Edgar glanced up at me. His brow twitched a little, a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘What is it, Mother?’ I asked. I moved some plates to one side so Edgar could lay the book on the table without fear of it being dirtied. He opened it, and inside on the first page was written in upper cases, in our mother’s neat hand:
A LIST OF INSTRUCTIONS, IN OTHER WORDS, A GUIDE TO OUR GRAND TOUR
PART ONE: FRANCE (PARIS)
‘“Our” grand tour?’ Edgar asked, with much amusement. ‘Mother, you are not coming with us.’
He laughed giddily, scandalised that he might play with her so.
‘Oh, I am,’ Mother said, very seriously. She touched the centre of her chest. ‘In my heart, I am with you every step of the way.’
Edgar began leafing through the book. I moved closer to his side so that we might look at it together. On each page was written out, with a location at the top, the entire itinerary our mother and Herr Hof had devised for us: Paris, Germany, the Italian cities – Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, all the way to Naples. From Naples, Edgar and I would sail home. We would be away not quite a year.
We continued leafing through the pages. Here and there, our mother had glued something she had cut from a published guidebook: a map, a diagram, an etching of some work of sculpture or architecture. Of course, she could have just given us the original guidebook herself (she did give us plentiful maps), but then she would not have been able to shape the experience exactly as she saw fit. I see it now that she wanted to mould the trip precisely, to leave nothing to any error that we two boys might allow, if we had any say of our own. My poor mother did not understand that it is possible to guide a hand too much.
‘I want you boys to make me a promise,’ she said, her eyes iridescent with tears. ‘You must make an oath to protect each other and love each other and never to let the other come to harm, to never let the other out of your sight – not for a day, not even for an hour – so that you will come home to me. Together you will seek out good people, and make them your friends, and then you will return home, safe, to me.’
Edgar and I said yes in turn, and so we all laughed – happily, nervously – hardly noticing that an oath had been made. And the whole time, a magnificent, beautiful, heartless cuckoo was out there, waiting in the nest of that perfectly-planned future my mother had devised: Lavelle.
Please find enclosed a drawing of the monuments of Paris. Paris is not actually like this but quite another sort of place, yet wonderful nonetheless! I asked Benjamin if you had been to this city, but neither of us could remember. Did you ever tell us if you had? We have your precious guidebook and it ‘guides’ us everywhere. We have met some marvellous people – absolute Quality – and I shall write you a longer letter to reveal all!
Benjamin and I both in tremendously good spirits, Mother!
All my love, your son,
PARIS
At first, Paris seemed a marvellous thing. The city was so beautiful in spring; everywhere birds were chirruping and blossoms opening. If Paris was elegant – the neat garden squares and pretty royal parks, the famous palaces of the French royal family, the spectacular domes – its people were even more so. We quickly understood that you could not be a galumphing, hollering Londoner in Paris. Mother’s book had informed us that Parisians whispered politely and discussed poetry, soberly. We should avoid too much laughter or smiling, which the French abhor. It was imperative (and this was underlined) that one should be seen as a ‘paragon of elegance’. When promenading, one should nod, nothing more, to other people of Quality. And the Quality of the city were always immaculately turned out, never seen without maquillage, their wigs higher than any hat, beauty spots and fans adorning the cheek of every woman and man. It was intimidating, I admit, and there were many, many rules.
Days appeared to be strictly prescribed, filled with endless diversions and pleasures: opera or dances early evenings, gambling and drinking late into the night, indulged hangovers in the morning. The afternoons were designated the ‘strolling time’. On our third day in the city, Edgar and I went to the Tuileries Garden, near the river, to take part in la promenade. In the royal garden, the Quality moved slowly, crunching the pale gravel walkways that divided the rectangular palace grounds into squares. Each section was decorated with pretty spring flowers in ornate pots, tiny trees or topiary bushes. To stroll from one end of the garden near the Tuileries Palace to the other took just fifteen minutes, but the task was to walk around and around, over and again, until several hours had passed. In this time, one would encounter new people, then see them again, and maybe again, until one might feel compelled to nod or even wish them a good day. But herein was the trick.
This was a world of instant judgements: on dress, on wigs, on gait, on countenance, on sincerity of smile. All around was light conversation, punctuated by sharp little hoots of recognition or derision. Oof! Ha! Oof! People held fans to their faces to hide their mouths, but above the fans, eyes flirted or remonstrated. Everyone watched everyone else for the first signs of a nod. Breaking first could be interpreted in many different ways: sometimes, those who nodded first were the social victor, sometimes the humiliated.
Edgar and I watched, fascinated, observing the occasional word that accompanied a smile one would struggle to recognise as sincere. And then there might be a moment of hesitation around a pair of eyes, flashing towards a nearby friend, as absolute as it was unspoken: an emphatic, utterly silent, no. We had grown up in a world without society; suddenly, we were thrust into it. I felt so unprepared for this world. These people, I reflected, knew things I did not understand, things that were not revealed in guidebooks. Lost in my thoughts, I was shaken from them only when Edgar nudged me in the arm. ‘Benjamin, look!’
A strikingly beautiful lady and two gentlemen appeared to be walking towards us. That they had no doubt at all they were the finest of specimens, one could see from how they moved, talked and delicately smiled. As they neared, my brother touched my arm:
‘They are speaking English.’
‘So?’ I asked. ‘They will never want to speak to us.’
‘I think we should nod to them,’ Edgar said, his voice full of confidence – a confidence I did not share. ‘I think we have to be brave.’ He shot ahead of me and a second later, they were only a few feet from each other. The man at the front – exquisitely turned out in a powder-blue suit with a high, curled off-white wig – smiled cautiously at Edgar, awaiting the nod. But my brother did not nod. He bowed, so deeply that the group appeared a little shocked – or as shocked as people this perfect ever dared look.
The young woman was dressed exclusively in the softest yellow, almost entirely without any depth of colour; colourlessness being a very smart thing. She held a folded fan to her lips, the height of refinement. In her stillness, I could see quite how beautiful she was. Her eyes were a deep, English blue – so unlike our dark little things – which lingered on Edgar as she studied him.
‘What jolly fellows do we have here?’ asked the man.
‘We are the Messieurs Bowen, from London,’ Edgar said. Messieurs? I thought, but Edgar kept glowing with the same confidence. ‘I could not help but hear that you are English, sirs. And I thought that I should make my introduction … I mean, our introduction.’