I had to leave now, that was clear. I needed to go in search of Alice, but I didn’t want to offend Stafford, to whom I owed so much. Any anger I felt at him had ebbed as quickly as it had arrived. I saw how fervently he had wanted to be certain that I understand her before I judged her actions.
When I went to tell him that I planned to go to Paris, Stafford anticipated me. ‘I know that you will want to be on your way,’ he said, ‘it will be so sad to see you go, Kate. Both of us,’ he glanced over at Oliver, who sat quite still, gazing out to sea, ‘have enjoyed your company enormously.’
I could not see Oliver’s expression – and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to. Would it mean anything to him, that I was leaving? It might even be a relief: the removal of a complication. Now he would have the time alone with his grandfather that he had craved.
‘You could fly to Paris,’ Stafford said, ‘or you could take the night ferry across tomorrow and catch a train from Marseilles.’
I was instantly more attracted to the idea of the train. A plane would have been faster, of course, and speed was to be prized. But if I could avoid flying – and the associations it brought with it – I would. I needed time to prepare myself too. A train journey would offer those few necessary hours in which to do so. And it would give me one more day in this place. It was gratifying to see how pleased Stafford looked when I told him of my choice.
Stafford and I talked late into the night, after Oliver had excused himself for bed. It was rare that Stafford stayed up beyond nine, so I understood that to be granted his company at this hour was a great and unusual honour.
He went to pour us both a drink. I never drank whisky, but this one tasted of peat and woodsmoke and I found myself cautiously savouring it. It spoke of adventure and a little of magic.
I looked up at the sky and it was indigo-black. The stars, on this clear evening, astounded me. In London you barely ever see them, and I had always thought of them as a flat canopy stretched over the heavens: a painted surface. Now, studying them properly for the first time since I’d arrived, I saw that they were more like silvery particles sinking through dark water. Was there, just possibly, a coolness to the night air that I had not noticed before? It was the first day of September: no longer summer.
‘Do you have anything else to ask me?’ Stafford studied me over the rim of his glass.
I did, and the whisky had given me confidence. ‘What was it like, when you believed Alice was dead?’
He considered this for a long moment before answering, and I wondered if I had gone beyond the pale, but then he said, ‘I couldn’t believe, after hearing it, that I could go on living. But you do, you know. Even if some part of you does die in that moment.’
I knew that, well enough.
We had one last breakfast on the terrace the next morning. It was still warm but, overnight, anvil-shaped grey clouds had rolled in from the sea, obscuring the sun and leaving us, after the dazzling glare of previous days, in what felt like a half-light.
Stafford turned to Oliver. ‘Would you drive us to the ferry? I’d like to come and see Kate off.’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘But … I was thinking of going too.’
Both Stafford and I stared at him.
‘With Kate?’ Stafford asked.
He nodded, briskly. ‘I have some things I need to be doing in Paris.’ He looked to Stafford. ‘That is, if you don’t mind, Grand-père.’
‘Of course not,’ Stafford said. ‘If that’s what you’d like.’
‘Kate?’ Oliver turned to me. ‘Would you mind if I travelled with you?’
That last day was a rather subdued affair. I was depressed by the thought of leaving the house, the island and most of all Stafford himself. I had only known him for a short time but through all that he had told me I felt I knew more about him than one might of one’s closest friend. He had been generous, selflessly so, with his own history.
I went for one last swim in the pool, realizing that I would not have the chance to do such a thing for a long while, and wandered down to the beach to drink in the warm briny scent of the sea. I collected a trophy from the maquis itself – a small bouquet of herbs that I hoped would, at least for a while, continue to evoke the island for me once I had left.
I did not see much of Oliver that day. I could not understand why he had asked to join me on the journey to Paris – but I decided that it would do me no good to dwell on it.
After lunch, Stafford called me into his studio. ‘It’s not quite finished,’ he told me, ‘but I think it’s ready for you to see.’
I followed him round, for the first time, to the other side of the easel. ‘Oh.’ I could not seem to find anything else to say. It was a work of incredible technical skill, of that characteristic economy of his that allowed for no errant line. Yet it was also at the same time something much more than that. He had found strength of character where I had only seen a lack – had revealed a beauty that I would not have believed existed. Yet it wasn’t a lie. It was true – it was me.
Stafford had one last thing to show me. I saw that he had pulled from the corner of the room an old trunk, the leather worn and cracked with age. As he bent, stiffly, to unlock it, I suddenly knew what it was. When he lifted the lid and I saw what was within – what I had hoped would be there – I felt my eyes fill with tears.