On her last full day in New York, Pandora finds Sophia looking particularly alert. ‘Eat your breakfast as fast as you can, I have something to show you.’
Pandora follows Sophia into her bedroom, which is lined with paintings and watercolours. ‘All mine,’ she says, ‘except for that portrait of a child, that is to say, Dodo. I keep my own work private. Now, in this little room through here, I have something that might interest you.’
The room is full. Books, sketchpads, a set of files on a table.
‘This is my Irene archive. It’s partly drawings and sketchbooks, but above all letters. Every time she came to New York she’d bring a bundle or two. She said your mother didn’t understand her, apparently she asked once or twice about the financial value of an artist’s relics. Of course I kept all her letters to me. Mark gave me his correspondence. So there’s lots of material.’
‘I’m astonished. . .’
‘Yes, I wanted to know you better. . . You may look at anything you like.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘I’ve written to your mother, telling her that I think you should be permitted – encouraged – to write Irene’s life. I don’t know if she’ll listen, but she may – we were good friends all those years ago. It means you’ll have to come and visit New York again, can you do that?’
‘Oh, I think so. One of the editors I met was very encouraging. . .’
‘I’ll pay your fare, gladly. But you must stay with me, that’s the condition. Tom will be pleased, too.’
‘Yes.’ And a smile breaks out over Pandora’s face. ‘Oh, Sophia, I am so lucky. Just for once everything seems to be going right.’
‘I hope so, but it won’t be easy. It’s a sad story, your grandmother’s, in some ways, a story of lives blighted by warfare, politics, hatreds. . .’