The Venetian House, page 40
Hugh shot her a conspiratorial look. ‘I did have a little spill the other day,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose I was at rather an unsafe angle. Anyway, the quad tipped over and my leg shot off! I had to crawl down the hill and fetch it, but luckily there was no one about to see and I managed get the quad up and put myself back together again like Humpty Dumpty – nothing worse than a few bruises so I didn’t have to confess to my keeper, bless her!’
Sophie giggled. ‘I won’t tell her,’ she said. ‘I think I’d better not tell Dad either – he worries about you too.’
‘Good. We’ll share our secrets then. Now hop up there and I’ll get to work while you fill me in with all your news.’ Hugh indicated the small platform in the middle of the studio and Sophie went and leaned against the chair, which had to stand in for an apple tree. Patrick had taken some stunning photographs of her in the orchard at home and blown-up versions of these were stuck up on the studio wall. Even Sophie, constantly dissatisfied with her own appearance, had been secretly pleased with them.
‘You promised you’d go on telling me your love story,’ she reminded him.
‘So I did! That was rash of me. Just fill me in with your news first and then I’ll go on with my saga. How’s school and what are you up to this weekend? Anything special on?’
‘School’s OK. This is my last exeat before my exams so I’m home for a week. Dad and me are going to the cinema with the Marshalls one night, and Ellie’s coming over to me – otherwise nothing much. Pottering about with Punch and doing some revising …’ She hesitated, and seemed to become extremely absorbed in fiddling with the mass of narrow bracelets on her wrist. ‘Did you know that Mum has gone?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘Gone where?’
‘Only to Granny and Grandpa at the moment. But I mean gone like in left,’ said Sophie. ‘Like in she’s left Dad.’
‘No,’ said Hugh, looking extremely surprised. ‘I didn’t know. Are you sure that’s right, Sophie? Who told you?’
‘Dad did. He collected Ellie and me from school and after we’d dropped Ellie off he said there was something difficult and important he had to tell me. He said I was old enough to know the truth and he felt he should be honest with me. Then he said Mum wouldn’t be at home at all this exeat. She came home yesterday and then just went off again. I mean, she knew it was my half-term and everything.’ Sophie’s voice wobbled ominously and Hugh could see she was struggling with herself. Then she went on in a rush: ‘Dad says Mum’s sort of flipped because that ghastly Bronwen woman’s done a bunk with some of her jewellery or something – but he also said that he and Mum haven’t been getting on for ages and they’re going to have a trial separation.’
Sophie struggled with tears before she could go on speaking. ‘They both need a bit of space from each other – oh, and a lot of stuff about how if they do split it will all be very civilised and he’d never try to cut us off from Mum and … blah, blah, blah,’ said Sophie angrily, wrapping a rather grubby handkerchief round her thumb, which had started to bleed where she’d picked off a bit of loose skin. ‘That’s what all parents always say at first, but it’s not what happens. I know that from some of my friends at school. ‘I mean, I know Mum can be difficult, but …’ She looked at Hugh with troubled eyes. ‘I do love her,’ she muttered.
He wanted to say that it was no good carrying on with the sitting in her present state; he didn’t want her anguished expression to creep into the portrait, but he felt she would be more likely to open up and talk if he at least made a pretence of continuing to paint. He said carefully: ‘That must have been an awful shock for you. What do you feel about it, Sophie?’
She gave a gulp, then blurted out: ‘Oh, Uncle Hugh, I feel perfectly terrible because I think it may be my fault.’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Hugh briskly. ‘How could it possibly be your fault? Of course it’s not! What on earth put that into your head?’
Sophie told him about their homecoming and the row over the rooms. ‘I made an awful fuss,’ she said miserably. ‘I was so hurt and so jealous of Posy, who’s Mum’s favourite by miles. And I felt furious with both Mum and Dad – even though it wasn’t his fault – and I said awful things. I told Mum I hated her – and now I think I may have made her go away.’ Her voice rose to a wail.
‘What absolute rot.’ Hugh filled in a bit of background. He thought Sophie looked very near to an edge – too near. He felt desperately sorry for her but decided too much sympathy might tip her right over. ‘Listen to me, Sophie,’ he said firmly. ‘When a relationship between two people comes unstuck, they are responsible for what happens, not anyone else. There may be other factors involved, of course – but what happens, how they deal with it, is up to the two of them. It’s never entirely one person’s fault anyway – and passing blame to and fro’s a fruitless exercise. I understand how tough this is for you but if your mother walks out on her marriage because of a row with a bolshy teenager or because some nut has nicked her jewellery then there must have been things wrong with the marriage anyway that have nothing to do with either of those incidents. And if your father lets her go it can only be either because he doesn’t feel he could save the relationship, or – and I’m really sorry about this, Sophie – because he doesn’t any longer want to save it. It may be very painful, but you have to accept that.’ He smiled at her, and added in a lighter voice: ‘Don’t be a drama queen, darling girl. It’ll be very sad if they split but it won’t be the end of your world and certainly won’t be your fault. Better to part than destroy each other. Stop beating yourself up and let them get on with it.’
‘Do you think they might get back together?’ she asked, calmed by his robust words despite herself.
‘I wouldn’t like to bet on it. They might – but not because of anything you do or don’t do. I have to say I’d put it at six-to-four against. It’s been obvious there was trouble brewing for a very long time. They’ve grown apart – don’t ask me why. Sadly it happens, and you’re old enough to know that. I’m surprised their marriage has lasted as long as it has – they don’t have enough in common.’
‘When you and Victoria’s grandmother split up you weren’t either of you responsible for it,’ objected Sophie. ‘It was all the fault of her domineering mother and that wicked old maid who threw such a megga wobbly when she saw Dad.’
Hugh shook his head. ‘I grant you we had some bad luck,’ he said, ‘and I’ve learned a lot in the last weeks that I never knew before – but I still think we were ultimately responsible. We were young and hot-headed and angry and proud and – like you’ve just said about yourself – very hurt. If Evanthi and I’d kept faith in each other, our split needn’t have happened.’
‘But stealing your letters – that was just so unfair,’ said Sophie, wondering how much Hugh and Evanthi had communicated since Patrick had delivered the letter.
‘Life is unfair. You’ll think I’m an awful old cynic but the sooner you realise that, the better – which doesn’t mean one shouldn’t do one’s damnedest to try to make it more fair. It’s easy to moan on about injustice, but I’ll tell you something else: moaners are no bloody fun to be with! No fun at all!’ He cocked his head at her and she gave him a watery smile.
‘OK, Uncle Hugh. I’ll try not to be one.’ Then she said suddenly: ‘Do you think you’d have stayed together if you’d married – you and Mrs Doukas?’
‘I don’t know, Sophie,’ he said soberly. ‘That’s a fair question. I’ve often asked myself the same thing. But I’d like to think so – though the fact remains, we fell at the very first fence.’ Then he added with a gleam: ‘But no other woman’s come even near matching her in my view, and I’ve been able to make quite a few comparisons!’
Sophie blew her nose violently. ‘Go on with your story,’ she said. ‘Tell me about your split.’
‘Where had I got to?’ he asked, glad that he’d diverted her.
‘Where you’d followed her out to Italy, and had a wonderfully romantic time looking at ruins by moonlight and painting and having secret assignations to dodge her mother. I think you were going to go out to Vrahos.’
‘Ah – Vrahos! Now there’s a magic place. Evanthi adored it. She was steeped in it: in the island, the estate and the family history. I’m glad she’s been able to make her life there – that’s some compensation. If she’d married me I don’t think that would have happened; her mother would have seen to that. Cut her out of her will or something. What did you make of the old place?’
‘I thought it was like walking into a picture in some old fairystory book – all dusty and mysterious. Full of secrets and cobwebs and clanging bells. You wouldn’t be surprised to find the Sleeping Beauty snoozing away on a sofa, or a dragon setting off a smoke alarm. Was it like that when you were there?’
Hugh laughed. ‘Well, certainly no cobwebs – I suppose there was an army of hidden retainers to sweep them away. Floors and furniture and everything gleamed and the whole house smelled of beeswax and lavender. If I ever smell real beeswax polish it takes me right back there even now. But I know what you mean – there was always a timeless feel about it, as though nothing had altered over centuries, and I dare say not much has changed even now.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie doubtfully. ‘I think you might find it all a bit sad now if it was that well cared for when you knew it. I adored it and it’s still quite grand in a way – but it’s awfully dilapidated. No hidden army – just the granddaughter of the old woman who hid your letters; she has to do everything and the whole place is falling to pieces. Some of the ceilings look as if they might collapse any minute – they sort of sag like school beds. Tell you what, though – Dad’s taken the most stunning pictures so you’ll be able to see it again. So when did you first go out there?’
Hugh sighed. ‘Well, I couldn’t stay on in Italy indefinitely and Evanthi’s mother carted her off on some trip to relations – largely to get her away from me – so we planned to meet in England later with the help of my aunt. And we wrote to each other. We wrote every day, and we got to know each other even better like that. This texting and e-mailing and telephoning you all do is not the same as proper love letters – not as permanent; not as revealing. I can see that it’s wonderfully speedy – but it’s not the same. We shared our thoughts and hopes with each other – and fears too. Not just about our own future – we never doubted we’d be together – but about the dark shadows that were hovering over Europe. Evanthi wrote wonderful letters. She poured the words out on paper full of dashes and underlining and exclamation marks. It was like talking to her. I still have all her letters.’
‘And did you draw her lots of little pictures in yours like you’ve always done for us?’ asked Sophie.
Hugh smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘How awful she never got them!’ Sophie could hardly bear it.
‘Oh, she got those early ones all right. And with each letter we fell more in love. We managed to meet a few times – I went over to Rome again and she came to England and stayed with my aunt, and I got her up to Yorkshire once or twice. My father’d been deeply disapproving about our friendship, muttering that her diplomat father must be a bloody fascist if he worked for Mussolini. I’d warned Evanthi that my father could well say some very outspoken things to her about Italy’s invasion of Abyssinia and might not seem too friendly – but of course he fell for her at once. It only took her one evening to charm his boots off! We didn’t hear any more about “Mussoloving Eye-ties” after that – not in her presence anyway.’
‘What about your mother?’ asked Sophie. ‘Dad says he always adored his grandmother. She sounds lovely.’
‘Oh, my mother was an angel,’ said Hugh. ‘She and Evanthi got on splendidly. You get your looks from her. I’ve always thought so.’
Sophie was enchanted. ‘So then what?’ she asked.
‘Then we had a bit of luck. Evanthi’s father was sent to Washington, and naturally her mother went too. Evanthi managed to persuade them that she ought to go to Vrahos to be with her grandmother who always went there at weekends in the summer.’ Hugh gave Sophie an amused look over his halfspectacles. ‘Of course, I went out to Corfu too but her grandmother just thought it was nice for her to have a young friend in the neighbourhood and her mother didn’t discover about it for sometime. Look – I’ll show you something.’ He went over to a cupboard and eventually pulled out an old sketchbook. ‘Ah – this is what I’m looking for. Let’s go into the garden. It’s too good a day to be in all afternoon and I think I’ve done enough standing for the moment.’
They sat outside on a seat together and he showed her the sketchbook. There were drawings and watercolour sketches of places and people, plants and animals – melons growing on a compost heap; a cat stretched out in the sun on a doorstep; an old man riding on a donkey while his wife trudged along behind; sheep with bells round their necks under the olive trees; tall cypress trees standing sentinel against an impossibly blue sky. There were places Sophie recognised: the bell tower of the chapel at Vrahos; the great front doors with the lion-mask knockers; the view from the terrace. There was one loose sketch Sophie particularly liked of the old house perched dizzily on the rock, its Venetian pink plaster standing out against the bluest of skies. A marmalade cat, which obviously didn’t suffer from vertigo, was stretched out along the balustrade, sunning itself and Sophie thought you could almost feel the heat beating down.
‘Where did you paint that from?’ she asked. ‘From a boat?’
‘Ah, that’s a bit of a cheat – artistic licence, if you like. I’d have had to be hovering in a hot-air balloon to get that exact view,’ said Hugh. ‘You can see the house like that from a boat, of course, but not so close. I did that from memory after the war.’
‘You ought to send that one to Mrs Doukas,’ said Sophie.
He looked as if an idea had struck him. ‘I might just do that,’he said.
Turning a page Sophie came across a sketch of a comely, round-faced young woman with a basket on her head.
‘Oh there’s Dora!’ she exclaimed. Then: ‘But it can’t be …’
‘Dora? I don’t remember any Dora … no, that’s Nafsica –who later sabotaged our romance so successfully.’
‘Goodness! You wouldn’t recognise her now. We only saw her once but she looked like a skinny old witch.’
‘This was sixty years ago, don’t forget. She was a pretty young woman then.’
‘Did you realise she was against you?’ asked Sophie.
‘I don’t think she was originally. She thought it was very romantic and acted as our go-between during that late summer and early autumn. Tourists flock to the island in the high season but September and October in Corfu are incomparable – fresh mornings and evenings, but never too hot, and the sea a perfect temperature for swimming. There is a breathtaking quality to the light at that time of year and I’ve never seen more spectacular sunrises and sunsets anywhere.’ Hugh glimmered at Sophie: ‘I have special memories of moonlit evenings too and even stars reflected in the water. Nafsica helped to cover up for us – to hide our meetings from Evanthi’s grandmother. There was only one extremely unreliable telephone at Vrahos – pretty public too, it was, in the hall – and Nafsica used to take messages when we made arrangements to meet. Evanthi trusted her completely. I suppose it must have been after we announced our determination to get married that Contessa Palombini really put the frighteners on Nafsica and the guerrilla warfare started. The Contessa was a very powerful and manipulative woman. The staff in both Italy and at Vrahos were absolutely terrified of her – and of course Nafsica approved of the Contessa’s own choice of bridegroom for Evanthi anyway – Stavros Doukas – a young lawyer who’d grown up with Evanthi. He had a distinguished international career after the war. I used to read about him in the papers from time to time.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’ asked Sophie curiously.
‘Only once. He came to call when I was there – a stuffed shirt of a chap who looked as if he’d swallowed a poker – though I believe he was very brave in the war. In my youthful arrogance that autumn I remember thinking he wasn’t much of a threat – so wet you could have shot snipe off him. I was wrong.’
Sophie could imagine the scene. She thought her great-uncle must have been irresistible. ‘Bet he didn’t think the same about you, though!’ she said.
‘Perhaps not – but he had the last laugh all the same, didn’t he?’ He added, ‘Probably the only time he laughed in his life. Fella certainly wasn’t a bundle of fun.’
Sitting in the late May lushness of his green, very English garden, with wallflowers and pheasant-eye narcissi scenting the air and blackbirds and thrushes singing from the rhododendrons, he took Sophie back to the dryness and heat of late summer in Corfu – a long-ago Corfu with few made-up roads or tourists; no luxury modern holiday villas with swimming pools; no concrete block hotels – no lager louts. Through his eyes she saw two young people, passionately in love, revelling in the freedom of an unsophisticated, rural way of life. They had spent two months exploring the island, often on foot but sometimes sailing round its rocky coast in an old caique, discovering secret bays; picnicking on the little island of the swallows that Evanthi loved – swimming by moonlight. Dancing.
‘Evanthi danced the best charleston of anyone I knew,’ he said. ‘I was pretty hot stuff myself before I got this peg leg, but she was sensational!’ He was amused at Sophie’s look of disbelief.
All the time, wherever they went, he told her, he had sketched and painted – for pleasure but also as a way of building up a portfolio. And all the time, with the optimism and naivety of youth they had been convinced that despite her mother they would be together for the rest of their lives.
And then he had painted Evanthi – Evanthi sitting laughing at him from the dragon-shaped rock in one particular little bay they came to think of as their special place. ‘The best portrait I’ve ever done or ever will do,’ Hugh said. ‘I have high hopes of this one of you – perhaps the last one I’ll paint – but it won’t match that one. I’ve had many offers for it over the years but I’ve never even contemplated parting with it.’
