by T A Williams
‘Not going to happen…’
Suzie went over to the buffet and helped herself to a bowl of fresh fruit salad and a croissant, ordered a pot of English Breakfast tea from the waitress and returned to the table. Once she had sat down, she gave Alex a full account of what had, or rather hadn’t, happened with Michael the previous night and she read great sympathy on her friend’s face.
‘I’m so sorry, Suzie… for you both. It’s an awful situation, but maybe it’s for the best.’
‘For the best?’
‘Well, we’re going home in two weeks’ time so maybe it’s better for nothing to happen, or you might end up back in the UK and heartbroken.’ She gave Suzie a little smile. ‘Better to be hurt a little now than hurt a lot then, don’t you think?’
Suzie didn’t know what to think. She had struggled to get off to sleep last night as her brain tried to digest what Michael had told her. Although his promise of friendship and the professor’s encouraging email had cheered her somewhat, she hadn’t been able to shake off a lasting feeling of regret for what might have been. When they had separated after dinner, they had made no plans to meet up again. When or whether he would contact her was something she just didn’t know and, while the optimistic part of her brain was hoping he would, her more pragmatic side told her she had quite possibly seen the last of Michael Turner, Artist. She took a spoonful of the wonderful fruit salad and looked across at Alex with a shrug of the shoulders.
‘Not a brilliant prospect for either of us, is it? What are you going to do back home if your father says you can’t study here? Try applying to art schools in the UK?’
Alex shook her head sadly. ‘Like I’ve told you before, that would just be a waste of time. He’d never countenance it. No, if I can’t paint, I suppose I’ll just go back to the estate and wait for an arranged marriage to James or somebody else to be signed, sealed and delivered.’ Her expression suddenly changed from glum to worried. ‘Oh God, it’s Saturday. The wedding in California’s today. James might be on his way back here tomorrow.’
‘I quite like James, you know.’
‘So do I, Suzie, but just not in that way.’
‘So have you prepared what it is you’re going to say to him?’
‘Um, sort of.’ Alex grimaced. ‘But I’m not looking forward to it.’
Suzie left the hotel just before ten and spent the day winding in and out of the maze of little streets of the centro storico, constantly coming upon one historic marvel after another. The shopkeepers were just beginning to open up in readiness for a busy Saturday and tantalising smells wafted from shops selling gorgeous pastries as well as savoury focaccia and pizza. Having just had breakfast, she was able to fight temptation, but she had no doubt it would be easy to pile on the pounds here if she wanted. From the look of some of her fellow tourists, a good number of them already had.
After a while she turned left into Piazza delle Erbe. This really was the throbbing heart of the city and the market stalls were already set up, with tourists browsing the souvenirs on display. As she knew by now, when evening came, the market would disappear and the square would assume its other function as Verona’s principal meeting place, home to bars and restaurants all along its length. She made a point of looking up as she walked along and realised that no two buildings ringing the square looked the same. Some were older, some younger, some tall, some not so tall, some red, some yellow and many ochre or red brick with dusty brown or green shutters at the windows. There were arches, turrets, crenellations and towers all around. Piazza delle Erbe claimed to be the most beautiful square in Italy and, although there was considerable competition for this honour, she felt sure it had to be right up there alongside other iconic squares like Piazza Navona in Rome or Piazza della Signoria in Florence.
After lunch, she climbed the never-ending steps to the vantage point on the hill above the town, Piazzale San Pietro. When she reached there she was glad to be able to rest on the wall and catch her breath as she looked out over Verona, the town centre framed by the meandering loop of the river. Directly below her was a Roman amphitheatre and beyond that the castle. A sea of red-tiled roofs, punctuated by spires, cupolas and towers stretched out before her, making for a spectacular panorama, and she took a number of photos and sent them home to her parents.
For a few moments she even wondered about sending one to Michael with a friendly message along the lines of ‘perfect subject for one of your paintings’ or some such, but then decided not to bother him. She would leave it to him to contact her if he so desired. And she really hoped he would. From the hill she made her way slowly back to the hotel by a circular route – via an amazing ice cream shop – and reached her room feeling quite weary. She decided against going out on the terrace in case Alex’s father was there, so she lay down on her bed and very easily drifted off to sleep, not waking until almost six.
Showered and dressed, she tapped on Alex’s door at seven and they went down the stairs together to meet Lord Tedburn. As they walked, Alex informed Suzie in a deadpan voice that her prediction had been correct – her father had said no.
‘He refuses to believe that art can be a subject worth studying, and he refuses even more strongly to believe that I would be capable of applying myself seriously, even if he let me do the course.’
‘Would you mind if I talked to him tonight?’
‘Be my guest, but you’ll be wasting your time.’ Alex shook her head sadly as they rounded the last corner and walked down the broad flight of steps to the lobby. ‘Once he’s made up his mind about something, there’s no dissuading him.’
Lord Tedburn – wearing a formal suit, collar and tie – was waiting for them and he greeted Suzie very cordially. A taxi took them to a magnificent Renaissance villa on the outskirts of the city, set in its own formal park, where they were ushered into a swanky restaurant with frescoes on the ceiling and glittering chandeliers made of Murano glass. Forewarned by Alex, Suzie had put on not only the expensive new dress, but even her only pair of heels.
Unlike the special school concert, in this restaurant she most certainly didn’t feel overdressed. There was more bling on display than at a footballers’ wives’ get-together and she felt decidedly uncomfortable. She and Alex had been getting on so well, she had even started to forget that they were staying in an exorbitantly expensive hotel, but this place brought back to her the fact that she was an insignificant speck of very ordinary cosmic dust at the edges of the glittering Milky Way inhabited by the rich and famous.
The meal was predictably excellent, although Suzie secretly felt that Beppe’s had been better – but maybe that had been the company. The atmosphere around the table tonight was far from relaxed, even after they had disposed of a bottle of champagne while waiting for their antipasti. In fact, Suzie and Alex only had a single glass each, while Lord Tedburn had made short work of finishing the rest. By the time a bottle of frighteningly expensive Barolo had gone the same way, Alex’s father had mellowed considerably and Suzie took the opportunity presented when Alex went off to the Ladies to plead her friend’s cause.
‘Um, Lord Tedburn, I wonder if I might be allowed to speak in support of Alex’s plan to study art. She’s got real talent, you know.’
Lord Tedburn glanced up in some surprise and studied Suzie for a few seconds before responding. When he did, she was surprised to hear not irritation, but sorrow in his voice.
‘I’m sure she has. Her mother always enjoyed painting – as a pastime.’ He added emphasis to the last word of the sentence. ‘But there are two reasons why I think it’s a bad thing. First, an art course isn’t going to lead anywhere. At best it would give her a hobby.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘She’ll never make a name for herself. We both know that. She’ll only end up disappointed, and I wouldn’t want that. But more importantly, she’s still wet behind the ears, you know. I can only imagine how she might end up if she got in with the wrong crowd – and from what I’ve seen of her choice of friends so far, she wo
uld.’
Suzie felt she had to object, but tried to make it as diplomatic as possible. ‘I’ve got to know Alex pretty well over the past few weeks, Lord Tedburn, and I really don’t think she’s as immature as you say. In fact, she’s always displayed a surprising degree of maturity.’ Give or take a glass of Prosecco in the face, she thought to herself, but did not voice it. ‘And I’ve seen the artwork she’s capable of producing, and it’s very, very good.’
He shook his head. ‘Besides, it’s time she settled down. She’s not getting any younger. Her mother was already married to me by the time she was Alexandra’s age. No, I’m sorry to disappoint her, but it’s for the best.’
Suzie had another couple of tries before Alex came back, but it was no good. As his daughter had said, Lord Tedburn wasn’t the sort of man to change his mind once it was made up. All the way through the rest of the meal, she reflected on what he had said and the unfairness of it. She was ever more convinced that, if she had been in Alex’s position, she would have put her foot down and done the course anyway. But then, she didn’t have the added complication of a promise made by a child to a dying mother. She sighed surreptitiously into her panna cotta.
Chapter 15
On Sunday morning, Suzie took the Bardolino bus and got off at the stop directly outside Professor Macgregor-Brown’s house. All along the way they had been held up by tractors and trailers as the grape harvest got underway. This had made her think of Michael, whose house was amid the vineyards barely a mile further on. She hadn’t heard any more from him and, although she had prepared herself for it, this lack of contact came as a disappointment all the same. As she walked up to the professor’s gate, she glanced along the road and was unable to see any sign of activity in James’s villa, so at least it looked as though Alex wouldn’t have to face that next emotional hurdle immediately. After the stressful weekend with her father, this was probably just as well.
She rang the bell on the gatepost and waited for Paolina to come and let her in. When the gate opened, Suzie greeted her warmly and gently fought off Dogberry’s effusive welcome.
The professor was waiting in the living room, sitting in an armchair, looking out over the lake. As he heard the door, he struggled to get out of his chair and Suzie could see how hard he was finding it. Today he was looking all of his eighty-four years. She hurried over and caught hold of his arm, helping him to his feet.
‘I’m delighted to see you again, Prof… Mack. Thank you so much for the invitation.’ She kissed him on both cheeks and saw him smile.
‘The pleasure is all mine.’ He stepped back and caught hold of the armchair for support as he studied her. ‘You’re looking quite charming. I’m sure you’d much rather be out with people your own age.’
Suzie assured him she was delighted to be there and they sat down to chat. After a few minutes of small talk – mainly about the vendemmia, which promised to produce exceptional wine this year – she hesitantly asked him about her thesis and was greatly relieved to see him smile.
‘Excellent, scholarly, impeccably researched and authoritative. I’m immensely impressed.’
Suzie gave him a beaming smile in return. ‘Coming from you, that’s high praise indeed – although a lot of it came from your very pen.’
‘I have only one slight hesitation.’
Suzie’s smile slipped a notch or two as she straightened up and braced herself for the critique she felt sure was coming.
‘You appear to be firmly positioned astride the top of the fence.’
‘The fence?’
‘Tell me, are you a Stratfordian, an Oxfordian, a Baconian or a believer in some other candidate for the true identity of the man we know as William Shakespeare, the greatest playwright of all time?’
‘I thought it best to leave the reader to make up his or her own mind. I presented the facts as best I could, but it’s up to the reader to decide.’ She went on to explain that her supervisor had been an unshakable believer in the plays having been written by the ‘traditional’ Shakespeare, the man with minimal formal education who at eighteen was married in a shotgun wedding to Anne Hathaway in Stratford-upon-Avon. Her supervisor had dismissed Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe and Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, just as he had scoffed at the idea of anybody else being responsible. As she explained, she read comprehension and sympathy on the professor’s face.
‘I understand, my dear. Indeed, when I wrote my doctoral thesis many, many years ago, I found myself in a similar position – having to tailor my findings to the expectations of the man who would ultimately decide my fate.’ He lowered his voice theatrically. ‘But now, entre nous, where do you stand? Who was Shakespeare?’
Suzie took a deep breath. One of the things she had discovered early on in her Shakespearian studies was the depth of animosity that existed between the Stratfordians and the so-called Anti-Stratfordians. It was quite remarkable how aggressive those who believed in the Shakespeare of Stratford could be against those who doubted his status and vice versa. To an outsider, this academic spat might look trivial and insignificant, but to the initiated, it was capable of generating depths of feeling that wouldn’t have been out of place in some of the Bard’s grittier plays. From her reading, she knew Professor Macgregor-Brown to fall into the Anti-Stratfordian camp, which was just as well, because so did she. She, however, actually went further and it was with some trepidation that she told him the truth.
‘Much as I would like to believe that a young and relatively inexperienced man from rural England could be behind these great works, I have to agree with you that it’s very unlikely. My own feeling is that it had to be somebody with a broader cultural background and intimate knowledge of, and a deep love for, Italy. It could have been any one of the men you mention but, although I don’t have all the facts to support my hypothesis, since writing my thesis I’ve been coming round to thinking that the works of Shakespeare might even have been written by a woman.’
This time she distinctly read surprise on the old man’s face and she hastily outlined her case for Shakespeare having fallen in love with an Italian woman: the ‘dark lady’ of his sonnets. Quite possibly the mystery woman had been living in London and it had been there that he had gleaned all his knowledge of Italy from her, or maybe he had indeed visited the country during the so-called ‘lost years’ when he disappeared off the radar completely for a seven-year period. Or even, she added as a hesitant conclusion, maybe the ‘dark lady’ had been the real writer and William Shakespeare, the actor, simply the necessary male validation in an era when women writers were considered to be the work of the devil.
The conversation continued over an excellent lunch of artichoke salad followed by beef stew and polenta and she enjoyed herself immensely. From the expression on the professor’s face, he found the conversation equally agreeable. At their feet, the Labrador snored happily, his head resting on Suzie’s foot. No doubt the prospect of the leftovers of beef stew was far more intellectually alluring to him than the likelihood that Romeo and Juliet had been written by a woman.
The only negative thing that Sunday lunchtime was watching the professor struggling with his meal. His hands were shaking badly and he even spilled some wine down his arm as he lifted his glass. Suzie could see from the expression on his face just how frustrating this must have been for him and she almost rushed to his assistance when, at one point, he dropped a forkful of stew on the floor. Before she could jump up, however, there was a sudden movement at her feet and she glanced under the table just in time to see Dogberry dispose of the evidence. From then on, the dog relinquished her feet in favour of his master’s – for obvious canine reasons.
After lunch they went back into the sitting room and Paolina brought them coffee. As she sipped from the little espresso cup, Suzie’s eyes strayed around the room and landed on a painting, noticing it for the first time. It was instantly recognisable. She set down her cup and pointed.
‘I saw the original study for t
hat painting the other day.’ Seeing the expression on his face, she went on to explain how she had met Michael and how he had offered to cast an eye over Alex’s work. As she spoke, she saw an expression of deep sadness spread across the old man’s face and his voice was sombre as he replied.
‘You know about his wife? What a truly awful thing to happen. And they made such a lovely couple. I’d known them for a good while through various charities with which we were both involved and then he and Grazia rented my flat in Verona for a year or so while all the building work was going on up at their house. That painting was an immensely generous gift to me from a fine man. That awful accident was so, so tragic. I’m afraid I get out so little these days, ever since I had to give up driving, and I haven’t seen him since the funeral. How’s he holding up?’
Suzie answered honestly. ‘It’ll take time. He’s fit and healthy but, underneath, you can see he’s still hurting.’
Mack nodded slowly. ‘Are you going to see him again? Do give him my best wishes.’
‘I don’t know if I will see him, but if I do, I’ll be sure to pass on your message.’
Suzie left the house at just after four, knowing that her bus would be coming past in ten minutes or so. Before leaving, she gave Mack a battered copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets that she had found in an antiquarian bookshop in Verona and she saw his eyes light up.
‘Whether he was a man or a woman, Shakespeare knew a thing or two about love. You know something, Suzie, I think I enjoy his poetry every bit as much as I do his plays. Such a brilliant grasp of human nature and the power of love.’ He gave her a little smile as he quoted from Romeo and Juliet:
‘“Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;