CHAPTER 21
Joanna
Dorset
Having successfully got rid of the tarmac men, Joanna went up to her room to do another Google search on bridges in Lisbon.
Bridge Deaths: Lisbon accepts blame . . .
That was a bit gruesome. Spiderman arrested on top of the bridge .
. . Slightly surreal. She was experiencing déjà vu, because she’d been here before – yesterday and the previous day – and she was running out of time.
She had read posts from tourists who had been to Lisbon twenty years ago, and a thesis by a student on Portuguese explorers.
She had read about Lisbon’s best views and quite a few of its hidden secrets.
She had to accept it. As far as Emmy’s Lisbon bridge was concerned, she was drawing a blank.
She would call Toby right now, Joanna decided.
She’d been putting it off. But she didn’t have to follow Emmy’s path.
There was no earthly reason why some old letters she’d found in the attic should dictate what she wrote about or where she travelled to.
Why were they so important? Neither Harriet nor her mother had seemed remotely interested.
Even so. How could Joanna explain how Emmy’s story drew her, why it seemed so vital to find out what had happened to Emmy and Rufus, let alone her strong feeling that Emmy’s letters seemed to be a sign to Joanna to go where Emmy led.
Whenever she looked at the painting in her room, whenever she picked up the bundle of Emmy’s letters to Rufus, Joanna felt the pull.
It was as if the walks, the story, the magic – or whatever it was – was there, waiting to be discovered.
She felt that Emmy’s direction was her direction too. That there must be a purpose in it all.
And now there was Nicholas Tresillion.
Although Joanna had been about to call Toby, instead, she went to her email inbox and reread the message for the third time.
It was always nice to hear from readers; most of them were complimentary and had written to her because something in an article or feature had struck a chord or touched them in some way, though there was always the odd, tricky one complaining about something she’d said.
This, though, was neither.
I’ve always considered myself a grounded kind of a bloke, he had written. At any rate, I don’t usually see things that aren’t there. And life has taught me not to have too many high expectations . . .
He had added a grimly smiling emoji.
Joanna raised an eyebrow. He’d been disappointed then. In life? In a woman? Most likely a woman, she decided.
But you made me think again, she read.
Which was a positive.
I appreciated the sense of history you included in the walk, the email went on. It made the place come alive. It gave me a new outlook on a city I’ve visited many times.
Why had he visited so many times? Because he loved Venice or because he worked there? Work, she guessed.
So . . . was I looking for something to see?
Joanna chuckled. He had a way of talking to himself at the same time as addressing her, which she quite liked – it showed intelligence at least and a tendency to self-examine that was also refreshing. ‘I don’t know. Were you?’ she heard herself saying.
I think I was, but it still took me by surprise.
Another positive, she thought.
So, my question to you, Joanna Shepherd, is this: were your words an example of what someone might see in the water under the bridge, or did you really see the girl running?
Oh, Joanna had seen her all right.
Because I did. You could have put the picture into my head, I don’t know, but I saw every detail of her: a blue dress, a wide smile, the golden ribbon in her hair.
The golden ribbon in her hair . . .
No doubt you’ll think I’m crazy. But there’s more. Perhaps it was just the moment, but . . . there was something disconcertingly familiar about that girl. So, are you a writer or a magician? I’d be interested to know.
Yours, Nicholas Tresillion
*
Joanna had been slightly apprehensive as to how her Venice bridge walk piece might be received.
She’d included plenty of facts – but had it also contained too much fantasy?
She’d dithered about what to say and what not to say and eventually she’d left her surreal experience intact in the copy; not the detail, but the outline of her moment of magic . . .
Anyone could write to her and claim they’d seen a girl in a blue dress.
It wasn’t so strange that he too had experienced a similar moment of illusion as he looked into the sunlit water.
But how would he have known about the golden ribbon?
Because in the copy she’d sent to Toby, she hadn’t mentioned that.
A coincidence perhaps? Joanna frowned. Should she reply to his email? She hadn’t decided yet. What did you say to a reader who might have somehow seen inside your head? She didn’t have a clue.
She flipped back to her contacts and found Toby.
She had a commission to do and she mustn’t let herself get distracted by something that might exist only in her imagination.
If there were no bridges to walk over in Lisbon, then she wouldn’t go there, however much Emmy and her letters were pulling her in that direction.
Besides, she’d become wary of her imagination.
Martin always said it was overcharged, that she let her writing dictate her life, rather than the other way around, which apparently was the sensible way to do it. Perhaps Martin was right.
‘I’m thinking that I’ll skip Lisbon,’ she said when Toby answered. ‘The bridge thing is proving problematic.’ To say the least. Lisbon must have been very different in Emmy’s day. There had no doubt been some beautiful old bridges for her to paint – that had since fallen down.
Toby let out a deep sigh. ‘Joanna . . .’
Here we go, she thought.
‘I want Lisbon,’ he said. With emphasis. As if it was some guy he’d fallen for. ‘It’s right on trend. The pitch is done. They’re expecting it – intrigued at what you’re going to come up with.’
They weren’t the only ones. ‘But—’
‘But you’ll have to meet the deadline. OK?’
Well, no. How had she ever considered Toby a pushover?
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, ending the call.
She spread the map of Lisbon out on the bed. Stared at it, hoping for inspiration. There must be something here, and if she looked hard enough, she would find it. There was always something . . .
Outside, she could hear Harriet talking to the hens.
Was Harriet losing control? Joanna wouldn’t be surprised after the earlier fiasco with the tarmac and all the other things on her sister’s mind.
Maybe Harriet was right and Mother was losing it too.
Come to think of it, Joanna herself wasn’t exactly on the ball.
She should go out and have a word with Harriet. But in the meantime, she mustn’t panic. She must focus. And once again, she felt that conviction that Emmy would show her the way.
Joanna got to her feet, retrieved the letters from her desk once more. They felt crisp and fragile, like autumn leaves. Even touching them made her shiver; it was as if she was holding a piece of her past, something that she could link into her future.
Carefully, she sorted through them until she found the one written in Lisbon. She’d read it before, of course, but every time she did so, she seemed to see something new.
My Dearest Rufus . . . I count the days until I shall see your sweet face, until you hold me in your arms . . . I am giddy with thinking of you. How can I bear to be apart from you? I know not.
That was love, Joanna thought. To be counting the days, to be giddy with thinking about someone.
As with Venice, Emmy had noted her father’s particular historical interest in the city.
It is one of the world’s most ancient cities, she wrote.
Not to mention the point of departure for many famous Portuguese explorers.
Indeed, in the fifteenth century, the city was possibly the world’s most prosperous trading centre.
Emmy was her father’s daughter, Joanna reflected. His interest in history shone through. She searched in the letter for the reference to Emmy’s painting.
I have drawn the ancient bridge, she wrote, from all angles. I have sat beneath the mulberry trees . . .
Mulberry trees? That was rather close to home. How had she not noticed that the first time she read the letter? Mulberry trees? Once again, Joanna shivered.
She leant closer towards the map, feeling her way, looking for something different, something away from the river, something she had seen before and not registered.
And read the street name on which her index finger was resting.
Les Amoreiras. Surely . . . ? She turned to her laptop and looked up the Portuguese on Google Translate.
The mulberries. And there it was. An ancient aqueduct with 165 arches that started on the northern outskirts of the city, in the hills, and ran down the street, alongside the mulberry trees. A bridge. Emmy’s second bridge.
Joanna reached for her pen. She had that feeling in her gut. She’d cracked it. Now she just had to go to the old aqueduct, walk it, and write it. She was on her way.