by Lucy Foley
‘I …’ his question had ambushed me – and I was thrown for a moment. ‘I don’t actually know.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I should tell you something, while you’re here. I know that Grand-père will be too polite to ever say it, but he gets tired. It is one of the reasons that he rarely has guests. And the few times he has had them, it is only for a day or two. Never longer.’
The message was clear: don’t overstay your welcome.
‘Thank you,’ I said, as civilly as I could, unable to believe his rudeness. ‘I will bear it in mind.’
Once within the sanctuary of my room I went to the mirror, and saw that it was as bad as I had suspected. I was angry, humiliated, thinking of how foolish I must have looked to Oliver. I drew closer to the glass to inspect the damage, and jumped at a knock on the door. For an awful second I thought it might be him, having decided he wasn’t quite finished with me.
It was Marie. She had a white tube, which she held towards me. I read the label: aloe vera lotion.
‘You put it …’ She gestured to my chest and face.
‘Oh – thank you.’
‘He tell me,’ she said.
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Mr Stafford?’
She shook her head. ‘Ollie.’
It took me a couple of seconds to realize who she meant – that it must be her name for him. ‘Oh,’ I said again, quite stupidly.
When Marie was gone I slathered the stuff all over the burn. It was cool and immediately soothing, with an unusual marine scent.
I was mystified. After his words on the terrace, it seemed bizarre, almost perversely so, that Oliver had then chosen to do something that could only be construed as kind. Still, I thought, not too kind. It wasn’t as though he had deigned to bring it to me himself. And perhaps he was merely trying to spare his grandfather the unpleasantness of having to look at my raw face over his easel.
I woke early the next morning. My sunburn was hot and uncomfortable, and there was a clamour of thoughts in my head. My immediate thought on waking was of Mum. Even now, in those first few moments of consciousness I had to re-remember that she was gone, that it had not all been a bad dream, that I would never see her again. As always, there was some stubborn part of me that refused to believe it.
Now these thoughts were joined by all that Thomas Stafford had told me the day before. Even if he had not told me he loved her, the woman named Alice, I would have been able to hear it from the way he first spoke her name. But it was more than that, I felt. He loved her still.
I knew I was not going to go back to sleep now, so I resolved to head outside and feel the cool morning air on my raw skin. I slipped from my bed and padded out into the corridor. I was making for the front door, but the pictures that hung in the hallway drew me back to them again – inevitably, as though they exerted some invisible pull upon me.
This time, when I looked at the photograph of Oliver and his mother, I realized something. That same look, that one I thought I had glimpsed the previous afternoon, was there in his face. Fascinated, I unhinged the picture from the wall so I could examine it more closely. I studied her – haughtily beautiful and immaculate, her slender white arms exposed by the sleeveless black shift, her hair upswept to reveal the two delicate drop earrings. I was struck anew by the way her hand on his shoulder seemed to hold him away from her body – not at all the caress that it pretended to be.
I was so absorbed that I didn’t hear anything – no door opening, no approaching footsteps – until the sound of his voice, loud and very near, sent shock exploding through me.
‘What are you doing?’
I spun around. There wasn’t time to do anything other than drop the hand holding the picture, in an attempt to shield it from sight with my body. It was a vain effort: his eyes went straight to the empty space on the wall where it had hung. I don’t know if it was his intention, but I felt that he had caught me stealing, or spying. Which wasn’t, in fact, so far from the truth.
‘Oh – I was looking at something.’
‘That?’ Oliver pointed behind me, to where my concealed right hand clutched the photo. Slowly, I brought it into sight.
‘Yes,’ I said, and heard my voice waver, guiltily.
‘Have you seen everything you wanted?’
‘I didn’t—’ I began. ‘I mean, I was on my way outside, and I spotted this. It’s you, isn’t it?’ It seemed best to be frank about it. ‘And your mother?’
He nodded.
‘She was beautiful.’
‘She died.’ He said it impassively, a simple statement of fact.
I stared up at him, shocked by his bluntness. ‘I’m … sorry.’
‘Don’t upset yourself about it,’ he said, almost viciously.
Then he moved past me, out on to the terrace, while I stood there clutching the photograph to myself. Slowly, I turned back to the wall to rehang it, trying to ignore how my hands shook as I did.
11
Corsica, August 1986
‘It’s looking much better today,’ said Stafford, peering over his easel at me after breakfast. Oliver – to my relief – had not appeared for the meal. ‘Less painful. A potent thing, the Corsican sun … and deceptive when there’s a breeze. I’ve had it much worse than you – I remember spending a day out on the water with Elodia, and because the wind made it feel cooler than it was I had no idea I’d been fried to a crisp until it was too late. Elodia found my sunburn hilarious.’
‘Marie gave me some lotion to put on it – aloe vera.’ I didn’t mention Oliver’s part in it; it made even less sense to me now. Every time I thought about the photograph I was suffused with embarrassment.
‘Ah, yes – she learned that from my wife. Elodia was always good with anything botanical. With Gerard’s help she even managed to make something of the garden, though the soil is so poor. Oliver helped too, when he came to live here – he had his own herb garden, which he looked after with great care.
‘We all used to joke that Elodia had witch’s powers – and I think Oliver always secretly believed that it was true. She would tell us stories of the island, the history – Napoleon and all of the great Corsican men and women who had come before him, but also the folk tales of mountain creatures, magical animals, elves …’
I thought of Oliver as he was now, and found it hard to imagine that he had ever believed in fairy tales. But then I remembered that he had once been that boy in the photographs who had looked rather like a faerie creature himself.
Something Stafford had said had intrigued me, and despite my better judgement I decided to ask him about it. ‘I was wondering – you mentioned Oliver coming to live here. Why did he?’
Stafford’s expression closed, instantly, and I realized that he was not going to tell me. For someone who was prepared to be so free with his own history it seemed that his grandson’s past was a different matter.
‘Sorry,’ I said quickly, ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘It’s fine,’ Stafford said, ‘and you shouldn’t feel you have to apologize for asking. But it was a difficult time for all of us, especially Oliver. So I’d prefer not to discuss it.’
I nodded, relieved that I did not seem to have offended him.
‘Tell me,’ he said then, in a clear effort to change the subject, ‘about your walk, yesterday.’ He smiled. ‘I do hope it was worth the price you paid for it in sunburn.’
‘I didn’t go far,’ I told him, ‘a short way down the track, down to where the olive groves begin.’
‘Did you get any photographs?’
‘Quite a few – mainly of the olive trees, with the mountains in the background.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’ll have more luck at capturing the olives than I have done. I have tried and tried to get the perfect shade for the foliage – that unique silver green – and to properly depict the way the sunlight comes through the branches … but it has all eluded me. Every effort has come out looking lumpen, wrong. It is terribly frustrating. Cézanne
– or Matisse, undoubtedly – would have known exactly what to do.’ He smiled at me. ‘Will you show me your photographs, at some point? I should like to see them.’
‘Yes,’ I said, flattered by his interest, ‘though I don’t have any with me, and the ones I’ve taken here will need to be developed.’
Stafford looked rueful. ‘More proof that I must have a dark room installed, as Oliver keeps suggesting. But if you were to come back, perhaps?’
‘Of course,’ I told him, buoyed by the suggestion – vague though it was – that I might be welcome to return.
All was quiet for a few minutes, as Stafford went back to working in earnest at his easel. It struck me that the silence was not tense or weighted, as it so often is with a stranger – a gap that must be quickly filled with words. The brief moments of awkwardness that had followed my question had completely dispelled, and now it felt natural: the sort of silence you might expect to have with an old friend. I wondered whether this could be due to some artist’s trick of putting the sitter at ease, but dismissed the idea. It was simply how Stafford was – a mark of his calmness, his confidence.
Before I met him I had viewed Stafford merely as a conduit to the woman in his drawing, a means of discovering more about her. I had presumed that he would turn out to be the difficult, reclusive type that his lifestyle suggested, and had never anticipated that I might feel such a strong liking for the man himself.
I watched him now – he seemed entirely lost in thought. And when he spoke his words seemed to come from some hidden well of feeling: ‘Often, when I wake, I forget that I am an old man. In those first few moments I can sometimes believe that I am back in England, lying in my room at Oxford and hoping for a letter from Alice.’
He gestured out of the window. ‘That view, out there, it’s the same as it has been for centuries, perhaps even millennia, give or take a couple of the boats. When you are confronted with the permanence of other things in that way …’ He paused. ‘Well, it heightens the sense of one’s own short span here. I know that I’m lucky to have lived so long, and seen so much – luckier than Elodia, luckier than many people. That doesn’t make it any easier to see this old man’s face in the mirror when I’m not expecting it.’
I looked for something to say. ‘But your work has permanence.’
‘You’re kind. Yes, I suppose it does – in the most literal sense, at least. It will continue, hopefully, to exist when I am gone. But will it have relevance?’ He shrugged. ‘That cannot be known.’ He shook his head, as though chastising himself. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, I don’t know what has come over me. I woke up in a strange mood this morning … I can only think it is this travelling into the past. It’s all so vivid that something in me refuses to believe that so much time has gone by.’ Then he smiled. ‘She was the first person to see my work, properly, you know. She was the first person to believe in me too – as an artist, not a boy with a fantasy.’
‘Who?’ I said, rather stupidly. ‘Elodia?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Alice, of course.’
12
London, April 1929
Tom has returned to London for the Easter holidays, and he has found himself a studio: the boathouse in Putney that has belonged to his family since he was a boy. They used to keep a dinghy in it for outings on the Thames, but the place was abandoned after Tom’s father came back from the front, when it became clear that he was no longer the sort of man who went on boating trips.
The boathouse should have been sold along with the dinghy, but Tom’s mother cannot quite bring herself to believe that there will never be another trip on the river. To sell it would be irrevocable confirmation of that. So it has remained, virtually untouched, for over a decade.
It is a large space, made hazardous by old sailing paraphernalia. There is a roll of ancient sailcloth in one corner and a precarious stack of life jackets on a high shelf to the back. A couple of mildewed oars lean tiredly against the wall, and tangled heaps of ropes, toggles and pieces of old material litter the floor. It is perfectly serviceable, though, and as Tom isn’t the tidiest person when he’s working anyway, it suits him. Everything has a slightly paint-splattered effect now, which is rather cheering – it looks a less desolate place than before. There is more light than one might expect, from a large, shell-shaped window above the tall double doors.
Mrs Stafford thinks that Tom is using the space to revise for the end-of-year exams, and he hasn’t said anything to disabuse her of this. The pieces that he has worked on over the last couple of weeks are stacked facing the walls. Tom finds that to have his work visible while he is painting is intolerable. Either it depresses him – he has days when it seems that everything he has produced is completely execrable – or it intimidates him, if, say, there are a couple of works on display in which he feels, by some fluke, he has reached a peak that he may never attain again. It is better not to have to look at them.
Sometimes he flings open the doors so that he can gaze at the stretch of water visible through them, and attempt to capture the scene. His presence is a source of some curiosity for the other boathouse users. Several rowing teams train on the river, and they treat him with a slightly bullying camaraderie. The third building down from his is owned by a rather glamorous Italian family, who always come down with their own skipper, fully attired in nautical whites and blues. Before Alice came back into his life he had thought himself rather in love with the eldest daughter, with her sloe-dark eyes and fall of thick black hair.
Alice is coming to the studio this afternoon. Lord and Lady Hexford are out of the country on political business of her stepfather’s, and Alice has seized the opportunity for an excursion that she knows would otherwise be illicit. Lady Hexford isn’t one to forbid, exactly, but she has her delicate ways, the power to make things difficult for her daughter if she goes against her wishes.
For Tom, the occasion could not be more momentous. He is going to show his work to another person, and it will mean the exposure of his innermost self. Alice is the only person close to him that he can trust to deliver the truth. His mother, in her love for him, would be unable to be objective. He knows that anything would be, to her, a work of genius. His Oxford friends – unthinkable. Alice will be candid, but she won’t ridicule him, at least.
It is a leaden day for spring, with rain coming in sideways, so the doors are shut, and Tom has had to light all the lamps because it is as dark as twilight outside. These preparations will keep him dry, but they also mean that he won’t see Alice coming, won’t have time to prepare himself. He bought a cheap bottle of wine on the way here for them to share when she arrives, though he has already drunk a large glass to steady his nerves.
Shortly after three p.m., there is a bang on the door.
‘Open up! It’s a monsoon out here!’
He takes a swift gulp of wine and swings the doors wide. A bedraggled figure stands before him, water cascading from the brim of a heavy-duty sou’wester, a bicycle propped against one hip. Tom stares. The figure laughs, lays the bicycle down and rushes at him, enveloping him in a sodden embrace.
Once inside, Alice pushes back her hood. Her nose is red and her eyes are wet from exhilaration and the unseasonably bitter wind. The fine fronds of her damp hair are black as liquorice and wild above the turned-up lapels of the coat.
He ushers her in. Would she like to take off the coat, or perhaps keep it on until she’s warmed up? Would she like a glass of wine, a biscuit?
She laughs. ‘I’m fine. Stop fussing. It’s nice and warm here.’ She peers about her.
‘Where did you get the bicycle?’
‘It belongs to William, one of our footmen. He hardly ever uses it – only when he makes the trip to his mother in Hackney. Thank goodness Ma is away with the evil stepfather. I think it’s safe to assume she wouldn’t approve of me cycling round London wearing a cricket sweater and men’s breeches.’ Alice shrugs off the coat to reveal the outfit. She looks like a beautiful boy.
She
moves about the room, studying the paraphernalia. ‘Do you enjoy having all of this about you?’
He grins. ‘When it isn’t trying to kill me, yes, I suppose I do. But it’s more that it doesn’t have anywhere else to go.’
Then she spots the canvases. ‘Why are they all turned that way round? I can’t see any of them.’
‘I prefer them like that. I’m not … used to showing my work to people. You’re the first, actually. I’m worried it might be a bit … well, pointless – you making this trip specially.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It might not be any good. I don’t want to waste your time.’
She stares at him. ‘What utter nonsense. Tom, I asked to see them – you didn’t drag me here. I think the least you can do, now I’ve nearly drowned myself getting here, is to satisfy my rude curiosity.’
‘All right.’ Where to begin? Can he show her the most recent work, the one he is most proud of? It is the oil of the redhead – and while he has reworked the eyes meticulously he can’t be certain that Alice won’t glimpse her own eyes behind them, through the layers of paint. Tom studies the blank backs of the canvases in their ugly wooden frames – he knows each without having to turn them. Finally, he decides. It is a small charcoal of Rosa, his second favourite. The essence of his sister is there, even if the chin isn’t quite right. But the shape of the brow and nose is nearly perfect and the expression, too, is Rosa’s. It is her ‘older sister’ look: appraising, amused.
Alice turns, notices him clasping the small frame. ‘Can I?’ He hands it to her. She studies it and he watches her. There is a tiny mole – a freckle, really – on the back of her left hand, near the base of her little finger. He stares. How can something so trifling hold such charm?
It seems an eternity before she speaks, though it is only a matter of moments. Then, simply, ‘It’s wonderful.’ He looks up at her in surprise. ‘I mean it. This is Rosa … the Rosa I remember.’ She laughs. ‘Well, not exactly – she was fourteen when I last saw her. But she has the same expression precisely. I remember it so clearly.’
