I must let you go, my dear ladies and gentlemen. But to recap. The mathematical foundations of beauty and harmony. Piero’s love of geometry. His unique style within the early Renaissance. The holy moment is also the tentative moment. A very good end of term to you all. Go forth, go learn, go love!
The lights came on and Jesus disappeared, and an excited revelry rose from the class. Books were flung into bags and chairs scraped as students moved towards the door.
Goodbye, Miss Skinner! echoed into the corridor. Goodbye, said Evelyn. You too, my dear. I suggest you look up Roberto Longhi. Or Carlo Ludovico Ragghianti. Oh yes, yes, I hope so, she said. Thank you, Mr Cornwallis, I shall try indeed. Goodbye.
And then there was quiet. And it was exquisite. She closed her eyes and acknowledged the end of term with yogic breathing. After a good five minutes, the presence of another infused the air. She opened her eyes, happy to see Jem Gunnerslake still at his desk. Him of the unruly hair and courtly manners.
Jem, she said. （First names for people she liked.）
Miss Skinner.
Are you all right?
I am, he said and stood up. I’ve something for you, he said. I found it in a shop on Charing Cross Road. I know how much she meant to you.
Evelyn took the brown paper bag from his hand. Inside was a burgundy cloth-covered book with Niente/Nothing in gold lettering down the spine.
First edition, he added.
Oh my! This is so wonderful, she said, and she flicked through the pages till she stopped at a poem – one about trams and lights on the Arno and sand-diggers – and she became twenty-one again, about to embark on a love affair with a city that would last a lifetime. She ran her fingers across Constance Everly’s fading name and said, Such was her influence on me, Jem.
As yours is on us, Miss Skinner. Jem looked at her and smiled. He didn’t often smile on account of his bad teeth.
Well, I shall treasure this, said Evelyn, hugging the book to her chest. I lost my own copy on a train down to Rome. A sumptuous find for a fellow traveller, I thought then.
And now?
Careless and distracted by first love. You know how it is.
But Jem Gunnerslake didn’t. First love would have to wait.
They left the classroom together, and on the stone stairs encountered a rare sighting of the artist du jour and occasional tutor.
Good evening, Lucian, said Evelyn. Are you well?
Oh, yes Miss Skinner! And he dashed past in a fervour.
When he was out of earshot, Evelyn said, He’s quite the ladies’ man, I’ve heard. Bit of a menace.
Have you read The Interpretation of Dreams? asked Jem.
Indeed I have, said Evelyn. During that first trip to Florence, my friend Mr Collins recommended that I should. We were seated in the Piazza della Signoria – I really do remember it so well – drinking vermouth – that was my drink at the time – discussing Giambologna’s Sabine Woman, and I remember, quite distinctly, how he said that book was the way forward.
Evelyn stopped by the front door. She said, The Church does not have a language for the variations of our humanness. We need to look at Freud for that. Psychoanalysis is the way forward. That’s what he said to me, Jem. And I do believe he was right. I read the first English translation.
They left behind the comforting stink of linseed oil and stepped outside. There was an herbaceous hook to the spring air, the slow roll of a lawnmower moving methodically across the quad. It was the season of blossom and leaf growth, and the bare branches appeared bewildered by the vibrancy of emerging livery.
A wolf whistle pierced the air.
Not for me, Mr Gunnerslake. That is the call of the young.
Jem looked about. But then a rather handsome middle-aged woman emerged from behind a tree and caused Evelyn to wave.
Good God, said Jem. Is that who I think it is?
Yes, said Evelyn, it is.
Dorothy ‘Dotty’ Cunningham, the renowned abstract artist.
The circles of art tend to overlap, as do the circles of literature, and Dotty and Evelyn had met over thirty years previously through Evelyn’s painter father H. W. Skinner and his mistress–muse at the time, Gabriela Cortez. Old enough to be Dotty’s mother, Evelyn guided her young protégée through the fast-flowing tributaries of lesbian life. Never lovers but always friends. They said on that first meeting, I feel as if I’ve known you forever. A lifetime later, it was as if they had.
Dotty was leaning against the tree, cross-armed, with a cheeky tilt of the head, a pose that meant ‘Tell me more’ or ‘Take your clothes off’， depending on the circumstance and time of day. She was as famous for her masculine garb and short hair as she was for her painting. That afternoon, she sported worn corduroy trousers, a billowing linen shirt and the kind of rakish polka-dot neckerchief most often associated with farm workers at harvest time. Dotty, ironically, hated the country. Hampstead Heath, for her, was the middle of nowhere.