So, time heals. Mostly. Sometimes carelessly. And in unsuspecting moments, the pain catches and reminds one of all that’s been missing. The fulcrum of what might have been. But then it passes. Winter moves into spring and swallows return. The proximity of new skin returns to the sheets. Beauty does what is required. Jobs fulfil and conversations inspire. Loneliness becomes a mere Sunday. Scattered clothes. Empty bowls. Rotting fruit. Passing time. But still life in all its beauty and complexity.
Evelyn and Ulysses stepped out into the dark square as the first light went on in Michele’s. The big man standing behind the counter having his first espresso of the day.
Evelyn took hold of Ulysses’ arm and they crossed the stones towards Betsy, leaving behind a pensione at peace and unstirring.
Massimo fast asleep with a letter from Jem resting on his chest.
Pete turning over and dreaming of his old life on the stage.
Alys and Romy entwined in a way they seldom could be in daylight.
Peg safe in body and soul.
Neither Ulysses nor Evelyn noticed the elderly contessa standing at her window or the spectral flash of blue darting around the statue of Cosimo R.
They drove east and met the sun. The flaming dawn caused Ulysses to pull over, caused the grape harvesters to pause whilst the sky flared pink and violet and gold in eyes of wonder.
Five hours later, they arrived at the Coriano Ridge War Cemetery, situated in a green valley between Rimini and San Martino. It came as no surprise to Evelyn, who’d long suspected where Ulysses disappeared to every year. They sat for a moment. The only sound was of an engine cooling, and through the railings they could see rows of white gravestones. Ulysses squeezed Evelyn’s hand and said, Shall we?
They walked across the grass. The cemetery was beautifully tended and the lavender bushes brought in the bees and that little nudge of toil lifted the murmuring of sorrow. Swifts, yet to depart, darted joyfully overhead.
Ulysses knew where to find Captain Darnley, of course, and it took him no time at all to say, Over here, Evelyn. Here he is.
They stood side by side. Small whisperings but not prayers.
Ulysses said that time ran backwards for him whenever he came here. That’s how he described it, anyway. From the moment Darnley fell. Rushing him to a field hospital in Ancona, two others injured in the back, driving one-handed, the other hand pressed against the wound. Eddying time, Evelyn. Churches, frescoes. Sicily. That first handshake in the desert. All those moments, those years were his now. To remember or to forget. That’s what Ulysses said. So I choose to remember. The best man ever. And everything about him is vivid. And he is young. And he is laughing.
Footnotes
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Chapter 2: Chronicle of a Death Foretold
1. Edward Joseph Dent would never receive this letter about Forster’s time with Miss Evelyn Skinner. Through the carelessness of Italy’s postal system, this more avid account of life at Pensione Simi has been eradicated.
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2. During a stay in Rome in January 1902, Morgan Forster slipped and sprained his ankle and then later broke his arm on the steps of St Peter’s. Not the Pantheon.
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Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my editor Helen Garnons-Williams for her quiet wizardry and brilliance. It was an absolute joy to craft this book with you.
Huge thanks as well to the wonderful, dedicated team at 4th Estate for their ongoing hard work in presenting Still Life to the world: Kishani Widyaratna, Olivia Marsden, Naomi Mantin, Jordan Mulligan, Katy Archer.
Amber Burlinson, thank you for making me think twice. Sometimes three times.
Sally Kim, you know how much I love working with you and your team at G.P. Putnam’s. Thank you for your keen eye and passionate response.
Robert Caskie. You are everything I could possibly want in an agent and a friend. The word dreamy comes to mind.
My immense gratitude to Arts Council England who gave me the opportunity to spend time in Florence. The experience forged this story and changed me as a writer.
Thank you to the British Library as always.
Thank you Peter Bellerby, globemaker extraordinaire, for teaching me how it’s done.
Thank you independent booksellers for your wonderful support and all you do in making the world a better place.
Thank you Jagir, Suresh and Lohri Ji. And thank you Cristina Betto.
My sincere thanks to The Provost and Scholars of King’s College, Cambridge and The Society of Authors who granted me permission to use E.M. Forster’s memorable words.
To my friends and colleagues residing in Italy who played such an important part in the realising of this book. Thank you to everyone in the Palazzo Guadagni, my home from home. Tara Riey thank you for your friendship and the joyous welcome that awaited me whenever I got off a plane. Thank you Jane Ireland for the lunch that brought Eve Borsook to my attention. Thank you, Monica Capuani for finding the answers that assuaged my fears. Thank you, Emiko Davies for guiding me so rigorously through the many pitfalls of Italian food history. And for also teaching me how to cook. Stella Rudolph – thank you for giving me Evelyn. I’ll be forever grateful for the time we spent together. Alla prossima puntata, Stella.