The final letter was a surprise: a single sheet of paper only.
Dearest Tom,
I had to write and tell you about yesterday. I felt, for the first time, a real connection with this city. I saw the Venice I would want to paint, if I had your talent. I’m sorry this is a short note. I’m ever so tired from walking for a whole day yesterday, and perhaps suffering from some wonderful drinks Julien introduced me to. Tomorrow afternoon, we shall explore Santa Croce and San Polo: my Venetian education continues.
I stared at the last letter, trying to discover some meaning that might be hidden behind the words. The carelessness of it astounded me. Could Alice not see how it would have looked to him? I needn’t have worried about discovering words of love that were not for my eyes – they were not to be found here. I did not know what I would say to Stafford when he asked me what had I made of them.
I was so lost in my thoughts that it was several seconds before I realized that Oliver had appeared at the bottom of the stone steps.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘hello.’
He didn’t look exactly overjoyed to see me. Perhaps he too had come down here to be alone. Now that I knew his reasons for being at Maison du Vent, I was guiltily conscious that I might have intruded upon his place of sanctuary.
‘I had a good time, last night.’
I looked at him, surprised. But it was impossible to tell whether he was sincere or merely being polite.
‘So did I,’ I said, because I had, despite my misgivings. ‘Thank you.’
He gestured. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Oh,’ I said, as casually as I could, ‘some letters.’ My heartbeat quickened. I was certain that Stafford would not want me to share them.
Something flashed into Oliver’s face then: irritation, or – conceivably – hurt. To my relief, he let it go. Instead, he sat down on the sand a few metres away, next to the water’s edge, and stared straight out to sea, resting on his forearms, his feet making lazy circles in the shallows. I was pleased that he had decided to stay, that he hadn’t seen fit to leave immediately upon finding me there.
‘It’s a great spot down here,’ I said.
‘What?’ He turned around, and I saw that he had been lost in thought. He looked at me for a few seconds as if he had forgotten I existed. Then, finally, he seemed to register what I had said. ‘Oh … yes. It’s the best beach I know on the whole island.’
‘Though of course you may be biased.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I used to come down at the end of the holidays – when I knew it was time to go back to Paris, I’d hide under there –’ he gestured to the blue-hulled fishing boat, which had been dragged up the beach and turned over. ‘For some reason it took Grand-père hours to find me.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘perhaps he didn’t want you to go either.’
I gazed out at the scene before me: the colours of the sea and sky so vivid that they were scarcely credible. I admit that I forgot about the letters for a while, and simply sat and enjoyed the feeling of the heat pounding down on the bare skin of my shoulders and legs, pushing my feet into the sand until they met the cold, secret layers deep down that were untouched by the sun.
Mum would have loved this, I thought, automatically. But then I stopped. No, I realized … she wouldn’t. She’d never been able to be still for long: to simply sit and look at something. That was me, what I liked. Mum, in contrast, needed to be active, constantly occupied. The scant couple of times we had been to the beach together she’d grown bored of sitting on her towel within minutes, and had exhorted me to play catch, or come swimming with her. How could I have forgotten that, if only for a second? It terrified me that I had done so. Because here was the awful feeling again: that she was slipping away from me, that I would lose her bit by bit until there was no more than a shadowy outline.
I glanced up, and realized that Oliver was watching me. Instantly I felt panicky, exposed.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You looked … I don’t know, upset for a moment.’
I hesitated, deliberating whether or not to tell him. ‘It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Try me.’
‘Well … I was thinking that my mother would have loved this, sitting here, doing nothing. And then I realized I was completely wrong. She wouldn’t: she’d hate it.’ I found, with a kind of amazement, that my vision was blurred by tears. I hadn’t cried for so long – had managed every time to fight the urge into submission. Now it had taken me by surprise.
To my relief, Oliver didn’t remark upon it. He regarded me in silence for a while, then said, ‘I think – perhaps – I know what you mean.’
I didn’t believe for a moment that he did, but I appreciated the effort.
‘You’re worried about forgetting her.’
I stared at him. So he did know, after all. For a second, I wondered if he was thinking of his mother, but then he said: ‘It was like that when Grand-mère died. I was terrified I’d forget, but things come back to you – things that you probably couldn’t even have remembered while they were still alive. Naturally, you have to accept that it’s impossible to remember everything, but the memories that are most important – those you’ll never lose.’
It was the sort of thing I imagined Stafford would say.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I haven’t done anything.’ He seemed embarrassed by my thanks.
‘No,’ I told him, ‘you have.’
Oliver left the beach soon afterwards, while I stayed there with the letters and my thoughts for the next couple of hours, wondering what I would say to Stafford when he asked me about what I had read. Through Stafford’s accounts of Alice I had come to see why he would have fallen in love with her. The idea that I might have once had a relative like that – brave, rebellious – had excited me. Now I felt … rather disappointed in her. I reminded myself that she had been young, and no doubt naïve. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking the fact that she had acted callously.
I broached the subject of the letters that evening, when Stafford and I were alone at the table before supper.
‘I’ve read them all,’ I told him.
He nodded. ‘Good. So you know about him?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t help wondering … well, how you felt, reading that last one.’
‘Rather sorry for myself, in truth. Rather worried. Even though there was nothing concrete in it, I was stuck in Oxford and she was all those hundreds of miles away with that man showing her about, “educating her”. I didn’t like it at all. It was quite clear to me that he had managed to get his claws into her. I chose to believe that it wasn’t anything real, whatever fascination he held for her. It was the allure of the unknown.’
‘Were you tempted to go after her?’
‘Absolutely. In fact, I had it all planned out: I’d sold my first painting, for what to me was a considerable sum – enough for my passage to Venice, if nothing more.’
‘But you never did?’
‘No. I never had time to. I got her telegram first: ‘“Dearest Tom …”’ he said, quoting from memory, ‘“returning England end of week latest. Will write soon.”’