As I reluctantly raise my glass, my eyes meet Ben’s in the candlelight and he smiles at me wryly.

This is going to be interesting, I think, as I close my eyes and drink.

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

My lessons aren’t set to begin until next week, so I endeavour to make the most of it. I go on solitary rambles through the hills in the early mornings, returning dusty and delighted by what I’ve seen, ready to fall on my lunch and then tumble wearily back on to my bed as the hottest part of the day burns itself out.

The heat is a shock to my system: the way it makes my body feel languorous and heavy; the way it takes charge, shaping my days like this. It’s like a living, breathing thing whose temperament needs to be considered at all times.

I spend the afternoons reading my book under the shade of a particularly friendly ilex tree, or being driven by my uncle to the nearest village to wander through the market, marvelling at the dusty orange buildings jumbled together, at the produce laid out like gifts on display, dipping my fingers into sacks of almonds, cool as pebbles, or inhaling the scent of sharp, golden lemons.

In the evenings we all come together again, and revel in the cooler temperatures, eating and drinking and listening to records on the gramophone. The ever-changing roster of artists moving through the villa is difficult to keep up with, but only Klaus, Ursula and Ben are staying in the grounds and it’s them who I gravitate towards.

Like Ben’s painting, Klaus’s contain shapes and colours that are unlike anything I’ve seen before. They’re certainly a world away from the paintings we had in Langton Hall before they were all sold. Klaus and Ben’s work is abstract, they tell me – they’re interested in modernity, energy, movement. I don’t really understand the art they are creating, but I understand the restless feeling they describe.

Ursula is a playwright and poet. She talks about a man called Brecht who seems to be something of a mentor to her. I have not heard of him, but when she mentions the man the others look almost reverent, and from the way they talk I gather this is a great honour. His name has a kind of solid weightiness about it.

In their midst I feel my own ignorance about the arts very keenly and I listen, trying to take it in, enjoying as ever the experience of learning about something new. And I must admit this is a very different thing to learning from the books in Langton Hall’s draughty library. Aside from anything else, our library is hopelessly out of date (apart from my own interventions when it comes to the science books), and the ideas and opinions I hear around my uncle’s dinner table feel almost frighteningly new.