Last Voyage of the Valentina(4)

Thomas Arbuckle had been handsome then; Alba had seen photographs. In his naval uniform he had cut quite a dash. Sandy hair and pale eyes and a cheeky, confident grin that the Buffalo had managed, with the sheer weight of her forceful personality, to reduce to a disgruntled scowl. Jealous of the houseboat he had bought and named after Valentina, the Buffalo had never set foot on its deck, referring to it as “that boat” and not by its name. The Valentina conjured up memories of cypress trees and crickets, olive groves and lemons, and a love so great that no amount of stamping and snorting could denigrate it.

Alba had never felt she truly belonged in her father’s house. Her half siblings were physical reflections of their parents but she was dark and alien, like her mother. Her half siblings rode horses, picked blackberries, and played bridge, but she dreamed of the Mediterranean and olive groves. No amount of shouting at her stepmother and father had extracted the truth or compelled them to take her to Italy where she might get to know her real family. So she had moved into the houseboat that carried her mother’s sacred name. There she felt Valentina’s ethereal presence, heard her voice in the rise and fall of the tides a mere whisper away, and cocooned herself in her love.



She lay on the bed, beneath the skylight through which the stars now glimmered in their hundreds and the moon had replaced the sun. Rupert might just as well have never been there. Alba was alone with her mother, her soft voice speaking through the portrait, caressing her daughter with those soft, sorrowful eyes. Surely this picture would melt the layers of ice that had built up over the years and her father would remember and talk about her.

Alba did not waste any time. She rummaged around the untidy cupboards for suitable clothes, placed the scroll carefully into her bag, and hurried down the narrow staircase and out of the boat. A couple of squirrels were playing tag on the roof and she shooed them away irritably before setting off up the gangplank.

At that moment Fitz, having lost at bridge, was leaving Viv’s houseboat, light-headed with wine and startled by the coincidence that set his path and Alba’s in tandem. He didn’t notice that she had been crying and she didn’t notice Sprout. “Good evening,” he said cheerfully, determined to ignite a conversation as they walked up the gangway toward the Embankment. Alba did not reply. “I’m Fitzroy Davenport, a friend of your neighbor, Viv.”

“Oh,” she replied in a flat tone. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, partly obscured behind her hair. She crossed her arms and dug her chin into her chest.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere? My car’s parked around the corner.”

“So is mine.”

“Ah.”

Fitz was surprised she didn’t even raise her eyes. He was used to being looked at by women and was well aware that he was handsome, especially when he smiled, and he was tall, which was an advantage; girls always fancied tall men. Her lack of interest unbalanced him. He watched her long legs striding out, clad in blue suede boots, and felt the anxiety tighten about his throat. Her loveliness debilitated him completely.

“I’ve just lost at bridge,” he persevered frantically. “Do you play?”

“Not if I can help it,” she replied.

He felt foolish. “Very wise. Dull game.”

“Like the players,” she retorted, then gave a small smile before climbing into a two-seater MGB and disappearing down the road. Fitz was left alone under the street lamp, scratching his head, unsure whether to be offended or amused.



Alone in the car where no one could see her, Alba sobbed. She could fool everyone else with her bravado, but there was no point trying to fool herself. The sense of loss that had overwhelmed her earlier now resurfaced and this time with greater intensity. Her isolated world of cypress trees and olive groves was no longer sufficient. She had a right to know about her mother. Now she had the picture, the Buffalo would be forced to step back and let her father talk. How it had got there, she didn’t know. Maybe he had put it there so the Buffalo wouldn’t find it. Now she would know because Alba would tell her. It would be a pleasure. She changed gear and turned into the Talgarth Road.

It was late. They wouldn’t be expecting her. It would take her a good hour and a half to get to Hampshire in spite of the clear roads. Not a cat on them. She turned on the radio to hear Cliff Richard singing “Those miss-you nights are the longest,” and her tears cascaded all the more. Out of the darkness and into her headlights her mother’s face loomed. With long dark hair and soft, mossy brown eyes, she gazed upon her daughter with enough love and understanding to heal the entire world. Alba imagined she would have smelled of lemons. She had not a single memory, a single recollection of her scent. She had only her imagination and who knows what falsehoods that conjured up.