CHAPTER 14
Joanna
Venice
With her forefinger, Joanna traced the pattern of a diamond carved into the crumbling marble of the parapet of Ponte degli Scalzi.
It was an impressive bridge from which to begin the walk, with a high arch and a far-reaching view down the Grand Canal.
Above her, the sky was ice blue, the water a dense olive.
It was a mesmerising combination, meeting at the horizon in pale mauve.
Joanna scrutinised the map. ‘Take a look at the palazzo,’ she said into her Dictaphone and took a picture which included the stone balconies of the salmon-pink Hotel Bellini.
This was a quiet part of Venice, close to the railway station, the point at which the canal opened out into the wide lagoon.
Into the rest of the world, she found herself thinking.
Had Emmy wanted the rest of the world? Joanna didn’t think so. She seemed only to want her Rufus. And Joanna? What did she want? She continued down the narrow street, past tourist shops selling glass and Venetian masks, cosy cafés and chic boutiques.
Come on, Jo, Martin had written in his latest text. Come on, Jo . . . Is one little fling enough to end a marriage?
Just maybe it was.
The next bridge was constructed in wrought iron and crossed the narrow Rio Marin canal, where buildings with black grilles over windows and doors reached down to the water and washing was strung from top-storey window on one side of the street to top-storey window on the other.
I told you – I need time to think things over, she had texted back to him.
Do you want to talk? he asked her.
Joanna considered. She had to go back sometime. But: Not yet.
In the distance, the yellow and cherry-red painted buildings drew her along the walkway by the canal. Venice was such a romantic city; already, she had taken so many photos. And then there were the memories. In her situation, why on earth had she come?
Because she was following Emmy’s journey.
She stopped to make a few notes and mark up the map.
So far, so good. I did not start to live until you and I met, Emmy had written to Rufus in her letter from Venice.
Joanna had thought about that a lot. Realised that she had never felt like that about Martin – and yet still she had married him. ‘Oh, Emmy,’ she said out loud.
She let her gaze drift from water to sky.
The colours of Venice – silver, sharp blue, lilac – glinted in the early afternoon sun.
Blue and white boats were moored on the side of the canal and the water lapped gently onto the stone steps like a cat.
She heard the distant tolling of a church bell, paused to enjoy the rare moment of tranquillity.
It felt as though she had found the true heart of the city at last.
Joanna walked on. If she went back to Martin, she could return to her own home, to the house in Crouch End; she could write at her own desk in her own room; she’d be back in town, close to her friends, back in the life she’d had before, the safe life.
She stopped abruptly. But was it a safe life?
And did she want it? Did she want to go back?
‘Walk into the wide-open square of Campo San Stin,’ she told her Dictaphone.
The buildings here were painted in shades of terracotta, ginger, ochre and that dark red she loved, the paintwork bleached, faded or peeling, and in the centre of the piazza stood an old well.
Pigeons were flying so low that she ducked instinctively.
Pigeons, canals, crumbling stone, an atmosphere of faded glamour and decay . . . Venice was undeniably unique.
Another bell tolled, louder this time, and she made her way to the next bridge.
She went into the church alongside and made a few notes on the interior – high vaulted ceiling, red and white marble floor and, of course, Titian’s Assunta over the high altar, ‘a must for any art lover,’ she added. This was a tourism project after all.
To go back . . .
Outside again, by the bridge, a man was playing a soulful mandolin. Joanna stood there for a moment to listen.
And if she didn’t go back?
She could still live in London, of course – they’d have to sell the house, but she’d be able to afford a small flat, maybe get in a lodger to help with the mortgage repayments. She heard the ping of a text message and checked her phone. Martin again.
I still feel the same about you, Jo, the same as I always did. Nothing has to change.
She tucked it back into her pocket. But how exactly had he felt before?
Not strongly enough to say no to Hilary, for starters.
He had said himself that they’d grown apart and it was true.
As for what had happened with Hilary – that had changed everything.
Martin had crossed the line. Joanna might be able to forgive, but did she want to?
It seemed that Emmy was sending her another message entirely.
This is the way that you should love . . .
Joanna stopped at the Caffè Dei Frari for coffee.
It was like entering another world. The light filtering from sepia lamps over the bar was low and the atmosphere warm.
Huge pictures of men in tri-cornered hats and wigs, and women in long, high-waisted dresses sitting on English lawns filled the wall space and part of the ceiling was cut away to reveal the gallery upstairs.
Joanna smiled as she looked round. It was charming.
How much of this Venice had existed back in 1912?
she wondered. Had Emmy known there was a war approaching, a bloody war that would wipe out over half a generation of young men?
Had Rufus fought in that war? Joanna shivered.
She felt such a strong connection to Emmy.
But who was she? Her mother hadn’t heard of her, so maybe she was an ancestor on Joanna’s father’s side?
She would start researching the family tree as soon as she got back, she decided.
Joanna ordered her cappuccino and sat down at the marble-topped table. Some jazzy instrumental music was playing in the background. She decided to phone Mulberry Farm Cottage to see how things were going back home.
Her sister answered after several rings. ‘Yes? Hello?’ She sounded busy as usual.
‘Harriet, it’s me. How’s everything?’
‘Everything?’ Harriet’s tone was different from usual – more flustered.
Joanna frowned. ‘Has something happened?’
She heard Harriet sigh. ‘Some bloke’s been hanging around the cottage, that’s all. I wasn’t going to mention it, but . . .’
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen him twice now, once in the middle of the night and once in broad daylight, would you believe, hiding behind Big Barn.’ She paused for breath.
‘Harriet!’ Joanna was shocked. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me this before?’ It was so like her sister to keep it to herself.
‘I didn’t want a fuss,’ Harriet said.
‘Harriet! But what did you do?’
‘When?’
‘When you saw him? When he was hiding behind the barn?’ Joanna hoped she would have called the police. But knowing Harriet . . .
‘I chased him.’
‘Harriet!’
‘Will you stop saying that, Joanna?’ She sounded cross again now which was rather a relief. ‘I’m fine.’
She clearly hadn’t even considered the consequences. You couldn’t just start chasing intruders away. He could have turned around and attacked her, or anything. ‘What did he do when you went after him?’
‘He ran away. So he can’t be dangerous, I suppose.’
She didn’t get it. Of course he could be dangerous. ‘Harriet—’
‘Don’t fuss, Joanna,’ Harriet growled.
Don’t fuss? Don’t worry? When her mother and her sister were alone in the middle of nowhere and some nutter was hanging around the place? ‘And Mother? How’s she?’
‘She’s fine. We’re both fine.’ Joanna heard her sigh once more. ‘You really don’t have to phone every five minutes to check up on us.’
‘But—’
‘We’re perfectly capable of managing. We’re used to it.’
‘I know you are.’ But yet again, Joanna hadn’t been there. Guilt streaked down the telephone line and twisted itself in a knot around her.
‘So stop worrying,’ Harriet said.
Joanna focused on a tub of pink oleander by the door. ‘You should inform the police,’ she told her sister. ‘You need more security, maybe a burglar alarm, a motion detector light or a camera or something. At least a security light. Maybe Owen could come round to check on things after dark. Or—’
‘Really, Joanna, don’t you think you’re overreacting?’ Harriet said.
She sounded like Martin. But it would be too late to take preventative measures when they were all dead in their beds. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘But I’ll be back the day after tomorrow and we can talk about it then.’
‘And as for Mother . . .’ Harriet said darkly.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s the tradesmen, Jo.’
‘Oh.’ So, she’d been at it again. Was it just a need for attention? A form of depression? An addiction? Joanna simply didn’t know.
‘I had to do something, so I’ve put a bar on the phone.’
‘Really? But it’s—’
‘Her house too, I know.’ Harriet’s voice was brisk. ‘It’s also her phone and I’ve got no right to treat her like a child.’
Exactly. ‘How did she take it?’
‘Not well.’
‘And have you told her about this man who’s been hanging around?’
‘No.’
No? Surely she should warn her at least? ‘But—’
‘And neither should you, Jo.’
‘But, Harriet—’
‘I have to go.’
Joanna gave up. ‘All right, but be careful, Het.’
‘Of course.’
Of course . . . ‘Bye then.’
Joanna ended the call. She was only just beginning to understand the extent of the problem – and that Harriet was reaching the end of her tether.
She felt a pang of regret. It wasn’t enough to encourage her sister to go out or take a break from time to time, she realised.
And it certainly wasn’t enough to sit around looking at old snapshots of the past, reminiscing with Mother.
Added to this, there was now a prowler on the loose.
There was no doubt in her mind. Joanna had to do something more.
*