A porcelain jar in the shape of an urn, mounted on a small plinth. No one can deny its beauty, its cool serenity, its almost regal presence. The decoration is very precise, a crown of leaves at the base, a frieze of blue flowers round the rim. There is something inviolable about the jar, as if it must retain its secret to the end. Next to it I place two smaller objects. On the right, there is a stoppered bottle, labeled like the medicine vials Father kept by his bed. I paint it green, virile, tightly corked. On the left I work an open dish, empty for the moment of contents. It has a look of expectancy about it, as if it already knows its fate. I turn my attention to the background. Here I need light, shadow, space. I want to suggest there is hope in the blankness. In front of the objects I fashion poppies, another group of three. I work delicately, painstakingly. The two that are furthest from the viewer I make white, their petals closed, merging into the shadow. The third I paint red, the color spilling from the petals like blood. I do not see any meaning in my flowers. I refuse to say which of them is me or Clive or you. I create the stems long and slender, lying across the canvas in parallel. I do not allow them to touch.

5

I RECOGNIZE HIM IMMEDIATELY. I HANG BACK, SHIELDING myself behind Clive, uncertain if he will remember me. He is at the far end of the platform, studying the train timetable. He looks up suddenly, as if conscious of my gaze, and his eyes light with recognition. The next moment he is hurrying toward us.

We share a carriage. I observe the deep lines in Roger’s face, his shock of white hair, the surprising contrast of his ink-black brows. While he chats with Clive I look out the window and let my thoughts drift. I remember Desmond and Molly’s party and how alarmed I was when I discovered I had been seated next to Roger Fry. His reputation as an artist and critic, his encyclopedic knowledge, his searching questions as he quizzed me on my work made me tongue-tied at first. Yet as the evening progressed my feelings toward him changed. He encouraged me to speak, persuaded me that my opinions mattered. His enthusiasm led me to formulate thoughts I did not know I had. I grew increasingly bold as our conversation ranged from Sargent to the French, the wonders of the Italian Renaissance to the blunders of English design. By the end of the dinner I felt I had known Roger all my life. At the same time, it was his unfamiliarity, the daring in not quite knowing how he would react, that made the encounter exciting.