He removes tea towels from three baking trays to reveal his pizza bases—he always lets them rise for half an hour after he’s rolled them—and he starts to spoon on the tomato mix. Toni tears up the mozzarella into small pieces.
“That wasn’t tactless, was it? I didn’t sound ungrateful?” says her dad.
“You were fine.”
She keeps her face down, hiding her blushing cheeks, and feigns total attention for her pizza construction.
Happiness is . . . Happiness is a lovely dinner with her dad and Natalie. Natalie raises her glass of wine and says, “To the chef. One of your best, Dominic.” They all clink glasses—Toni with her sparkling water.
Her dad and Natalie are chatting about work. Toni’s pleased she doesn’t have to join in. She can look down at her plate and imagine her mum is sitting at the table—her voice was identical to Natalie’s.
Natalie says, “I’m so jealous of your trip to China.” It sounds, to Toni, as though her mum is talking to them from the other side. She imagines her mum would be fed up, missing the trip. But then, if she hadn’t died, her dad would have made the trip on his own.
“Toni? I thought I’d look through some more of your mum’s things this evening,” says Natalie. “Would you like to help? There might be some clothes you’d like to keep.”
She likes how Natalie barges in; doesn’t worry about broaching things carefully. Some of her dad’s friends tiptoe around her as though she’s standing on thin ice.
“You’ve already had a sort-out, haven’t you?” says Toni.
“I only went through the drawers.” Toni knows Natalie means her mum’s underwear and T-shirts. “She had a thing for multiple purchases, didn’t she?”
Toni laughs lightly. “Three or four of everything, in different colours.”
“I think she caught that habit from me,” says her dad.
“Some of her nicer clothes could be collectibles in twenty years, Toni. You might wish you’d kept them. I’m thinking ahead. You know, the vintage of tomorrow.”
“I suppose I could reuse any nice fabrics. Recycle bits.”
Natalie grins, but her eyes fill up with tears. “That’s a lovely idea. I hope you never throw away your DIY jackets. If you have a daughter someday, she’d love to wear them.”
Toni’s eyes widen. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
Natalie has this way of making her feel like an adult. When she arrived this evening, she took one look at the baked peaches and said, straight out, “We need to watch that woman next door, Toni. I think she’s taking a shine to your dad.” It made her feel better about making such a scene in Suzhou.
“Come on. Let’s get started, then,” says Natalie. “I’m kinda looking forward to finding all your mum’s shopping mistakes.”
Natalie peeked in Connie’s walk-in wardrobe a few months back—wanting to spend a few quiet moments with her sister’s clothes while Toni was out of the house. It certainly didn’t look anything like this. The clothes are now organized by colour, whereas before they were grouped, as she groups her own clothes, by type—blouses and shirts, trousers and skirts, cardigans and sweaters, jackets and coats, with dressy clothes in the smallest section at one end. Dominic has evidently spent time setting out some colour palette. Black clothes transition through charcoal grey, light grey, purples—which always suited Connie—through to greens and yellows, creams and, finally, whites.
“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 th
eir 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.”
Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind Page 12