Last Voyage of the Valentina(9)

“That’s not true,” he growled. “Margo held it all together.”

“She’s still jealous of my mother.”

“You’re quite wrong.”

Alba chuckled cynically. “It takes a woman to understand a woman.”

“And Alba, my dear, you are not yet a woman. You have a tremendous amount of growing up to do.” He raised his eyes, now bloodshot and watery. His desolation would have aroused her pity had she not harbored so great a resentment in her heart. “Don’t make me choose between you and my wife,” he said and his voice was so quiet and grave that her skin bristled and she felt the sudden chill of a cold draft.

“I don’t need to ask you, Father, because I know who you would choose.”



As the car disappeared down the drive, Margo, who had heard everything, hovered by the drawing room door. She could see Thomas through the crack. His face was long and gray, and heavy with sorrow. He looked much older than his years. He fingered the scroll pensively. He did not open it. He simply nodded to himself before getting up and wandering into his study, where she heard the opening and closing of a drawer.

He had no wish to resurrect the past.



That night as Thomas climbed into bed, Margo took off her reading glasses and put down her book. “I think it’s time you got rid of that ghastly boat,” she said.

Thomas shuffled down the mattress and placed his head on the pillow. “The boat’s got nothing to do with Alba’s bad behavior,” he replied. They had discussed this countless times before.

“You know that’s not what I mean. It’s bad luck.”

“Since when have you been superstitious?”

“I don’t know why she can’t rent a flat like Caroline.”

“Are you suggesting they live together again?”

“God, no, that was a disaster. No, I don’t think that’s fair to Caroline. Poor girl, Alba did nothing but argue with her and she’s such a mess to live with. Caroline spent most evenings tidying up after her. Cigarette butts stubbed out in wine glasses and the like. No, I would not want to put Caroline through that again; she doesn’t deserve it.”

“Alba is perfectly happy on her boat.” He closed his eyes, very weary.

“It would be fine if it wasn’t that boat.”

“I’m not getting rid of the boat. Besides, how do you think Alba would interpret that? Another move to eradicate the memory of her mother?” He sighed.

Margo placed her glasses in their case and leaned over to put her book on the bedside table. She switched off the light and lay down, drawing the covers up to her chin.

“I’m not going to ask you about the picture, Thomas. It’s none of my business. However, I think it a pity that Alba found it. It does her no good to dwell so much on the past.”

“The past,” he repeated quietly, considering the picture. He blinked into the darkness, where he was sure he could see Valentina’s face: vibrant with youth and that irrepressible energy. He was even sure that he could smell the sweet scent of figs, wafting down the years with that long-forgotten sense of what it had been like to love so intensely. His eyes misted and he inhaled. After all these years, he thought. That the picture should turn up now, when I had almost managed to put it all behind me.

“What are you going to do?” she asked. Thomas pulled himself back from his memories.

“About what?”

“About the boat.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? But…”

“I said nothing. Now I’m going to sleep. I don’t wish to discuss this anymore, Margo. The boat remains, and Alba remains in it.”



Alba was barely able to see the road for the tears that welled and tumbled in an unceasing flow. It was past midnight when she parked her car beneath the street lamp on Cheyne Walk. She was furious that she had given him the picture. She could have kept it. It could have been her secret. Now she was left with nothing.

Slowly she walked down the pontoon to her boat, sniveling as she went, feeling extremely sorry for herself. She wished she had someone waiting for her, a nice man to snuggle up to. Not a Rupert or a Tim or a James, but someone special. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. Knowing that Viv often wrote her novels well into the early hours of the morning, she knocked on her door. She waited for a sound, but only the creaking of the boat and the gentle lapping of the river against the pontoon accompanied the benign roar of the city.

As she turned away, downhearted, the door opened and Viv’s pale face appeared in the crack. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, then added on closer inspection, “Dear me, you’d better come in.” Alba followed the billowing caftan up the narrow corridor to the kitchen. Like her own boat Viv’s smelled of damp, but it had a unique scent of something exotic and foreign. Viv was fond of burning joss-sticks from India and lighting scented candles she bought in Carnaby Street. Alba sat at the round table in the richly painted purple room and hunched over the cup of coffee that Viv poured her. “I’m in the middle of a dreadfully difficult chapter so it’ll be nice to take a break and talk to you. I don’t imagine for a moment your tears are for a man.” She pulled out a chair and lit up. “Take one, darling, it’ll make you feel better.” Alba took a Silva Thin and leaned over as Viv flicked open her lighter. “So, what are they for, then?”