The rehabilitation of Kit Carlyle began in earnest at the farm in Magret. It was a house of hope. In the fresh air of the hillside, he began to breathe in the scents of rosemary and thyme. Consuela made him drink funny-tasting tisanes. Booze was forbidden, not even wine. His body protested with night flushes, sweating and restless sleep. He was given chamomile infusions, vervain and other potions to help him relax. Sam insisted he pottered about in the garden with a sketchpad.
Sitting in the shade to draw whatever he fancied, he found himself sketching an outline of the Rose Villa with its steps down to the beach and the wrought-iron balcony. It was painful at first, recalling those happier times, remembering the pink blancmange stucco plasterwork, the icing sugar cornices, the terracotta roof, the chatter of the nurses knitting in the sunshine, drinking in the Riviera view. He recalled Flora racing down the beach, thinking he was walking into the sea. Was she married with little ones by now, safe in the knowledge that her former lover was long gone from this earth? He hoped she was at peace.
Coming back from the dead would serve no purpose at all, bringing only hurt and recriminations from those he had betrayed. As for the war, the grief of such losses would live with him for ever. There was nothing he could do to alter that either.
Sam was right. He owed it to everyone to pull himself together and make amends for all he had done in the past, make a fresh start, a new life. He might not be Monet, but he could be Carstairs. He may not be Rennie Mackintosh, but he could learn from his style. Kit felt the first stirrings of hope and strength returning within him.
His first job was to repay his hosts in any way he could. He had not been around little children since Sunday school days, but he might learn to entertain, help out, enjoy their joie de vivre and comfort those who were still suffering. He used to do party tricks with the infant classes. Would they like Punch and Judy, games of football? He could give them time, time that allowed Sam and his wife to have some leisure to themselves. While he was recovering from all his infections, he would make a role for himself and then move on. There were artist colonies on the west coast, close to Spain. Perhaps there, he might find another way to live.