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‘Stayed in Italy, somewhere.’ I snatched up a letter; Lora’s address – was it still valid all these years later? ‘But why would Medici… Lora go to such lengths to find me but keep her identity secret?’
Yvette rolled her eyes. ‘Got me there. Do you think Joseph is in on it?’
I studied the handwriting, the odd words of childish affection, the hope that they “might meet one day”. I read through the smattering of English, and couldn’t imagine Joseph knowing this story and acting the way he had with me without revealing a hint of foreknowledge. He was mired in his own past; somebody else’s would be meaningless.
‘Joseph needs to know, though. If he has met Lora in Italy, then that’s the connection between us, and something might have happened out there that explains why Loretta di Matteo plotted for us to meet.’
‘Where are you going?’
I draped my jacket over my arm. ‘Back to York. He’s got a head start.’
The letters disappeared into my handbag. ‘I’ll send Medici… Loretta the last photographs, and add a picture of me and Joseph together, see what she has to say to that. Just because she might be my long-lost great-aunt, she doesn’t get to play God without a bloody good reason.’ I paused to collect the letters. ‘Can I borrow your Italian dictionary?’
Thirty-Six
Spofforth
On the road to Spofforth Castle, I allowed myself to recall the words of wisdom spoken not by my father, or any of my kinder friends, but the one woman who had told me that I had what it took to be an artist and to keep faith that there was such a thing as good fortune. I wished I was back in Italy, sketching in the converted barn, taking Tony’s mother for a spin in her wheelchair. I missed Tony and his little family with all my heart.
I smudged paint, blotched and splattered it over the canvas in an uncharacteristic display of modernism. The portrait of the Spofforth was that of dereliction and emptiness, the space vast and now meaningless. I hadn’t filled it and I knew I never would or could fill that void on my own.
I tried to stretch every second, to give Robyn time to find me. Had she left Coalville? If her mother needed her, she might not be able to escape a second time, and if she decided not to finish the project, would she come at all? What if she gave up on the idea we were fated to meet and turned her back on our scheming patron. My attitude hadn’t helped. I had insulted and cheapened her, called her an amateur when I was little better. And what if she didn’t care enough to even try to find me? One amorous night under the skies, passionate and kindly in its simplicity, wasn’t sufficient to kindle a lifetime of love. I knew deep down it took more than that.
The “what ifs” stacked up.
As I mixed a dull grey colour I saw him again, the old man, accompanied by a black Labrador, aimlessly walking the grounds, occasionally glancing up. Dressed in an overcoat, as if it was December, he crossed and recrossed my perspective, and I nearly added him to the painting in the form of a ghostly shadow.
I wondered what he thought was there, because his craggy face sometimes had that same expression I had seen on Robyn’s. The old gent had discovered something transcendent to admire, something I couldn’t see. Robyn wasn’t the only person in the world to have ever fallen in love with a particular place and time. Had I hurried to label her visions as a psychological disturbance when in fact she had harmlessly used her imagination to make such ruins as this exciting to visit?
I tossed the brush on the ground in a fit of pique. If I had any hope left in me, I had to take action and not mope. My “fly by the seat of my pants” style of life wasn’t going to work this time. I had to devise some plan of action. I made a quick decision. I would leave a message for her at the ticket booth and keep my fingers crossed she would get it, and then choose to contact me.
Bending over to pick up the brush, my back aching from the soft hotel mattress, I cursed. There was nothing and nobody, except the wandering man, at Spofforth Castle, not even a damn toilet to piss in. I would have to venture on to Conisbrough Castle and try there instead.
Thirty-Seven
York
York with its impressive Minster, narrow Shambles, museums and tower on a hill, should have satisfied my desires beyond measure. But it wasn’t going to be; I was already disappointed. I weaved the car through the perils of unfamiliar roads, dodged the lazy pedestrians, and focused on the location of the Clifford Tower, the site of sieges, rebellions and mass deaths, and where I knew Joseph had been, but wasn’t any more.
I had arrived in York too late. No amount of delaying could justify him waiting when his clock told him to keep to schedule. Time ticked, silently and relentlessly, punishing me, too. I had less than half an hour before closing time, and had only made it to York from Coalville by flooring the Corsa’s accelerator and driving somewhat recklessly. The car would never forgive me; but it wasn’t mine.
I flew around the innards of that bombed out Tower, the last remnants of a giant castle keep, with a vigour that was nothing to do with energy. I was desperate to finish my side of the bargain. Bamburgh and Alnwick were a lifetime away. Those leisurely days of submersion, allowing myself to drift and see deeper to another time, seemed as distant as the miles between Joseph and me. I left Braithwaite’s book in the car, unopened.
The inside of the tower resembled an oversized dovecote. Pigeons cooed, perched on the shelves of fireplaces and embrasures, or what was left of them. The last visitors of the day thinned out as I released the camera shutter, meticulously zooming in on tiny architectural details.
The person responsible for my haste was Loretta di Matteo, Medici that was, and I wondered if she had thought that by now I had either thrown in the towel and given up on the project or expected me to have discovered who she was, and why I was here, yet still doing her bidding. I had managed half of the enigma, the who, but not the why. Lassitude and a lack of inspiration afflicted me. My own camera was filmless. What brought me to York was especially apparent when I climbed to the top of the tower and looked across at the city. Joseph would have stayed in the car park, attempting to build a picture from down there, perhaps afraid to pan out and go beyond the panorama, preferring to keep himself in the here and now of life. I had the advantage over him in many ways. With my bird’s eye view, I saw what was in front of me – a path to another life. I sensed nothing else, only this one man.
I was the last person to exit the turnstile. However, with the sun dipping behind the tops of the buildings, there was no point dashing to Spofforth. I resigned myself to a run of the mill city hotel and a fretful night of impatience.
?
Under the chilled waft of the room’s air conditioner, I laid out the letters and armed myself with the dictionary. Having allowed infatuation to influence my emotions, the thought of hating those passionate hours I had spent with Joseph was too much to bear. Logic told me not to dwell on Joseph, a man I had only met two weeks ago, and instead, dig deeper into my family’s history.
Yvette had concentrated on the first few letters, which were mostly in Italian, and the last, and there were a couple of dozen between those ones that she had barely touched. Dated in the mid-fifties, and always from the same address in southern Italy, I began to piece together the life of my patron, my great-aunt. After Isabel’s initial wariness, she had embraced her secret sister. The mutual affection was obvious. I discovered Italian words for many terms of endearment befitting to their relationship. The letters were also insightful. There was plenty of unenviable parental control, and the influences and obligations of an Italian society still marred by war and oppression. Loretta described poverty and the migration of people from her native south to the north. As a teenager approaching adulthood, she desired to join the wave, but couldn’t. The reason why was increasingly apparent in each letter.
As they taught each other to read and write a foreign language – I could guess from Loretta’s comments that Isabel was not a quick learner compared to herself – Loretta alluded to her physical disability. She acknowledged she suffered with spasticity, and that movement was difficult to control. She struggled with speaking, often stammering, and understandably shunned lengthy conversations.
I prefer the pen and paper. But I cannot write neatly.
