The Importance of Being Seven (28 page)

This auspicious beginning to the trip put Angus in a particularly good mood for the journey from Pisa to the villa. Their hired car, a Fiat Venti Cavalli, was big enough for the entire party and all their luggage, but only if Cyril sat on Angus’s lap. This he was happy to do, sticking his head out of the window and sniffing with intense interest at the passing Italian air. The smells, of course, were quite different from those attendant on a comparable Scottish journey, and none of the human passengers had even the faintest inkling of how exciting was the olfactory tapestry that Cyril now enjoyed. The world as it reveals itself to the canine nose is far richer than we can possibly imagine, and includes not only that which is there – which is interesting enough – but also that which was there before. So, while the human eye may see signs of the impact of man – farm walls, grain towers, well-worked farms – the dog picks up much more: historic scents that have been layered upon the landscape and have not gone away. We, then, may look at a Tuscan field and see furrows, stones, dry white earth; this would be thin fare for the dog, who knows that those furrows were ploughed by oxen, that birds had pecked at the seeds sown by the farmer whose boots in turn left behind them a story quite of their own, of tramping upon a cellar floor, of walking among olive trees and of so much else. All this Cyril now picked up and relished, quivering with excitement at the intellectual challenge of interpreting and classifying this bewildering array of scents.

Domenica was at the wheel.
Nothing had been said about this; she had merely announced that she had arranged the car. Angus did not own a car and, although he possessed a licence, had more or less forgotten how to drive; Antonia, by contrast, would have driven had Domenica not been – in her view – so controlling.

‘I’ll be very happy to share the driving with you,’ she said as they left the suburbs of Pisa behind them. ‘Just let me know when you want a break.’

‘How kind,’ said Domenica. ‘But, alas, I appear to be the only driver listed on the car rental contract. How very unfortunate.’

Antonia said nothing, but in her mind she filed this away as yet another example of Domenica’s taking-over. There had already been several incidents in the plane, when she had monopolised Angus and barely given her a look-in; that was bad enough, but if this were to be the pattern of the trip, then she would have to be dealt with. Angus was not here for the sole delectation of Domenica, thought Antonia, even if it was true that the older woman had met him first. The fact that one has met a person first does not confer any greater right to that person’s company; that would be absurd. Perhaps Domenica needed to be reminded that she, Antonia, was an artist – in that she was a writer – just as Angus was, and that this meant that there was a bond between the two of them to which Domenica, as a non-artist, could not hope to aspire.

‘I feel so … so exhilarated,’ she said. ‘Just to be here in Tuscany.’ She gestured to the countryside outside the car. ‘What artistic soul could be anything but quickened in such a place? Don’t you agree, Angus? As an artist?’

Angus smiled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘This is landscape to which one can hardly be indifferent.’

Antonia now continued. ‘I suppose that even those of us who are not artists,’ and here she looked pointedly at Domenica, ‘must feel something too. Not as intensely, perhaps.’

Domenica kept her eyes fixed on the road. ‘We have a long
family association with this part of Italy,’ she said evenly. ‘My parents, in fact, met in Florence. My father, you see, was instrumental in setting up the British Library there. He was with the British Council for many years. They had many friends here. And I came for the holidays – quite often, in fact. My very first boyfriend was Italian, you know. I was sixteen and there was this delightful boy whose father was the Conte di something or other, and we played tennis—’

‘Such a dull game,’ interjected Antonia. She did not want to hear about this Italian boy and his father, the
conte
; a typical story, she felt, of upper-middle-class pretension. And what was this about visiting as a child? She thought that Domenica had lived in India when she was young, not Italy. Was she making the whole thing up?

‘Tennis?’ said Angus. ‘Tennis dull? Surely not. I’ll play tennis with you, if you like, Domenica. I’m a bit rusty, but I used to play quite a lot. Do we have a tennis court at the villa, I wonder?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Domenica. ‘But had we had one then we should certainly have played.’

Antonia smiled grimly. Really, Domenica was the end. Had we had a tennis court then we should have played! Domenica was not unlike that Jane Austen character who announced that if she had learned to play the piano then she would undoubtedly have been rather good at it. Well, if this was the way Domenica wanted it to be, then she would not flinch from the prospect. If there was to be a direct battle for the attentions of Angus, then she, Antonia, had an advantage that no amount of clever verbal play on Domenica’s part would be able to deal with: she was younger than her. That brute fact gave her an inestimable advantage; she was younger, and any man was bound to be more interested in a younger women – that was how men were. They might pretend it to be otherwise, but such claims would ultimately always be shown to be hollow; Angus would be no exception.

They continued with their drive until at last they saw the small hill town of Sant’ Angelo in Colle rise up from the plains. They were still some distance away when they saw it, and it was faded
and attenuated in hazy outline, almost unreal, like a backdrop painted by an artist whose palette runs only to gentle shades of blue.

‘That’s where we’re going,’ said Domenica. ‘See? Over there.’

Antonia and Angus were silent. The sight of such beauty can make us quiet with fear; fear that it might not be real, fear that it might be taken from us, as is everything that we love, that is only on loan to us.

The return of Irene proved to be a low-key affair. On the day of her repatriation, Stuart took Bertie to school on the 23 bus and assured him that his mother would be there to collect him at the end of the school day. And indeed she was – as Bertie made his way to the school gate he saw Irene talking in an animated way to a small knot of raptly attentive parents, describing to them, he imagined, her remarkable ordeal.

‘There’s your mother, Bertie,’ said Olive as they approached the gate. ‘Nobody thought they’d see her again, but she’s back. My dad says it’s a great pity.’

Bertie frowned. ‘What’s a great pity?’

‘That your mum was taken away in a container,’ said Olive. ‘Or I think that was what he meant. Of course he might have meant that it’s a pity she’s come back. I’ve got no way of telling. But that’s what he said.’

They returned to the flat on the bus.

‘I was worried about you, Mummy,’ said Bertie.

‘Of course you were,’ said Irene. ‘But we must put these little things behind us. I am, if anything, strengthened by the experience, Bertie. To be taken to Hungary in a container is but a small thing, Bertie. And I hear from Daddy that you were extremely brave about it all. As was Ulysses, I gather.’

Bertie said nothing. He did not think it would help to tell his mother how cheerful Ulysses had been during her absence; how he had refrained from being sick and how his appetite had improved. Life, he realised, would return to normal, which it did almost immediately. Yet not everything was unchanged by Irene’s unfortunate experience; while Irene was away, Bertie had been comforted by his father, who had promised him that as soon the crisis was over and Irene was restored, he would take his son fishing in the Pentlands. It was a long overdue promise, and Bertie was not going to forget it quickly. A few days after Irene’s return, Bertie raised the topic with Stuart, reminding him of his undertaking.

‘You promised,’ he said. ‘And you have to keep your promises, you know.
Pacta sunt servanda
, Daddy.’

Stuart looked at Bertie in unconcealed astonishment. ‘Where did you get that from, Bertie?’

‘It’s Latin,’ he said. ‘It means that you should keep your promises. I read it somewhere.’

‘Well, of course I shall.’

Bertie pressed home. ‘When?’

Stuart thought. He was still on compassionate leave, and in his view Bertie was entitled to a few days’ leave too. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.

Bertie’s eyes widened. ‘But tomorrow’s a school day, Daddy. I have to …’

Stuart smiled. ‘That’s perfectly all right, Bertie. You can have the day off.’

Bertie’s jaw dropped. ‘Just like that?’

‘Yes,’ said Stuart. ‘Just like that. You’ve had a very difficult time, with Mummy being away.’

Bertie looked thoughtful. Yes, it had been difficult in that he had felt anxious and concerned, but in other respects … He did not like to admit it, of course, but it had been, in some respects, glorious. No yoga. No Italian. No psychotherapy.

‘So,’ Stuart continued, ‘we’ll go fishing in one of those lochs in the Pentlands.’

‘But won’t I get into trouble?’ asked Bertie.

‘No. Not at all. I’m your father, Bertie, and I take the view that you are quite sufficiently educationally advanced to take the occasional day off school. After all, there you were quoting Latin expressions to me –
pacta sunt
something or other – what exactly was it, Bertie?’

‘
Pacta sunt servanda
,’ said Bertie. ‘I read all about it, Daddy. It’s a principle of international law. It means that you must keep your word.’ He thought of Tofu. Tofu needed to have this rule explained to him. And Olive too. And Hiawatha, who had recently promised Bertie to give him a packet of crisps in exchange for a peanut-butter sandwich and had then reneged on the agreement on the grounds that he had been crossing his fingers at the time.

Stuart nodded.

‘What is international law, Daddy?’ asked Bertie.

Stuart raised an eyebrow. ‘It is, I believe, the system of rules that countries have to obey.’

Bertie thought of this. ‘And do they?’ he asked.

‘When it suits them,’ said Stuart. ‘Otherwise no. Otherwise they say that the rules are all a bit vague.’

‘I see,’ said Bertie. He was now thinking about fishing. ‘Where will we go?’

‘We’ll try one of those lochs up there,’ said Stuart, pointing
vaguely in the direction of the Pentlands. ‘I can borrow a couple of rods from somebody round the corner. I know a man who’s got all the necessary stuff, Bertie.’

Bertie moved from foot to foot with excitement and pleasure. ‘And can we have sandwiches, Daddy?’

‘Yes,’ said Stuart. ‘We’ll take sandwiches. And I’ll buy some crisps from that garage opposite the ski slope. They have lots of crisps there, Bertie.’

Bertie closed his eyes in sheer pleasure at the thought. And when he opened them, there was his mother, who had been in the kitchen when this conversation with his father had begun.

‘What’s all this, Stuart?’ Irene asked. ‘What’s this about crisps?’

Stuart swallowed hard. Bertie noticed this, and looked away.

‘Bertie and I …’ Stuart faltered. Bertie felt his heart miss a beat within him.

Irene kept her eyes on Stuart. ‘Yes?’

‘We’re going fishing, Mummy,’ Bertie blurted out. ‘We’re going fishing in one of those lochs in the Pentlands. Daddy’s going to get some crisps so that we can eat them while we’re …’ Now he, too, faltered. But he plucked up his courage. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ said Irene. ‘But tomorrow’s a school day, Stuart. Bertie can’t …’

Stuart closed his eyes. ‘Decision taken!’ he said firmly. ‘No school for Bertie tomorrow. Fishing. All decided!’

Bertie looked at his father in sheer admiration. Then he looked at his mother. Her eyes were narrowed.

‘Stuart,’ she said quietly. ‘A little word with you in the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’

Bertie held his breath.

‘No need,’ said Stuart breezily. ‘It’s all settled. I’ve told Bertie it’s all fixed up. End of story.’

‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘
Pacta sunt servanda
, Mummy.’

Two against one, thought Bertie. Two against one. No, three, if you counted Ulysses.