Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind (13 page)

“Some nice clothes here, you know,” Natalie says. “But your mum was taller and skinnier than me. In any case, I’m not sure your dad would want me walking around in her clothes. Might freak him out.”

Toni droops, overwhelmed by the size of the task. “What will we do with them?”

“I’ll help you pick out some future vintage. And you can look for anything for your denim projects.”

“And the rest?”

“I can take them to a charity shop—if that’s all right with you—but not around here. You don’t want to see someone in your mum’s coat, do you?”

“You decide.”

“Okay. Leave it with me.”

Natalie doesn’t wish to drag out this task any longer than necessary. It’s too difficult for both of them. She keeps a conversation going while they flick through the clothes, taking out items and laying them out on the bed.

“How’s the school newspaper coming along, Toni?”

“Fine. I’m writing a report on China for the next issue.”

“Big subject?”

They both laugh.

“I’m doing a history project first.”

Natalie pulls out a Missoni wraparound cardigan. “Your mum always looked fabulous in this. She should have worn it more often.”

“Okay. I’ll keep it.” Then, “Natalie?”

“Hmm?”

“Did anyone in our family, in the past—I mean in the last one hundred years—did anyone die like in an epidemic or a war, or was anyone struck by lightning . . . ?”

Natalie turns from the clothes rail, and they stand looking at one another for several seconds.

“Well, what about your mum?
She
died in a freak accident.”

“I don’t mean that. Did anyone die young, before they had their own family?”

She still looks serious. “Are you worried . . . ?”

“No . . . It’s just a history project, and I thought I’d like to include Mum’s side of the family.”

Natalie places a hand on Toni’s shoulder. “Okay. Let’s see. Your grandparents all died in their seventies. But my great-uncle—your great-great-uncle—he died in the trenches in World War I.”

“I didn’t know that. Was he married?”

“He was engaged. Betrothed, as they used to say.”

“So he didn’t actually have any children?”

“No. Unless there’s a family secret I haven’t heard.”

“Do you have a photograph of him?”

“Your mum had most of the family photographs, so we can ask your dad.”

Why is it that some people have twinkly eyes? What exactly makes them twinkle? Are their eyes more watery than other people’s? Or is it something about the way they smile?

Toni decides, looking with her dad and Natalie at the sepia photograph of Great-Great-Uncle Arthur, that his twinkly eyes and his kind but slightly lopsided smile go well together. It’s a studio photograph. He’s in his trim army uniform against a backdrop—a painted backdrop, probably—of cloudy skies. A dreamy background for a dreamy face, an almost heavenly scene, as though the photograph is preparing Arthur’s mother for the inevitable bad news. A premonition.

This thought suddenly throws her back in time. She once asked her mum why she hadn’t put any of her school photos in picture frames. Her friends had their school photos on display at home, but hers were all kept in a photo album. Her mum said she didn’t like school photos because they were the photos the police publicized when a child went missing or was killed in an accident. They had a . . . Toni tries to remember. A morbid something? A morbid
aura
. And now, Toni sees the same morbidness in this photo of smiling Arthur.

“So have you visited his grave?” she asks Natalie.

“I’m not sure anyone has,” says Natalie.

“What? Seriously?”

“I know. It sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

“Back then, people didn’t travel to France,” says her dad.

“Unless they were fighting,” says Toni.

“Exactly. No one in the family had the wherewithal,” says Natalie.

“What do you mean? Where with . . . what?”

“They didn’t have the
means
to travel. Basically, I doubt they knew how to get there. No one in our family had a car back then. When you think about it, coach travel to the continent didn’t start till much later. People simply didn’t travel . . . unless they were rich. To be perfectly honest,” Natalie says, hesitating, “it probably didn’t occur to anyone to visit the grave.” Evidently, she herself is taken aback.

“My parents bought their first car in the 1960s—an old Lea-Francis,” says her dad. “I don’t remember it, but I’ve seen a photo. They wouldn’t have felt confident enough to drive all the way to Dover, take the ferry crossing to France, and
then
find a small cemetery in the middle of nowhere. Cars were always breaking down. I don’t know about you, Nat, but we never took holidays abroad. I went to Paris on a school trip. That’s all.”

“The same.” Natalie is squirming. “You know, I’ve never heard anyone in my family express any desire to visit Arthur’s grave.”

“So he died for his country and was buried there, out in France somewhere, and no one has ever, ever been to visit him?” says Toni.

“I think the family simply accepted it wasn’t going to happen,” says Natalie. “It’s like your dad says . . . Arthur died in 1918, and it was another fifty years before people started taking coach tours around Europe.”

Toni sits cross-legged in bed with her laptop and tinkers with her history project. She adds more text to the About page, pins Great-Great-Uncle Arthur’s photo and adds the story that Natalie told her:

Arthur was a good footballer, and he might have gone professional when he returned from the Western Front in World War I. In those days, footballers didn’t earn much money, so he’d have returned to his old job in the post office and played football on Saturdays. He was betrothed.

She would like to ask her friends another question—namely, Have you visited your dead relative’s grave? But she decides it’s not strictly relevant. She’d like to know if other families are equally unimpressive, though. If Natalie and her mum’s family had really wanted to visit Arthur’s grave, they’d have found a way.

She hears her dad laughing with Natalie downstairs in the living room. They’re good at cheering one another up. She hopes her mum doesn’t mind them laughing so much. After a while, they grow quieter, and she wonders if they’re now talking about something serious.

With Old Amy Pond and Great-Great-Uncle Arthur pinned, she saves her project and, from the drop-down menu, invites her friends on Facebook and her followers on Twitter to join “Toni’s History Project—Persons Unknown.”

This is a brilliant project, she decides. She leans back with her hands behind her head. It doesn’t involve loads of writing, and it’s all about personal histories. If more than ten people pin a relative on her world map, she’ll count it a massive success.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Florence, 1469

Antonia throws her prayer book on her bed and runs out to the galleried landing. The sound of gritty, stabbing footsteps on the stairs can mean only one thing: Donato is home.

“At last,” she shouts when she sees him halfway up the staircase. His hair is stiff with dust, yet he’s more handsome than ever. Why did
he
get the beautiful hair?

“Where is everyone? There’s a tired traveller here who needs a welcome.”

The whole house comes alive with his warm, booming voice. Antonia ought to allow her father to greet him first, but she races ahead, and rather than embracing Donato, she collides with him, almost knocking him off balance at the top of the staircase. “We thought you’d be here yesterday, at the latest.”

Her father emerges from the sala, arms outstretched. “You stayed longer in Arezzo?”

“Yes, Father. I planned to break the journey for two days, but then I met an old friend and—”

“Never mind your excuses. Your mother was worried, so you’d better make peace with her before you sit down.” Her father and Donato embrace one another. “Go see her now in her bedchamber and then join me in the study.”

“I’ll tell Clara to prepare a plate of food,” says Antonia. “I’ll bring it to the study myself. And, Donato, Mother’s been embroidering your old shirts, so make sure you notice.”

Antonia enters her father’s study with a plate of mutton and bread for her brother. She’s delighted to find they’re already talking about business; she loves to hear their tales of how they’ve negotiated commissions and won lucrative deals.

“So there’s plenty of work in Urbino?” says her father.

Donato plants his hands on his hips. “Enough to keep me
and
three assistants busy for the next nine months. You wouldn’t believe it. There’s so much appetite in Urbino for the goods coming out of Florentine workshops. And with the Uccello name”—he grins at his father—“I’m guaranteed a warm and respectful welcome in any merchant’s house.”

“Well, that’s pleasant enough to hear.” Paolo’s flat tone reveals his resistance to flattery. “A public commission of your own would still be a good thing. It would set you up for the long term. Let me speak with the confraternities and the Wool Merchants’ Guild.”

“Father, I can’t match you. I don’t want the world saying that Donato was the insipid follower of his father. There’s good, well-paid work—small private commissions—that suit me far better. You know me. I’m an administrator at heart. You’ve always trusted me to organize your day-to-day arrangements. It’s better that I go out and find the business and employ assistants to do the actual work. By this time next year, Father, I believe I could keep a workshop of five men busy just painting commemorative birth trays and small devotional images of the Virgin and Child. You wouldn’t believe how much money the new rich of Urbino are prepared to pay. All they want to know is what’s fashionable, what’s selling well in Florence. And with your name, I’ll have no problem finding good assistants. I’m wondering, Father—”

“Slow down. You’re full of schemes.”

“It’s a suggestion. That’s all. I’d love to tell my patrons that while I’m away on business,
you
will keep an eye on my workshop. How would you feel about that? All you’d need to do is call by the workshop once a week. You’d like it.”

“Donato, I’ve retired. I want to do my own work now.”

“Please, a
half
day a week, when I’m travelling. Father, I’ll have a wife and family to support one day, and the best way you can help me is to build the good name of my workshop.”

Antonia knows better than to interrupt such a serious conversation. She hangs back, hoping neither of them will send her away.

“You know, Father, your experiments are a source of gossip and . . .” Donato hesitates and smooths back his thick, dirty hair. He starts again with more enthusiasm. “People talk about your predella in Urbino. There’s such pride in the fact you accepted the commission, and they wish you’d accepted the commission for the altarpiece. But . . .” Antonia wonders what Donato is trying to say. “People are wondering what you do with your time now.”

“Tell them I’m too tired for any more commissions. And
how
I spend my time in retirement is no one’s business but my own.”

He takes a deep breath and throws up his hands. “Very well, Donato. I’ll help you. But I have this little one’s studies to consider as well. Antonia, show your brother your portrait.” He points to the small wooden panel that sits on an easel facing away from them.

Donato walks around the easel and stands stock still in front of the painting. He folds his arms. He takes two paces forward and looks closely. Antonia and her father join him.

“Well?” says her father. “Be honest. That’s how she’ll learn.”

“It’s strong and sympathetic at the same time. Father, did
you
work out the composition?”

“No, it’s all her own.” He looks down at Antonia, and they share a smile. “She needed a little help with the perspective, but we sorted that out in the drawings before she started to paint. See that niche? That’s a compositional device she added without my prompting.”

“You’ve handled the paint reasonably well, Antonia. It’s a bit tentative and a little overworked in the folds.” Donato points at the niche. “The blue petals are nicely handled.”

“She shouldn’t be painting so soon; she hasn’t mastered her drawing skills as yet. But I’ll teach her as much as I can. She has the basics, and she has a good instinct.” He places his hand on her shoulder. “Mind you, she wasted a fair amount of pigment for this painting. Some would say it’s better to waste a little than run short in the middle of your work, but personally, I believe it’s a bad habit, best avoided.” He strokes her hair. “Now run along, Antonia. I’ve other business to discuss with Donato.”

She slumps out of the study.

Paolo waits several moments, and then: “I’ve ordered a dowry chest for Antonia from the cabinet-maker—she knows about it—and I’ve received a note that it’s ready for delivery. I will instruct Antonia to repeat the portrait of her mother, and I want
you
to paint a self-portrait. Those two paintings will then form the end panels of her dowry chest. I’ll paint the main panel.”

“Does she know this?”

“Not yet. I wanted her to start her mother’s portrait without feeling too pressured.”

“So . . . have you made your decision about Antonia?”

Paolo sighs heavily, walks across his study and eases himself down into his chair. “Your mother is pressing me. Rightly so, for your sake. A younger sister can attract mischievous talk and rumour if her future remains unsettled. I’ve decided she’ll take the veil. There’s a practical consideration regarding the timing—I don’t want her entering the convent at the onset of winter. She needs to go in the summer months.”

“Which summer months? Next year?”

“This year. She’ll leave this house before the end of August.”

“That’s only five or six weeks away.” Donato stands in silence for several moments. “You know, I heard recently that the sisters at Le Murate’s scriptorium are turning out extraordinary work. There’s a waiting list as long as your arm for commissions.”

“She won’t be going to Le Murate, and not because of the expense. She’s joining her aunt’s convent. She schooled there. They all know her, and I can make sure she’s treated well. I’ll want assurances that she’ll enjoy privileges. The abbess will agree if she wants to get her hands on the dowry chest one day.”

“Assurances may count for little once your back is turned.”

“You and I must insist on seeing her work regularly. Then we’ll know how much time she’s spending in the scriptorium and how much time she’s wasting in menial work.”

Donato returns to the easel. “It’s much better than anything I did at her age.”

Paolo remains quiet. He’s had so many apprentices and assistants over his career, and he can recall only two or three who showed Antonia’s early talent.

“You know, Father, I could steer small commissions her way, once she’s proficient. The abbess could conduct the negotiations with my patrons. I could take a small fee, and I could insist that Antonia carry out the work. What do you think?”

“It’s something to consider.”

“But it’s a shame she’s the one with the ability, isn’t it? You must be disappointed.”

“I could never be disappointed with the girl. God allowed her to live, and in his mysterious way, he wants us all to find out why.”

“Let’s hope she and Mother take the news well. When are you going to tell them?”

“Soon. I wanted to wait for your return. I’ll tell your mother in my own way, and whatever the reaction, I want you to show some enthusiasm for my choice. They’ll be more receptive if they see that
you
share my vision. I’ve already exchanged letters with the abbess.”

The servant girl enters and collects Donato’s platter. “Tell the boy to take a message to the cabinet-maker,” Paolo instructs her. “Tell him to deliver my wooden chest tomorrow morning. Early.”

At dusk, Antonia joins her family in the sala, which is filled with the aromas of duck being roasted in the kitchen. Clara has prepared a special meal for Donato’s return. Antonia finds her father raising his glass to Donato.

“So, Donato, let’s toast your successful business dealings.”

“And let’s also toast my sister’s success in the art of portraiture. Mother, you must be pleased with the likeness she’s achieved, and such a harmonious composition. You have a talent there, Antonia,” he says, teasingly. “I wish with all my heart that you continue your painting studies.”

“She worked hard, but she was too strict,” says her mother. “She knew exactly what she wanted, and I had to do exactly as I was told.”

“An artist has to lay down the law,” her father retorts. “And while we’re talking about art—”

“We talk of nothing else in this household,” says her mother.

“Well, be thankful Father isn’t a baker, or we’d be talking of dough all day,” says Donato, which makes Antonia giggle. How she loves having her brother home, and how he warms the house with his quips and makes her parents so happy.

“As I was saying,” continues her father, “on the subject of painting . . . Antonia, your dowry chest will be delivered from the cabinet-maker tomorrow, and we should talk about the decoration. I have some ideas for the main panel, but I thought you might have a preference, seeing as you’ll be living with this chest for all your days.”

Antonia is aware that she’s blushing. All eyes are on her. “I . . . I . . .”

Donato tries to help. “Come on, Antonia. You must have a favourite story—from a legend or from the Bible, or a romantic scene. Something dramatic to keep you entertained for years to come.”

“It’s difficult . . . Please, nothing frightening like monsters or those half-human, half-devil creatures I’ve seen in church.”

“So you want a scene to send you pleasantly to sleep,” says Donato.

“No. That’s not what I mean. I’d prefer a peaceful scene, but something that’s detailed and maybe a little bit funny.”

“Ah! A family joke—so you’ll recall us laughing together around this table.”

“I think I’d like a painting with animals, lots of animals. And I don’t mind if it’s a Bible story like Noah’s Ark or a scene . . . perhaps a hunting scene in the countryside.”

“Let me see,” says her father. He strokes his beard. “I painted a night-time hunting scene for Federico da Montefeltro two years ago.”

“A lively
and
poetic work, Father,” says Donato with enthusiasm. “Man’s search for love and the soul’s search for redemption. Brilliant colours against a dark background, with such excellent glazing. But don’t paint a night-time scene for Antonia . . . Paint a daytime scene. Then you can show the birds in the trees and the sky. There’ll be horses, hounds, a stag, of course, and hunters in fine clothes.”

“Don’t kill the stag or his doe. Show them escaping,” says Antonia. “And can you paint some lady hunters, too, in their fine dresses?”

“That’s
too
unusual,” says her father with a frown.

“But no more strange than any Greek myth,” says Donato. He rubs his chin. “I know. If you’d like to remember this very evening, Antonia, and this fine dinner . . . let’s include Clara’s face. She’ll be a fine lady, hunting for our duck.”