The cool of the street refreshes me. I know that Duncan will remain in the exhibition for some time and I go to the park while I wait. I walk for several minutes before stopping to rest on a bench by the pond. The roses are in full bloom; their heavy perfume scents the air. I take out my sketchbook and pencil case and draw the fountain. There are birds perching on the statue at its center. As I work I realize to my horror that I have reproduced the birds’ heads from the painting. The string I have unwittingly tied to the horns of the smaller bird looks like a bridle, as if it is there to prevent flight. I sketch in the God-like hand. Are these the fingers of a man or woman, I wonder? I draw the walnut shell, faithfully inserting the largest of the pins through the thumb. Only in my picture there is blood. I find a crayon and work a gash of red, contorting the thumb as it registers the stab of pain. I tear the sheet from my book and start again, this time the careful copy of a rose. I work the scallop shell of the outer petals, the tight whorl at its heart. I am quiet now, reproducing my rose. I continue with my drawing until it is time to return to the exhibition to find Duncan.

Julian’s words become reality. My thoughts jar and wrestle each other as I read his letter announcing his intention to fight for the Communists in Spain. He asks me to travel to Cassis so that we can meet when his ship docks at Marseilles. I respond at once, sensing there is little time. I point out that there are others who have a claim on him in England apart from me. I remind him of Charleston, the sunny corner in the sitting room where he likes to read, his favorite walks across the downs. I fold the letter into its envelope and put it in my pocket. On my way to the post I pull the petals from a wild dog rose flowering in the hedgerow and press them between the sheets of my letter. My petition works; Julian agrees to come home. For the time being, at least, he is safe.