you’re having one.”
“Same again?”
She nodded. He signalled the waiter and ordered the drinks. The sun was going down over the bow of the distant horizon, and the breeze was a delight after the heat of the day.
“ Contemplating the Future ,” he said. “Tell me about it. When, where? What does it mean to you? Or do you think that doesn’t matter? Is what matters the viewer’s interpretation?”
“You’re right. A painting might mean something different to everyone, and what I think about it is no more valid than what anyone else thinks. Tell me, what does it mean to you?”
“It’s an incredibly optimistic piece of work,” he said. “I see three figures facing a beautiful landscape, maybe a desert, and night is bringing out the stars. It’s full of hope for the future.”
She was watching him, twirling the miniature parasol between thumb and forefinger. “So the night, for you, is a symbol of optimism?” she asked.
“Not necessarily,” he said, “but the stars are.” He paused, watching her. “What does it mean to you? Do you see the night, rather than the stars?”
She shook her head. “I’m not telling. Maybe at some time in the future, okay? I’ll tell you then, perhaps.” So much of her conversation was playful, and it delighted him. He wondered, though, at the accuracy of his interpretation. What had she said? That everyone’s individual interpretation was valid? And her own? Was Contemplating the Future pessimistic, in her opinion?
She was nipping the brow of her nose, eyes screwed shut. “Damn. I think I’m coming down with a migraine. Exhibitions always bring them on. Do you think you could call a taxi?”
“Of course. Can I get you something?”
“I have pills at home. I should have brought them with me.”
Five minutes later they were riding home. Darkness was falling, and the massed stars were appearing overhead like a benison.
The taxi dropped them at the end of the track, and they were forced to walk the rest of the way over the uneven terrain. He was practised from many such treks back from the village, but she stumbled, stymied by migraine and unfamiliarity. At one point he took her hand to guide her, and it came to him how soft and warm human flesh seemed, after so long without touching any but his own.
Outside her villa, she squeezed his hand farewell. “And remember, Daniel, do call around at some point. Don’t leave all the socialising to me.”
He promised to call one afternoon, and made his way home in a daze.
He fetched a beer from the fridge, sat on the sofa and watched the stars for a long, long time.
They seemed incredibly bright tonight.
Chapter Four
Cranley Grange, February, 1935
Edward Vaughan was a tall, broad man, whose choice of dress ran to rough and ready tweeds, and he was never without a lighted pipe. His hair was grey and swept back in leonine profusion, his face craggy and weathered, fissured like some outcropping open to the depredation of the elements. It was an apt metaphor: although quiet and private, he had let slip, late one night after a succession of double malts had loosened his tongue, that he had known tragedy in his life. He had lost a brother in the Great War, and three years ago his wife had succumbed to cancer.
He was introspective, but amiable: on our first meeting he had praised a short story of mine published by Jasper Carnegie in The Monthly Scribe . In company he was thoughtful and somewhat reserved - though his reserve suggested not the suspicion that some taciturn men emanate, but a wealth of quiet understanding of the ways of the world.
He was standing beside his Austin 16 when I hurried along the pavement with my overnight bag, somewhat out of breath.
“Mr Vaughan!” I panted. “Forgive me. Late as ever! The ‘buses-”
He smiled around the stem of his pipe. “What’s five minutes, Jonathon? And please, call me Edward.”
He took my bag and stowed it in the back of the car, and I climbed into the
“Same again?”
She nodded. He signalled the waiter and ordered the drinks. The sun was going down over the bow of the distant horizon, and the breeze was a delight after the heat of the day.
“ Contemplating the Future ,” he said. “Tell me about it. When, where? What does it mean to you? Or do you think that doesn’t matter? Is what matters the viewer’s interpretation?”
“You’re right. A painting might mean something different to everyone, and what I think about it is no more valid than what anyone else thinks. Tell me, what does it mean to you?”
“It’s an incredibly optimistic piece of work,” he said. “I see three figures facing a beautiful landscape, maybe a desert, and night is bringing out the stars. It’s full of hope for the future.”
She was watching him, twirling the miniature parasol between thumb and forefinger. “So the night, for you, is a symbol of optimism?” she asked.
“Not necessarily,” he said, “but the stars are.” He paused, watching her. “What does it mean to you? Do you see the night, rather than the stars?”
She shook her head. “I’m not telling. Maybe at some time in the future, okay? I’ll tell you then, perhaps.” So much of her conversation was playful, and it delighted him. He wondered, though, at the accuracy of his interpretation. What had she said? That everyone’s individual interpretation was valid? And her own? Was Contemplating the Future pessimistic, in her opinion?
She was nipping the brow of her nose, eyes screwed shut. “Damn. I think I’m coming down with a migraine. Exhibitions always bring them on. Do you think you could call a taxi?”
“Of course. Can I get you something?”
“I have pills at home. I should have brought them with me.”
Five minutes later they were riding home. Darkness was falling, and the massed stars were appearing overhead like a benison.
The taxi dropped them at the end of the track, and they were forced to walk the rest of the way over the uneven terrain. He was practised from many such treks back from the village, but she stumbled, stymied by migraine and unfamiliarity. At one point he took her hand to guide her, and it came to him how soft and warm human flesh seemed, after so long without touching any but his own.
Outside her villa, she squeezed his hand farewell. “And remember, Daniel, do call around at some point. Don’t leave all the socialising to me.”
He promised to call one afternoon, and made his way home in a daze.
He fetched a beer from the fridge, sat on the sofa and watched the stars for a long, long time.
They seemed incredibly bright tonight.
Chapter Four
Cranley Grange, February, 1935
Edward Vaughan was a tall, broad man, whose choice of dress ran to rough and ready tweeds, and he was never without a lighted pipe. His hair was grey and swept back in leonine profusion, his face craggy and weathered, fissured like some outcropping open to the depredation of the elements. It was an apt metaphor: although quiet and private, he had let slip, late one night after a succession of double malts had loosened his tongue, that he had known tragedy in his life. He had lost a brother in the Great War, and three years ago his wife had succumbed to cancer.
He was introspective, but amiable: on our first meeting he had praised a short story of mine published by Jasper Carnegie in The Monthly Scribe . In company he was thoughtful and somewhat reserved - though his reserve suggested not the suspicion that some taciturn men emanate, but a wealth of quiet understanding of the ways of the world.
He was standing beside his Austin 16 when I hurried along the pavement with my overnight bag, somewhat out of breath.
“Mr Vaughan!” I panted. “Forgive me. Late as ever! The ‘buses-”
He smiled around the stem of his pipe. “What’s five minutes, Jonathon? And please, call me Edward.”
He took my bag and stowed it in the back of the car, and I climbed into the
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