It was Alice who gave me confidence and Lady Margaret who pushed me towards new heights. I was rather terrified of her, and a little under her spell, probably. She wasn’t beautiful, at least not in the conventional way, as Alice’s mother was, but there was in her an innate confidence and strength that was more attractive than any heart-shaped face or mane of golden hair could have been. It was the same strength that was in Alice.
Lady M. was a true maverick. She was modern, too. I couldn’t believe what I saw, when she went to turn the page of my sketchbook. Her sleeve was pulled back slightly by the movement and I glimpsed a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. It was small but extremely dark against the pale skin. Alice explained that it was of a serpent. Her aunt had been bitten by a rattlesnake on a trip to Nicaragua, and nearly died. After she had recovered she had the tattoo done. It was a talisman, a symbol of the force of will that had brought her through it. Such a thing is, even now, a sign of rebellion, of non-conformism, but back then, nobody had tattoos, and especially no one of Lady Margaret’s class.
She criticized my work ruthlessly, but when she told me that it had promise, I felt again that hope I’d had when Alice had come to the studio. Only this time there was, perhaps, more foundation to it: Lady Margaret knew art.
Some of the pieces she dismissed outright. I had gone through a Picasso phase, as so many artists of my generation did, in which I didn’t so much work under his influence but lifted elements wholesale: a cross-hatching technique here, a colour-blocking effect there. In one sketch I had literally copied the jug from Picasso’s Pitcher and Lemon, and was embarrassed when Lady M. called me out on it. ‘It is a talent of sorts,’ she told me, ‘to imitate another’s work, but it is not the sort that you should pursue. There are dozens of Frenchmen in Montmartre doing precisely that, and much better, for they have had years to hone their skill. Find your own style – and you must be brave, because it takes courage to strike out alone. You must not be afraid of ridicule; indeed, you may want to court it. To be able to illicit a strong reaction of any sort is a powerful thing. God forbid that people should tolerate your work.’
You felt that if she believed in you, harnessed you to her, it was impossible that you should fail, and absolutely possible that you might do anything. And while she had been fairly damning about my work in one sense, she was supportive in the way that mattered the most: she urged me to continue. She thought that, even if I hadn’t got there yet, I would.
She told me to return, in a year’s time, when I had sought out my own style, and had a new portfolio of works to show her. I went back to the studio and tore up half of my work, burned it in the brazier I kept there. Afterwards I felt that I had undergone a form of catharsis. I cannot remember a single one of those paintings, but I have no doubt that, if I could do so, I would not regret that action for an instant. The collectors might feel differently … sometimes a painter’s first terrible daubs are worth more than his mature work. Presumably they derive excitement from seeing the artist’s style in its embryonic state. For me, those works were the artistic equivalent of a teenage diary: full of overblown sentiment and melodrama.
The drawing that Kate had brought me, though, that was different. It was one of the works I’m proudest of. I’m not sure that I would have been capable of ever drawing anything quite like it – and not only because of the way in which my style evolved. There was something in the essence of that sketch which, like my innocence at that age, had to be lost to time. A certain unselfconsciousness … a lack of the cynicism that comes with experience, perhaps. And it was the record of a memory, too, of what I still think of as the happiest day of my life.
It seemed Stafford was tired of talking, for the next couple of hours passed in relative silence, the only sound the scratching of pencil upon paper. The warm air stilled as the day reached its midday peak and the sea beyond the windows was one uniform expanse of blue, seemingly unruffled by wind or tide. It looked as though it could have been painted on to the glass. I felt my eyelids beginning to droop.
‘Time for lunch,’ said Stafford suddenly, as if he had guessed that I was tiring.
I shook myself out of my stupor. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Excellent. I shall call for Marie.’
I spent the afternoon down in the cove, half reading my book, but mainly thinking about all that Stafford told me. At times the past he was describing now felt more real to me than my life back in London, which now seemed insubstantial, far away. I only wished that I could have shared this new discovery. I was sure Mum would have been fascinated by it all, in spite of herself.
The sand was coarse-grained, whitish, and hot to the touch. The beach was a mere few metres across: a brief gap in the rock that extended along the coast on either side. I waded into the shallows at one point, and discovered that if I stood there long enough, letting my feet sink into the sand, tiny brown fish would dart about my ankles. Until, that is, I wiggled a toe – whereupon they would disappear from sight in the blink of an eye.
Afterwards I lay back on the warm sand, and must have fallen asleep for a while, because I awoke with a start on hearing my name called. I looked about me, bleary-eyed, and saw to my dismay that it was Oliver, standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. Instantly I was on my guard, but the hostility that I prepared myself for did not come.
‘Marie has put out tea,’ he said, and his voice sounded different: not friendly, exactly, but approaching civil. ‘I thought I’d come and see if you were hungry.’
‘Oh.’ I sat up, confused. My first reaction, irrational though it might have been, was: this must be a trick. ‘Yes,’ I said, carefully, ‘I am – thank you.’
He turned and disappeared from sight. I waited for a few moments, letting my head clear of sleep – I wanted to be alert for whatever confrontation was to follow – and then followed him up the steps. I realized that it might simply be that Stafford had asked him to fetch me – though that wouldn’t quite explain the new, courteous way he’d spoken to me – but when I reached the terrace the artist was nowhere to be seen.
‘Grand-père’s taking his nap,’ Oliver said, catching me looking about for him.
‘Ah.’
We sat down at the table together, which had been set with an elegant china pot, two cups with matching saucers, and a large Victoria sponge. There was something quite pleasingly surreal about the sight of it all sitting there, as the distinctly un-British sun beat down on us, and the cicadas chattered in the vegetation all around.
‘It’s Grand-père’s favourite,’ Oliver told me, indicating the cake. ‘Grand-mère used to make it for us. Marie carried on baking it, after she died.’
I looked at him, curiously. He had spoken quickly, even nervily.
He cut and plated two generous slices, passing one to me. I took it, feeling tense, as though I were readying myself for an interview, still trying to guess what his purpose might be. Maybe, I thought, he was about to give me my marching orders, while his grandfather was conveniently out of sight.
I lifted a small forkful of cake to my mouth. The delicious morsel momentarily distracted me: the lemony airiness of the sponge, the unctuousness of the cream and the tartness of the raspberry jam. I looked up and found that Oliver was watching me.
‘It’s very good,’ I told him, because he seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
There followed a long, tense pause, during which I tentatively ate another bite of cake. Then Oliver shifted, leaning forward in his seat. ‘Well …’ He stopped, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’m not quite sure how to say this …’
I waited, braced for the sting – whatever it was to be. This time I would be ready to defend myself.
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry.’
My surprise made me swallow my mouthful too quickly, and the sponge lodged horribly in my windpipe. I coughed, and barely managed to stop myself from spraying him with crumbs.
‘Why?’ I asked hoarsely, when I could trust myself to speak again. What I really meant was ‘Why now?’ He’d shown no sign of being troubled by any qualms only a few short hours before.
‘Well,’ he said, spreading his palms, ‘I realize that I haven’t been …’ he shrugged ‘… the most welcoming I could have been to you.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. I stared at him, still half wondering if it was a trick.
But then – with a sudden flare of clarity – I understood. ‘Is this about my mother?’
I knew immediately that I had found the answer, because I saw it there in his face: pity.
Oliver nodded, shifted in his seat. ‘Grand-père told me, this morning,’ he said. ‘After I bumped into you.’
I saw it now. He must have gone to Stafford to tell him about my ‘crime’, and Stafford, to exonerate me, had told him. He shouldn’t have, I thought – he had no cause to. I had no desire to be pitied, especially not by Oliver. In fact, now that I considered it, it had almost been a relief to have one person who didn’t know, who didn’t feel they had to treat me as if I might break with rough treatment.
Oliver cleared his throat. ‘I read about it, when it happened. I couldn’t stop thinking about it – all those people …’
I grimaced. I did not want to think about the newspapers, the photographs they had somehow been allowed to print. Sensing this might not be the right tack, Oliver said, ‘If I had known, I wouldn’t …’ He stopped. ‘I suppose I jumped to conclusions. I thought you were here to pester Grand-père for something. He’s explained to me that you’re here at his express request – that you’ve come here as a personal favour to him.’
This last made me uncomfortable – because it wasn’t strictly true. Then again, if Stafford had decided to doctor the facts, I was happy not to contradict him.
‘He told me about your mother …’
‘Honestly,’ I said, firmly, ‘you don’t need to worry about it. It happened a while ago.’
‘A year,’ he said. ‘That’s not long, not when you’ve lost someone you love. Grand-mère died several years ago – and I haven’t stopped missing her.’
He was staring at me intently, and suddenly I found that I could not hold his gaze. To my horror, I felt my eyes smart ominously. Not now, I told myself, not in front of this stranger, who until moments earlier had been behaving like an enemy. I had preferred him when he was hostile – it was far easier to deal with. I stared down at my plate, forcing the tears into retreat.
That evening and at breakfast the next morning Oliver’s new civility continued – which I suppose should have come as no surprise. And yet, given how he had been before, I was thrown by a feeling of unreality. He acted towards me like a polite stranger – a waiter, or a train conductor. I was quite relieved when Stafford asked if I was ready to head to the studio with him.
I was rising to my feet to follow him when Oliver stopped me.
‘Kate,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘I wanted to ask you something. I’d planned to go to Bonifacio this evening – I always try to visit while I’m here. I wondered if you felt like coming with me.’ Again he spoke with that curious new tone – the remote, formal politeness.
‘Thank you … but no.’ The prospect of spending an evening with Oliver acting as though I were an invalid was even worse than spending it with him at his most hostile. I was certain that he was not motivated by a genuine desire for my company. ‘I mean,’ I said, feeling the need to explain, ‘it’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t want you to feel that you have to … babysit me. I’m quite happy to stay here with your grandfather.’
I wondered, in fact, whether this too had been orchestrated by Stafford. The idea that Oliver might be asking me under sufferance of his grandfather’s wishes made it even less appealing.
‘All right,’ Oliver said, ‘but that’s not why I was suggesting it. I’d like to go, and I know that Grand-père will be too tired to come: he never goes out in the evenings now. And – well, if I can avoid it, I’d prefer not to go by myself.’
I was not convinced. ‘Did your grandfather suggest it?’
Oliver looked slightly insulted. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was my idea.’ His annoyance was something of a relief, far more natural than the impeccable courtesy.
‘Oh.’ I sought for an excuse. ‘Surely it would be rude, though, to leave him here?’
‘I don’t think he’ll mind.’ No, I thought, he undoubtedly wouldn’t. In fact, I suspected that Stafford would be rather pleased if Oliver and I reached an accord.
‘Look,’ Oliver said, ‘I understand why you wouldn’t want to, but I will try to be … better company from now on, I promise.’
I looked at him, and saw that he meant it. This was his peace offering – and it would be churlish not to accept.
‘Fine,’ I found myself saying, before I could think further about it. Immediately I regretted it, but told myself that it was only one evening. Hopefully, once he was satisfied that he’d done his duty, he would leave me alone.
‘Oliver offered to show me Bonifacio,’ I told Stafford, as I took my seat in the studio. ‘This evening.’
My suspicion that the invitation was the artist’s doing was laid to rest by his delighted surprise.
‘Excellent!’ he said, beaming at me. ‘It is an incredible place – and you could not wish for a better guide.’ He seemed especially pleased by the idea, and I hoped he wouldn’t set too much store by it. I could not imagine Oliver and I becoming the best of friends. In fact I remained on my guard, awaiting a return to hostility.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘I know that he feels badly for not having been … as friendly as he might have been to you. In his defence, Oliver has had a bad time of it recently – as I think I mentioned. He has not quite been himself.’
Presently, to my relief, we moved on to the subject of Alice.
‘After Easter, I went back up to Oxford,’ Stafford said, ‘and though I hoped she might, Alice did not come to visit again. She told me that she wasn’t able to, because she no longer had anywhere to stay in Oxfordshire. Lady M. had left the country for her riad in Marrakech. She used to go there to write, apparently.’
‘She was an author?’
‘Of sorts. She wrote … a certain kind of book … of the more risqué variety. It was a hobby rather than a vocation, I think you might say. I can’t imagine it endeared her to Lady Hexford – if, indeed, she knew of it. She wrote under a nom de plume: Scheherazade. They aren’t badly written, you know – I believe they are now considered classics of their kind, though they are somewhat explicit. Lady Margaret did not do things by halves.
‘It was probably a good thing that I didn’t see Alice, because I don’t think I would have been able to concentrate on my studies if I’d been anticipating her appearance at any moment. And it was exam season.’ Stafford smiled. ‘Though I don’t want to give you the impression that I was a good student. I was too intent on trying to put Lady Margaret’s advice into practice: experimenting with different techniques, pushing myself to be more radical in my approach. My room was littered with half-finished canvases, not books.’
‘Did you see Alice once you got back to London?’
Stafford nodded. ‘That summer was the happiest of my youth … perhaps of my life. I have spent many wonderful summers here, but there is nothing to equal the perfection of an English summer, when the weather it at its best, and when one is young and in love. Because I was in love, you see, even if I wasn’t quite aware of it then.
‘Alice and I were invited to a number of weekend parties in the countryside, at the homes of friends, or almost-friends. I felt something of an interloper, knowing the only reason I’d been invited was my perceived association with Alice.
‘Alice was always the first to change into her tennis outfit, to pull on her boots to go for a walk in the grounds. She’d been the same way as a child; forever restless, forever active, impatient to get on the tennis court, attempt a round of golf or croquet …
‘She looked delicate, but she was a gifted sportswoman. She couldn’t compete with someone like Diana Ruston, who had arms like great haunches of ham and could hit a tennis ball as hard as any man, but Alice was so determined, even fierce at times. Not exactly competitive, at least not in any unpleasant way, but she so enjoyed the game – any game – that she threw herself into it with an incredible vigour. It was an energy that was … intoxicating.’