The Importance of Being Seven (31 page)

The trip to Florence took place the following day. Leaving early, to allow for errors of navigation, they drove slowly along the dirt road that followed the ridge of hills before reaching the outskirts of Montalcino. From there, the way led down, following a winding route that took them through vineyards and oak forests to a wide plain below. There was little traffic on the road at that hour – an occasional lorry, struggling up from Siena with a load of supplies for the hill villages; a few private cars carrying sleepy villagers to work in some bigger town; a tractor with its spraying arm swinging drunkenly across both lanes of the road.

The morning sun was gentle, the sky quite empty of cloud. Angus, sitting in the front passenger seat, looked out over the fields on either side. There was a railway line and what looked like a scarecrow, but which
revealed itself to be a man, as the figure suddenly straightened up and walked away purposively. I could paint that, he thought: a field with a man who looks like a scarecrow but is not. He smiled at the thought. Perhaps what seems to be a statue might move too; perhaps David might suddenly get down from his pedestal in the Piazza della Signoria and go for a cup of coffee with Neptune descended from his fountain. Anything could happen in Italy, he thought; the impossible was possible, and thank heavens for that – that there should be this beautiful country where art made everything feasible.

Domenica, although concentrating on the road, allowed herself a quick glance in the driver’s mirror at Antonia, seated directly behind her. Her neighbour, she noted, was dressed in a rather peculiar white frock, suitable for a hot day, perhaps, but somewhat theatrical in its effect. But that was not what interested her; it was the expression that caught her eye. Antonia was staring out of the window with what could only be described as a glazed look.

Domenica spoke breezily. ‘Everybody all right?’

Angus smiled. ‘Of course. I was just thinking about what lay ahead of us. The art. I feel like … a boy about to enter the sweetie shop.’

Domenica nodded. ‘And you, Antonia? Everything all right?’

There was no answer. Domenica looked anxiously in the mirror and Angus half turned in his seat.

‘All right?’ asked Angus.

Antonia came to. ‘What?’

‘Are you all right?’ asked Angus. ‘You looked a bit … distracted.’

‘The beauty!’ muttered Antonia.

Angus exchanged a quick glance with Domenica.

It seemed that Antonia thought that further explanation was required. ‘It’s so intensely beautiful,’ she said quietly. ‘The landscape – look at it. Those cypresses over there – such melancholy trees – they make me want to weep; they really do. And did you see that tiny shrine as we came down the hill? A little shrine to the Virgin, with a minute bunch of flowers laid on the ledge before it. Where would one see that in Scotland?’

‘Not in a great number of places,’ admitted Angus. ‘But then we are a Protestant country. Or were.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with religion,’ said Antonia. ‘It’s to do with beauty. It’s to do with the fact that there are people here who beautify their public space – even their roadsides. And what do we do? We destroy our landscapes, render them ugly with great pylons, with giant metal windmills.’

Angus agreed. ‘Yes, you’re right. We’re insensitive to beauty – for the most part. But that’s why we’ve been coming to Italy for years. We come to get in touch with beauty. To have our souls restored.’

Domenica listened to this exchange. There was nothing wrong with Antonia, she decided. She was affected by the change in surroundings, but so was she, and so was Angus. It would be odd if they had come to Italy and felt exactly the same as they felt in Scotland. What would be the point of travel if one felt exactly the same once one reached one’s destination?

They continued the journey. As they approached Florence the traffic became more intense, even though they had avoided the main highways and followed, as far as possible, quieter back roads. At last they reached a place where, in a small piazza on the edge of an industrial area, they were able to leave the car. A taxi then took them on the final leg of the journey into the centre of the city.

‘The Ponte Vecchio,’ Antonia suddenly screamed. ‘Look!’

The taxi driver swerved, alarmed by the sudden shouting.

‘You must excuse my friend here,’ said Domenica in Italian. ‘She is Scottish, you see. Scottish people are prone to sudden outbursts.’

The taxi driver nodded. ‘That is well known,’ he said. ‘Normally it is connected with football, I believe.’

‘Not in this case,’ said Domenica. ‘Architecture.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Antonia.

‘Nothing important,’ answered Domenica. ‘But look over there – we can ask him to drop us there. The Uffizi is just round the corner, I think.’

They alighted from the taxi and made their way to the point where a queue was forming outside the ticket office of the Uffizi.

‘We must prepare for a long wait,’ said Domenica. ‘Angus, I suggest that you take Antonia to a café and get a coffee. I shall keep our place in the queue and then I can nip off for coffee when you return.’

Angus and Antonia walked off. Domenica, standing in the line of people that already snaked out of the sheltering loggia, looked at her fellow art lovers. She amused herself for a while speculating on the nationality of those about her. There was an American couple, neatly turned out but laden with equipment: water bottles, umbrellas, waterproof ponchos, folding stools, and so on. They would be comfortable, thought Domenica; which was what she had always felt lay at the heart of the American dream – comfort. And there was nothing wrong with that; after all, a civilisation that sought discomfort would be peculiar indeed.

And in front of that American couple was a small group of Germans, each immersed in a guidebook. Seriousness of purpose, thought Domenica, and again she thought that there was nothing wrong with that; Europe needed German gravitas.

Behind them, a gaggle of Italian teenagers, preening themselves, fiddling with mobile phones, texting each other although they were only a few yards apart; the need to be part of a group, she thought; to be reassured. Which was how we all felt at sixteen; and still did, of course, but in a rather different way.

Back in Scotland, Stuart and Bertie swept along the Biggar Road as it skirted the slopes of the Pentlands. ‘Do you think there are any fish in the loch, Daddy?’ Bertie asked.

‘Certainly, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Trout. Large trout.’

‘Perhaps we’ll catch them then,’ said Bertie.

‘I think that’s highly likely,’ said Stuart. ‘Especially if you …’ and here he lowered his voice, ‘especially if you use a worm, Bertie.’

‘But I thought we had to use flies,’ said Bertie.

‘Not if you’re under seven, Bertie. You can use worms if you’re under seven. And I got hold of some. Big, fat, juicy worms. Trout can’t resist them, Bertie.’

They were now approaching the turn-off to the Flotterstone Inn, and Stuart slowed the car down. ‘Flotterstone,’ he said. ‘This is where we park the car and start to walk.’

They parked under a tree a couple of hundred yards from the inn. Stuart extracted the rods and the fishing bag from the back, and they both set off, Bertie holding on to his father’s free hand, his chest out, his head held high. As they made their way up the reservoir road, the crows flew up in strident protest from the bordering fields.

They saw sheep, and a small herd of cows that gazed ruminatively at them as they passed. They saw the wind send a flurry of teased-out cirrostratus across the otherwise empty blue sky, moving high over the summit of Turnhouse Hill and on towards Scald Law further to the west. Stuart stood still for a moment, watching the movement of the cloud, and thought of how it looked just like those pictures of clouds streaming past the high ridges of Everest; and thought, too, of how those high things drew people to them, lowly, earth-bound creatures that we were.

‘Would you like to climb up there one day, Bertie?’ he asked, pointing up at the line of hills. ‘It’s not difficult, you know. We could hike up there quite easily and then go all the way on to Nine Mile Burn.’

‘In proper boots?’ asked Bertie.

Stuart smiled. ‘Yes, I could get you some proper boots. They
make them in your size, Bertie.’ He realised, though, as he made the promise, that he did not know what size of shoe his son took. Bertie was his son and he did not know that, and he felt a sudden, sharp tug of shame.

‘Thank you, Daddy,’ said Bertie. ‘That would be very nice.’

They walked on in silence. They had reached the point now where the ground rose up to meet the wall of Glencorse Reservoir. Bertie was tiring, Stuart thought, and he offered to give him a ride on his shoulders. But Bertie declined, thanking his father politely. He could walk faster, he explained, and they were almost there, were they not?

‘You’re a sport, Bertie,’ said Stuart.

Bertie savoured the compliment. He was not sure what a sport was. If it was somebody who was good at sport, then it was kind of his father to say it, but he did not think that it was really true. He had not had the chance to play sports – not real sports, like rugby – and he was not sure whether he would be any good. The school, though, had recently broken with its tradition and formed a rugby team. Bertie now told his father about this.

‘We have a Steiner’s rugby team now, Daddy,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ said Stuart. ‘That’s interesting, Bertie.’

‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘I’m not in it. You have to be twelve. They played Watson’s the other day.’

‘Indeed?’ said Stuart. ‘And who won, Bertie?’

‘Watson’s,’ said Bertie. ‘It was 84–0 at the end. Actually, they stopped it early for some reason.’

Stuart suppressed a smile. ‘Bad luck, Bertie. But I’m sure that they’ll do better next time.’ He paused. ‘What do you think went wrong, Bertie?’

Bertie thought for a moment. ‘I think it’s because our team was told that they should share the ball, Daddy. So they did. They shared.’

Stuart looked at Bertie in astonishment. ‘That’s not the way that rugby’s normally played, Bertie. If you share the ball in rugby then … well, it doesn’t work, Bertie.’

‘But we have to share, don’t we, Daddy?’

‘Not in rugby, Bertie. You’re meant to try and get the ball away from other people.’

‘But isn’t that selfish, Daddy?’

‘I’m afraid it is, Bertie. But some of these games are a bit selfish. It’s in the rules, so to speak.’

‘So we lost because we shared the ball,’ said Bertie, reflectively. ‘And maybe also because they were mostly girls in our team.’

Stuart bit his lip. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Oh well, Bertie. There we are. At least everybody had fun. That’s the important thing.’

Now they had reached the reservoir – a long, L-shaped loch that stretched back into the fold of a glen. There was a small island not far from the shore – an island covered with pines on the edge of which various water birds were poised. On a small stony beach beside the road, three green-painted rowing boats had been drawn up; it was one of these that Stuart had hired for the afternoon.

Soon they were out in the middle of the loch. Stuart shipped the oars and picked up the rods. He had a fly on the end of his line, but at the end of Bertie’s he now fixed a float and a hook. Then, reaching into the pocket of his Barbour jacket, he took out a small plastic bag. Several large, succulent worms twisted about in a handful of damp soil. One of these was threaded onto the hook and the rod was passed to Bertie.

‘There you are, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Tight lines!’

Bertie tossed the float and line into the water. The hook, weighted by its worm, sank down into the peaty water below, down into brown depths. Then, almost immediately, the float bobbed up and down before sinking sharply beneath the surface of the water. Bertie saw what was happening, and shouted out in excitement. Then he began to reel in, just as his father had taught him before they left Scotland Street.

Up through the water came a large trout; a flash of silver; a dart of light; the fulfilment of a small boy’s dream. Soon it was on the surface, or just beneath it, and its tail twisted and hit the water with a splash. Bertie jerked the rod up, bringing the fish up into the air.

‘Careful,’ shouted Stuart as Bertie lowered the rod again. But it was too late; the sudden movement relieved the line of its strain and the fish was off the hook.

‘I really caught it, Daddy,’ he said, his voice faltering. ‘I really caught a fish, didn’t I?’

Stuart put an arm round his son. ‘Yes, you caught it, Bertie.’

‘It was big, wasn’t it, Daddy?’

Stuart nodded. He saw the tears in Bertie’s eyes and his heart went out to him. You poor little boy, he thought. You poor little boy.