1. From Ferndean to Villa Céline

Reader, don’t assume that once we married
Ferndean remained our home, with its grass-plat
in place of flower-beds, narrow latticed windows,
trees ranked closer than in a Gothic dream.
Edward let slip one day in June when the rain
was small but penetrating how he owned
a white-washed villa, bougainvillea-draped,
its windows beguiled by the permissive sea.  
I pictured myself on the terrace filling bowls
with misshapen lemons, bunching lavender,
sketching al fresco in loose cream linens –
my black beaver bonnet and matching muff,
my merino cloak all stuffed into a chest:
moth-fodder. We were off within the week.


2. How Jane discovered her vocation
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