The Venice Sketchbook(36)

I still can’t quite believe I’m here. As I write, I hear bells, echoing across the water. Pigeons are cooing on the rooftop opposite. Voices echo up from the narrow street below. It is as if I’ve never been away.

When Miss Huxtable summoned me to her study in May, I was sure I had done something wrong. Had I been too risqué in showing the girls a well-painted nude by an old master? Anyway, she asked me to sit down. Her face was relaxed and friendly. Then she told me that an anonymous benefactor had made a generous offer to the school. His granddaughters had been pupils here, apparently. He was a big admirer of Neville Chamberlain and a believer in peace at any cost. I had no idea where this could be leading or how it applied to me. Then she said, “He has proposed a bursary for one of my teachers to study abroad for a year. The hope is that the teacher will come back with a greater understanding of the world and an appreciation for other cultures, thus becoming a positive influence for world peace.”

I had nodded, cautiously. “You are offering this chance to me?” I wondered why I had been selected, as the most junior member of the faculty.

She went on. She had naturally offered the chance to senior members of staff first. The French mistress, Miss Hayley, then the Latin mistress, Miss Rile, and Miss Frobisher. Even Miss Hartmann, who taught mathematics and science. All of them had turned it down. One didn’t want to leave her aged mother, another thought it too dangerous at this unsettled time. Miss Frobisher had put it bluntly. She had seen quite enough of “abroad” after last summer’s jaunt and had no wish to go again. Miss Hayley said she was too old a dog to learn new tricks.

And so it had come through the pecking order down to me. Not selected, but by default. The only one who hadn’t refused.

“I know you have enjoyed your time in Venice,” she said. “Miss Frobisher tells me you are quite taken with that city. And they do have a fine Academy of Fine Arts, so I’m told. Would you like to take this chance and study there for a year, with your expenses paid and your position here held open for you when you return?”

Only a fool would have turned that down. Of course I would take the chance. I was overwhelmed. But I reminded myself that I, too, had an aged mother. Did I dare to leave her for a year? And what about money? How would she survive if I was not earning my salary teaching?

“I’m afraid I can’t go,” I stammered out the words. “My mother relies on me, on my income, to survive.”

“I gather the stipend will not be ungenerous. Maybe even more than the pitiful salary we can afford to pay you. So you may find you are better off than before.” She paused. “And I believe your mother mentioned to me that you had an aunt who had hinted she’d like to come and live with you?”

“Yes. My aunt Hortensia. She did say her Austrian maid had left her to go home and it was impossible to find servants these days,” I said hesitantly.

“Well, there you are. Perfect solution. Invite your aunt to stay while you are away.”

It did seem to be a perfect solution. Aunt Hortensia still had a small private income, although not the fortune she once owned, and my mother wouldn’t be alone. And Venice was not the ends of the Earth. If she needed me or fell ill, I could catch the next train home.

And so I accepted. Aunt Hortensia agreed with enthusiasm to come and stay. I wrote to the Accademia di Belle Arti—that same academy to which I had taken the girls only a year ago, where I had seen that group of students entering, laughing together without a care in the world. Would I fit in with such a crowd? I realized I was not eighteen again. I was almost thirty. I no longer had their hopeful belief that life would be full of opportunity.

I sent the academy a selection of my artwork and was accepted as a visiting overseas student. This meant I could take classes without being subject to the usual grades and exams.

To say Mummy was not too happy about the whole thing was an understatement. She was most distressed about it.

“A whole year away? What about me?”

During the years after Daddy’s death, she had come to rely on me heavily. She had never been an outgoing and confident person in the first place, and for years her life had been reduced to taking care of her husband and daughters, going to church and being part of the altar guild.

“You will have Aunt Hortensia to keep you company. And Mrs Bradley to keep the house looking nice.”

“But this is so irresponsible,” she said. “Why on earth would you need to study any more art? They seem to think you are competent enough to teach at the school.”

“Mummy, it’s a wonderful chance for me. You should be happy.”

“Happy?” Her voice had risen to the point where she usually broke down in hysterics. “Out there amongst foreigners for a year? You—with no experience of the world. How will you cope? You’ve always lived at home. Had me to take care of you.”

This was not strictly true, and I’d been taking care of her for a long time. “I’ll cope.”

“What will happen if Hitler decides to declare war? The whole world is in a state of chaos,” she said. “That Mussolini is almost as bad. Didn’t he just invade Abyssinia?”

“That’s far away in Africa, Mummy. A colony. He’s just colonizing, the way Britain and France have done for ages. And if war breaks out, I’ll come home, of course,” I said.

She clung to me then. “You’re all I’ve got, darling,” Mummy said. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”