The Venetian House, page 1
MARY NICKSON
The Venetian House
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
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Epub ISBN 9781409006596
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Published by Arrow Books in 2006
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Copyright © Mary Nickson 2004
Mary Nickson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding of cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by Century
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ISBN 0 09 946632 5
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Specially for Susannah,
with love as always
The Venetian House
Mary Nickson has three children and a host of grand-children. She lives in Yorkshire.
Acknowledgements
Many friends have been generous with their time, help and expertise and I am deeply grateful to them all – any mistakes will be mine, not theirs.
I would particularly like to thank: Angela Papageorgiou, George Harewood, Dick Temple of The Temple Gallery, Robin Sheepshanks, Mrs Lascari, Bishop Michael Mann, Sheila Robertson, Patricia Cookson, Rosie Campbell, Karol Farnham, Pamela Nicholson, David Noble and Christopher Sykes.
I am grateful to the islands and islanders of Corfu and Paxos for many happy family holidays over the years. I have taken some liberties with the geography of Corfu: The island has many beautiful and historic Venetian houses, but Vrahos, the house in this story, is imaginary as are also the town of Kryovrisi, Aghia Sophia, the villa Petradi and the little island of Helladonia.
I owe a special debt to my long-suffering daughters and daughter-in-law for giving me unstinted encouragement and criticism – and to my son and sons-in-law for putting up with even more telephone calls than usual.
Last but by no means least I want to thank my wonderful agent Sarah Molloy and also Sara Fisher at A. M. Heath & Co, and my wonderful editors Kate Elton and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore at Century for their patience and for having faith in me.
I found three books especially helpful:
Corfu – The Garden Isle presented by Spiro Flamburiari
Noble Families of Corfu by Despina Paisidou
Icons by Richard Temple
Prologue
To start with, the track from the house to the sea wound gently down through the olive grove, a pleasurable and easy amble that anyone could manage, but then it suddenly became steep, stony and narrow – not a walk suitable for elderly ladies, thought Evanthi Doukas wryly, as she picked her way carefully over the loose stones and shale that made it dangerously easy to lose one’s footing. Years before she had skipped down that same path as lightly as her granddaughter, Victoria, now did, but somehow the lissom, black-haired girl she had once been – as sure-footed as the goats that roamed over the mountain of Pantokrator – had turned imperceptibly in late middle-age into a statuesque woman with slightly swollen ankles and a tendency to puff.
She paused to catch her breath and listen to the laughter of the children from far below as they splashed and shrieked, their voices amplified by the rock-face above the bay. Nafsica would be there with them, supposedly keeping watch while they swam, but actually sitting on a rock dozing in the late afternoon sun like a lizard in a state of suspended animation; what good she would be if any of them actually got into difficulties one couldn’t imagine, but they were all three as at home in the water as young dolphins. Though Nafsica had been born and bred on the island she had never learned to swim; nor had she ever shown the slightest desire to do so, and combined both the wholesome respect for the power of the sea with the unsentimental disregard for its attractions of someone who has lived by it all her life and can take its changing moods for granted.
We are both on the verge of getting old, thought Evanthi with astonishment – ageing seems to have crept up so stealthily. How tiresome it is that there is absolutely nothing we can either of us do to stop this relentless, unacceptable march of time; but Nafsica will cope with old age better than I shall, when it eventually comes, because it is not in her nature either to question or repine. She will sit sunning herself in an open doorway on an old wooden chair dressed in her black dress and headscarf – content to watch the world go by and become as much a part of the landscape as the tall cypress trees, the scarlet geraniums and the stray cats.
But I, thought Evanthi, I will not be content to do that.
Together the two women had packed for the many journeys in Evanthi’s roaming life as she had followed her international lawyer husband round the world – not that the maid often joined her mistress on these travels. But one day even stay-at-home Nafsica will be forced to travel, said Evanthi to herself. There will be no choice in the matter for either of us – we shall both have to face a journey that will require no carefully packed trunks of clothes or household possessions. She gave herself a little shake. She certainly did not intend to set out on that particular expedition for a long while yet: there were far too many things she still wanted to do; too many people who needed her – and one in particular now, of course. Whatever else happens, I must see Victoria launched in life, decided Evanthi; perhaps I can prevent her from making the same mistakes that I made. But in truth she doubted this. One could only watch helplessly as the drama of other people’s lives unfolded; and she thought with sadness of her own son, Constantine, Victoria’s father, who would never see his child grow up. Dear God, prayed Evanthi, let me live for a long time yet.
It was perhaps more of an instruction than a supplication, for Evanthi Doukas could be imperious and all her life, in the most charming way possible, had been used to issuing commands to everyone she dealt with. She saw no reason why she should make an exception for the Almighty.
When she had made her way down to
‘Well, my little one, did you have a good swim?’ asked Evanthi.
‘Mmm …’ Victoria went and leaned against her grandmother. She had always been a grown-up, rather self-possessed little girl, but since her parents’ death in a plane crash the year before, she had become uncharacteristically hungry for the reassurance of touch. Her grandmother stroked her wet, dark hair and thought how heart-rendingly like her father she looked. ‘The boys have taught me to jump in holding my nose. And, Nonna, I swam underwater for miles and miles. But now they’re having a Lilo-fight and said I couldn’t be in it.’
At seven years old Victoria looked like a baby bird, all big eyes and fragile bones and – so the boys would have said – a mouth constantly open, squawking for attention. Her legs were so skinny it seemed possible they might snap. She liked to tag along after the boys – her cousin Guy, Toula’s son, and his friend Richard – wherever they went; she was their camp follower and sometimes also their torment, though on the whole they were tolerant: two benevolent dictators, or rather one dictator, for Richard usually went along with Guy’s suggestions too, as most children were apt to do. They patronised but protected her and sometimes she was even useful – particularly with the dramatic performances the boys were endlessly putting on; Guy, of course, as director and usually playing the star part too – though Richard, surprisingly, was the better actor – and Victoria, doubling up as scene-shifter and general dogsbody was, occasionally, allowed to play minor parts as well.
‘Well, never mind, darling,’ said Evanthi now. ‘Boys are silly about fighting and, anyway, I’ve come to call you all in. It’s time for tea and the papas is calling today. He would like to see you all.’
The boys pulled gloomy faces when they heard this bit of news. They thought the black-clad village priest a dreary old bore and couldn’t understand what Evanthi saw in him. ‘He stinks too,’ muttered Guy, wrinkling his nose disdainfully, but he took care that his grandmother did not hear this particular comment.
After they had all climbed up the steep hill, a good twenty minutes’ walk for even the fastest walker, they had tea in the dark dining room that had changed little since Evanthi’s own childhood. The shutters were half closed against the throbbing heat of the sun and the room seemed muffled in quietness; outside, crickets sang continuously, filling the air with their monotonous, high-pitched drone. Nafsica brought in the heavy, ornate silver tray with its matching teapot, jug and sugar basin, and placed it carefully on the white embroidered tablecloth. There were plates of small sweet biscuits and little cakes, and a tiny cup of thick sweet coffee for the old priest, who had not been converted to the cosmopolitan Doukas family’s habit of drinking tea. The children sat up straight and polite, for their grandmother was a stickler for manners and would never tolerate what she considered the sloppy deportment of typical English children of the seventies.
At nearly thirteen the two boys were uneasily perched on the narrow shelf that lies between childhood and adolescence. Next year, Evanthi thought, they may no longer be content to spend three weeks of the summer holidays with so little social life and be completely happy in such unsophisticated surroundings. Two middle-aged women and one small girl will not be sufficient company to keep them amused. She was sure that Guy in particular – restless, talented, mercurial Guy – would soon need new experiences and more challenging surroundings to cut his teeth on; she was less sure about Richard, who was something of an enigma to Evanthi – though she tolerated his presence because it was much easier to keep two boys occupied than one on his own.
‘So,’ said Father Theodoros, his accent as thick as his coffee, ‘and what are you boys going to do when you grow up?’
Guy, never one to be over-burdened by modesty, said at once that he was going to be a successful writer. ‘I shall travel to distant places and then write about them – and I shall be amazingly famous.’
Richard, more cautious, said he thought he might be a farmer, or something in the city – or perhaps both, like his father.
‘Boring,’ said Guy scornfully.
‘And Victoria?’ asked Father Theodoros
‘I shall marry Guy and have eight children, all boys.’
‘You can’t do that. I’m your cousin – almost your brother. We’d have batty children and, anyway, I shan’t ask you to marry me.’
‘Then I’ll marry Richard instead,’ said Victoria. ‘He’s much kinder than you – and we can still all do everything together so it won’t make any difference. So there.’
Everyone laughed. ‘Oh, Victoria,’ said Evanthi, ‘you have got it all carefully planned! But childhood friends are not always the right people to marry. You must have a great, great romance. You must wait till you meet someone who strikes you like a bolt of lightning!’
‘Were you struck by lightning, Nonna?’ asked Victoria, round-eyed.
‘Believe it or not, my darling, yes, once, a very long time ago, I was.’
Guy looked at his grandmother in disbelief. He remembered his aloof Doukas grandfather as a chilling presence – as unresponsive as the great stuffed eagle in the library downstairs, which gazed out from expressionless glass eyes and had terrified him as a small boy. He certainly could not imagine his daunting grandparent in the role of romantic hero.
But Evanthi Doukas had no intention of enlarging on the situation and turned away from the children to talk to the old priest in Greek.
Chapter One
The church bell could be heard from miles away. Victoria felt it reverberate through her whole being and knew it would become part of her memories for the rest of her life so that she would never again be able to hear the tolling of a bell without recalling this particular moment.
The sound floated over Holt Wood and up to the top of Lark Hill. It penetrated through the windows of the houses at the north end of the village, and could be heard at Manor Farm, where the Cunninghams lived, which stood surrounded by fields to the south. In the village street the insistent clanging stopped people in their tracks – spreading news and conveying a message, as it had done in times of joy and sorrow for centuries.
Mrs Banham, proprietor of the Baybury general store, pulled on her fur-fabric hat and prepared to shut up shop for the afternoon – out of genuine affection and respect for the Cunningham family, certainly, but also because she considered it her duty to give her customers a first-hand account of proceedings. She knew that local gossip was one of the few advantages the small shop still had over the supermarket, and, in any case, gathering information was as important and natural to her as collecting pollen is to a bee. No detail would be missed.
Half an hour before the service was due to start, the church was already crammed with people. Only the pews at the front, which had been reserved for family, were still empty and it was clear that new arrivals would not only have to stand but might not even be able to come inside. Those who had arrived early enough to get a seat were squashed up in their thick winter coats, arms clamped to their sides in an effort to take up as little room as possible. The vicar had never seen such a congregation at St Luke’s and couldn’t help thinking how good it would be to have this sort of turn-out for an ordinary Sunday service. The narrow lane leading to the church was congested with cars, the verges on either side churned up by spinning tyres and the grass a sea of mud. A nearby field, which was being used as an extra car park, looked more like a bog, and though bales of straw had been humped in and spread to help prevent vehicles from becoming stuck, it was clear that getting the cars out again was going to be a nightmare. People wearing boots were the envy of anyone foolhardy enough to have turned up in fashionable shoes, and the London contingent stuck out from the locals as they picked their way gingerly through the sludge. Mrs Banham regarded her own stout legs, snugly encased in Derri Boots, with approval, while Peter Mason, chairman of the City solicitors Mason, Whitaker & Ziegler looked down with dismay at his expensive tasselled black loafers, which were already caked in mud. Luckily the rain had stopped, but the cold February air was raw and uninviting. Only the snowdrops for which the church was famous added any note of brightness.
