A what? said Blythe Brown.
A selkie, said Miss Everly. One moment a seal, one moment a man. I am there to probe the hidden depths of the ocean – the raging tides of emotions – and then to surface in all my humanness, in all my humility, to recount in a handful of lines the myriad of tales I have encountered, the worlds in which I have travelled, the battles fought like Odysseus.
Didn’t she say she was a seal? said one of the Brown twins.
Not a real seal, said Evelyn.
Then why did she say it?
Luckily, the conversation came to an abrupt end when an overweight gentleman at the next table choked on a piece of rabbit. Mr Collins was up first.
Make way, make way.
He stood behind the gentleman – who was now blue – gripped both hands below his breastbone and forcefully pushed against the diaphragm. The offending meat shot out of his mouth and hit Queen Victoria between the eyes.
The dining room became silent. Morbidly so. Evelyn wondered if her birthday would end there. Miranda Lugg, misreading the incident as she so often did, said quite loudly to the gentleman: You disgust me.
It was fair to say, the near fatality took the edge off what had been, up till then, a very jolly evening. But in the small fissure that had opened up, the Brown sisters took their chance and suggested a musical interlude. They offered to play a duet they’d written together when the First Opium War was in its ascendancy.
Cheery, said Mr Collins.
I have known the Brown twins for many years, Mr Collins, and I can confidently say that there is no finer duet playing, said the reverend. We are incredibly fortunate. Miss Everly? After you.
Miss Everly groaned and downed a full glass of wine.
Evelyn waited for the dining room to clear.
Are you not coming, Miss Skinner? said Mr Collins.
In a minute, Mr Collins. I—
Say no more, Miss Skinner, and he smiled that smile he’d recently adopted around her and left the room.
Evelyn stood awkwardly by the table, a bit hot, a bit tipsy, a sprig of rosemary coiled around her fingers. She had just decided to go into the kitchen and present herself when Livia exited. They stood unmoving, gazing into each other’s eyes. A lustful note undeniably felt. Evelyn hesitated. I – she began. Io – she began again in Italian. I’ve never been given such a gift. Thank you, Livia. （Oh, how good it felt to say her name!） For all this. Which I will never forget. Which I will talk about till I’m old and decrepit.
Livia laughed.
I will, you know. Remember it forever, said Evelyn. Because when I like something, I like it very much and never want to let it go. I don’t want this to end, she said and she stepped closer. Closer still.
Livia laughed. Livia said, Nothing has to end, and she leant over the table and picked a violet and handed it to Evelyn. For you, she said.
Evelyn rushed into the drawing room and saw that a space had been left between Mr Collins and Miss Everly.
You look radiant, said Miss Everly.
Just a little hot, said Evelyn.
But heat is an element of transformation, is it not? said Mr Collins, raising both eyebrows.
Midnight. Evelyn twenty-one and one minute old. Lights from a tram flickered briefly in her bedroom. She unwrapped her handkerchief and there, in the middle of the white linen square, was the violet flower. She opened her Baedeker and pressed it between the pages. She bent down and kissed it. Little did she know that two days was all it would take for that kiss to progress from Baedeker to lips.
It was the afternoon. Evelyn in her room, sluggish from lunch. Drawn to the window by the sound of a violin. And there was Livia out walking. Evelyn ran down the stairs. Bonnet loose, buttons undone, hair askew.
Can’t stop, Miss Everly!
Fly free, my sweet thing!
Out into the street now, running alongside the Arno, hands holding up her skirt, weaving around handcarts and laundry boys and working girls and dogs and priests and nuns and washerwomen and tourists and all the while calling out her name— Livia stopped. Turned. And smiled.
They walked the river east and left behind the sand-diggers until they found a good-enough place of solitude. They clambered down onto the foreshore in the shadow of a bridge and shyly faced one another. Hands touched cheeks and fingers lips, and there they kissed because the eyes of the city were not on them. It was their first kiss. Evelyn held her bonnet as the breeze tried to lift it. Bells were faint, pronouncing the hour. But which hour? Time had ceased. Somewhere in the air, the quiet cast of a lure whipped the water and sent ripples to their feet.
In the time it took for them to return to the pensione, the most extraordinary shift had taken place within those tired, judgemental walls: that of love preceding them. It had crept ahead, scattering benevolence and joy. The heavy mahogany furniture acquired an Italian flair, and the cockney signora’s aitches, as rare as a Marian apparition, made an unexpected appearance. Stew had been taken off the evening menu once again, and even Reverend Hyndesight practised compassion by including Mr Collins in an upcoming visit to the opera. And Miss Everly? Simply put, she wrote her best poem in years. The weather, too, was affected by the tenderness of that sweet embrace. The sun was re-energised, and the warmth of its long arm encroached upon autumn’s flimsy grasp; stars shone brighter, and even a full moon declared itself a honey.