CHAPTER 39
Nicholas
Lisbon
Nicholas was enjoying Lisbon. And now he had that sense of achievement – the jewellery would be selling in a classy outlet near the Bairro Alto, Giuseppe would be more than pleased – combined with the knowledge that he had the rest of the day to himself. It wasn’t hard to decide what to do with it.
He went straight to the local tourist information bureau, nerves chasing their own tails in his stomach. What if her brochure wasn’t there? What if they hadn’t heard of it? What if it had sold out? And why would he mind so much?
But it was OK. He spotted it straightaway. They’d given it a little show card, and as well as the English version there were translations in Spanish, Portuguese and German. He felt ridiculously pleased for Joanna Shepherd and hoped she’d been well paid for the commission.
On the back was the same photo of the author – strangely familiar, wistful and appealing. Swiftly, Nicholas flipped to the beginning, glanced at the map provided. We start, she had written, at the ancient aqueduct. As if he hadn’t known already . . . Ancient aqueduct, he thought, here I come.
*
By the time he arrived at Praca das Amoreiras almost an hour later, Nicholas was immersed in the walk, dipping into his surroundings and Joanna Shepherd’s descriptions with equal enthusiasm.
He appreciated her mixing of the old and the new sights along the way; in the brochure – and now in his camera – there were some great photos of crumbling villas decorated with the old blue azulejo tiles, and the smoky-glass modern office blocks parked right next to them.
A sense of exploration – her sense of exploration – seemed to seep through the pages of the brochure into Nicholas’s mind.
Discovery, excitement, reflection . . . This woman knew how to create an atmosphere.
He got the impression that Joanna was investing the mulberry trees with some significance.
Nicholas considered. What did he know about mulberry trees?
They bore fruit a bit like a loganberry?
That didn’t seem particularly earth-shattering or unusual.
She didn’t mention anything specific, but it was in the subtext on the page; she wrote almost reverentially about the trees that lined this street.
Humming with ancient wisdom . . . Nicholas stared into the bare, crouching branches. Was he missing something here?
God . . . He came to an abrupt standstill.
Slap bang in the middle of the road ahead of him was the Roman triumphal arch she called .
. . – he checked the brochure – Arco das Amoreiras.
He walked up to touch the old grey stone just as, no doubt, Joanna Shepherd had done before him.
Now, this was ancient. How had she felt, he wondered, when she saw this in front of her?
It was often simpler, Nicholas found himself thinking, not to change things.
You found a way of living, a pattern – or it found you – and you didn’t question, you let life pass by, you assumed the role, just as he’d told Joanna in an earlier email.
His life had been that way for a long time – certainly since Celie was born nineteen years ago, when he had slipped into the role of father and ended up embracing it wholeheartedly.
And then something might change the way you saw things.
A certain birthday maybe? His fortieth three years ago had certainly felt like some sort of milestone at the time.
Nicholas let his hand trail over the crumbling white stone.
Your wife might leave you. And then you walked down a road in Lisbon and saw a Roman triumphal arch dating from circa 1750.
He took a left, as directed, and entered the Praca das Amoreiras. There had been bitter-sweet times when he’d unknotted that pattern. The sadness and relief of losing the old; the fear and excitement of the new . . .
All this had happened to Joanna too – she’d told him as much in her emails and he could read it here in the brochure too.
He could feel the movement of it in the prose she used.
He glanced down at the brochure in his hands – plunge into the busy street, bite into a heavenly custard tart, wallow in the history . . .
He looked around him. Yes, and dream in the Praca das Amoreiras. It was, as she had written, still and peaceful and grey.
He sat down where she had, opposite the tiny chapel that nestled between the arches of the aqueduct. What had she seen here and what did he expect to see? Nicholas flung the brochure down on the bench beside him. What was he even doing here, come to that?
His mobile went off, sharply, bringing him back to reality and the present, disturbing the spell.
Rachel. ‘Hi.’ He had to force himself not to sound resentful. It was typical of her to shatter an illusion without even being aware that she was doing it. And he didn’t want to share this place with Rachel, he realised.
‘Hello, Nick . . .’ Swiftly, she came to the point of the call. ‘Celie tells me she’s talked to you.’
He tried not to feel sour at this. ‘Yes.’
‘You were nice to her, weren’t you?’
For God’s sake. ‘She’s my daughter. I love her. Of course, I was bloody nice to her.’ What sort of a monster did she think he was, anyway?
‘You see. That’s exactly what I mean.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘What?’
‘I know you don’t like Tom.’
He took a deep, calming breath. What had Celie said? ‘Pregnancy doesn’t have to mean marriage, Dad, we’re not living in the Dark Ages.’ No, and marriages didn’t have to last forever.
‘Rachel, I don’t really know him. I hope that he’ll look after her even when she doesn’t deserve it, I hope he’ll support her financially when and if she needs him to, I hope he’ll be responsible and loyal and all the rest of it. But I don’t know—’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Her exasperation flew down the phone at him. ‘He’s a nice boy from a nice family. They’re having a child together. And Celie must take her chances in life like any other girl.’
‘Well, yes, but she’s still so young. I can’t help worrying about her, can I?’
‘She’s not your little girl anymore, Nick.’
He would always worry about her. But Nicholas changed tack. ‘And how do you feel, Rachel?’
‘About Tom?’
‘About becoming a granny.’
He heard her intake of breath. Chuckled.
‘Do you have to, Nick, really?’
‘I can’t resist,’ he told her.
‘Hmm.’ She paused and her tone changed. ‘You know, you sound different.’
‘Different bad or different good?’ He stared up into the branches of the mulberry tree that rose above him, shielding him from the pale and misty November sun.
‘I don’t know.’ Her voice tailed off. ‘Nick?’ She let his name hang.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m having a get-together. A sort of party. With Celie and Tom and his parents. They’re all coming over.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. Some party.
‘And I’ve decided . . . you should be here too. It would give us a chance to discuss this whole thing, en famille, as it were.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ He was surprised. It was Rachel’s style, but surely not Celie’s. He doubted that she would want her condition and circumstances to be discussed en famille or anywhere else for that matter.
‘Yes,’ said Rachel. There was never any dithering for her. ‘Let me give you the date.’
‘Go ahead then.’ He imagined he could hear her flipping through the pages of her diary. Rachel had always been hot on organisation and this had clearly been arranged a while ago.
‘I hope you can get a flight in time.’ She told him when it was to be.
‘That soon?’ He frowned.
‘Please say you’ll come, Nick.’
He supposed he’d have to go. He still wanted to be involved with his family. Besides, he was due to see Giuseppe, so he could kill two birds. ‘OK,’ he said. And he could almost see Rachel’s smile of satisfaction.
After the call, he went to his inbox to read Joanna Shepherd’s email once again.
Dear Nicholas, she had written.
It’s funny you should say that about love.
He remembered exactly what he’d said: that although it was frail and fallible, love was still a wonderful thing. Idiot . . .
When I was in Lisbon, I was thinking about it a lot – not so much the love in my marriage, but in my childhood, my relationship with my parents (very complicated – my father and I were never close and I felt he was taken away from me before I could make things right between us).
Resolution, Nicholas found himself thinking. It was a human need.
And my relationship with my sister Harriet – also complicated. She stayed at home, I moved away. I have a feeling that both of us consider the grass may be greener on the other side.
Didn’t everyone? He thought of his call with Rachel.
You’re right about the decision I made in Venice. No, I don’t have children. You’re lucky to have Celie.
He certainly was.
On to Lisbon. It’s a wonderful city. The bridge walk is along the old aqueduct and it takes in both the old and the new; the city is full of both, as you probably know.
He did now. Joanna Shepherd would have no idea that he was already here. There was no hint of concern in her message. She seemed to think it was quite normal for him to be following in her footsteps, walking her walks.
I saw the girl again. She looked very much in love so I now know who she was running to at Ponte Accademia!
Ah . . . He put his head to one side. Joanna was a writer, of course. Was that why she seemed to be living in two realities at the same time? Handy that – there was always another world to escape to . . .
It is funny, as you say, that we’re writing as we are. But I like it too. I had a French pen friend once, called Didier, and I realise now how much I’ve missed writing to another human being. You and I are emailing, of course, but hey, the world has moved on.
Very true.
But I haven’t answered your question. Yes, I do think love is a wonderful thing. The problem being that it can also bring a lot of pain – don’t you think?
Oh yes, it certainly can. Nicholas sat back and closed his eyes, let her words sink into him.
In her brochure, Joanna had suggested that her readers might be able to see the past in the mulberry trees.
Emotions and relationships too apparently.
What did she mean? Past places? Past people?
Past moments? He smiled. Maybe she was a bit crazy after all.
After a few moments he opened his eyes again and stared up into the winter branches. Drawn to do what she had done, see what she had seen.
He was instantly mesmerised. Was it the breeze shifting the branches, the winter sunlight edging through . . . or had he kept his eyes closed for too long?
He wanted to write it down, but he didn’t want to stop seeing. He would do it this evening, he decided: write it down in another email to Joanna Shepherd, who would no doubt know what to make of it.
In the meantime . . . he stared, seeing and unseeing. Done, undone. He didn’t want to miss a thing.