Hey, Temps, he could hear him say. I was thinking. After the war, we could—
We could what, sir?
（Darnley lights a cigarette.）
We could just sit here. And look at the sea. That’d be enough, right?
More than enough, sir.
In October, Ulysses turned forty. Peg sent a telegram that said, FUCK. FORTY. OLD. Ulysses bought himself some heavy horn-rimmed glasses, now that he needed them for reading and close-up work on the globes. It would be fair to say that he was turning into a fairly handsome middle-aged man.
That night, the gang went to see Ben Hur at the Odeon. Came out all agog at the CinemaScope spectacle. Never seen anything like it. And the costumes! I don’t usually like Charlton Heston. Was that Charlton Heston? Get on with you, Cressy! But that chariot race. I couldn’t watch, said Massimo.
Dinner was at Michele’s afterwards. A nocturnal stroll from Piazza della Repubblica across the river and Giulia did them proud. Brought them penne and rabbit, and bracioline with green bean sauce and a litre of Sangiovese. Ulysses’ birthday cake was castagnaccio, his favourite chestnut tart. Even Michele came from behind his counter to shake his hand. What followed a little later could have been awkward, and yet neither he nor Giulia could truly say how it happened, it was simply that a private shadowed space opened up around them, where no one else stood, and they kissed. No guilt. No lamenting the moment of madness, simple joy across both of their faces. And it would remain what it was – a kiss – and nothing more. But sighting one another after such a tender act of intimacy added a certain flush to the cheeks from then on. Her whisperings of the daily specials made his pants tighten in a way they hadn’t for years.
And suddenly, 1960 came to its upright end. Ulysses was on the terrace with Massimo, waiting for a new year to start. Pete had to stay put in London because of Oliver! but he didn’t mind because the money was good, and he was putting the cash away. Alys, all fifteen years and four months of her, was singing on the church steps surrounded by crowds of young people. Had a microphone this time; piercing feedback but it did the job. And Cress and Paola? They were sitting arm in arm on the bench with a glass of something warm. Just them, their world, their love.
Alys strummed the opening bars and the crowd hushed. She leant in close to the mic and said, This song’s called ‘Grace and Fury’。
It’s Just the Way of Things
1962–66
In 1962, the summer she turned seventeen, Alys left Florence. She put Kitty Lester’s ‘Love Letters’ on the jukebox, picked up her guitar and backpack and said, Adieu. Ulysses took the train with her to Milan. Slipped an envelope of cash and a packed lunch from Giulia into her bag. Not so hard to let her go.
She went to live at Col’s. Worked in the pub even though she wasn’t really allowed, but everyone knew her, including the coppers who hung out in the snug. She got her portfolio together and saved for art school, the only fixed point on the horizon. Some evenings she sang with Pete and something new happened then, something she’d never had to confront before: comparisons with her mother. People said she didn’t have Peg’s looks, but she did have her voice. It did something to her, it did. Little bit of rage, little bit of ugly.
Alys was there when the first stage of demolition began. Standing with Col and Gin Gin as the wrecking ball swung. The gothic villas in the square went first. ‘They call it slum clearance, but we were never a slum, were we?’ she wrote to Ulysses and Cress in her first letter home. ‘Col said he’s not selling the pub and they’ll have to drag him out in a coffin. Ginny cries when the walls fall because she doesn’t understand and thinks it’s war all over again. Devy came to visit her yesterday and Col didn’t say anything. He’s got too much on his plate to fight that battle too. Devy brought a cake and put candles on it to make Col happy. It wasn’t Col’s birthday, but it did make him happy. I miss you both. Love as always.’
In the January term of 1963, Alys went to Wimbledon School of Art. She lived partly at Col’s and partly on a sofa nearby. She lived in a state of uncertainty but came to realise she probably always had. She struggled, initially, in the way she saw things and how this was expressed as marks on a page. But she turned up every day and she practised her craft and that was significant. Until she saw people achieve what she hoped to achieve and she wanted to be generous and yet, at times, feared that their success would mean no success for her. She was so impatient for her work to be affirmed. She’d walked into art school hoping to be discovered as the NEXT BIG THING, only to live in the shadows of disregard. Her mother-want became a mother-please and crushes on teachers became evening tutorials of charcoal and perfume. And she read wise words over and over and yet when she closed the book it was still her, unchanged, and the disappointment could send her to bed for days.