Later that day, I met Francesca. Not exactly the warmest person but clearly used to hard work. She spoke with such a strong Venetian accent that I could hardly make out what she said, but at least she understood my Italian. She made me a wonderful mushroom risotto the first night—rich and creamy. I had already been shopping and went to bed with a hot chocolate and biscuits, feeling well satisfied. Over the next few days, I bought more items to make the place feel like home—pillows and a blanket, a bowl of oranges and a table lamp for my desk. I had fallen in love with that desk. It was gorgeous inlaid lemonwood from the south of Italy and still smelled of lemon after all these years. It had all sorts of little compartments and drawers, including, to my delight, a secret drawer that was only accessed when you pulled out one compartment and then opened it with a little key. Not that I had anything to hide, and Francesca could barely read Italian, let alone English, but it was nice to know it was there.

Classes ended for the holiday. Imelda went home to her parents, who had moved close to the Spanish border, just in case the Germans invaded France. I had bought gifts for my mother and Aunt Hortensia at the market: Torcello lace handkerchiefs, tiny glass ornaments for the Christmas tree and a box of nougat. I added a Christmas card, and inside I wrote a note. I had thought long and hard about what to say to them that might make sense and decided that of course it was money.

The reason I have decided to stay for now is a financial one, I wrote. As you know, I am receiving a generous stipend that makes up for my teacher’s salary this year. Should I come home, that money would cease, and as the school has surely hired a temporary art mistress for the year, I’m not sure how we would live. So I’m staying on for all of our sakes, but promise I will make a sensible decision when it becomes necessary to leave.

I felt a little underhanded about saying this, but I didn’t want to cause grief to anyone. In return I received a package on Christmas Eve of my mother’s Christmas pudding and a wedge of Christmas cake, plus a scarf she had knitted. I was touched.