The Last Summer (49 page)

But I didn’t want to resume my unhappy life with Charlie. I
could no longer breathe around him, or in that house. I didn’t love my husband. We barely spoke. And I yearned to be free, to be able to make my own decisions, to live my own life. Charlie and I were two different people to the idealistic young officer and naive dreamy girl who’d become engaged druing the War. At that time I’d wanted to please my mother; I’d wanted to make her happy again, proud of me. I’d yearned for normality, for some sort of order to be restored to our broken lives, and I’d thought that marriage would deliver that, as well as a sense of security and, perhaps, even happiness. But my marriage to Charlie had not brought me what I’d craved. I could never love him the way he wanted me to, or the way I knew I could love. Despite everything, I still cared about him and would continue to, but not as a husband and certainly not as a lover. I knew the time had come: I had an opportunity to change my life. I owed no explanation to my husband, but I knew my mother would be aghast at my desire for independence. And so, ‘Trust, Mama, is the cornerstone of a marriage. Without trust, there is nothing. Without trust what can be achieved?’

. . . I’m delighted. It is the only photograph I had of the two of you together, and quite right that you should have it. As you say, in the blink of an eye. I too have thought of those times, & oh how often! And yes, I remember the boathouse . . . I remember it all. But I do believe everything has turned out as it was meant. Time, rightly or wrongly, is a great leveller of emotion, & of ambition also, and certainly we have ALL mellowed . . . Yes, my life is different, but it is fine and I am happy, and though this place is small, I must admit – it is rather cosy, & very manageable. In fact, I can say I feel rather liberated to be relieved of the accumulated paraphernalia. But how peculiar to have spent a lifetime collecting it – only to dispose of it!

When spring finally comes she never ceases to surprise me with the lightness and warmth of her touch, her early dawns and frenzied revelry. She is a symphony of rapturous colour and vibrant luminosity; she is memory restored, senses reawakened – brought back to life; and I fall in love once more. For is there another season that inspires so many unabashed romantic notions? Is there any other time of the year when we can truly luxuriate in the feeling of being at one with our universe?

I remember this season at Deyning. I remember the cuckoo, the woodpecker and the lark. I remember the blackbird that nested in the tree beyond my bedroom window, and the song thrush upon the roof above my room. I remember looking out on to a never-ending green world. And for a moment I am back there. I feel that soft, breathless air upon my face, hear their song once more.

From the day I moved into my small flat in Kensington, I felt free. I could at last be whoever I wanted to be. I could breathe. For the very first time in my life I was living on my own, making
my own decisions and in charge of my destiny. I’d finally taken that leap into the great unknown: independence. Within the space of twenty-four hours my world condensed itself into five rooms, and could easily have fitted into what had once been my bedroom and dressing room at Deyning. But I felt no sense of confinement, or that sense of claustrophobia I had lived with for so many years. I looked out on to a bustling street, where buses passed by my window and people once again looked back at me and smiled. London, it suddenly seemed to me, was filled with friendly faces and limitless possibilities.

It was during those first heady days of my late-found independence that I began to make plans: plans for me and about me. I received money each month from Charlie, enough to live on and pay my rent, and I had some savings in a bank account, money left to me by my grandfather. But I still longed to do something with my life, to be fully independent, earn my own money. The man at the employment bureau had succeeded in making me feel something of a joke, unemployable, so I began to think about other avenues, a business, a shop: a flower shop . . . a hat shop . . . a dress shop. Then, for a while, I contemplated a bookshop: an antiquarian bookshop.

What I hadn’t anticipated when I embarked upon my new singular life was my own ineptitude. I had never shopped for food, or cooked a meal, either for myself or anyone else; never done any laundry, or sewn or mended clothes; and I had never truly managed a penny, let alone a pound. I’d never uncorked a bottle of wine; never cleaned, or polished or dusted; never disposed of household rubbish; and I’d never used an iron. I could have employed someone, a cleaner, a cook, but it seemed a ridiculous extravagance for one person. So, I purchased a book and set about teaching myself the rudiments of cookery, starting with the basics, such as boiling an egg. I confess I did, however, employ a local service to do my laundry, and, eventually, once
the novelty of cleaning and washing up burnt pans had worn off, I employed a woman to come in two mornings a week. It was all a new experience, all of it, and I loved it.

Sometimes I shopped for food in Fortnum and Mason or Harrods, mesmerised by the colourful displays and choice, and, perhaps inevitably, returning home with enough food for an army. But usually I patronised the local bakeries, greengrocers and butchers. I became familiar with another world, a place I’d glimpsed once before, beyond the green baize door; the place Edna, Mabel, Stephens and Wilson had come from. At last the world had opened up to me, and it welcomed me with more warmth than I could ever have imagined. And it struck me how queer it was that the smaller, more confined my material world, the more freedom and space I sensed around me; as though God, nature, the universe or whatever it is, is somehow able to balance one’s experience – one’s lot in life – upon a scales. At Deyning I’d had everything and nothing; now I had nothing – and everything.

I enrolled in an art class and began to paint once more; I met new people, was invited out to new places. I was wooed by a French diplomat, and very nearly fell in love with my art teacher. I realised that I could survive alone, and I enjoyed life in a way I hadn’t for years. Then, at a dinner party, I met Antonio Capparelli. Antonio owned a gallery in Mayfair, and he was impressed by my knowledge and love of art, surprised that I’d done nothing with it, with my life. I’d explained to him that I’d had no real education, that girls like me were simply expected to marry and produce children. Something I’d clearly failed at. He suggested I work for him, at his gallery, two or three days a week perhaps, whatever I wanted, and it was tempting, but not enough. And then it came to me: a gallery, I’d set up my
own
gallery.

I used my savings as the down payment on premises just
around the corner from where I lived, on the Fulham Road, and, initially at least, I considered the whole enterprise a type of experiment. If it failed, at least I’d tried. My mother, of course, was mortified; and not just because I’d plundered what little money I had into what she considered to be a reckless business venture. To have a daughter who’d elected to be a
divorcee
was bad enough, but to have a daughter who wanted to work as well was quite beyond her.

And so, ‘It’s a different world, Mama.’

I’d been reassured, encouraged, and advised by my new friend, Antonio. It had been his idea that I should only exhibit work by new, undiscovered British artists; that I should focus my attention there, and visit art schools in London and any local exhibitions. And so for those first few months I spent my time getting to know some of the new up-and-coming artists on the scene, visiting Chelsea Art College, the Slade and various other more far-flung institutions. I’d decided early on that any profits from the gallery – once I’d paid myself enough to live on – should go to charities supporting war veterans and families of those killed in the War, in memory of my brothers. I had no need of money, and my motivation to set up a business was never about making money for myself.

I named my gallery, the Deyning Gallery. I couldn’t think of a better name at the time, and it never occurred to me that there might be any conflict of interest with Tom Cuthbert’s burgeoning business empire. Although there were a few people who enquired as to whether the gallery was a ‘
part of Cuthbert-Deyning
’.

The gallery did well, very well. And I had a number of loyal patrons who seemed keen to invest and purchase new paintings. One collector, who remained nameless, and whom I never actually met, always knew exactly what I was exhibiting. I’d receive a telephone call from a Mr Pritchard who’d later arrive by
taxicab, to pay for and remove the painting, or paintings, his employer had heard of or noticed.

‘Does he live locally then, your employer?’ I asked, as I wrapped yet another framed canvas for Mr P.

‘No, madam, he does not.’

‘Are you able to disclose his name to me?’

‘No, madam, unfortunately I’m not at liberty to do that.’

Of course, he wasn’t the only one. There were a few collectors who simply didn’t want to be seen to be spending money on something as frivolous as art, particularly modern art. And Antonio had told me it was the norm, even before the War.

I hadn’t planned on having an affair with Antonio. He was sixteen years my senior, and I’d always considered his flirting to be something synonymous with his Italian character. We met regularly for lunch and often attended exhibitions, auctions and private views together. And then one night after dinner, he came home with me.

Passionate, handsome, educated, and amusing, Antonio made me feel like a girl of sixteen again. He called me
Clereeza
, and liked me to say certain words so that he could repeat them, mimicking my accent.

‘Haughty . . .’

‘
Hor-tee
,’ he repeated.

‘Peculiar . . .’

‘
Pick-u-lee-ar
.’

‘Gorgeous . . .’

‘Gor-juz.’

Life with Antonio was anything but dull. And, after Charlie, I was once again in the maelstrom of life. We invariably ate out each evening and attended the theatre two or three times a week; and I laughed in a way I hadn’t for years. I was more than content: I was happy. But things have a habit of creeping up on us when we’re least expecting them, or need them.

I’d kept track of Tom, through a grapevine of sorts. I’d heard that he and Nancy had separated and that Deyning stood empty once more. Davina saw him, and reasonably often, and she’d informed me that he’d recently purchased another prime site in central London. ‘He’s unstoppable!’ she’d exclaimed, her eyes flashing with excitement. And then she told me of his penchant for beautiful women.

‘Oh well, he has the lifestyle, and the money – why not?’ I replied. ‘But it sounds as though he’s become everything I wish to escape from,’ I said, somewhat disingenuously. For of course I had thought of him, and thought of him often.

When I saw him with Venetia in the bar of the Theatre Royal that evening – and I saw them before they saw me – I was shocked. And I thought twice about going over to speak to them.

Venetia and Tom.

I panicked, and Antonio must have seen something in my face.

‘Whatever’s the matter, my darling? Why the frown and look of alarm?’ he asked. And so I told him.

‘There’s an old friend of mine . . . over at the bar, with . . . with my godmother.’

He turned to look. ‘Ah, yes, I see . . . I see. But Venetia, she very much likes the handsome young men.’

‘Actually, he’s not
that
young,’ I said. ‘He’s rather rapidly approaching forty.’

But the irony wasn’t lost on me: there I was, with a man almost old enough to be my father, and there was he, with a woman
definitely
old enough to be his mother.

‘Shall we say hello?’ Antonio asked.

‘Let me take a moment, please, Antonio,’ I said, still not entirely sure whether I wished to step forward and speak to them.

As I deliberated, I watched him. I noticed his skin was tanned,
and he had that unmistakable air of success about him. He wore an impeccably cut dark suit, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. And as he moved a bronzed hand through the air, the glinting gold of his wristwatch caught my eye. He looked like a rich playboy, I thought, freshly arrived back from the Riviera. And Venetia appeared spellbound.

He stood with his back half towards me, and I could easily have slipped away; they need never have known I’d been there, standing feet away from them in the crowded bar that night. But I couldn’t do it. I had to go and speak to them. I wanted to know more. And that night, like most other nights, it was impossible to miss Venetia. She wore a long red kimono, and a vividly coloured scarf wrapped around her head and fastened in place by an enormous diamond butterfly brooch. The Japanese look, I thought, watching her. She seemed to move quite swiftly from continent to continent, in terms of fashion, and was always caught under the spell of some opera. Her husband, Hughie, had not long been dead, but she abhorred black, said it added ten years at least to a woman’s face, and she hated the rituals of mourning. The very worst of Englishness, she said:
so passé, and so horribly Victorian!