“And we couldn’t climb out—if there was a fire,” I pointed out.

“That is true.” She broke off when there was a tap at the door. A young girl, looking no older than our own charges, dressed in the more simple habit of a postulant, came in carrying a tray on which there was a large bottle of water, two glasses, oranges and a plate of sweet rolls.

“I think this place might be acceptable after all, don’t you, Miss Browning?” Miss Frobisher poured us both a glass of water.

I turned away from the window. I shouldn’t have come, I thought. At that moment a bell began to toll nearby, its sound resonating through the still air. Pigeons took off in alarm, flapping from nearby rooftops, and at once I was taken back.

“A city of bells and birds,” I whispered to myself.

CHAPTER 9

Juliet, Venice, July 1938

The convent proved to be more pleasant than I had first thought. Luncheon was served in a long, cool dining room with whitewashed walls and rustic wooden tables and benches. It was a hearty meal of spaghetti with a tomato sauce, grated parmesan cheese and more bread and fruit. The girls tucked in with relish, and I must say that I enjoyed the meal, too. We ate alone, apparently the only guests in the convent at the moment. The nuns, it seemed, had their own dining room, or dined at a different time. We were shown a common room with armchairs and sofas that opened on to a small garden with a fountain spraying. Aunt Hortensia would have approved, I thought. Another garden in Venice.

I carried my briefcase down to the garden and sat in the shade while the girls and Miss Frobisher went up to take a nap. First I took out a new sketchbook, not as luxurious as the one my father had given me ten years ago, but then nothing was luxurious any more. Life had been a struggle for most people, and I realized that I was luckier than most—at least I hadn’t had to line up for bread and soup like those poor people with no work.

I opened the sketchbook and wrote a tentative date in it. Then I stared at the blank page. Would I have time to do much sketching? Would I want to? Would I have forgotten how? For the past few years, my only art had been demonstrations for pupils—perspective, colour wheels, how to draw trees and faces. Frankly, I had lost the urge to do my own painting after I’d had to leave art school unexpectedly; besides, there had been no extra money to spend on frivolities like paints and canvases. I tucked the book back into the case and instead took out the map of Venice. I had kept Aunt Hortensia’s map on my return to England in the summer of 1928, fully intending to return and paint during college holidays. It had been unfolded, pored over and folded up again many times since, and I felt that I knew my way around in my sleep. But I had not been to this part of the city before. It was not an area that tourists usually frequented, so close to the railway station and the docks. With a finger I traced out a sensible route to the Rialto Bridge. From there I could take the girls to St Mark’s easily enough. There were water buses close by, but we had been told to be careful with money—no extravagances, and keep plenty for emergencies. We would take the water bus at least once up the Grand Canal—that was a necessity—and probably over to the island of Murano, where this time I would buy myself a necklace.