Flora parked up close to the harbour. Vera was hungry, eager to stretch her legs. She’d been very silent for the last stretch of the journey, taking in glimpses of the high peaks of the Pyrenees. Their route had taken them from the Normandy coast, down into the hills of the Auvergne, filling up at little petrol stations along the way. Flora was glad to see France at peace. She kept stopping at war cemeteries to pay her respects to the poilus who had made such sacrifices.
Her heart leapt at the sight of the Mediterranean, glistening in the sunshine. She stared with delight across Collioure harbour, full of fishing boats, bobbing in the turquoise sea.
It was somewhere close to here that the famous Scottish architect and his artist wife had settled for a while. Pa had acquired one of Rennie Mackintosh’s paintings of a spot close to where Matisse and those French artists formed a colony. The Scottish artist had made such a mark in their city, with his School of Art design.
Finding shade in the tall buildings of the backstreets, with winding steps and narrow alleyways, Flora wandered along to the great bastide, perched on the rocks. Then she turned back to admire the quaint shops and doorways, while Vera went racing ahead, eager to find news of the war in Spain.
Flora dawdled, admiring the little art galleries. There was one with its door open onto the street and she found herself drawn to peer into the window, full of colourful landscapes and sea pictures. Her attention was grabbed by a bold oil painting of a large pink villa, perched on the edge of a rock. Seeing her transfixed by the image, the gallery owner beckoned her inside. ‘You like this, madame?’
‘Who did it?’ she asked, when she had composed herself.
‘A local artist, English. I have some of his other works. He specialises in houses. I think it has taken your eye?’
Flora paused to collect her thoughts. ‘It reminds me of somewhere I once knew, a long time ago, but I’m sorry…’ She backed out of the gallery, almost falling down the steps. ‘Merci,’ she muttered, her heart beating fast.
How strange after all these years to see this reminder of times past. Could it be the very same villa she had known so well? Common sense told her there were many such rose stucco villas dotted along the Riviera. It could be any one of them, and yet there was something familiar about the steps winding down to the beach.
Feeling faint, she went in search of shade and a pastis to calm her nerves. How could this simple image, by some unknown artist, bring back such powerful memories?
‘Oh, there you are, I thought I’d lost you,’ said her sister, standing over her clutching a French newspaper. ‘I want you to translate this for me. This place is heaving with Spaniards and I want to know what’s going on. Flora, are you listening to me? I’m starving. We can have lunch right over there.’ She pointed to a restaurant. ‘The seafood looks wonderful…’ Vera paused to catch her breath. ‘It’s hot here. What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m tired, that’s all. Let’s find a hotel. I can translate better in the cool and after that, I’d like to visit Port Vendres to see Rennie Mackintosh’s place. Pa would be interested in the view that inspired his own painting.’
‘This isn’t a holiday, Flora. We are here to distribute our boxes and explore a way for me to find Sandy, don’t forget.’
‘I’ve not forgotten. I’ve driven most of the way here, so surely I’m entitled to a day or two to rest and get my bearings?’ Vera was younger and fresher but burdened by fear and doubt, just as Flora had been in the war. Yet there was a sense of entitlement about her sister that demanded people listen to her opinions and do her bidding.
She was as sure of her own cause as Flora had been of the suffrage campaign. Sometimes she felt Vera’s head was in the clouds about practical things, such as collecting clothes, preparing the Morris 10 for a long journey, or collecting passport signatures. Vera had mostly left this venture to her big sister. It was hard at times for Flora not to resent her young sister’s thoughtlessness. When would she ever grow up? The whole world did not revolve around her and Sandy Lennox. There was no rush. Their boxes were full of clothes, not perishables.
The image of that villa was still pressing on her mind. Should she buy it as a keepsake, or not? Was she being sentimental? Why did she want any reminder of that time? It was a good likeness, well executed, and it captured the brightness of the place but it held so many painful memories. Ah well. Flora sighed, knowing she must sleep on it before making a decision.