Authors: Kate Beaufoy
‘Yes, thank you. It was quite strange – I found the very view from the third-floor window that my grandfather once painted. See? Here.’
Cat passed the sketchbook to Madame, and the old lady frowned.
‘Your grandfather?’ she said. ‘But I know this book! I’m certain of it. This is the book that belonged to the painter known as Scotch.’
‘How on earth would you know that?’
‘I would recognize it anywhere! He drew a picture of me once and tore it out for me to keep. I was only a small child then, but I remember him well. Who could forget an artist who could paint as he did with just one hand!’
Cat smiled, full of a sudden pride for the man whose genes had been passed down to her. ‘What was he like, my grandfather?’
‘Scotch? He was a man who was full of
joie de vivre
. I remember he was such fun! He had time for everybody – even an annoying little girl such as I was. And he was a truly accomplished snooker player – no-one could best him. I loved Scotch. Everybody loved him.’ Madame shook her head in wonderment. ‘I have just remembered something. Wait here a moment, please.’
Madame Gloaunec scuttled across the street, disappeared into her house, and returned some minutes later with an envelope in her hand.
‘You should have this,’ she said. ‘I have been waiting for years to pass it on.’
Cat gave her a look of incomprehension. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This was left by Scotch, the day he went away. It was intended for your grandmother. He must have left it on the mantelshelf of their room, but she never received it.’
Madame handed Cat the sealed envelope. It was yellow with age, and the name ‘Jessie’ was printed on it in faded, brownish ink.
‘Maman found it behind a skirting board where it had fallen out of sight,’ continued Madame. ‘She would have posted it on, but when your grandmother left for Paris she left no forwarding address. It has been in a drawer ever since, waiting for one or other of them to return. Read it. Read it!’
Cat opened the envelope with careful fingers, and drew out a thick wad of old French francs. So, he had provided for her! How much was here, she wondered, in old money? Enough for Jessie to have forged a new life for herself? Or just enough to cover her fare back to her parents in London? However much was there, it told Cat that Scotch had not left her grandmother destitute.
Setting the money aside, she slid a sheet of paper from the envelope, and read in her grandfather’s distinctive script the following words:
August 1919
Beloved.
Believe this. I love you so consummately that nothing would make me happier than to travel with you to the end of the earth and beyond. But I can’t do it. I can no longer subject you to this life. I have no money and no prospects of ever having any, and I shall never be able to keep you in the manner you deserve.
It breaks my heart to see you mend your own clothes – you who once had a maid to do that for you. It breaks my heart to see you window shop, knowing that you can’t afford the fashions on display. And I think the most heart-breaking thing of all was when you had to nurse me through my illness that time in Chambéry, when you missed your mother and father so.
I want you to return home to England, to your parents who love you despite everything, and to that swagger house in London. I know you will be devastated, to begin with, but you are young, and before long you will forget me and find some chap who will fall desperately in love with you as I did, and who will be able to provide for you, as I cannot.
Please do this, beloved. And please do not try to find me, for I must be strong if I am to start a new life. A life – without you? That is not a life.
I shall never stop loving you.
Scotch
Cat looked up. The window of the room where her grandparents had lived and slept and made love was lambent now with reflected evening light. Jessie had rested there in the embrace of the man who would never stop loving her, gazing towards Finistère, contemplating the future, harbouring within her the child who would be born Baba, become Lisa, and beget Caitlín.
Madame Simonet gave Cat a look of concern.
‘I did the right thing, to give it to you?’ she asked.
‘You did the right thing. Thank you, Madame. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
Cat laid a hand over her belly, and smiled.
Liberty Silk
is a tribute to my grandmother, Winifred Jessie Beaufoy: artist’s muse, adventuress, and one of the first women to receive a degree from Cambridge. It was inspired by some two dozen letters she wrote from France and Italy nearly a century ago. All the extracts from Jessie’s letters in the novel are reproduced exactly as they were written. Key plot devices – the ring, the charm, the sketchbook and, of course, the Liberty silk evening dress – all belonged to her, and are now in my possession, along with the letters.
Jessie Beaufoy died in 1985. The following is the conversation I wish I could have with her today.
KATE BEAUFOY
: Grandma, I’ve written a book.
JESSIE BEAUFOY
: What kind of book, darling?
KB
: A novel. I’ve put you in it; I hope you don’t mind.
JB
: What do you mean, you’ve put me in it?
KB
: Well, I’ve included bits from your letters – the ones you wrote from France during the Great War. Do you remember?
JB
: I was doing library work there, darling. I didn’t see any warfare.
KB
: That’s because the Armistice happened the week after you arrived.
JB
: Armistice Day! I remember it so well! There were carnivals and victory parades and all kinds of festivities in the streets.
KB
: That’s when you met Grandpa. He protected you from the drunks and the fireworks, and you got engaged just five weeks later. That was fast work, Grandma!
JB:
I was lucky: he was a very handsome, dashing man. You’d describe him, nowadays, as being ‘hot’, I think.
KB
: You were pretty stunning yourself. I have a studio portrait of you taken around then. I have your engagement ring, too.
JB
: The cabochon sapphire?
KB
: Yes. And a charm – a little carving of jade or agate, that Grandpa gave you for your birthday that year.
JB
: A little Egyptian devil, or something, wasn’t it? He found it tucked away in a corner of an antique shop in Rouen. I’m surprised you still have it.
KB
: Do you remember the birthday present you got for him?
JB
: His birthday was in May – we were on honeymoon then.
KB
: You gave him a sketchbook.
JB
: It was the most beautiful book! Leather bound, with handmade paper. I inscribed a love poem in it, and we had a birthday tea that day, in a swagger tea-shop with an orchestra.
KB
: It was the Caffè Giubbe Rosse, in Florence. I’ve been there. I sat on the terrace where you and Grandpa sat, and that’s when I decided to write my novel. I was inspired by your letters.
JB
: Inspired? We didn’t do anything so very inspiring.
KB
: Oh, you did! You were jazz-age adventurers – the original backpackers! I feel privileged to have had such glamorous grandparents!
JB
: There was nothing very glamorous about our adventures, darling. We travelled third-class everywhere, and slept on station platforms. Padua was particularly ghastly. We were eaten by mosquitoes there.
KB
: You went to Siena after Florence, didn’t you?
JB
: Yes, by a bumpy old motor-bus, through the mountains.
KB
: But you stayed in the Bandini Palace. That must have been glamorous!
JB
: The old countess Bandini was taking in paying guests; she lived on the ground floor. Our room had views as fine as any, I believe, in Italy. Scotch did a lot of painting while we were there. His portfolio was crammed full of watercolours by the end of our holiday.
KB
: Siena was where you ran up against the Greek count and his little girl.
JB
: She was the most charming creature – so dainty and ethereal it made you wonder if she’d ever grow up. He told us her parents had gone missing during the war, and he had brought her up from babyhood. But there was something . . . malign about him. I remember she called him ‘her naughty boy’, for some reason.
KB
: He was very well connected, wasn’t he?
JB
: Yes. He had been presented at courts all over Europe. He followed us to San Gimignano, but we gave him the slip there, and went on to Venice. I’d dreamed about going to Venice for years, and Pawpey was a complete brick and treated us to it. Then it was back to Paris via Chambéry – we stayed in a hotel there for nearly three weeks, because poor Scotch fell terribly ill.
KB
: That’s where you met the Italian girl, wasn’t it?
JB
: Yes. She was a friend of the Italian attaché. She was very good looking, if you care for that kind of sallow beauty. She sat for Scotch wearing black velvet, holding a fan of white ostrich feathers . . .
KB
: I put her in my book.
JB
: Take her out! We met people far more deserving than her to be put in a book: painters and poets and musicians – such cosmopolitan, charming people, too, of all nationalities.
KB
: I put the count in, too.
JB
: Another shady character! Didn’t you put anyone of merit in your story?
KB
: I put some famous people in. Picasso. The Fitzgeralds. Coco Chanel.
JB
: I so adored her style. But I couldn’t afford Chanel.
KB
: I’ll give you one of her embroidered tunics to wear, in the book.
JB
: Thank you, darling! I felt such a frump sometimes, especially in Paris.
KB
: You had your Liberty silk evening dress, Grandma!
JB
: I suppose that was rather a ripping dress.
KB
: I have it now: it’s a design classic. I’m passing it on to your great-granddaughter.
JB
: How lovely! What are you calling this book, by the way?
KB
:
Liberty Silk
.
JB
: Hmm. I suppose that has a certain
je ne sais quoi
. Will anyone want to read it?
KB
: If it gets published, they might.
JB
: Why shouldn’t it be published? Isn’t it any good?
KB
: My editors think it is. But I don’t want to go ahead without your blessing.
JB
: I wonder if it’s possible to confer a blessing from beyond the grave.
KB
: You could give it a go.
JB
: Oh, very well, then. ‘I bless this novel, and all who sail in her.’
KB
: Thank you, Grandma Beaufoy. That’s perfect!
JB
: You’re welcome, darling. I’m awfully glad you kept those letters, you know.
KB
: So am I, Grandma. I’m awfully glad you wrote them.
If you would like to see images of the Liberty Silk dress, the ring, the charm, the sketchbook and letters – along with places and characters who appear in the novel – please have a look at the Liberty Silk Pinterest page:
www.pinterest.com/libertysilk/
1: On a shopping trip to Liberty of London, which department do you visit first:
a: Accessories, for a travel wallet and passport holder.
b: Designer womenswear.
c: Stationery, for a selection of Liberty patterned notebooks.
d: The beauty rooms.
e: The gift department, to buy presents.
2: Your dream date would buy you tickets to:
a: Glastonbury.
b: Ascot.
c: Glyndebourne.
d: The Cannes Film Festival.
e: A West End Musical.
3: Your perfect Sunday morning is spent how?
a: Settling down with the papers after an early morning hill walk.
b: A little al fresco yoga followed by Bellinis and fresh fruit.
c: In bed with your lover, breakfasting on smoked salmon & scrambled eggs.
d: By a pool with champagne on ice.
e: Brunch with friends before the game.
4: You’ve reached your holiday luggage limit. What can you simply not leave behind?
a: Your camera
b: A silk sheath that doubles as day/evening wear.
c: Your journal.
d: Sunhat and sunglasses.
e: Mask and snorkel.
5: Each year, you buy a themed calendar that features:
a: Destinations to visit before you die.
b: Classic fashion photographs.
c: Reproductions of Pre-Raphaelite paintings.
d: Iconic movie stars.
e: Gary Larson cartoons.
6: You’ve been asked to appear on
Strictly Come Dancing
. Your dance of choice would be:
a: A fiery Paso Doble.
b: A stylish Quickstep.
c: A dreamy Viennese Waltz.
d: A polished American Smooth.
e: A lively Lindy Hop.
7: You accept delivery of flowers. What would you like them to be?
a: Something in a pot that’s easy to look after.
b: A streamlined sheaf of Arum lilies.
c: A dozen red roses.
d: An extravagant bouquet of hothouse orchids.
e: You don’t mind. It’s the thought that counts.
8: You’re perfectly happy with your mutt or moggy, but your fantasy pet would be:
a: A Pueblan milk snake.
b: A white cockatoo.
c: A Balinese cat.
d: A Bichon Frisé puppy.
e: A pygmy goat
9: Your fictional heroine is:
a: Katniss Everdeen of
The Hunger Games
.
b: Truman Capote’s Holly Golightly.