And the Simi returned to what it was: a dreary haven for the English middle class who complained about everything foreign. She watched the next intake arrive. An American commercial traveller, a large German with gout, and a touchy-feely Italian cheese seller. We’re the start of a joke, she thought.
By the time the young man and his mother arrived at reception, Evelyn had been in Florence for fourteen days. A lifetime if you were a fruit fly. She’d noticed them as she came down the stairs, because the mother was enunciating clearly to the cockney signora. Alice Clara Forster and son. Forster. Yes, she said. A room with a view. The young man blushed as Evelyn passed. He was tall and gangly in ill-fitting tweeds. He had a sweet face, rather mole-ish.
Two days later, Evelyn was in the drawing room writing to her father.
My dearest H. W.,
The Italians do many things well except make tea. Tea is the only drink I take in the pensione. It defines my nationality somewhat. For when I drink wine, or vermouth, or the vivid red bitters, the cloak of my Englishness is pulled away, revealing a young woman of startling European temperament. I gesture, I discuss, I argue freely, my appetite is sharp. I scrutinise works of art with an eye polished by corporeal awakening, rather than an eye blurred by the heavy words of male critique. I would like to meet Mr Paul Cézanne again, Father. I think I could discuss a lot more with him since my travels to the Simi—
（A cough.）
Evelyn looked up and smiled at the young man.
Are you travelling alone, Miss Skinner?
I am, she said. Am I causing gossip?
A little, he said.
Jolly good, she said.
He laughed. May I?
Please do, she said, and he sat in the chair opposite her and clumsily crossed his legs, kicking her in the process.
I do apologise, he muttered.
Di niente, said Evelyn.
Have you escaped your mother? she asked.
Momentarily, he said. She had one of her heads. I wish I was the type of man who could cheer her up. She thinks I’m utterly incapable.
And are you?
Yes. I’ve mislaid countless maps and missed trains. I’m always missing something.
Evelyn thought the only thing he was missing was a man to kiss.
I’m attempting to learn Italian, he said and produced a pocket guide to learning Italian.
Are you winning?
Not at all. Quite hopeless, he said, and picked at his sock.
An ordinary young middle-class Englishman, Evelyn thought. Clever, without doubt. But with a head and a body that had yet to meet.
Forster looked up, said, I think you’re very brave.
Me?
Travelling without a chaperone.
I’m not brave, said Evelyn, I’m just ready for an adventure. It’s you who are brave.
Me? he said. Oh no no—
Travelling with your mother.
He blushed and smiled. Yes, he said, somewhat distractedly.
How long has it been now? asked Evelyn.
Oh. Three weeks or so. Only another fifty to go.
Oh my.
We came down from Lake Como. We were only supposed to stay in Cadenabbia for one night, but we stayed ten. Mother thought I needed the mountain air. It was so attractive, Miss Skinner. Very few incidents. A purse that was lost and found, and a flea and a centipede that were found. But I was prepared for fleas. My friend Dent told me about ammonia. That sorts them. They’re not keen on it. I mean, who would be? I’m not.
An electric tram rattled past.
Forster nodded towards the window. That keeps me awake at night, he said. Does it you?
No. That’s not what keeps me awake at night, said Evelyn, suddenly catching sight of Livia in the doorway. You sound as if you’re not having a good time, Mr Forster? she said.
So far, Italy has been a rather timid outing for me, Miss Skinner. A little anti-climactic. I went up the cathedral at Monza and was spat upon from the people on the spire. Which is not so nice. Mother says I am ‘lamentably unfortunate’。 She thinks that if we went to Pisa it would be just my luck for the Leaning Tower to fall on me.
Evelyn laughed.
Mother and I have been entirely surrounded by English people, mostly of middle age. They have scrutinised us, most not sure whether my mother and I will do.
You’ll do here, Mr Forster, ten times over!
Thank you, Miss Skinner. I’m grateful. At one hotel, half the guests were playing poker patience and the rest were sleeping.
Evelyn looked about at their surroundings.
No change there, then, she said.
We could be in England, he said, looking at the patterned carpet and pictures of Queen Victoria and the new not-yet-anointed King, and the crude depressing watercolour of the River Thames.