Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind Read online

  “You and I must insist on seeing her work regularly. Then we’ll know how much time she’s spending in the scriptorium and how much time she’s wasting in menial work.”

  Donato returns to the easel. “It’s much better than anything I did at her age.”

  Paolo remains quiet. He’s had so many apprentices and assistants over his career, and he can recall only two or three who showed Antonia’s early talent.

  “You know, Father, I could steer small commissions her way, once she’s proficient. The abbess could conduct the negotiations with my patrons. I could take a small fee, and I could insist that Antonia carry out the work. What do you think?”

  “It’s something to consider.”

  “But it’s a shame she’s the one with the ability, isn’t it? You must be disappointed.”

  “I could never be disappointed with the girl. God allowed her to live, and in his mysterious way, he wants us all to find out why.”

  “Let’s hope she and Mother take the news well. When are you going to tell them?”

  “Soon. I wanted to wait for your return. I’ll tell your mother in my own way, and whatever the reaction, I want you to show some enthusiasm for my choice. They’ll be more receptive if they see that you share my vision. I’ve already exchanged letters with the abbess.”

  The servant girl enters and collects Donato’s platter. “Tell the boy to take a message to the cabinet-maker,” Paolo instructs her. “Tell him to deliver my wooden chest tomorrow morning. Early.”

  At dusk, Antonia joins her family in the sala, which is filled with the aromas of duck being roasted in the kitchen. Clara has prepared a special meal for Donato’s return. Antonia finds her father raising his glass to Donato.

  “So, Donato, let’s toast your successful business dealings.”

  “And let’s also toast my sister’s success in the art of portraiture. Mother, you must be pleased with the likeness she’s achieved, and such a harmonious composition. You have a talent there, Antonia,” he says, teasingly. “I wish with all my heart that you continue your painting studies.”

  “She worked hard, but she was too strict,” says her mother. “She knew exactly what she wanted, and I had to do exactly as I was told.”

  “An artist has to lay down the law,” her father retorts. “And while we’re talking about art—”

  “We talk of nothing else in this household,” says her mother.

  “Well, be thankful Father isn’t a baker, or we’d be talking of dough all day,” says Donato, which makes Antonia giggle. How she loves having her brother home, and how he warms the house with his quips and makes her parents so happy.

  “As I was saying,” continues her father, “on the subject of painting . . . Antonia, your dowry chest will be delivered from the cabinet-maker tomorrow, and we should talk about the decoration. I have some ideas for the main panel, but I thought you might have a preference, seeing as you’ll be living with this chest for all your days.”

  Antonia is aware that she’s blushing. All eyes are on her. “I . . . I . . .”

  Donato tries to help. “Come on, Antonia. You must have a favourite story—from a legend or from the Bible, or a romantic scene. Something dramatic to keep you entertained for years to come.”

  “It’s difficult . . . Please, nothing frightening like monsters or those half-human, half-devil creatures I’ve seen in church.”

  “So you want a scene to send you pleasantly to sleep,” says Donato.

  “No. That’s not what I mean. I’d prefer a peaceful scene, but something that’s detailed and maybe a little bit funny.”

  “Ah! A family joke—so you’ll recall us laughing together around this table.”

  “I think I’d like a painting with animals, lots of animals. And I don’t mind if it’s a Bible story like Noah’s Ark or a scene . . . perhaps a hunting scene in the countryside.”

  “Let me see,” says her father. He strokes his beard. “I painted a night-time hunting scene for Federico da Montefeltro two years ago.”

  “A lively and poetic work, Father,” says Donato with enthusiasm. “Man’s search for love and the soul’s search for redemption. Brilliant colours against a dark background, with such excellent glazing. But don’t paint a night-time scene for Antonia . . . Paint a daytime scene. Then you can show the birds in the trees and the sky. There’ll be horses, hounds, a stag, of course, and hunters in fine clothes.”

  “Don’t kill the stag or his doe. Show them escaping,” says Antonia. “And can you paint some lady hunters, too, in their fine dresses?”

  “That’s too unusual,” says her father with a frown.

  “But no more strange than any Greek myth,” says Donato. He rubs his chin. “I know. If you’d like to remember this very evening, Antonia, and this fine dinner . . . let’s include Clara’s face. She’ll be a fine lady, hunting for our duck.”

  Above the laughter, her father says, “Well, then. I’ll start the drawing for the main panel tomorrow, and I pray, Antonia, it meets your exacting demands.”

  Paolo is already at work on the preliminary composition for the hunting scene when a servant knocks at his door. “Master, the cabinet-maker’s boys are here with the chest. Should I tell them to bring it to you here?”

  “Yes, and inform my wife of its arrival. She’ll want to see it.”

  And so, when Tomasa walks into the study five minutes later, she finds Paolo inspecting the naked dowry chest, which sits brazenly atop his desk. When he sees her, he stands up straight and braces himself. He fixes his own stern expression. She stands in silence by his side, then dips her head and wipes a tear from her face with her forefinger.

  “So, Husband, our daughter will not be getting married. You decided weeks ago, didn’t you? That dowry chest is too small for the bedchamber of a well-married bride.”

  He doesn’t reply; he’s not obliged to.

  “She’s going to join my aunt, isn’t she?”

  Fifteen minutes later, when Tomasa has composed herself, she sends a servant to fetch Donato and Antonia.

  Paolo waves them into his study, and without any preamble, he sets out his plan. “The panels are not fixed in as yet, Antonia. The three of us will take a panel each—the large front one for my hunting scene, the two smaller end panels for you and Donato.”

  “Are you teasing me, Father? Are you serious? I’m going to paint a panel for my own dowry chest?”

  Paolo ignores her questions. “For the sake of your training, Antonia, you and I will prepare all three panels. We’ll cover each panel in a piece of fine-weave cloth to deal with any knots, and then we’ll apply at least four coats of gesso. You will learn how to make a perfect surface. I haven’t prepared my own panels for a long, long time, but it’s not something one forgets.

  “Next, we will each draw our design and prick holes through the paper along the main features. You’ve seen me pouncing, haven’t you?” She shakes her head. “Well, it’s simple. You transfer your pricked drawing to the gesso surface by brushing charcoal powder over the holes. So your drawing must be the same size as your panel. Understand?”

  “But I don’t know what I’ll paint. What should I do? I’ve never painted any animals, and mine would look so coarse next to your fine painting.”

  Donato opens the chest to check the hinges and smooths his palm across the underside of the lid. “A fine piece of carpentry.”

  “Antonia, you’ll be painting your mother’s portrait again. The last one counts as practice. Paint the same composition, and this time, I’ll let you use my best brushes. You’ll find them much better.”

  “Is Donato painting your portrait on the other panel?”

  “You don’t need the image of an old man.” He laughs. “He’s painting a self-portrait, so you’ll always see your brother as he is today. You’ll always have your mother and Donato to keep an eye on you.”

  Antonia frowns and twists a strand of her hair. “This chest is smaller than Mother’s dowry chest. Is this the fa
shion now?”

  “It’s not a matter of fashion, child. It’s a matter of what is most appropriate. So, come here. There’s something we need to tell you.”

  Antonia has stayed in her bedchamber all afternoon. She lies curled on the bed, her eyes closed, her mind racing. “None of them care,” she says into her damp pillow. Her mother didn’t seem upset by the decision. She seemed subdued but resigned. Donato didn’t appear in the least interested. He simply stated, “It’s a good decision, Antonia.” Does he only care about himself? she wonders.

  She hears footsteps and then a knock. The door opens.

  “Are you asleep?” says Donato.

  She opens her eyes, and he kneels by her bed. “Antonia, it won’t be so bad.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Brother.”

  “Our aunt’s convent is more open than many. It’s not all prayer. They’re in daily contact with the outside world because of their commercial work. And Father and I will make sure they understand that you’ve already had an apprenticeship of sorts. Believe me, you will be a painter, and this could be the only way. Mother says it’s truly like a family. And they all know you.”

  “It won’t be like this. It’s so cold in winter, Donato.”

  “Listen. We’ll make sure you have privileges. Father will insist. If the abbess wants that dowry chest, she’ll have to agree.”

  “But can I keep the chest in my cell?”

  “Of course . . . But it will pass to the convent, you know, eventually. The church takes a long view.”

  She covers her face with her hands.

  “You’ll be safer in the convent if the plague returns . . . and we’ll all have the comfort of knowing that your devotions, your prayers, will make our family stronger.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ve made a suggestion to Father. I told him he should sign over one of his Ugnano land-holdings to the convent. That way, you’ll receive an annual annuity from the abbess to cover your personal needs—enough to buy extra food, oil, clothing . . . and pigments, of course.”

  She smiles, but her eyes fill with tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  London, 2113

  Toniah is pinpricked, deflated, when she arrives home and finds Poppy setting the table with their best cutlery and glassware. It’s date night, as Eva calls it—their regular Thursday-evening dinner when they all endeavour to eat together. Toniah feels a pull-push; she loves Eva’s enthusiasm for date night, but she’s resistant to the growing obligation, the feeling she’s being sucked into family domesticity before she’s ready. This evening, she turned down the chance to listen to a guest speaker at the Academy. It wasn’t art related, but all the same, it would be good to meet new people. She throws down her bag, creating an obstacle between the kitchen and living room space.

  “Thanks for getting things started,” Toniah says as she hugs Poppy. “I’ll make a fruit salad when I’ve had a breather.”

  Poppy’s embrace seems perfectly relaxed. Toniah is on alert for any hint of tension, because two days ago she told Poppy that she’d started seeing Ben. Poppy appeared almost thrilled, which Toniah found difficult to understand at the time. In retrospect, it all fits. It’s as though Poppy has ticked off the last item on a list: Toniah likes her job, tick. Carmen has applied for a gestation loan, tick. Toniah is hooking up with Ben, tick.

  Toniah heads out of the kitchen, but hesitates in the doorway. She turns and says, “It occurred to me . . . I thought it might be nice if Ben joined us for dinner next Thursday.”

  Poppy’s blank stare morphs into a grimace. “Why would we invite Ben?”

  Toniah shrugs. She’s tempted to back off—Sorry, bad idea!—but instead: “I thought, you know, it would be nice to have more male company. I liked my house share in Norwich—one man and three women.”

  “I thought you had problems with your housemates.”

  “That’s not true. I was a bit narked with Linda; she was away a lot, but she didn’t suggest swapping her big bedroom for a smaller one. I had no problems with Nick—he was a great housemate.”

  “But we all agreed we’d—”

  “I’m only talking about Thursday evenings.”

  Poppy turns and busies herself at the stove. She tests a few grains of rice. Toniah wonders if the conversation has ended, but then Poppy blurts out, without facing her, “Why start now? I mean, first it’s dinner, and then before you know it, he’s staying for the weekend. You know the house rules: if you want to spend more time with a partner, you go to their place.”

  “Is that actually carved in stone?” She struggles to keep her composure; Poppy could at least look at her. “Where’s the harm in trying something a bit different? And Eva likes Ben.”

  “He’s just a guy at the breakfast table. I think she’d be confused if she thought he was moving in.”

  “I’m not talking about Ben moving in. For heaven’s sake!” she says, trying to keep her voice down. Eva might be nearby. “Look at me. I’m simply making a suggestion.”

  Poppy turns, holds up her hands, palms facing her sister. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  “But, Poppy, it isn’t for you to decide, is it?” She lowers her head, chin to chest, takes two steady breaths and looks up. “Let’s have a chat with Carmen. I honestly don’t see why Ben can’t come for dinner and then stay over.”

  “The rules work well.”

  Toniah is wide-eyed. She can’t believe how Poppy’s digging in.

  “We had a stable home life. That’s not easily achieved, is it?” says Poppy. “I don’t want a stream of live-in partners passing—”

  “I don’t take our happy childhood for granted. I really don’t.” Toniah notices her bag, picks it up and heads for the stairs. “I’ll freshen up. We should talk to Carmen.”

  “Carmen signed up for this. It’s what she wanted,” calls Poppy as Toniah trudges up to her room, defeated.

  Toniah stands by her bedroom window and looks across the patchwork of small back gardens behind their terrace of Victorian houses. Some of the gardens are better tended than others. It’s dispiriting; the residents of the street can all see into each other’s gardens, yet some people make no effort to improve their share of the collective view. For some, it’s no more than a dumping ground; they’ve no sense of embarrassment. In all her years of idle gazing from this bedroom window, she has never seen any improvement in the next-door garden to her left—a grassy wasteland that’s traversed every night by at least five neighbourhood cats. And while the cats mostly seem to avoid one another, at least once a week their nocturnal paths cross with screeching consequence.

  Back in her old bedroom. Is this it? she asks herself. A good job, a house with a modest mortgage, a neat back garden framed by shabbiness, a quiet home life with an occasional sleepover boyfriend. She’s in no hurry to feel settled—unlike her younger sister. Are the next five years—ten years, even—mapped out? She traces the figure 10 on the window, leaving an oily smear. Forever tiptoeing around Poppy. She’s even tiptoeing around Nana Stone now. But why settle for half a story?

  “What are you looking at, Auntie?” says Eva. She takes Toniah’s hand. “Why are you frowning?”

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” She smiles and picks Eva up, with some effort. “Had a good day?”

  “Not bad. What are you looking at?”

  “I’m keeping my eye on those chickens.”

  “You’re spying on them.”

  “They’re up to no good.”

  Eva giggles, and Toniah kisses her on the cheek. “I’m going to do an hour’s work, Eva, and then I’ll help with date night. Tell your mum, will you?”

  “Okay.” She squirms out of Toniah’s arms and runs off, content to have an errand.

  When Toniah hears Eva and Poppy chatting downstairs, she pads across the landing to the pine storage trunk, which contains a file of family legal documents. She kneels down, opens the trunk and roots out the file. She doesn’t immediately fli
ck through the contents. Instead, she closes the trunk and quietly slips back to her bedroom to sift through the file’s contents in privacy.

  She spreads out the paperwork on her bed—birth certificates for the family going back to Nana Stone, and death certificates for Nana and Mother. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself that Nana Stone made her choice; she hid the photograph. But Toniah decides she isn’t going to her grave—and what’s wrong with a little melodrama?—without knowing the truth about her own family.

  Toniah finds it difficult to comprehend. This new information, her family history, has lain within her reach—and her mother’s reach, for that matter—all these years. It was there on the landing all the time, awaiting discovery, requiring only a few minutes’ further investigation. Maybe, she wonders, we’re always trapped in the minutiae of daily life—constantly too distracted to think about the big picture. Yet it is important to her—to know where her family comes from, to know what happened, what events proved to be turning points.

  All she had needed for immediate results was Nana Stone’s date and place of birth, and her date and place of death. Toniah knew her birthday, of course, but she hadn’t been sure of her birth year, which is now revealed on her birth certificate: 2014. Toniah rubs her face with both hands. Nana Stone was born in the centenary year of the start of World War I. She can’t believe she didn’t know that.

  Toniah has now retrieved all the public registry records related to Leah Stone. There is one birth certificate and one death certificate that Toniah has never seen before. The birth certificate is for a boy named Maximillian. No name is recorded for the father. And the death certificate is for Maximillian, aged one year and two months. The cause of death is stated as influenza.

  Maximillian. Why didn’t we know this? she says to herself. Why did she bear it alone?

  Toniah sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and wonders if Poppy or Carmen noticed that she hardly spoke over dinner. They probably didn’t; they were absorbed in choosing names for a baby girl, even though Carmen hasn’t as yet started the treatment.