Page 11

It is a relief to return to the compartment. Tiredness oozes out of my every pore. Nothing has happened as I imagined it would, from the moment I stood on the platform in Paris to now, when there is a knock on the door. I open it to find an attendant holding a tray with two snifters of brandy.

‘Madame Forster, as you requested.’

‘Thank you, Antoine.’ She takes the glasses from him and hands me one. ‘It should help with the indigestion caused by my husband’s conversation.’

There is nothing I can say. Her husband is a pompous bore.

Never have I heard a man so full of himself, and I’ve heard men from all walks of life.

What I can’t figure out is what could have possessed Katherine to marry such a man.

But as I look at her, it hits me that I know nothing about her except that she has a kiss for a birthmark.

We stand there watching each other. There is no place to sit as such because the sofa has now been converted into an upper and lower bed. The atmosphere is too intimate.

‘Do you mind if I sit on your bed?’ she asks.

‘Please do.’ I perch by the pillow and she at the foot by the window.

‘May I open the blind and the window?’

‘Of course.’ A gust of cool air eases the atmosphere in the room.

The sky still holds some light, though it is now near eleven.

The shapes of buildings and, in the distance, hills rush past. Without thinking, I reach for my sketchbook in my bag, but stop myself.

Charcoal couldn’t capture the brilliant colours of Katherine.

I will have to remember them, as well as the sensuous shape of her reclining, cradling the brandy glass.

‘How long have you been an artist?’

I run my fingers over the book’s cover. ‘I think I’ve been one since I could hold a pencil.’

‘Wonderful.’ She turns the glass in her hand, looking at the golden liquid. ‘To be so certain of who or what you are.’

‘Aren’t you?’

She laughs bitterly. ‘I am nothing.’ She takes a sip of the brandy. ‘And we were discussing you and your certainty.’

Am I that certain? The small table lamp with a pink silk shade casts a diffused light, softening everything including the shadows on Katherine’s face. She looks weary.

‘Well, my parents are, or were in the case of my mother, artists, so it feels natural or even the only option.’

‘You’ve lost your mother?’

‘Three years ago.’ The loss is still sharp. It feels it will never ease.

‘Painful, isn’t it.’ She turns the glass in her hands. ‘You feel . . . rudderless for a while.’

‘That’s true.’ I think of my mother’s diaries and hope they can guide me. I would rather have her with me, though, and from the expression on Katherine’s face she still feels her mother’s absence too. ‘How long?’

‘Oh, years now.’ She closes her eyes for a moment.

Years have passed, but in this moment it is clear that the loss of her mother is fresh. My mother has been gone three years. I was seventeen and I imagine that Katherine must have been a bit younger than that.

She dips her finger into the glass, tapping the surface of the liquid. She pulls it out and runs her fingertip across her mouth. I can’t take my eyes from her.

There is another knock on the door.

‘Enter.’ She puts her glass down.

‘Excuse my interruption. I require your passports, for we will cross the border in the early hours of the morning.’

‘Of course,’ says Katherine. ‘You’ll have to ask my husband for mine.’

The conductor bows his head in acknowledgement.

I extract mine from my bag and hand it over.

‘Thank you, mademoiselle.’ He backs out of the room.

Katherine stares out of the window with her hand pressed flat against the glass. Without warning, she rises and digs in her bag, pulling out a leather-bound notebook, and scribbles across the page. Squinting, I can just make out the words.

Prison walls

Of glass

Escape only possible

From glass

Bird stuffed and displayed

Under glass

All coo and proclaim beauty

Of the dead living

Beneath glass

She snaps the book shut, pulls the shade down and takes out the diamond clips holding back one side of her hair.

With deft hands she removes the pearls about her neck and lets the long strand puddle on the table.

She sheds her gown and slips into a sheer lawn nightdress, which she covers with a crimson silk dressing gown.

Once she has secured it at the waist, she slips her feet back into her shoes.

‘The only thing I dislike about the train is the distance to the lavatory,’ she says, and heads into the corridor.

For a moment I stare at the closed door, stunned. Then I force myself into action, changing from Katherine’s gown into a pair of boy’s pyjamas. My mother noted in her diary that they were far easier on train journeys. If there is an issue in the night, one is dressed to deal with anything.

With care I hang up the gown I wore and the one Katherine discarded.

She is not used to a life without a maid, and the compartment is so small it is essential that everything has a place.

I straighten the notebook she scribbled in.

It takes all my willpower not to open it.

She is a puzzle. I pull the shade away from the window.

Her handprint is still visible on the glass.

I place mine on top of it. It is cool like her touch, but provides no insight into her or her words, only greater confusion in my mind.

* * *

Sleep hasn’t found me and I’m not sure I want it to. The darkness and the gentle motion of the train provide me with permission to let my thoughts go where they choose to.

‘You,’ I mouth silently as I stare at the straps that suspend Katherine above me, letting the dialogue I want to have with her play in my mind. ‘Since our meeting only hours ago I can think of little else but you. Your birthmark haunts my thoughts. Your ghastly husband looms large.’

The train jolts and Katherine moans. I hold my breath until the normal swaying rhythm returns and her breathing softens again. Below there is the sound of metal against metal. Alike but different. The friction speeding up and slowing down as the train slides into a curve.

Curves.

Yours.

Shapes.

Empty spaces.

Between us and around us.

If I could paint it in negatives and positives. Three feet of empty space between Katherine and me. She turns over and sighs.

Footsteps in the corridor pause outside the door. I still both my body and my mind, waiting for the knock, but it does not come. The steps fade away and I force my thoughts on to details. Passports, tickets, accommodation and supplies.

Eventually I sleep, but I wake with a start and am struck by the stillness.

The soothing noise of the wheels over rails is gone.

I hold my breath, focusing on the silence.

Only then do I hear her gentle breathing, the distant sound of voices, and I smell cigarette smoke.

To clear my mind, I rise and grab my dressing gown.

Moving slowly so as not to make a noise, I slide on my shoes, slip out of the compartment and peer out of a corridor window.

Dawn is not far away, and on the platform I watch crates being loaded into the restaurant carriage.

Our breakfast has arrived. I roll the window down and lean out, breathing in the morning air.

My head is still cloudy from the unaccustomed quantity of alcohol.

‘May I be of assistance, mademoiselle?’ asks Antoine, the cabin steward.

I’m about to say no, then change my mind. ‘Would it be possible to have some tea, please?’

‘Of course.’ He turns and walks away.

The men on the platform scatter and the train lurches forward before the steady rhythm returns.

At the far end of the carriage a man stokes a coal fire.

I shiver in the fresh morning air as I wait for the tea.

A large lake surrounded by mountains comes into view. This is more like a dream than reality.

* * *

‘Good morning.’ Katherine stands by my bunk. ‘I thought you were never going to wake. It’s gone nine and breakfast will be finished shortly.’

‘Sorry.’ I push myself up. She is dressed, looking very chic, with her pearls back in place. I swing my feet out of the bed. ‘Why don’t you head to the dining car, and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.’

She places her hand on the door handle. ‘Coffee or tea? There is evidence that you have already had the latter.’

‘Coffee, please.’

She leaves me, and with more haste than care I wash in the basin and dress in trousers and a white blouse.

It is not a glamorous outfit like Katherine’s, but the items are clean and not too travel-creased.

The mirror above the washbasin highlights the shadows under my eyes, which almost resemble bruises.

I am not cut out for the life of a socialite if it means drinking and late nights.

There is nothing I can do to fix my face; only sleep will do that.

After doing what I can to tame my unruly hair, I dash out to join Katherine.

The dining carriage is empty except for an elderly couple. The gentleman is reading the International Herald Tribune while the woman holds a guidebook to Milan. We will reach Milan at half past eleven.

‘What happened?’ Katherine asks, pouring coffee from the pot into my cup.

I send her a questioning glance.

‘Your fringe?’

I slap my hand to my forehead. I did my best, but in the walk through the train it has gone its own way, curling up and away. I must look an absolute fool.

‘With your glorious curls I think you may need to use a hair oil.’ She pauses. ‘The curls are sweet but not sophisticated.’

I laugh. ‘I’ve never been sophisticated.’

She studies me over the rim of her cup. ‘You are so striking with your rich red hair, pale skin and luminous eyes. It wouldn’t take much to—’

A waiter places toast down. ‘May I take your order now?’

Katherine says, ‘I’ll have two poached eggs and some smoked salmon. And please thank them in the kitchen for making an exception for us.’

He nods and turns to me. ‘And you, mademoiselle?’

I swallow. The toast would be sufficient for me, but it might seem rude. ‘Two soft-boiled eggs, please.’

As the waiter leaves, Forster arrives.

‘Darling, will you be all right without me?’

Katherine schools her expression. ‘Of course. I shall miss you, but it’s only for a short time.’

‘That’s not what I was referring to.’ He glances at me, and I turn to look at the passing scenery. ‘It’s the arrival in Venice and finding your way to Lady Bosworth’s palazzo. You know there are unscrupulous foreigners about who would take advantage of you.’

Out of the corner of my eye I see Katherine’s knuckles whiten as her grip on her cup tightens.

‘Thank you for the concern, but I’m sure Mary will send her boat to meet us.’ Her voice is sweet, too sweet, like an overripe berry.

‘Of course, I’d forgotten that.’ He pulls out a chair.

‘Don’t you have some details of your time with Signor Rossi to work out?’

‘Yes, yes, I do, and I have written a new poem.’ He hands her a sheet of paper. ‘I think you’ll approve.’ His voice changes and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

‘I’m sure I will.’ She pauses. ‘When should I return it to you?’

‘Before half ten,’ he says, but not politely. It’s an order, and it doesn’t give her much time, as it’s nearly ten now.

‘Fine.’

I don’t look at Katherine until he has gone. She scans the contents of the page with her mouth tightly pursed. Whatever is written there, she doesn’t like it.

The waiter brings our breakfast, and she turns the page over and smiles at me. It is like the sun has come out on a particularly dreary Cornish day, transforming what looked bleak into the most perfect scene ever.

‘How long have you been an artist?’ she asks, buttering a piece of toast.

I blink and look down at my hands, flexing my fingers.

‘I asked that last night, didn’t I?’

I glance up at her. ‘Yes.’

‘What did you say?’

I close my eyes. Everything is clear, even though I was drunk.

‘Difficult question?’

I could express my hurt that she has forgotten my words, but instead I say, ‘I want to say I have always been one.’

She arches an eyebrow.

‘I know it sounds pretentious, but growing up as the daughter of two artists, my hands were always dirty with paint, or charcoal, or even plaster.’ I tap the top of one of my eggs. ‘I was always creating.’

‘I like that.’ She sits back in her chair. ‘Art is like talking or even breathing for you.’

I nod, relieved I’ve made myself understood.

‘What is your preferred medium?’

I pause and think hard before saying, ‘Oils.’

‘Thick impasto or watery, almost watercolour-like?’

‘Both,’ I reply.

‘How so?’

I shrug, thinking of the last work I did in Cornwall before my world changed. ‘Well, it depends on the subject.’

‘Do you have a style, are you part of a school?’

I laugh. ‘I was raised in St Ives, so the artists there were my early teachers.’

‘Interesting, but you haven’t answered my question.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ I put my spoon down. ‘I’m trying everything until I find the style that portrays my soul.’

‘I like the idea that your style can portray your soul.’ She eats a piece of salmon. ‘What colour are you?’

‘Do you mean what is my favourite colour?’ I pick up my coffee cup.

She shakes her head. ‘Your personality. You could be a fiery magenta, or even puce. Or you could be a cool green or vibrant chartreuse.’

‘That’s difficult.’ I fuss with my napkin. ‘To be only one colour feels like a corset that restricts your breath and your thoughts.’

‘So your soul is a rainbow of colours.’

‘I can’t think of anything better. The rainbow is so joyful when it appears, when the sun has dared to show itself in the face of the thundery clouds.’ I must sound like a fool. Here is this polished, educated woman, and I’m rabbiting on about rainbows and clouds.

‘I think my soul is a purple so dark it’s almost black.’ She runs a finger around the rim of her cup.

How can I respond to this? There is such sadness in her eyes I could weep. What could have caused such pain? ‘I see you more as a spring lilac, with hints of white and yellow.’ I glance away from her direct gaze.

‘Thank you.’ She rests her hand on mine. My breath catches.

She stands. ‘If you’ll excuse me. I have some editing to do.’

I watch as she leaves, then pour myself more coffee and gaze at the passing scenery. It should hold my attention, but all I can think about is her hand resting on mine.