Page 47

London

The skies are heavy with rain and I have no energy to move.

My grandfather hasn’t asked any questions about my unannounced return in July last year.

I haven’t seen Katherine again. All I wanted to do was return in the night and kill Forster.

He is a beast, but the law is on his side.

She is his wife, his property. There is nothing I can do.

The August sun lacks the warmth I need to feel alive.

My days are endless and the nights are hell.

I hear her cries, feel my anger and impotence.

I cannot save her. She must save herself, but I fear she will slowly die with the drugs she takes to numb the emptiness he creates in her life.

Looking in the mirror, I see that my skin is the pallor of the skies above.

I have forced myself outdoors daily to make my grandfather feel better.

He asks questions about my future that I can’t answer.

I have no idea what I will do. Returning to Cornwall doesn’t appeal.

I have a new brother, a stepmother who doesn’t want me around, and I haven’t changed.

If anything, I’m more certain of who I am.

How can I keep that inside and hidden without love to make it worthwhile?

The portrait arrived here yesterday, sent on by Father Keeney along with the rest of my things.

He apologised again for the delay. He was called to Rome and left Venice shortly after I did, and it was only last month that he was able to return.

His letter was full of news, but none I wanted to hear.

He knew what I needed to know, and as many times as I read the letter, it didn’t appear.

The day after the unveiling of the portrait, he found me sitting in the church in which the painting of my mother and father as Bathsheba and David hung.

Thinking logically had proved impossible.

What I’d heard, and had been powerless to do anything about, wouldn’t leave me.

I confided in Father Keeney. There was too much anger and horror to keep it all inside me.

He listened, letting me pour out my fears and worries.

His anger was visible, but when he spoke, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

He cautioned me against intervening between a husband and wife.

He left me with the promise that he would speak to her.

It was a week later before I heard from him. He said she was managing, and that her message to me was that she was OK and I should go home and stay away.

It nearly killed me. Leaving Venice was a relief and a torment.

While I was there, she was near, but now I know nothing of her.

The not knowing eats away at me. I left La Serenissima a different person.

Despite Father Keeney’s encouragement, my heart has not healed.

Seeing the portrait here brings the pain sharply into focus.

Katherine’s beauty haunts me. My grandfather adores it, and he sees what it says.

But he loves me, and for that I am grateful.

For the millionth time, I read the poem Katherine wrote for me, but the words don’t bring comfort.

They speak of a love that burns too brightly.

Nothing can hold it. It is not like the phoenix that will be reborn.

There are days when it is all too much. If my grandfather didn’t exist, I wouldn’t. He watches me so closely.

Father Keeney also sent the photograph he took of me in St Mark’s Square. The day was glorious. The world, and Katherine’s love, was mine. I was full of joy. Everything was perfect, but perfect doesn’t last. Days later, it was all gone and I’d learned just how soul-destroying life could be.

I head outside and follow my usual route through the park, passing children and prams. Their joyful calls should lift me, but they don’t.

Nothing does. I haven’t touched my work.

Grandfather has suggested I go to the Slade, or at least take some courses.

He insists it would be sinful if I didn’t use my talent.

He, bless him, has no idea of how sinful I am.

Of the Seven Deadly Sins, pride and lust ruled me until wrath slipped in.

I envied Forster his position in Katherine’s life and I was certain we could beat him.

In my rush to be with her, I didn’t take the risks on board.

I was, and still am, a fool. I’m twenty-one.

I can’t live with my grandfather for ever.

He is right, I must find the strength to work again, and attending classes might help me find a way back.

Rain begins to fall in big fat drops as I near the Prince Albert Memorial.

I haven’t thought to bring an umbrella with me.

Before I even leave the park, I’m soaked through.

Shivering starts, and by the time I’m at the door, my teeth are chattering.

The housekeeper makes a fuss and I spend a long time immersed in hot water.

I could just sink down and let it cover me and then be no more. It tempts me.

‘Here’s some more hot water,’ Mrs Smith says, bringing a full kettle in.

‘Thank you.’

‘We don’t need you becoming sick. Your grandfather is worried enough with the news from Cornwall.’

‘What news?’ I sit up, but sink back down as the cold air hits my skin.

‘Oh, I wasn’t supposed to say.’ She looks at me, then away.

‘Well, you’ve started now.’

‘It’s just that the woman your father took up with has gone and left him with the baby.’

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Yes, she ran off with another artist from what I gather.’ She tuts. ‘How is my father?’ I ask, my heart tightening.

‘From what your grandfather said, quite distressed.’

I climb out of the bath. ‘I should go to him.’

She grabs a towel. ‘He’ll need someone to look after the baby.’

I laugh. ‘No, that will not be me.’

She sends me a look and leaves the room.

I have descended very low in her esteem.

In her eyes it is the role of women to take care of children, but there is no reason why I should be the one to look after my half-brother.

My father will find someone. I have my career to think about, and I have to find a means to pay my own way.

* * *

Before I set off to Cornwall, I confirm my place to study at the Slade.

This will ensure that I won’t be expected to look after the child.

But doubts set in as I step off the train in St Ives and walk through the familiar lanes to my father’s studio.

The cry of the gulls, the smell of the sea.

Familiar faces smile in greeting. This was my home, but it isn’t any more.

I’m not the same Sheba who left here in search of a miracle.

I hear my half-brother before I see him. His cries are loud and angry. I push the door open carefully to spy a big ginger cat squaring off with the small child who is clutching his hand. The cat has won despite the marmalade-coloured fur in the toddler’s grasp.

An older woman walks from the kitchen. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m here to see my father.’ I smile encouragingly at her.

She sends me a queer look. Perhaps she is unaware that my father has another child. She is unfamiliar to me, so is probably not local.

‘He’s painting on the quay.’ She picks up my brother and takes him to the kitchen. ‘I told you, Tommy, leave the cat alone.’

Sensible advice. However, I offer my hand to the cat to sniff before I scratch between its ears. It appears that Marmalade remembers me, and a loud purr confirms this.

The cat follows me out of the house and down to the quay.

It is easy to pick out my father in his paint-splattered fishing smock.

He is engrossed in capturing the scene. The tide is out and the boats lie at awkward angles waiting for the return of the water.

The colourful hulls shimmer and reflect off the damp sand.

Gulls hover hopefully while a few men clear the barnacles off their boats’ hulls.

This scene has not changed while I was gone, and I’m relieved in a way, yet at the same time I’m not.

I want it to be different, like me somehow.

Several tourists stand watching my father. He is oblivious to them.

As I come closer, I see the canvas. His style has altered a little, but it is still his, simply looser. Broad sweeps of colour and small, swift marks bring the scene to life. It is good.

Once at his side, I let him work on, although I long to say something. He doesn’t notice me until I cast a shadow on his canvas and he glances up ready to tell me off.

‘My God, Baba!’ He flings his arms about me. ‘How wonderful.’

There are tears in his eyes when he lets go of me. It is then I see that he’s aged during the time I’ve been away.

‘Let me pack this up and then we can talk properly.’

Without a word I fall into the old routines that I learned at my parents’ side. The easel is folded and paints stored. He glances at his watch. ‘Mrs Sweeting will stay until six thirty. Shall we stop for a drink at the Sloop Inn?’

That answers one of the questions I wanted to ask. Who is the woman with my brother?

‘That sounds wonderful.’

I’m tired, but seeing him fills me with love. His eyes are so like mine, and he is trying to read me. ‘I have a thousand questions,’ he says, ‘but they can wait until I’ve ordered.’

I sit on a stool outside, letting the place settle about me. Nellie walks past with a child in her arms, one holding her hand and another dragging a stick along the ground.

‘Nellie.’ I wave, and a smile spreads across her face.

She walks over. ‘Well look at you.’

I hold out my hands and take the babe from her arms. ‘Who is this?’

‘Mary.’

‘She’s a beauty.’ The child is the image of her mother, with her umber eyes flecked with viridian.

‘Are you all right?’ Nellie asks, studying me.

I smile.

‘That’s not an answer. You’re too thin, and you shine less than you did when you left.’ She stares at me. ‘Your heart’s been broken.’

I swallow a lump.

‘They do heal.’ She puts her hand on my arm.

‘Not so sure.’ I know my heart can’t heal because of the damage I’ve done. That reality walks with me continuously, along with the not knowing if she is OK.

‘Oh Baba. You will mend. I promise.’

I hide my emotions in her daughter’s neck.

‘I’m sorry about the things I said before you left.’

I look at her.

‘You’re different, and that makes things hard, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’

I swallow. That’s something.

She puts her hand over mine. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Ma.’ Her son tugs her hand.

‘It’s feeding time. Come and see me.’ She takes the child from my arms and I watch them continue along the harbour, then turn up Fish Street.

My father returns with a pint for himself and a half for me. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘Before I begin, I need to ask a few questions.’

He nods, then takes a sip of his beer.

‘What happened?’

He shakes his head slowly. ‘I was so blinded, by grief, by need, that I didn’t see things correctly. I’m sorry.’

‘Did you love Mum?’ I have to ask, because he was so quick to take up with the harridan.

He takes my hand in his. ‘With my whole heart. I was your mother’s only lover.’ He lets go and picks up his beer again. ‘She wasn’t mine, though. I thought diversity fed my art.’ He snorts. ‘Instead, it stole things away.’

‘Mum knew.’ I take a sip. The cider is cool and crisp.

‘I know. I was open about it. I never loved anyone else, but I did need others.’

‘I see.’ His hair is now more grey than brown at his temples. He is still ridiculously handsome.

‘Do you? You have grown up.’ He laughs. ‘The funniest thing is now that I’m looking after Tommy, I have no energy or even need for that.’

I raise an eyebrow, not believing his words.

‘Her departure changed me. It was like someone had removed very dark glasses.’ He turns the pint in his hands. ‘She told me what she said to you. I’m so sorry. I wish you had come to me at the time. Is that why you left?’

‘One of the reasons.’

‘Oh Baba.’ His eyes are so sad.

‘It was time for me to go and it was good that I did.’ That at least is partly true.

‘But you came back sooner than you planned.’ He studies me and I hope I’m giving nothing away.

‘Things changed.’ I run my finger along the side of the glass with memories of Katherine and her cool skin in my thoughts.

‘So now you’re off to the Slade.’

‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘I’ll live with Grandpa.’

‘I haven’t seen your work. Has it changed?’

Never again will I paint like I did in Venice. Never again will I do another portrait like that. People can read them too easily. ‘Yes, quite a bit. I think . . . I think I’ve found my style.’

‘Good.’

‘It is.’ I pause. ‘I don’t think you’d know my work if you saw it, though.’

‘Then I look forward to seeing it.’ He grins. ‘Are you here long enough to paint with me?’

‘A week.’ The sun is low in the sky, and I squint. The colours of the fishing boats almost pulse in intensity.

‘You can tell me all about your travels. I know you were on a pilgrimage of sorts.’

I turn back to him. Katherine used that same word. ‘I was, and I certainly found what I wasn’t looking for.’ This is true.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

I look at my glass, then up at him. He is my father and I can tell him. ‘I lost my heart and had it broken.’

‘I see.’ He reaches for my hand again.

‘I don’t think you can.’

‘I know you better than you think.’ He pushes a piece of hair off my face. ‘You fell in love with someone who wasn’t free to love you.’

‘This is true.’

‘She chose the life she knew.’ He places a finger under my chin. My head flies up. How long has he known?

‘Whether you knew or not, both your mother and I saw.’

‘Does it upset you? Did she . . .’

‘Baba, we love you. Love is love. Sadly, not all of society feels this way, but if you loved someone, no matter who it was, I would love them too.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You will find love again.’

I shake my head.

‘You will.’ He smiles. ‘It will catch you unawares, and you will wonder how.’

‘Have you found someone else?’ I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

‘Like I said, no energy, but I do know that even though I am forty-five, it may yet find me again.’

‘I hope it does, but I think I may be better off without it.’ The pain of hurting someone else chills me.

‘I’d like to say don’t fall in love with someone who belongs to someone else, but life is never that easy.’ He finishes his pint. ‘Best drink up. Mrs Sweeting doesn’t take too well to me being late.’ We bring our glasses to the bar and walk into the September evening.