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‘Ah, well, that was her idea, calling herself that, and I took it as good sign. It doesn’t matter. David thinks the code in the letters can be broken. He’s also going to translate the Italian in both sets, so when Mum reads them, she’ll understand everything.’
‘What will she think?’
‘She’ll not like what Beryl did. It will upset her. But I think it will help explain why Isabel had those phases of disorientation and confusion. She shouldn’t have been labelled crazy.’ A pang of regret gnawed inside. ‘She was different, that’s all.’
Joseph handed me the letter back and I put it safe with the other documents. Perching on the edge of the bed, I plucked at the stitching of the quilted duvet.
‘What?’ Joseph was too perceptive.
‘Lora wrote I shouldn’t be afraid of my visions. I pretty much decided they were at best a form of worthless self-indulgence and, at worst, harmful.’
He stroked the back of my hand and stilled it. ‘That’s a bit harsh. You said yourself it’s about controlling them. Daydreaming is something we all do.’
‘True.’
He kissed my palm. ‘If you can help me with my fear of heights, I’m sure I can keep an eye on you, too.’
I laughed. ‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’ I flopped onto the bed. ‘What now?’
‘We’ve a day or two. Tony doesn’t mind if we stay here.’
‘We could go into Potenza…’
He grinned. ‘See the art gallery.’
‘Yes, and I could take photographs.’
‘That’s a given.’
‘Then I could watch you paint the view out of that window.’ I snuggled closer to him. ‘I love watching you paint. I could imagine Lora here with us and see where that takes me.’
He sighed, lovingly, the exhale of a man deeply happy. ‘I’d like that too. You can tell me what you see, then you’ll have the best of both worlds, the past and present. And I’ll paint it for you.’
Epilogue
A further extract from the Memoirs of Professor David Carmichael, Emeritus Professor of Art History, Charnwood University.
As I put the final words to paper, I raise a glass to absent friends and family. I’m not alone in commemorating the departed. Every year I am joined by Robyn and Joseph, and their two delightful daughters - Kate and Isabella. Today, while their mother balances a camera on the palm of her hand, the same now outdated digital camera Lora gave her, the two girls craft colourful posies using the flora of the terraced gardens on Tony’s extensive estate. Robyn often laments that the idyllic summer can’t be bottled and taken back to England. There hasn’t been an English summer like that of 2003 in a while. Unperturbed by the heat, the little family find ways to capture their time here.
Robyn occasionally snaps a photograph, but mostly she uses the zoom as a telescope, scanning the valley far below for a bird of prey. In recent years she has shifted her allegiance somewhat from ruins to nature; her photographs often appear in prestigious publications. She has mastered the art of quiet confidence, too. I remember that feeling. There is nothing more satisfying than knowing you are riding the peak of your career without fear of failing anyone.
A palette of acrylic paints sits on a stand and next to it, perched on an overhanging outcrop, is Joseph, with his easel. He meticulously paints an amphitheatre from memory and injects what Robyn interprets, as if she was immersed in the same scene, but at a different time. Joseph doesn’t let her wander for too long and draws her back with a kiss on her cheek.
Lora would be proud of her protege. And of the next generation to come.
Kate is energetic like Robyn, full of exuberance when excited, but also contemplative when drawn into conversations. Isabella is naturally introspective and thoughtful; she sketches for hours upon end. The Italian mingles fluidly with their native English; only the sisters’ pale skin reminds me this isn’t their permanent home, only a summer retreat.
My darling Maggie tells me nobody will read this memoir. She likes to tell me that I am, after all, merely a retired academic who makes a small living from the proceeds of a provincial art gallery. Nevertheless, I shall publish it in some form. She suggested a title for Lora and Robyn’s chapter – “A Summer of Castles”. I rather like the idea.
