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‘Angry?’ I said, perplexed.
‘Because your grandmother, Isabel, died without meeting Lora. Tony thinks Lora should have tried again to find her. He’s very keen to meet your mother, too.’
‘Oh, you see, Mum doesn’t know why I’m here. She thinks I’m on holiday. There were letters that Loretta wrote to Izzy that she saw. I haven’t told her everything that’s in them.’ I grimaced. ‘Should I?’
‘Maybe if she sees this,’ Tony said. He was carrying two boards sandwiched together. He propped them on a nearby chair and removed the topmost one. Underneath was the canvas of an oil painting, an unsophisticated portrait of a young girl.
‘My mother,’ Tony said, proudly. ‘Bambino.’ He chuckled.
She was amongst the grass of a meadow in the halo of a sunbeam. The colours were a wash of buttercup yellows and spring grass, her face bronzed, eyes charcoal black, hair spiky and newly hatched, as if she was fresh out of her mother’s womb. The bloom of her cheeks were dimpled, a little like Joseph’s, and she had four tiny teeth. There were braces on her skinny legs.
Joseph crouched to inspect the brush strokes. ‘It’s signed.’
‘Yes,’ Tony said, pleased.
‘By whom?’ I asked.
Joseph squinted. ‘Catherine Maynard.’
I covered my mouth before finding my tongue. ‘Of course. She was a painter too. She left this behind; she didn’t take it?’
Tony shook his head mournfully. ‘No time. She was in danger. And Mamma was too young to travel. Too … delicate. So Catherine left her with my grandfather; it broke her heart. The picture stayed. She could not carry it. They told her to go, just go.’ He gestured animatedly to the door. ‘Mussolini’s men, like my grandfather’s brothers. They wore black uniforms and marched into town.’
Joseph squeezed my shoulders. I hiccoughed, fighting back tears. ‘Poor Nana Catherine. She didn’t live long enough to come back to find her.’
Tony reached behind the boards on the chair. ‘These, my mother hid too.’ He held out a bundle of familiar looking letters, the same blue tinged paper, but the stamps on these had the queen’s head on them. They were the flip side of the correspondence between Isabel and Lora.
I clutched the letters to my chest.
‘And this.’ Tony held several sheets of paper, folded over once.
My name was written on the plain side. The printed text was small, the signature at the bottom just legible: Loretta Di Matteo.
‘When did she write this?’ I asked her son.
‘I don’t know.’ Tony left, quietly.
I excused myself to one corner of the barn, and braced myself for a difficult read. I imagined my aunt Loretta, fading from this world, fighting the spasms as she typed. I sensed she might have written the letter in the atelier. I was almost there with her. I blinked several times, and refocused.
Dearest Robyn,
If you are reading this letter then you know my true identity. At the time of writing, David has told me that you have encountered Joseph and I am optimistic that your natural curiosity and the kind heart you inherited from your grandmother will encourage a friendship. Sadly, I will never have the delight of meeting you in person.
I must begin my story with a heartfelt apology. I am very sorry for the clandestine use of David, the lack of transparency, the secrecy I inflicted upon you. I had my reasons, and now that I am gone, and you hopefully have achieved part of your aspiration to travel and explore the past, I can explain my actions.
We are related and I was kept hidden from your mother’s family. It was my mother’s, Catherine, behest that Isabel was not told of the existence of a half-sister. She feared Isabel’s future prospects would be damaged. Remember, during the war, Italians were the enemy of England, and not to be trusted. Here in Italy, she was ostracised by my father’s despotic uncles, who pushed her away, insisting she was not capable of raising me. She was an artist without regular income and had no faith; religion played heavily in this sad tale. She suffered as a consequence of the politics of the era. The church wiped clean my father’s sin. So simple an act.
Afraid for her life, hounded out of the country, she had no choice but to leave me behind. I was raised as if I never had a natural mother, although my step-mother and half-siblings have always shown me nothing but kindness and love. My failing was not the weakness of my body, but my illegitimacy. So the secrecy of my birth was maintained. Your grandmother, Isabel, was born in wedlock to Catherine, my mother, and neither of us were told of each other’s existence. But I found out.
Before she left Italy, Catherine painted a portrait of me, a small, crippled child, but she was forced to leave it behind. She had been given no opportunity to take personal possessions. My father’s family claimed everything. The painting was bound in cloth and stored in a disused barn.
I refused to be hindered by my affliction, and as a child I established the barn as my space, a sanctuary. It took years for me to learn to climb a ladder, then I finally found the boxes lying forgotten up in the attic. I uncovered the painting, unframed, and recognised myself. My angry questions led to recriminations – I was no longer a small child and I insisted on contacting my real mother. My father begrudgingly granted me access to my birth registration and adoption records – for he had ensured I was formally his. It took time. The last my father had heard was that my mother had a new family and a career as a photojournalist. I wrote many pleading letters to the last address near to Coalville, the last place my father had written to Catherine when he told her he had married.
But because Catherine was long dead, Isabel answered my letters. She retrieved them, unopened from her father’s bureau, where they lay dusty and stuffed in the back of a drawer. I believe she was led to seek them out by a dream, perhaps of me or her mother. My half-sister took up the challenge and we corresponded for years. I taught her Italian, she improved my English, and we used code to hide our innermost thoughts, a request on her part as she didn’t want her step-mother to know of our correspondence. I crafted the code for her. My tendency for cautious secrecy has its foundations in those few years when she was a curious teenager desperate for excitement.
She also told me tales. It became apparent her imagination was vivid and often blurred with reality, something of a family trait. While I might picture a future scene, Isabel was lost in alternative realities, places she should be, but was not able to visit.
Unfortunately, my letters with their Italian stamps were discovered by Isabel’s step-sister, Beryl. They argued. Beryl wanted to tell their father Nigel. Isabel preferred secrecy. It drove a wedge between them that never should have been there. I suspect Isabel had to make a decision and chose to protect her life in England. One day the letters stopping arriving. Mine were returned unopened, the addressee not recognised.
