Page 67 of A Summer of Castles

I was the only visitor still on site.

As I drove off, I saw the same man walk with some haste along the road behind me, as if chasing me off. He waved, holding a tissue or something white. Strange man – I seemed to be attracting them over the last couple of days. I wasn’t in the mood to wave back, so he shrank into a tiny figure with the castle looming high above him.

?

I arrived home late in the evening, feeling grubby and hollow with hunger but unable to stomach food. Mum wasn’t on the settee waiting for me, nor was Dad. They had gone out, according to a note, to the pub for a meal. I suspected my father was behind that decision.

I showered, put on pyjamas, and pretended to show an interest in the contents of the fridge. Weakening, I slapped two pieces of bread around a slab of cheese. There was one last thing to do: write up the final list of photographs, and post the remaining memory stick to wherever David was hiding. Bloody coward.

Thinking about David and his deceptions, I decided to send him an email in which I would tell him I knew everything, and that the secrecy was no longer necessary. Medici could unveil herself fully and tell me the truth – why was I taking photographs for her? Waiting for the laptop to fire up, I cracked my knuckles over the keyboard. To my surprise, there was an email from David.

Dear Robyn.

Sincere apologies for not replying to your emails. I have had internet problems at my art gallery - a new venture for me which is why I have been absent for so long.

I understand your frustration at the secrecy, and under any normal circumstances, I would not be party to it. But I made a promise, and you must believe me when I tell you that I have honoured it out of love for a dear friend.

Sadly, the wonderful Medici has passed on. It was expected, but still a big shock, and I am grieving this loss while abroad. The funeral is planned for Wednesday.

The same day as Beryl.

My heartbeats stuttered as I read on. He was telling me my great-aunt had died, but he didn’t appear to know that I was related. He was referring to his friend as Medici, and telling me how she had succumbed to a long illness, and I knew exactly what that illness might be, and why she had struggled for so long with it.

Was there any point in revealing the connection between myself and Loretta? It seemed that what David had done on Loretta’s behalf was entirely due to a favour born out of some deep-seated respect, and that extended to continuing to mask the gender of my patron, something only now I realised was evident in all our correspondence. I had acted as if we still lived in a medieval patriarchal society; and for that, I had only myself to blame. So what difference would it have made if I had thought Medici had been a woman? Unless… Loretta had wanted to stay anonymous – why, I still couldn’t fathom – and she had latched onto my mistake as provident, and David had helped by deliberately maintaining my preconceived stereotype of a patron. I read on to the last sentence.

I’m working to fulfil Medici’s last wishes. I will contact you again next month when I am back in the UK.

Heavy eyed, too tired to even weep for a woman I’d never met, I decided to let it go. I had my expensive camera, tons of photographs to review, the motivation to finally find a job and the courage to leave home to seek it. I had made love, briefly, to a man who connected with me in some strange way, and I didn’t care how contrived that connection might be, my feelings for him were genuine. And I supposed, given how vivid and intrusive the visions had become, I might at last be free to daydream without losing control of my faculties for it seemed nothing visionary had happened since Whitby. I was locked into reality. When Joseph and I had parted company, I had lost more than I had thought possible. My strange natural ability to envisage past events seemed also to have gone.

As for my parents, my mother in particular, there seemed no reason to tell her that I might have found her long lost aunt. I realised I had no proof that Medici had wished to be identified as Loretta Di Matteo, quite the contrary, she had reinforced the mystery to an extent that blinded me to the truth. If Joseph had met Loretta, then I might find the truth that way, and the only hope of finding Joseph was in London where he had witnessed the death of an infant at the hands of his brothers.

PART FIVE

‘The more she is denied to him, the more desire inflames and stings his smitten heart.’

Lorenzo de’ Medici

Forty-One

London

Acar rumbled past, then another, followed by red double decker, its wheels heading straight for a puddle. I stepped back. Noisy, relentless London was an alien place. I stood on the pavement, clutching my portfolio case to my chest, trembling from head to toe, feeling those annoying rogue stomach muscles tying sinews into knots. But for a good reason this time. I’d just been offered my dream job.

It might be happening too fast. I was still playing catch-up with the fallout from recent events. A productive spell of planning had kept me occupied in the two weeks that had passed since Beryl’s funeral – nearly four since I had last seen Joseph. With the help of Yvette, I had rebranded, transforming myself from hotel receptionist to professional photographer. I had written numerous resumes, some of which had been binned, and sent the best off, mostly to agencies. One keen agent, having given me two days’ notice, sent me to London for a job interview. The company then put me on the spot and offered me the job there and then, and I accepted it without considering any alternatives. So what, I had thought; I was no longer afraid of throwing myself headlong into a challenge. The real challenge was the one month in which to find a place to live and relocate.

After several frozen minutes, my legs rediscovered movement, and I walked, and walked, my insides still buzzing with a constant stream of adrenaline, which had saturated my nervous system from the moment I had woken up at dawn, then kept me company on the train down to London and all through the intense interview.

What had won them over was the portfolio I carried in my aching arms. A collection of photographs from Bamburgh to Whitby – there were none beyond that day. I had selected them carefully, picking those images that best represented architectural features. It wasn’t difficult. Loretta had primed me, taught me to see what an architect saw, and I had learnt over those sweltering weeks of summer how to present features both artistically and usefully.

I still didn’t know what David had done with the digital versions. I had fretted that my prints would be substandard given the age of my film camera, but the team who interviewed me weren’t bothered. They were architects and renovators, specialists who preserved old buildings or built replicas from scratch for film sets.

Was I prepared to travel across the UK and Europe? Yes, I had nodded enthusiastically.

Work independently? Yes, I had proof.

The questions had piled up and I batted them back with surprising ease. Loretta had prepared me well.

Having walked nearly a mile, I began the process of spreading the good news, to my parents, Yvette, and a few other friends. I texted or rang while sat on a bench in a green spot under yellow fringed leaves, my hunched shoulders buffeted by a gentle breeze.