As the world burned and raged and mourned, a moment of calm was taking place at the Folkestone ferry terminal.
The day was warm and settled, the sky azure blue and quite atypical for April. Gulls swooped and the air was salty and auspicious. Dotty closed the boot of her Sunbeam Alpine. Evelyn picked up her suitcase and tested the weight of it.
Not too heavy? said Dotty.
Not at all, said Evelyn. I think I could manage that myself if there happens to be a dearth of porters.
So you’ve got everything?
I have.
I can send on anything you need.
Thank you, Dotty.
Quick ciggie?
Come on then, said Evelyn and they leant against the bonnet of the car. Dotty flicked her lighter.
The decision to move to Florence was not as wrenching for Evelyn as she’d imagined. Her visits to the city had become more frequent and the duration longer. Dotty was thriving in a proper relationship with an available（ish） older（ish） lesbian（ish） and she seemed happy. Her allergy to certain paints had miraculously subsided and she was reunited with titanium white. In fact, it was Dotty who had persuaded Evelyn to leave London in the end. Dotty who could see the draw of Florence, the ready-made family, the care, the memories.
I’m going to miss you, said Dotty.
Well don’t, said Evelyn. Come and visit instead. Bring Hannah.
Helena.
Oh God. Yes. Helena. I can’t keep up, she said.
It’s like the war all over again, said Dotty. Back to your life of espionage and intrigue.
Nonsense, said Evelyn.
I wish you’d flown. Seems such a long way.
I know. But it’s the last time I’ll probably ever take that train, Dotty—
The lure of the railway—
So much to reflect on. So much to remember.
Only way to travel, really.
Oh it is. Dotty, the keys! said Evelyn.
Got them, and Dotty waved them in front of her.
I told Jem to get in touch if ever he and Massimo need a place in London. And there’s nothing for you to do with the Badleys in Kent, they’re good as gold. They’ll keep renting it till they drop. So everything’s in order. You have nothing to do except paint. And be brilliant.
Righto, said Dotty.
And don’t die before me, added Evelyn. I’m not sure I could handle that.
I won’t then, said Dotty. And you know I love you the most. Out of them all. Always have. Always will.
I know.
Dotty looked at her watch.
Is it time? said Evelyn.
’Fraid so.
Shall we say goodbye here?
Probably best, said Dotty.
And then I’ll follow those people down there. And I won’t look back—
Oh no, don’t look back.
Dotty suddenly fell into her arms.
Don’t cry, said Evelyn.
Don’t you cry, said Dotty.
I said it first.
And so began the last chapter of Evelyn Skinner’s multifarious life. Eighty-seven years old and looking at least ten years younger, she stood on deck and watched England recede. No tug, no regret, the slate wiped clean. She opened her arms out wide and shouted, Incipit vita nuova!
She’d given herself ample time between Gare du Nord and Gare de Lyon, and the taxi delivered her to the neighbourhood bistro Jules with two hours to spare. A perfect spot under the canopy and a late lunch of coquilles St Jacques, bread, salad, dash of wine was exactly what was required before the long night ahead. She wrote a postcard to Dotty as a subtle shift of sunlight caused refraction through her wine glass. She drew what she’d had to eat. A sweet little sketch. Dotty would place it in her kitchen by the coffee pot.
Nightfall was uneventful and Evelyn slept soundly as she always did on a train, vaguely aware of her upstairs companion, tossing and turning and complaining about a man named Antoine. She awoke only when daylight broke through the shutters. A quick peek at the mountains and the years rolled back.
It was one thing to fly, but quite another to pass through the inviolable majesty of the Alps. She caught her reflection in the window and realised she was older now than her mother had been when she’d died; older than her father, too. She had out-aged them all. What a strange phenomenon. As if there’d only been her, Evelyn Skinner, born from a shell.
She stepped off the train at Santa Maria Novella station wearing a pale rust trouser ensemble, a vivid silk scarf （early Hermès） and large tortoiseshell sunglasses. She stood in a shaft of sunlight that was both hazy and soporific. The type of image that would have sent Dotty racing for the easel. And she exclaimed, as she always did, Firenze! Amore mio!
Evelyn! shouted Ulysses, racing through the concourse.