But then one night in spring, she was invited by friends to a lecture hall in Holborn. Too much dope and the wrong bus had her clattering through the doors and racing up the stairs. Suddenly halted by the unmistakeable voice of Evelyn Skinner coming from the main hall. She began to laugh.
Oh no no, I totally disagree, said Evelyn. If women’s lives are not documented, then how on earth can we say we have the full picture? We have framed the narrative. Or I should say you and your predecessors have, Mr Dixon. And wherever there is framing, there is exclusion.
The women in the audience cheered. Alys hurried on up to the balcony, where she saw the magnificent Evelyn Skinner on stage. Eighty-two years old and thriving, by the looks of things. Looking ten years younger due to cod liver oil and cold-water swimming, and frequent dinners at Quo Vadis with Dotty Cunningham. Not that Alys knew that then. All Alys saw was the woman who had left such a lasting impression on her.
The balcony was smoky and packed with art students. Alys looked about for her friends and saw Martha in the front row leaning attentively on the rail. Alys walked down towards her. Sorry sorry, she said as she inched along the row. Alys sat down and she and Martha kissed French style.
（Alys would put all this down in a letter to Cress and Ulysses. How Evelyn looked: elegant and imposing. Linen slacks and blouse and a bright scarf. Oh, she was marvellous!） Evelyn continued. She said, Let’s take as an example Gentileschi’s Susanna and the Elders. On the screen behind me now. Take a good look. It’s a biblical story in which a young woman bathing is spied upon by old men who are trying unsuccessfully to blackmail her into sexual relations. A popular theme in Renaissance and Baroque painting, mainly because of the opportunity it afforded to paint naked female flesh.
The audience laughed.
You may well laugh, said Evelyn. And yet these are the choices we are talking about. In Gentileschi’s version behind me, we get a woman’s point of view. And it is an uncomfortable one. Susanna is centred in the painting and her anxiety and distress are central to the piece. This is no jocular flirtation. These men are lecherous, scheming and threatening whilst she is vulnerable and naked. Her body is twisted. They are abusing her. And the painter knows this because this is her experience.
Outside Conway Hall, the night had turned chill, a slight mist hovering in headlights and streetlamps, and even in the flare of a match. Alys was standing on the pavement, smoking a cigarette. Her friends were milling about, jumping on scooters, heading into Soho. Coming? In a bit, said Alys.
An hour passed, and the cold had got in and Evelyn had been secreted away through another exit. Alys turned around and headed to Soho. Along New Oxford Street she was gripped by a rare moment of actual mother-want and found a phone box down a side street and filled it with coins.
Ted? It’s Alys. Peg there? No, I – I just want to talk to Peg, please. （Fuck, just get her, will you?） Peg? Yeah, I’m fine. You? （Peg slightly slurring but sweet.） Alys leant against the glass and told Peg about her evening. About the talk and about Evelyn and how she’d waited. Peg was good on the subject of waiting, Peg was reassuring. Told her to go and buy some chips and find her friends. Peg was kind before the money ran out.
Ulysses folded the letter and said, Well, well, well. Evelyn Skinner was back in their life. He said, Today’s a good day, Cress, and put the letter back in its envelope. I’ll get the coffees in, said Cress.
In May, something significant happened. Something unforeseen. Something that shook the foundations of that small Florentine world.
The Iris Garden, up by the Piazzale Michelangelo, had not long opened for the season, and Cress and Paola were first through the gates that day. A rare cream and peach variety had caught Paola’s eye and she’d knelt down to view it better. When Cress turned round he saw a crowd of people where she had not long been, and they were looking down.
It was Cressy who telephoned Michele who telephoned the best friend in Lazio who notified the sister and brother, and after that Paola’s death was taken away from him. Her body interred with her husband outside Prato, as he knew it would be. But he sat on a stone bench every day and Giulia brought him coffee and Michele brought him La Nazione to read and people came to him, spoke words of consolation to him because they knew. Cressy and Paola, they were something, weren’t they? That the people of the square understood was enough for Cress. And he had the Iris Garden, of course. That it was open for a mere four weeks a year made it the most private, the most perfect of resting places.
Cress got old quick that summer, but that’s grief for you – that’s what Ulysses said in a call to Col and Pete and Peg. All three huddled around the telephone in the pub late one night in July. What can we do for the old Romeo? said Col, and Ulysses said, Be gentle. And that shut Col up quick. Col even apologised in case he was out of line.