Page 31

Venice

‘Signora Forster, a champagne cocktail today?’ a man in a short white coat asks.

‘No, I think a pink gin for us both.’ She smiles and nods to a gentleman sitting in the corner on his own. As soon as the waiter leaves, she pulls the notebook from my charcoal-covered fingers.

‘Why don’t you visit the ladies’ while I look at what you have done today.’

I hesitate, but she waves me away. It is so exposing to have my work examined in this manner, and it has happened twice in one day.

Nonetheless, I climb the stairs and do as I’m told.

Looking in the mirror, I am a wild-eyed woman whose hair is in disarray, with a smattering of freckles covering my face.

It is not unattractive, but more unsophisticated than I would like.

I belong on a farm somewhere, working the fields, rather than here in Venice, a city of so much culture.

On re-entering the room, I note that Katherine is engrossed in the sketchbook. A woman and a man have just entered and are making a beeline for her. She looks up and frowns, but quickly schools her expression while closing the book.

The woman kisses her cheek while the gentleman takes her hand. I stay put, watching. They sit beside her and I can see she is telling them she is not alone.

Whether I want to or not, I need to join her. Halfway to the table, I nearly lose my nerve. I recognise Lady Diana Saunders from pictures I have seen. This is not a place where I belong.

‘Ah, there you are, Sheba.’ Katherine smiles. ‘Allow me to introduce Lady Diana Saunders and Lord Swindon. They are going to join us for a drink.’

‘How do you do?’ I say, holding out my hand as I was taught by my mother.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Lady Diana says. ‘Katherine was just saying that you are an artist from Cornwall.’

‘I am.’ I look down at my hands, grateful I washed them so thoroughly.

‘How lovely,’ she says. ‘Have you been to the Biennale yet?’

I take my seat beside Katherine. ‘I have a ticket for the fifteenth.’

‘I wonder what you will make of it.’ She smiles warmly at me and I relax a bit.

‘How so?’ I ask.

‘The work on display is varied and not to everyone’s taste.’

‘Art rarely is.’ I pause. ‘I grew up in a community of artists.’

‘She’s met Picasso,’ Katherine adds.

‘Interesting fellow, I imagine,’ says Lord Swindon.

‘He is.’ I take a sip of my gin as their drinks are brought to the table. How can I move the attention from me and onto someone or something else?

‘We’ve spent a good deal of today at the Accademia. I feel so much better informed.’ Katherine picks up a small piece of bread with tomato on it.

‘In what way?’ asks Lord Swindon.

‘I never realised how differently artists can look at things. I’ve learned so much and will never look at another piece of art the same way.’

‘Now that is something.’ Lady Diana studies me and it is the most uncomfortable feeling. ‘I’m hoping this is a good thing and it’s not going to turn your world upside down.’

Katherine looks at her over her glass. ‘I find that is always a good thing. One can become so stuck.’ She sends her a look I don’t understand.

‘You two,’ says the man. ‘Trouble if ever I saw it.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Drink up. We’re due at Peggy’s in ten minutes and I must return you to your husband.’

‘We can be late,’ Lady Diana says.

‘We will be already. It always takes longer to reach places here than one thinks.’ Lord Swindon rises to his feet.

‘That’s so dull, but so true.’ She finishes her drink and stands. ‘You are coming tomorrow night, Katherine?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Katherine says.

‘Just because Forster isn’t around doesn’t mean you can hide away. Bring Sheba with you. It will be fun, I promise.’

Diana follows Lord Swindon out, and I look to Katherine for interpretation, but she is focused on attracting the waiter’s attention.

‘We don’t need another drink,’ I say, longing to head back and spend some time looking through my sketches and thinking about the task in front of me. Katherine is so changeable. I never know what to expect from her or how to capture this quality in her.

‘We do. Believe me, we do.’

I sigh and slip the sketchbook behind me. This is a side of Katherine of which I’m uncertain. Forster isn’t here and she could just relax. But watching her fidgeting leg, I realise it might take her a while to step back from him and simply enjoy where she is and who she’s with.

* * *

Having left the shutters open, I wake with the first light.

My head thumps and I see my mother’s diary open on the table.

Vague memories of showing it to Katherine run through my mind.

There was something important that she said, but I can’t remember what.

And I don’t remember going to bed. This is bad.

I’m here to work, not to be a drunken companion.

To be fair, last night, or what I remember of it, was fun, including seeing Venice shimmering in the dusk as we stumbled home. After that, I recall little.

My brain swims as I sit, and I quickly dress despite my aching head.

Dinner at the restaurant was delicious, as was the wine.

The nightcap sitting by a canal was a mistake, though.

As was the one here. I note the empty glass beside the diary, which is open to 10 June.

Today. The word adventure comes to mind, followed by mystery .

Water and coffee are needed. The palazzo is silent as I head out into the early morning, taking both the diary and my sketchbook.

I hope fresh air will bring the rest of the evening into focus.

But right in this moment all I can think is that this drinking has to stop.

I will speak to her about it today. I can’t keep this up and paint.

After wandering for a half-hour, watching shutters open and early churchgoers parade past, I find the café that I was taken to yesterday morning and order a coffee.

I can’t face food yet, but the caffeine is good.

Stepping back out into the campo, I pause to listen to the church bells calling the faithful.

Beautifully dressed children tug the hands of their mammas and grandmothers, whose heads are adorned with exquisite lace.

The men walk along behind. I glance around for the priest, but heaven alone knows what I would say to anyone, let alone a man of the cloth, when no doubt I still reek of last night’s overindulgence.

My burps taste of it and I don’t very much like myself.

I should have put my foot down. I didn’t have to go along with it.

Katherine could have continued on her own, but in that moment I knew she wouldn’t.

I don’t think she has ever done anything on her own.

Yet she is a woman of means and great talent.

She could leave Forster. The Great War changed so much.

The church bells slow and a single toll alerts the stragglers to make haste.

The heat of the day is growing as I weave my way through calle, not sure where I am heading.

The morning sun touches the tops of the buildings lining a narrow canal.

I lean against a wall and sketch, capturing the shadows and the light but no real detail. My brain hurts too much for that.

Once I’ve finished, I move along. In the distance I can see the island where the dead are buried.

This morning it is bathed in light and looks the perfect place to leave your mortal remains.

Thoughts of death follow me on my way back, despite the beauty of the morning.

A door to a church is open and I enter, quickly becoming lost in the darkness.

Eventually flickering candles appear and light filters in through windows far above.

The scent of incense fills the air. The morbid thoughts and the ones of my mother don’t leave, but neither do they chafe against my soul the way they have been recently.

The interior of the church is soothing in its darkness.

I perch on the last pew and let my shoulders drop.

Slowly the tension leaves me and something akin to peace arrives.

I don’t believe in God as such, but I do believe there is some sort of higher power.

If asked to explain, I wouldn’t be able to articulate it.

Nor would I be able to draw it. But in this place of silence and fragrance, I feel it.

Here I find the strength to open my mother’s diary. What was it Katherine saw last night that I missed? I flip the pages slowly, watching her sketches animate in a weird way, until I come to yesterday’s date.

9 June

Today I saw David. For hours I felt his eyes on me, his hunger, his need. It was intoxicating. Something inside me slipped. I transformed under his gaze.

Who was David? Why would him looking at her change her? I rub my temples. It was Venice that changed her, made her normal, not David. What am I missing? My father’s name is Francis.

The next entry is about a party she attended.

I close the book and resolve to ask Katherine.

I hope to begin the painting today, but my head still thumps and now my stomach roils.

My body would continually be distracting me, and it’s important to be fully present.

Something tells me that won’t be possible today.

When I step outside again, the sun is high and Venice is full. Working my way through the crowds, I curse myself for lingering so long in the church. I didn’t fall asleep, but I almost slipped into a trance, or was it meditation?

‘Ah, Miss Kernow.’ Father Keeney appears to my right.

‘Where have you come from? Mass?’ I ask.

‘That, and I was visiting a friend over by the Rialto market. You have been sketching again?’

I nod.

‘And now you are in a rush?’

‘No, not possible.’ I gaze at the throngs of people.

He laughed. ‘A satisfying morning’s work?’

‘One sketch.’

‘A good one?’

‘No, not at all.’ I am tempted to show him, but stop. ‘I wasn’t myself earlier.’

He takes my arm and moves me away from a crowd being led by a woman speaking loudly in French. ‘Where are you heading now?’

‘The Palazzo Giallo.’

He raises both eyebrows. ‘Call me impressed.’

‘I’m staying with Katherine Forster and will be painting her portrait.’

‘The poet’s wife?’ he asks.

‘You know them?’ I hate how Katherine is known as the poet’s wife and not as the poet.

‘I have met them both. Interesting people.’

That is an evasive answer. So I ask something definite. ‘What do you think of his work?’

‘The poetry is exquisite.’

‘It is.’

He casts me a sideways glance. ‘I cannot fault it, quite the opposite, but I must confess that I find it difficult to see him . . . having such insight or feeling.’

I snort.

‘You agree. I thought you might.’ He smiles. ‘We have arrived.’

Part of me is shocked to be here so quickly, and with him.

Maybe because I’m still coming to grips with the fact that he knows Katherine.

Strangely, I feel they both belong to me separately.

I don’t want to mix them because I like things when they are clearer or sharper.

In my personal life, that is, not my work.

He looks at me like I need to respond. Did I miss something? ‘Thanks,’ I say. A response that can cover many things.

‘Now I know where to find you.’

I open my eyes wide.

‘If someone is asking for a recommendation for a portrait.’

‘Oh.’

‘Is there another reason people would seek you out – other than for your charming personality, of course?’ The corner of his mouth lifts.

Something entirely unexpected arrives in me: attraction to a priest.

I shade my eyes and study this puzzle of a man. He has an appeal that is undeniable, and yet he has chosen a celibate life.

The door opens and Katherine stands there blinking. ‘Oh my God, there you are, Sheba. We’ve been concerned.’

‘I was out sketching,’ I say.

‘Good morning, Father Keeney. What brings you to my doorstep?’ She covers the space between the door and where we are standing slowly, with her hips swaying just a bit more than usual.

Why should I be surprised? I find him attractive; why wouldn’t she?

But she is a married woman. And a voice in my head says I am a lesbian.

He is a priest. None of this adds up to anything but a mess.

My brain is tired from last night and nothing makes sense.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, ‘Katherine, what was it you saw in my mother’s diary? ’

She blinks at me as if trying to put me in focus. ‘Oh, nothing important. It was just why she named you Bathsheba.’

‘What?’

She smiles at me like I am a child. ‘She must have been a painter’s model for King David and Bathsheba. It doesn’t take much to put two and two together and realise the model for David was your father.’

‘Oh,’ is all I can say.

Turning her attention from me to Father Keeney, she says, ‘I’m just heading out to meet a friend.’ She takes a step towards him. ‘Don’t suppose you are going my way?’

‘I wish I was, but unless you are heading to the university . . .’ He softens his words with a big smile. ‘I look forward to seeing the portrait. Just make sure she doesn’t do what she did to the nuns the other morning.’ He bows, and we both watch him walk away.

‘Come with me to meet Diana,’ Katherine suggests.

‘I need to prepare to begin your painting.’ I cover my real reason for not wanting to come. Her words. How did she see what I had not? It is so obvious and I am such a fool.

Katherine frowns, but says, ‘If you must. What time should I come back?’

‘The light should be better at four.’

She nods and walks in the opposite direction to the priest. I close my eyes for a moment. Why am I here? I am not my mother. But I am a painter, and always will be one.