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Venice

My days have developed a routine. I rise early and go out to sketch the fishermen, women doing their washing and children heading to school.

I love the colour and activity of the market before tourists like myself appear.

With the sound of church bells, the sight of nuns in habits and the aroma of exotic foods, Venice is wrapping itself around me.

Each time I spy graffiti it strikes me how similar the less well-off places of the world are.

Although the words are different from those in London and Paris, the styles used are so similar.

It’s as if the same person is creating their thoughts on the walls of the alleyways, or calle , as they are called here.

Part of me loves that their opinions can be displayed, and the other part cries that the beautiful spaces are altered by them.

What would otherwise be a peaceful view of water reflections on an umber wall becomes a dramatic statement of anger and outrage.

Each day I find something new. Some things are less appealing than others.

It can be the lettuce leaves and other vegetables floating in the canal or the pickpockets who operate with impunity.

Thus far I’ve been able to move freely, bringing as little attention to myself as possible, including from these thieves.

My mother followed pretty much this same routine, as her diary outlined.

There was milky coffee in the morning and bitter espresso after lunch.

My afternoons are spent in my room, using the sketches for paintings.

Each day my work becomes looser and more fluid.

The morning sketches are fast but classic, while the afternoon paintings are inspirations and feelings wrapped together.

The light in Venice dances off the water like it does at home.

The canals capture it and throw it onto walls and washing lines.

I would like to say I think about Katherine less as each day passes, but that would be a lie.

I wander the streets longing to have her at my side, to tell her every detail and hear her thoughts.

Because I don’t have her by me, I have written it all down or sketched it.

Not as my mother did, though. I detail everything I think Katherine would love.

It isn’t a record of what I see but what I want to share with her.

I must stop. I used to do the same with Nellie, and possibly I’m simply missing the friendship.

In the weeks I’ve been here, I have not caught sight of Katherine once.

This is best. I must forget her and fill my head with Venice, and not a Venice where I think I see the flash of her smile or the glossy crown of her head.

It is now 5 p.m. and the air is cooler, so I head out again.

Today I take my sketchpad and watercolours and find myself in St Mark’s Square.

Of course, I have visited the square many times before, but usually in the early hours.

Now it is full of people and pigeons. Locating an empty step, I sit and study the light on the basilica, then begin working furiously.

I pencil in lines, then paint wet into wet so that the colours bleed together, catching the movement.

Only if I look closely can I pick out the faint sketch of the church and the bell tower.

Checking my perspective again, I see Katherine.

I still. Sunlight falls on her dark head, turning the black to blue-purple in places.

I toss aside the previous painting and paint directly onto a sheet of paper.

It warps with the water and the colours slip, but in moments Katherine is looking out at me.

When I glance up, she is staring at me. A glow rises in me. She waves to me and my breath catches. This is what I’ve dreamed of, and now it’s happening. I lift my hand to acknowledge her, but as I start to rise, I hear an English voice behind me.

‘Katherine, there you are. Thought I’d lost you in these crowds. I’m desperate for a drink.’

The well-dressed woman joins her and they walk together right past me, Katherine’s gaze fixed ahead.

My face flushes with shame. I’m invisible to her.

She has a new friend. What a fool I was to think she would remember me, a simple girl on the train, a diversion for the journey to make it less tedious.

* * *

The sun is hot and sweat trickles down my back. I have been here for hours. The young boy I’ve been painting is fidgeting, and I promise him another few centesimi. Someday his beauty will be altered by what happens in his life, but at this moment his face is angelic.

I add a few more strokes and he rises, unable to sit any longer. His hand is outstretched as he examines my work.

‘ Bene. ’ He takes the coins and runs off. I add a dash of cobalt to his shirt, then glance up to see Signor Rossi and Simon Forster. I look down, hoping they don’t notice me. My hair is concealed by the hat I wear to shield me from the sun, so hopefully I am unrecognisable.

A shadow falls on my work. I brace.

‘Signorina Kernow, how lovely to see you.’ Signor Rossi bows.

‘I agree, and I must say that is a fine painting. Katherine said you were talented.’ Forster squints at the painting now in the full sunlight. The oils glisten and it will melt if I don’t protect it.

‘Thank you both.’ I see my work through their eyes. It is proficient, but from my viewpoint it is lacking. It is not the type of painting I wish to do, but it was what my mother was painting at this point, just before she met my father.

‘I think with such skills you will have many who will want you to paint them.’ Signor Rossi notes my concern as I try and shield the canvas, and steps forward to block the strong light.

‘Thank you.’ I like him.

‘Where are you staying so I may put people in touch with you?’ He smiles.

‘At a pensione near the Ponte delle Tette.’ My room is clean and large enough for me to work in.

Forster turns to Rossi. ‘Isn’t that the area of prostitution?’

Rossi wiggles his hand. ‘It is not so bad now.’

‘That is not a proper place for an Englishwoman to be staying.’ Forster fusses with the brim of his hat.

My hackles rise. ‘It is fine, and it is what I can afford.’

He tuts. ‘Actually, this could work quite well.’ He pauses. ‘Katherine and I have taken a place on the Grand Canal and I am about to travel with Serafino to work with Il Duce on his poetry. You could stay with her and keep her company.’

‘That is very kind, but . . .’ This would be awkward at best. Katherine doesn’t want to see me again.

‘And I will commission you to paint her just in the style that you have painted this urchin.’ He turns to Rossi. ‘This might be the answer to Katherine spending too much time with Lady Mary while I’m away. Although charming, she is not the best influence, as you must be aware.’

Rossi looks like he is about to say something, but stops.

I struggle to find the words to halt this madness.

I’m angry for Katherine that Forster is trying to stop her from spending time with whom she wishes.

But he is not a man to be thwarted and I can’t deny my desire to spend time with her. I give in. ‘Thank you.’

‘Excellent. I will arrange for the collection of your things and you can be with us by this evening. Serafino, you will know just the people to sort this.’

Signor Rossi bows to me apologetically and they are gone.

In the distance, I see a group of Blackshirts harassing a man.

This sight has become too familiar, and their presence everywhere in Venice is like a pervasive storm cloud ready to wreak damage without warning.

Despite the sunshine, I shiver as I pack my things.

The painting in my hands isn’t bad. My goal is not to flatter but to paint the feeling underneath.

I find I’m drawn more to colour and shape, with less focus on realism.

I have tried this before but haven’t trusted my work.

But there is something about Venice that is opening the locks I set inside myself. Is this what my mother experienced?

* * *

The motor launch pulls up in front of the small palazzo set just back from the Grand Canal.

I can’t shake my unease. Katherine has had no say in my arrival.

She is used to this, but it’s not right.

The memory of her ignoring me the other day still stings.

I’m certain she saw me, yet she didn’t acknowledge me.

Now I will have to face her daily in this palazzo and paint her.

Of course, I have done so already. Those paintings I left behind in the care of the signora who runs the pensione, and her words are still ringing in my ears.

‘Bad men. No trust men. No good come from this.’ Her English is broken but her concern was real and motherly.

It almost overwhelmed me. It is only the desire to see Katherine again, which I can’t deny although I want to, that has brought me here.

I tap the boat driver on the shoulder, because I have changed my mind. I must go back. This is wrong. I open my mouth to speak, but Katherine comes through the gate. All clear thinking disappears with her smile.

‘I’ve missed you.’ She holds out her hand. I hesitate only a moment before I take it. The fizz of connection between us startles me. It has not gone away. This is a warning.

‘Simon tells me he’s commissioned you to paint my portrait.’ She pulls my hand through her arm, closing the space between us. Rose, jasmine and vanilla, her fragrance.

I have no voice to reply.

She points to the building. ‘The villa is divine, with the most delightful roof terrace.’ She grins. ‘You’ll be enchanted.’

My things are swiftly unloaded, and Katherine leads me away, saying, ‘Let them deal with it all.’