The Venice Sketchbook(16)

“Oh, my darling,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s good of you to have come so quickly.”

“Is she still alive?” Caroline’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Oh yes. Hanging on until you got here, I think. She asked for you again.”

Caroline took off her coat in Granny’s warm front hall, and the two women hugged silently. The thought crossed Caroline’s mind that Granny was the only person who had ever hugged her, apart from her husband and son. She couldn’t recall her mother ever doing so. Her mother was never touchy-feely. And Great-Aunt Lettie had not been the sort of person you hugged. She had been kind, caring, but she kept her distance, as if she were a remnant of a bygone age of propriety.

Caroline went forward and opened her aunt’s bedroom door cautiously, with a glance back at her grandmother. Great-Aunt Lettie lay amid white sheets, her eyes closed, her face peaceful, seemingly asleep. Caroline wondered if she was already dead, but she noticed a slight rise and fall of the sheet. She bent over and kissed her cheek. It was cold.

“Aunt Lettie,” she whispered. “It’s Caroline. I came as quickly as I could.”

The sightless eyes fluttered open. “Cara . . . ?” The word came out with difficulty. A worried look crossed her face. “Need to tell you,” she forced out the words, her mouth drooping on one side. “For you. Need it now.”

“Need what, darling?” Caroline perched on the bed beside her and took her cold hand.

Her great-aunt’s old face was crinkled into a frown. Then she muttered, “Sketches. Still there.”

“Still where?” Caroline looked around the room, wondering if she had heard right and where there might be sketches.

Great-Aunt Lettie gripped Caroline’s hand with surprising ferocity. “Up there. Show you.”

“Up where?”

She hoped her aunt’s blind gaze might direct her, but her aunt was just shaking her head angrily.

“That thing!” she said, fluttering a hand as she sought a word that wouldn’t come. “You know.” Then, with great difficulty, she stammered out the word “box.”

“You want me to find a box?” Caroline asked, sensing her great-aunt’s agitation.

Aunt Lettie took a big breath. “You go.”

Now Caroline was confused. Did her great-aunt want her to go now, so that she could be alone? She attempted to stand up, but the grip on her hand was still vice-like.

She looked down at the old woman, and her eyes were now closed again, but her face was strained, worried.

“Auntie, do you want me to do something for you?” she asked. “Something with sketches?”

The mouth barely moved. “Mi—angelo.”

It sounded like “Michelangelo.” Caroline couldn’t recall a copy of a Michelangelo painting in the house, nor of her great-aunt showing any interest in old masters.

Then her great-aunt’s eyes opened again, her stare urgent. “Still there,” she said with surprising force. “You find . . .”

“Find what?” Caroline asked.

The word was barely audible against the tick of the grandfather clock in the front hall. “Venice.”

She gave a little sigh. Caroline waited for her to say more. Minutes passed. Her grandmother came over to stand behind her. “I think she’s gone, darling,” she said.

Great-Aunt Lettie’s cold hand was still gripping Caroline’s. She opened the bony fingers and stood up, staring down at the body. She looked peaceful now. Caroline looked up at her grandmother. “Come and have a cup of tea. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Caroline allowed herself to be led from the room.

“I suppose it shouldn’t have been a shock,” Granny said, her voice cracking with emotion. “She’s lived a good long life, hasn’t she? But it’s hard to imagine the world without her.”

In the doorway, Caroline paused to look back at her great-aunt. She didn’t recall ever being in Great-Aunt Lettie’s bedroom before, after all the years she had spent in the house. Her great-aunt was always up and dressed early in the morning, at her regular spot in the sitting room. It struck Caroline that she had been an intensely private person who only wanted to show an image of propriety to the world.

As she looked now, she saw a neat and orderly room, clothes put away, slippers beside the bed, but no personal touches. No photographs. On the wall was one small painting of a cherub, done in the Renaissance style. It struck Caroline as incongruous and not like her practical and unsentimental aunt. Michelangelo? No. Certainly not his style or expertise. Maybe it was something she had picked up as a young woman—or, conversely, something she had noticed when her sight began to fail and she could no longer appreciate less vibrant colours.

“There are no photographs,” Caroline commented as she followed her grandmother into the big warm kitchen. “I have no idea what she looked like as a young woman.”

“She was quite striking, actually.” Granny looked up from putting the kettle on the Aga. “She had lovely rich auburn hair that I really envied, mine being more a sort of strawberry ginger. And clear blue eyes. There will be some photos in my mother’s old album, but of course they are all black-and-white. We’ll find them later. But right now sit down, and we’ll have a cup of tea before I call the doctor. I think we both need it.”