The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  Paulo avoided Ginie as much as possible. The war made it easy – he didn’t come home on leave. On the rare occasions she saw him, she almost felt sorry for him. He looked desperately unhappy, his face pale and set, the rims of his eyelids reddened. They spoke only when necessary. They were both in an impossible position, for separations were rare and divorce wasn’t allowed under Italian law.

  Ginie went to see her parents to ask their advice. There was a kind of luxury in confiding in them. It felt like a return to childhood, to being looked after. The burdens of being an adult were too great. She wanted to surrender responsibility for herself and be told what to do.

  She gave them an edited version of events, simply stating that Paulo had turned away from her because she hadn’t fallen pregnant, omitting the fact that she was infertile. They listened without interrupting, visibly shaken.

  ‘It hurts my heart to hear this, mia cara,’ Riccardo said when she had finished.

  Rosa waved his words away.

  ‘You must maintain a façade of being married. It’s not unusual.’ She had a string of rosary beads in her hands and she was running them through her fingers as they talked.

  Ginie sat bolt upright. ‘How can I live like that? It’s unbearable.’

  Rosa frowned at her, gripping the beads tightly. ‘You must bear it. There are plenty of people in this situation who manage perfectly well. Live your own life, discreetly. Marriage is a holy sacrament. Don’t violate it and bring shame on us all.’

  Ginie looked at Riccardo for help. He shrugged and sighed. It was the first time she noticed that something inside him had changed. He was getting old and his desire for a quiet life had become paramount. She left her parents’ house soon afterwards, feeling more let down and trapped than ever. Weeks dragged by. She was sick with misery, hating living a lie, resenting having to endure the worst of both her worlds. Fortunately, it had knocked the desire to gamble right out of her.

  In her lowest moments, she wished that Paulo would be killed in action. As a driver, he wasn’t engaged in significant conflict, but casualties were not uncommon. She imagined a visit from some sympathetic, uncomfortable soldier, telling her that Paulo had come under mortar fire and that he was lying dead in a ditch, or some foreign morgue. He drove too fast – perhaps he would crash his car. She pictured the twisted metal and shattered glass strewn across the road, Paulo’s mangled body being loaded onto a stretcher.

  Paulo’s death was the only thing that could release her from this marriage quickly, cleanly and painlessly. She brought herself up short, ashamed. What kind of person was she turning into? It felt as if her heart was going to calcify from the bitterness it bore. In the end, she just packed a suitcase and left. Anything was better than the constant pain and pretence. Her parents gave her a meagre allowance; scarcely enough to cover her living expenses. Riccardo wanted to be more generous, but Rosa overrode him, bent on punishing her. Ginie endured a bitter tirade from her mother, hands clamped to her hips.

  ‘I fed you and clothed you and tried to mould your character, but nothing can change the way you are. You will never amount to anything. Wretched child.’

  Cruel, cutting words that left a deep mark. The Spinolas turned their backs, maintaining a rigorous silence, hiding the facts from polite society. Ginie had braced herself for storms of rage or tears. She hadn’t expected silence, solid as a curtain. They seemed to want to erase Ginie from their family history. It was intended as a punishment, but she was grateful for it.

  She found cheap lodgings in Santa Margherita. She lived quietly, nursing her wounds, going for long walks by the sea. There was an ache in her heart; a raw, physical ache. She was grieving for her marriage and full of dread for the future. What if no man ever wanted her again?

  No. She had to be hopeful, to look towards a life free of pain. She had just received a letter from her school friend, Rose, who was travelling in Italy and wanted Ginie to meet her in Courmayeur.

  Do say you’ll come, it urged. The crowd in Courmayeur is young, sporty and social. We’ll have a ball.

  Ginie wondered if she should pawn her engagement ring and spend some of the cash on the trip. There was no knowing what, or who, Destiny might put in her path.

  11

  The Courtaulds, London, 1920s

  As he and Ginie stood on the doorstep of his brother’s house in Portman Square, Stephen could hear the high-pitched whine of shells in his ears and knew it was going to be a bad night.

  He blinked and gave his head a shake to dispel the sounds, trying not to picture the soil and torn limbs spurting into the air. He had started to sweat and his collar felt tight around his neck.

  Just breathe, he told himself. Breathe in air and push it out again. Focus on Ginie, so vibrantly alive beside you. Look at the soft hair curling on the nape of her neck, inhale her perfume and underneath it the scent that’s just Ginie.

  The front door swung open and they were met with Sam’s butler, Roberts, who greeted them courteously and without eye contact. Ginie handed him her wrap, the slight tremor of her hands betraying her nervousness. Stephen’s parents had died before the war and this was her first time meeting his family. He wished he could reassure her. They were a very humdrum lot and not as interesting as her little finger, but there was only time to give her hand a brief squeeze. They were quickly ushered to the drawing room, where Sam and his wife, Elizabeth, were getting to their feet to say hello.

  Sam held Ginie by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks, telling her how delighted he was to have a new sister-in-law.

  ‘Thank you, but the pleasure is all mine.’ Ginie gave Sam a dazzling smile. ‘I see that there’s a Courtauld family resemblance.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Of course! Strong, serious, responsible-looking. . .’

  ‘Sam is much more handsome than I am!’ Stephen cut in, laughing.

  Elizabeth didn’t try and kiss Ginie; she held out a hand for her to shake.

  ‘Call me Lil,’ she said, smiling. ‘Welcome to the family.’ She was a fair-haired and thick-set Irishwoman, with deep creases around her blue eyes.

  As they shook hands, Stephen noticed Ginie glance around the drawing room, taking in the vast chandeliers, the gilded cornicing, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Portman Square. The room was filled with antiques and Sam’s collection of French Impressionist paintings: Manet’s Bar hung above the mantelpiece. There were Monets and Gaugins on the other walls. He tried to see it all through her eyes, as though for the first time. The beauty of the art calmed him; it was a beauty that was greater than himself and it seemed to bear him up.

  ‘I’ve never seen a collection like this in a private house,’ Ginie said, drawing her fingers through her hair. ‘I mean, Stephen told me about it, but seeing it in person is quite another thing.’

  ‘Oh, Sam is passionate about his pictures,’ said Lil. She flung up her hands.

  ‘One day, I’m going to give this house and its contents to the nation,’ Sam said.

  Sam had recently donated £50,000 to the Tate to buy Impressionist art and Stephen was immensely proud of him. The brothers had been brought up to look at money as neither a burden nor an indulgence, but as a responsibility to be used wisely. Stephen didn’t yet know what he wanted to do with his. He wished he had Sam’s passion and purpose.

  ‘I don’t believe that art and high culture should be confined to a narrow elite,’ Sam was saying. ‘It ought to belong to the general public.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Ginie.

  ‘What’s more is – the public wants art! People are searching for meaning, for a higher system of values. Just look at the sheer number of people flooding art exhibitions and classical concerts during the war.’

  Roberts brought glasses of champagne on a silver tray and they moved slowly around the room with their drinks, discussing the paintings and beautiful objects.

  ‘Three generations of Courtaulds were silversmiths during the eighteenth century,’ s
aid Lil, pausing in front of a table of silverware, ‘We collect their work.’ She picked up a tea caddy decorated with scrolls and leaves, amongst which reclining figures drank, rested or embraced. It was a virtuosic piece, a flight of fancy.

  ‘They were among the most renowned and prolific craftsmen of their day. This one’s by Samuel Courtauld: here’s his mark, see? The initials S.C. beneath a splendid sun.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ replied Ginie. ‘I can see that our husbands’ love of art is inherited.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Lil, ‘It’s the craftsman’s delight in lovely work.’

  Ginie turned to Sam, ‘I’m familiar with Stephen’s taste, but I’d love to know more about yours. I’m wondering, what makes you decide to buy a painting?’

  ‘He loves the colours,’ Lil dropped in. ‘He collects like a missionary saves souls – with fervour and concentration.’

  ‘Lil’s right, in a way,’ Sam gave a self-deprecating shrug, ‘I often can’t really say why I buy a painting – it’s an instinctive thing. My gut reaction is always the deciding factor. If it doesn’t make me tingle, it’s no good.’

  Sam sipped at his champagne and Stephen saw he was in a genial, relaxed mood. Sam was Chairman of Courtaulds, and he had the reputation of being an aggressive boss – pedantic and hard on his staff. Though you would never know it looking at him now, with his family and his beloved art collection.

  ‘I don’t always get it right, mind you,’ he went on.

  ‘Oh, no?’

  ‘Yes. My biggest mistake was buying a particularly crude Seurat forgery of a female nude.’

  ‘I guess she made you tingle,’ Ginie replied, prompting a laugh from everyone but Lil. Ginie was having no problem winning Sam over. It was never the men who were the problem, Stephen thought, ruefully. Though he could sense how curious the couple were about Ginie. While one was talking, the other gave sidelong glances. Beneath the polite surface of conversation, unspoken questions gathered.

  They were stood in front of Gaugin’s Nevermore.

  ‘This one is a masterpiece,’ said Sam, ‘of course the price was absurd, but I expect it will seem small in twenty years’ time, should the art market continue to grow as it is growing now.’

  Ginie said, ‘I love how Gaugin sailed off to Tahiti thinking he’d find an untouched paradise and people living simple, natural lives, without the corrupting ideas of modern society. And then, when he got there, he found it all far more developed than he’d thought, and full of tourists. But he decided to paint it as he’d imagined it anyway.’

  ‘Utopia is never what you think it’s going to be, isn’t that the point?’ said Lil, in a tone that closed the subject.

  In the pause that followed, Stephen could feel the panic begin to creep back into his chest. He was in his trench, shivering, the smell of rats, wet straw and faeces in his nostrils. In the darkness, he could hear a young lad wailing and praying for death. Worse than the physical discomfort, worse even than the suffering he had witnessed, was the change in himself. He was hardened, ready and willing to carry out acts he had once condemned. If Ginie knew what he’d done in the name of King and country, she wouldn’t look at him with that soft light in her eyes ever again.

  He tried to shut out the visions and voices by concentrating on the painting. Gaugin’s nude lay on her hip, gazing with such disinterest that it began to feel directed at him. Your problems are unimportant, she seemed to tell him. Men have been fighting wars since time began.

  At dinner, Sam and Stephen talked about their shares in Courtaulds. The company was reaching new heights in profitability.

  ‘Change your mind and come and work with me?’ asked Sam.

  Stephen shook his head and Sam’s forehead puckered with soft furrows. Being part of the family firm had never appealed to Stephen. He wanted to be his own man. He also knew that he wasn’t capable of holding down any kind of job at the moment; he couldn’t bear being trapped in a box of an office all day, feeling the walls close in.

  ‘The only job that has come up recently I found halfway interesting was a partnership in Lloyds,’ he said. ‘But when I thought about it, I decided I didn’t want it after all.’ He swallowed a spoonful of lobster bisque. ‘I’m in no hurry. The right opportunity will come along.’ The soup was creamy and intense in flavour. Sam and Lil employed a celebrated French chef, but Stephen wasn’t hungry; he felt like gagging. Sam shot him a quick, concerned look.

  Pushing his bowl away, Stephen leant back in his chair and watched Ginie talking to Lil. Her face was animated, her slim arms flung out, gesticulating.

  ‘It’s been wonderful getting to know you both,’ Ginie was saying. ‘Stephen and I would love it if you came to dinner at our house. How about next week or the week after?’

  Lil rested her soup spoon against the side of her bowl. ‘I’m afraid we’re fully booked.’

  The pendulum of the grandfather clock swung back and forth, and a log tumbled in the fireplace, sending up a shower of fine sparks as Lil proceeded to reel off a list of parties she and Sam were going to. They were the kind of socialite functions that Stephen knew Ginie desperately wanted to be invited to. He drained his glass of burgundy – he had finished several already. He understood that Ginie had her own demons and she’d hoped that marrying him would banish them.

  ‘Once the children break up, I shall have even less time. You’ll see what it’s like when you have your own,’ Lil finished.

  Stephen winced and glanced at Ginie, but her face was expressionless. If he could get her pregnant, it might help them both to overcome their trauma. He hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy in Courmayeur that turned out to be a false alarm. It was still early days, though. They were both young enough, and he was full of hope that one day. . .

  That night, he held her close in bed. Ginie hadn’t said anything about Lil’s remarks, but as he ran his hands over her in the dark, he felt tears on her cheeks. Long after Stephen had fallen asleep, Ginie lay staring into darkness, revisiting painful memories. It was funny how the ache of losing a baby never diminished with the passing years. If anything, it grew stronger, changing shape so the sharpness of the pain was never blunted. She couldn’t help imagining the sort of person he might have grown into. She was sure he would have been fearless, quick to smile with dark hair and brown eyes like her. In her fantasies, he was always a boy. It didn’t occur to her that she might have had a daughter.

  She had fallen pregnant in Genoa, before she met Paulo. She had been careless and stupid. The man, a handsome but impoverished marquis, packed up and vanished from the city when she told him. Fear and despair ran through Ginie’s veins like poison. She couldn’t confide in her parents; Rosa would throw her out for good. She went to her old nanny, Maria, the woman who had raised her with scolding and kisses. Maria had retired, but she was still more of a mother to Ginie than Rosa had ever been.

  Maria took her to a dingy house in a poor street – it wasn’t even a clinic. Ginie remembered the indignity of her feet being hooked up in stirrups, the clink of instruments, the coldness of the metal being forced into her. The doctor had a sallow complexion and grey hair that brushed his collar, brown eyes and tobacco-stained teeth. The tip of his tongue protruded between his lips as he worked. Ginie closed her eyes against the sight of him between her legs. It felt like the jagged teeth of a saw working inside her. To stop herself crying out, she bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted the iron tang of blood.

  Several days later, she was burning up with fever and had excruciating abdominal pain. Rosa rushed her to the family doctor without any idea of the real reason for her sickness. Dr Fasoli was the opposite in every way to the man who had operated on her: his hair was clipped, clean and brushed away from his face. He had smooth skin with smudges of purple beneath his eyes and his hands smelt of carbolic soap. He’d been as gentle with Ginie as he could, both during the physical examination and in the consultation afterwards. Although he spoke in a low, soft voice, clo
aking his words in medical terms, nothing could hide their sting.

  The infection had caused permanent damage to her womb. She would never have children.

  Stephen half stretched in his sleep, muttered something incomprehensible and curled up once more on his side. A terrible feeling of desolation swept through Ginie: the loneliness of a secret she could never share.

  PART THREE

  12

  Stephen, Rhodesia, 1950s

  One hazy, humid afternoon, Stephen was in his study writing to Sam. Through the windows, he could see the sun hanging red and enlarged, wreathed in vapour.

  The shrill ring of the telephone cut through the stillness. Irritated, he put down his pen and hurried to answer it. He was about to lift the receiver when he realised there was a snake coiled around it, like rope. Snatching his hand back, he felt his breath go, as if someone had rammed him in the chest.

  He stood frozen, staring for what felt like a lifetime. Then he regained his wits and ran to fetch a walking stick. Fear was sparking through him, but he forced himself to give the snake a good nudge with it. The creature unwound itself from the phone and looped around the stick. Judging from its colouring, it was a puff adder: light tan overlaid with darker U-shaped bands and a pale yellow belly, dotted with a few black spots. It looked as though it was about to strike, so Stephen hastened to the garden, holding the stick as far away from his body as he could. He flung the creature into a flower bed and it slithered away at once. Willing his anxious heart to stop racing, he went indoors and told Dixon what had happened. The phone had stopped ringing.