. He just looked at it, stroking the paper with his thumb, the sweet smell of figs reaching him from the distant past, from a chapter of his life closed long ago.

  Alba watched him closely. She saw the young man in naval uniform, like the photograph in his dressing room, with the white scarf, heavy coat, and crested hat. She saw him slimmer, more handsome, happier. There was no deep, unsettling sadness in his eyes, only the optimism that dominates the spirit of the young and the most valiant. There was no disillusion either, for his heart vibrated with love for her mother at a time when their future spread out before them like a sumptuous banquet.

  Finally he spoke in a very quiet voice. “You have pushed us too far this time.” Alba was stung. “There is an enormous amount you don’t even begin to understand. If you did, you wouldn’t talk to Margo like that. You were unforgivably rude, Alba, and I won’t tolerate it.” His words were like a slap on the face.

  “No, you don’t understand,” she whimpered. “I simply want to know about my mother. I deserve to know. You haven’t the slightest idea what it’s like not to belong. To feel rootless.” He looked at her wearily then shook his head in resignation.

  “This is your home.” His forehead creased into deep furrows. “Aren’t I enough? No, obviously not. You have pushed and pushed all your life. Nothing is ever enough, is it?” He sighed and turned his attention once again to the scroll. “Yes, I loved your mother and she loved you. But she died, Alba, and I can’t bring her back. There is nothing else for me to tell you. As for belonging, you never belonged in Italy. I brought you to England at the end of the war. You belong here and you always have. If there’s an obstacle, it’s not Margo, Alba, it’s you. Look around you. You’ve just taken and taken all your life, without gratitude. I don’t know what more you want and I’m tired of trying to give it to you.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me about Valentina?” She fought angry tears as, once again, she felt he was pushing her away, shutting her out along with her mother. But she knew the demon on his shoulder was not his conscience, but Margo. “I don’t even know how you met,” she said in a small voice. She saw the muscle in his jaw throb with discomfort. “You’ve never shared her with me. Once it was you and me, Daddy. Then Margo came along and there was no longer any room for me.”

  “That’s not true,” he growled. “Margo held it all together.”

  “She’s still jealous of my mother.”

  “You’re quite wrong.”

  Alba chuckled cynically. “It takes a woman to understand a woman.”

  “And Alba, my dear, you are not yet a woman. You have a tremendous amount of growing up to do.” He raised his eyes, now bloodshot and watery. His desolation would have aroused her pity had she not harbored so great a resentment in her heart. “Don’t make me choose between you and my wife,” he said and his voice was so quiet and grave that her skin bristled and she felt the sudden chill of a cold draft.

  “I don’t need to ask you, Father, because I know who you would choose.”

  As the car disappeared down the drive, Margo, who had heard everything, hovered by the drawing room door. She could see Thomas through the crack. His face was long and gray, and heavy with sorrow. He looked much older than his years. He fingered the scroll pensively. He did not open it. He simply nodded to himself before getting up and wandering into his study, where she heard the opening and closing of a drawer.

  He had no wish to resurrect the past.

  That night as Thomas climbed into bed, Margo took off her reading glasses and put down her book. “I think it’s time you got rid of that ghastly boat,” she said.

  Thomas shuffled down the mattress and placed his head on the pillow. “The boat’s got nothing to do with Alba’s bad behavior,” he replied. They had discussed this countless times before.

  “You know that’s not what I mean. It’s bad luck.”

  “Since when have you been superstitious?”

  “I don’t know why she can’t rent a flat like Caroline.”

  “Are you suggesting they live together again?”

  “God, no, that was a disaster. No, I don’t think that’s fair to Caroline. Poor girl, Alba did nothing but argue with her and she’s such a mess to live with. Caroline spent most evenings tidying up after her. Cigarette butts stubbed out in wine glasses and the like. No, I would not want to put Caroline through that again; she doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Alba is perfectly happy on her boat.” He closed his eyes, very weary.

  “It would be fine if it wasn’t that boat.”

  “I’m not getting rid of the boat. Besides, how do you think Alba would interpret that? Another move to eradicate the memory of her mother?” He sighed.

  Margo placed her glasses in their case and leaned over to put her book on the bedside table. She switched off the light and lay down, drawing the covers up to her chin.

  “I’m not going to ask you about the picture, Thomas. It’s none of my business. However, I think it a pity that Alba found it. It does her no good to dwell so much on the past.”

  “The past,” he repeated quietly, considering the picture. He blinked into the darkness, where he was sure he could see Valentina’s face: vibrant with youth and that irrepressible energy. He was even sure that he could smell the sweet scent of figs, wafting down the years with that long-forgotten sense of what it had been like to love so intensely. His eyes misted and he inhaled. After all these years, he thought. That the picture should turn up now, when I had almost managed to put it all behind me.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked. Thomas pulled himself back from his memories.

  “About what?”

  “About the boat.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But…”

  “I said nothing. Now I’m going to sleep. I don’t wish to discuss this anymore, Margo. The boat remains, and Alba remains in it.”

  Alba was barely able to see the road for the tears that welled and tumbled in an unceasing flow. It was past midnight when she parked her car beneath the street lamp on Cheyne Walk. She was furious that she had given him the picture. She could have kept it. It could have been her secret. Now she was left with nothing.

  Slowly she walked down the pontoon to her boat, sniveling as she went, feeling extremely sorry for herself. She wished she had someone waiting for her, a nice man to snuggle up to. Not a Rupert or a Tim or a James, but someone special. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. Knowing that Viv often wrote her novels well into the early hours of the morning, she knocked on her door. She waited for a sound, but only the creaking of the boat and the gentle lapping of the river against the pontoon accompanied the benign roar of the city.

  As she turned away, downhearted, the door opened and Viv’s pale face appeared in the crack. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, then added on closer inspection, “Dear me, you’d better come in.” Alba followed the billowing caftan up the narrow corridor to the kitchen. Like her own boat Viv’s smelled of damp, but it had a unique scent of something exotic and foreign. Viv was fond of burning joss-sticks from India and lighting scented candles she bought in Carnaby Street. Alba sat at the round table in the richly painted purple room and hunched over the cup of coffee that Viv poured her. “I’m in the middle of a dreadfully difficult chapter so it’ll be nice to take a break and talk to you. I don’t imagine for a moment your tears are for a man.” She pulled out
a chair and lit up. “Take one, darling, it’ll make you feel better.” Alba took a Silva Thin and leaned over as Viv flicked open her lighter. “So, what are they for, then?”

  “I found a sketch that my father did of my mother under the bed.”

  “Goodness gracious, what were you doing under the bed?” Viv was only too aware that Alba never cleaned her boat.

  “It’s beautiful, Viv, really beautiful and my father won’t even discuss it with me.”

  “I see,” she replied, inhaling through her mouth and exhaling through her nostrils like a dragon. “You drove all the way down to Hampshire at this time of night?”

  “I couldn’t wait. Thought he’d be pleased I found it.”

  “What was it doing under the bed, of all the places?” The story of Alba’s mother intrigued her.

  “Oh, he put it there to hide it from the Buffalo. She’s eaten up with jealousy and won’t even set foot on the boat because Daddy named it after my mother. Silly woman!”

  “What did he say when you told him you had found it?”

  Alba took a gulp of coffee, wincing because it was too hot. “He was furious with me.”

  “No!” Viv gasped, appalled.

  “He was. I told him in front of the Buffalo.”

  “Well, that explains it.”

  “I wanted her to know that he had hidden it from her.” She chuckled mischievously, revealing the crooked eyetooth that Rupert, or was it Tim, said gave her mouth such charm. “I bet they had one hell of a row after I left. I bet the Buffalo listened to every word we said. I can just imagine her heavy breathing down the keyhole!”

  “Did he look at it?”

  “No. He just went very red and looked sad. He still loves her, Viv. I think he always will. Probably regrets ever having married the Buffalo. I just wish he’d share her with me, you know. But he won’t because of the Buffalo.”