air.
Chapter
4
MISS
SIX FOOT NOTHING
I half expected Charlotte
to telephone again before the weekend. The ten days that I had to fill before
she and Harry arrived yawned in front of me, interminable. I had been looking
forward to my time with Christopher in the shop on Tuesday (when I planned to
bring Aunt Clare and Rome subtly into the conversation) but to my
disappointment he telephoned me on Monday to say that he was going to be away
until after the new year, sourcing new stock for the shop.
‘I shall
expect you back in January,’ he said.
‘Are
you going to Rome?’ I demanded, utterly without thinking.
‘Rome?
What on earth makes you think I might be going to Rome?’
‘Oh,
nothing. I thought there was a big ceramics conference going on at the moment,’
I said wildly.
‘Ceramics?
Heavens, Penelope, don’t make me nervous, please!’ I heard the sound of
shuffling papers. ‘No one has sent me anything about a ceramics
conference in Rome,’ he muttered. ‘Oh! Unless you mean that poxy affair run by
William Knightly? He wouldn’t know a decent bit of art if it ran up and bit him
on the ankle.’
‘Ah.
That must have been it.’ I tried not to laugh. ‘Er — have you ever been
to Rome, Christopher? Perhaps in your giddy youth?’ I blushed at my nerve.
‘Of
course I’ve been to Rome, you silly girl. How on earth could I be doing what I’m
doing if I hadn’t been to Rome?’
‘I’ll
see you in the new year,’ I said hurriedly. Christopher could be quite
intimidating when he wanted to be.
‘Don’t
expect any more money,’ he warned.
I spent long hours in the
library at Magna. I had two exams to take in the summer and scores of essays to
complete in the meantime. Three months ago, Mama and I had agreed that I should
take English Literature, History of Art and Italian for a year before spending six
months with old friends of Papa’s in Italy, where presumably I would finally
learn to speak the language while floating around Rome and Florence (Mama was
unaccountably suspicious of Venice and Milan). There were plenty of girls my
age with the same kinds of plans which made me feel comforted and bored in
equal measures, but since I’d met Charlotte the comfort factor had been
entirely swamped by frustration. I could not imagine a girl like her following
the herd for one moment, and she would think me jolly dull for doing so. I
wouldn’t be able to pretend to her that I was enjoying my studies. I had been
looking forward to the English course, but soon found the endless dissection
and analysis of the books utterly destructive. I wanted to read, but not to write
about what I had read. Shakespeare was the greatest trial. I had adored
watching The Merchant of Venice and The Winter’s Tale, but had no
interest at all in talking about the minutiae of the text. My History of Art
classes were almost as tricky. Staring at photographs of the duomo in Florence
or the interior of Salisbury Cathedral struck me as quite pointless. I needed
to smell the buildings, to hear the sharp dip of my heels on their floors. My
appreciation of great art was too literal for study. I would even go so far as
to say that I could not understand any art unless I was up close to it, until
it filled all my senses with its presence. I said this to Christoph once. He
called me naive beyond my years, which I said didn’t make sense. He said that proved
his point entirely.
The days before Charlotte
and Harry arrived at Magna for the first time made working even harder than
usual. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something important, something vital,
was hovering just out of my reach, something that would change everything for
ever. Accepting tea with Charlotte had set my life off course, had swung me off
the familiar tracks that I had travelled on all my life so far. I tried to
work, but most of the time ended up drinking cocoa while listening very quietly
to Johnnie Ray, old blankets
Chapter
4
MISS
SIX FOOT NOTHING
I half expected Charlotte
to telephone again before the weekend. The ten days that I had to fill before
she and Harry arrived yawned in front of me, interminable. I had been looking
forward to my time with Christopher in the shop on Tuesday (when I planned to
bring Aunt Clare and Rome subtly into the conversation) but to my
disappointment he telephoned me on Monday to say that he was going to be away
until after the new year, sourcing new stock for the shop.
‘I shall
expect you back in January,’ he said.
‘Are
you going to Rome?’ I demanded, utterly without thinking.
‘Rome?
What on earth makes you think I might be going to Rome?’
‘Oh,
nothing. I thought there was a big ceramics conference going on at the moment,’
I said wildly.
‘Ceramics?
Heavens, Penelope, don’t make me nervous, please!’ I heard the sound of
shuffling papers. ‘No one has sent me anything about a ceramics
conference in Rome,’ he muttered. ‘Oh! Unless you mean that poxy affair run by
William Knightly? He wouldn’t know a decent bit of art if it ran up and bit him
on the ankle.’
‘Ah.
That must have been it.’ I tried not to laugh. ‘Er — have you ever been
to Rome, Christopher? Perhaps in your giddy youth?’ I blushed at my nerve.
‘Of
course I’ve been to Rome, you silly girl. How on earth could I be doing what I’m
doing if I hadn’t been to Rome?’
‘I’ll
see you in the new year,’ I said hurriedly. Christopher could be quite
intimidating when he wanted to be.
‘Don’t
expect any more money,’ he warned.
I spent long hours in the
library at Magna. I had two exams to take in the summer and scores of essays to
complete in the meantime. Three months ago, Mama and I had agreed that I should
take English Literature, History of Art and Italian for a year before spending six
months with old friends of Papa’s in Italy, where presumably I would finally
learn to speak the language while floating around Rome and Florence (Mama was
unaccountably suspicious of Venice and Milan). There were plenty of girls my
age with the same kinds of plans which made me feel comforted and bored in
equal measures, but since I’d met Charlotte the comfort factor had been
entirely swamped by frustration. I could not imagine a girl like her following
the herd for one moment, and she would think me jolly dull for doing so. I
wouldn’t be able to pretend to her that I was enjoying my studies. I had been
looking forward to the English course, but soon found the endless dissection
and analysis of the books utterly destructive. I wanted to read, but not to write
about what I had read. Shakespeare was the greatest trial. I had adored
watching The Merchant of Venice and The Winter’s Tale, but had no
interest at all in talking about the minutiae of the text. My History of Art
classes were almost as tricky. Staring at photographs of the duomo in Florence
or the interior of Salisbury Cathedral struck me as quite pointless. I needed
to smell the buildings, to hear the sharp dip of my heels on their floors. My
appreciation of great art was too literal for study. I would even go so far as
to say that I could not understand any art unless I was up close to it, until
it filled all my senses with its presence. I said this to Christoph once. He
called me naive beyond my years, which I said didn’t make sense. He said that proved
his point entirely.
The days before Charlotte
and Harry arrived at Magna for the first time made working even harder than
usual. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something important, something vital,
was hovering just out of my reach, something that would change everything for
ever. Accepting tea with Charlotte had set my life off course, had swung me off
the familiar tracks that I had travelled on all my life so far. I tried to
work, but most of the time ended up drinking cocoa while listening very quietly
to Johnnie Ray, old blankets
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