A group of twentysomethings with sunglasses and red lips gathered on the pontoon, looking as if they might be a synchronised swimming team. What joy their presence brought. When Dotty caught sight of them, Evelyn knew she would double-back and swoon at their entry, which she did. That they all dived in together caused Dotty to look over at Evelyn and raise her eyebrows. Oh Dotty, plus ?a change.
Evelyn climbed out, thankful that the muscles in her arms still had some grip. She picked up her towel and draped it across her shoulders, walked back carefully across the dirt to the grass and let the sun dry her.
She lay down with blackbird song and wood pigeon call and bees in clover. She thought all of existence in this bucolic trance was a poem. Timeless, resolute, universal. The image would be repeated over the decades: women seeking solace, a safe place, bodies unclothed and held by nature. All the women she’d ever cared about had come with her here at some time or another. Not Livia, of course: that beautiful fly-away puffball, who’d deposited the seeds of first love across her life.
She’d first come here with Constance when the ponds had officially opened. She’d been forty-five, Constance well into her seventies; probably the same age, thought Evelyn, as she was now. By then, Constance had had mild success with her collection of poems entitled Everything – the sequel to Nothing. The third collection, Something, would never emerge. She suffered a heart attack on the Gotthard Railway on what would have been her final trip to Florence. Crossing the Kerstelenbach Viaduct was often cited as taking one’s breath away, and it did exactly that. They found her with a pen in her hand. Final thoughts on love, ultimately: ‘I shall remain astonished.’
She had a militant following of women who wanted to put this line on her gravestone once they’d got permission to have her buried in the English Cemetery in Florence, as close to Barrett Browning as they could get. Of course, neither happened. Only Evelyn knew of the final wishes. Cremation. An early-morning boat ride on the Arno with one of the renaioli, the sand-diggers. Sunlight, haze, memories. She was poured onto the sleepy reflection of a palazzo. Not a ripple. At one. At peace. Her home.
Evelyn looked up and shielded her eyes against the sun. Dotty waved as she came towards her. Dotty looked a trifle pensive. Sundowner, darling? she said.
Is it that time already? said Evelyn, reaching for her watch.
Clock’s running a tad fast.
OK. I’ll go and change.
The gods sent a chariot to Highgate West Hill, a black Austin FX3 that sped south until the green gave way to the white fringes of Bloomsbury, and the red-brick mansion blocks of Fitzrovia.
Evelyn had noticed all afternoon there was something troubling Dotty. She raised Dotty’s hand and kissed it. What’s on your mind, my love?
Dotty sighed. My paint has turned against me again. I’m allergic.
Which one?
Titanium white. Always the troublemaker. Left me rather defeated, Lynny.
Oh, Dotty.
They crossed Oxford Street into Soho Square, as the bells of St Patrick’s greeted them. Actors headed towards Shaftesbury Avenue, and prostitutes were taking an early-evening stroll before work laid them out for the night. The smell of coffee crept in through the window, and the clatter of vegetable trolleys rushing towards steamy kitchen doors. Italians and Maltese were smoking outside cafés, as music from jukeboxes brought life to their toes. Queer identity hid itself in the shadows of these dark streets and both women had, at some time, left an imprint of their body upon some unfamiliar bed; an addendum of promises, made for a lifetime but meant only for a night.
The cab turned into Dean Street and pulled up outside Leoni’s Quo Vadis. The restaurant was half an hour from opening, but the manager recognised the broad smiles of his regular patrons and opened the door and greeted them. He seated them at the best table over by the wall of paintings, where they could freely observe everyone who entered. Five minutes later, a tray of Negronis and a bowl of olives was heading their way. Evelyn stood up and said, My darling man, what a sight you are!
This’ll put hairs on your chest, the barman said in his soft Celtic lilt.
Here’s hoping, said Dotty, reaching for a drink as if her talent depended on it.
The women toasted one another, and before sitting back down, Dotty took out her glasses and scrutinised one of the paintings above their table. She said to Evelyn, I captured you, didn’t I? Who you were, then. Who you were becoming. I count this portrait as my one true success.
Have there not been others?
Not like this, said Dotty, lifting it off the wall. Not like this.