What’ll it be, Miss Skinner? Something red?
Surprise me, said Evelyn.
Darnley went to the rack, flexed his fingers and reached for a bottle. He looked down at the label and gave a thumbs up.
A 1902 Carruades de Lafite. Pauillac! he shouted. Heavenly! （A word he used a lot, which was odd for a man whose idea of the afterlife was oblivion.） They sat down at an empty table and a private emerged out of the shadows carrying three crystal goblets, a corkscrew and a small plate of thinly cut pecorino cheese.
You see, Miss Skinner. It’s really not much different from the Garrick.
Evelyn laughed.
Darnley did the honours. A neat little pop, the smell of the cork and the comforting glug of the pour.
To what shall we toast? said Darnley. What do you think, Temps?
To this moment, sir.
Oh, very good, said Evelyn.
To this moment.
The conversation went straight to Evelyn and Darnley’s love of Florence. Darnley explained that his father had been – for a short while, at least – vicar at St Mark’s English Church. Halcyon days, he said. Summers in the Uffizi were my education. By the time I left school, he said, I had little interest in anything other than art. Brief stint at Chelsea. Brief stint at the Royal Academy. And here we are. I am a privileged cliché, Miss Skinner— Oh, I think we’ve all been one of those, Captain—
Unqualified for anything except oenology or the occasional attribution.
And Darnley reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a mottled notebook and a nub of pencil. He said, Do you mind? It’s just notes about wine – memory, you know. Thoughts. Just things.
No, no, indeed, said Evelyn. Go ahead.
Long slim fingers. Hair falling across his brow. Quite childlike. He reminded her of Forster and she leant across to Ulysses and told him so.
Who’s Forster, Evelyn?
What’s what? said Darnley, looking up.
I told Ulysses you reminded me of E. M. Forster.
D’you know him, Miss Skinner?
I bought him his first bombolone and lent him my Baedeker.
Good God! People get engaged for less! and Darnley tapped out a cigarette and offered it over. What was he like? he asked.
Rather sweet, said Evelyn. He didn’t like Rubens and was quite devoted to his mother.
Could’ve been my twin, said Darnley, lighting up and downing the contents of his glass.
You got time for another drink, Miss Skinner?
All the time in the world, said Evelyn.
And Temps, the music? Something softer to match the wine, please.
Righto, sir, and Ulysses went towards the gramophone. He also commandeered another plate of cheese.
The second bottle was a 1900 Chateau Margaux accompanied by Joan Merrill singing ‘There Will Never Be Another You’。 A singular pairing, all three agreed. Darnley poured out the wine. On the nose was smelt: tobacco, truffles, cedar, strawberry. Glasses were raised. To this moment!
I was twenty-one, said Evelyn. Not that much younger than you, Ulysses. That was my first experience of Florence. Travelling unchaperoned and ready to fall in love.
And did you, Evelyn?
Evelyn paused as she tasted the wine. I did, as it happens, she said. Once with a person and once with the city itself. You have all that to come, Ulysses. Open your heart. Things happen there, if you let them. Wonderful things.
Suddenly, the cellar lurched to the right as the earth above was blasted by artillery fire. Evelyn gasped. Chunks of ceiling fell and extinguished candles, and men reached across to steady their tables, some diving underneath instead. Glasses and bottles were thrown to the floor.
This is bloody tedious! shouted Darnley, cradling his bottle of Margaux.
Ulysses reached across the table for Evelyn’s hands. He began to talk to her, even sing to her. Still singing as the barrage ended. The faint click of a turntable slowing to its inevitable end. The soft fall of white dust in the intervening silence. Darnley laughing.
Out into the night, they breathed air that was fresh and welcome. Darnley settled down in the back, Evelyn in the front, and they pulled away amidst salutes, and drunken soldiers running at their side shouting they’d see them in Florence!
The roads were tree lined, and glimpses of the bright gibbous moon lit their way in the absence of headlights. The dark swallowed them. The overhang of thick trees, and the sloping curve of the road, made them feel they were no longer on the surface of the earth but heading slowly into its muddy, bosky depths. The smell of the air was heavy and verdant. Soon Darnley was in a boozy sleep and the air was perforated by his juddering snores. Ulysses took his foot off the accelerator and they coasted slowly along the shoulder of night.