Papa Georgio (7 page)

He helped hoist me up so I was standing with my foot half way up the gate and I could climb up the rest. It wasn’t that difficult as there were bars to put your feet on, only it was swinging about and making clanking noises that sounded terribly loud. I sat at the top swaying, between two curly bits of iron, with one leg each side.

Grandpa came up next to me, swung his leg over and disappeared down the other side. When he landed I heard him say, ‘Ooooof!’ and ‘Darnit! Dropped the torch!’

I was still lurching about on the gate and I got the giggles. I’m breaking into a cemetery with my grandfather, I thought, and now he’s probably broken his leg and we’ll never get out and I could feel bubbles of laughter in me like a bottle of lemonade at Grandpa stumbling about and cursing down there. I couldn’t actually see him because it was so dark.

I just managed to climb down, still bursting inside. Grandpa, a shadow beside me, reached for my hand. He seemed to be swaying about a bit too.

‘Right!’ he said. ‘Well at least I’ve found my hat.’ Then he couldn’t seem to think why we’d climbed over the gate. ‘Well, whatever are we doing here!’ he said, chortling helplessly, and I burst into more giggles as well and soon we were bent over, completely out of breath we were laughing so much. Just as we began to pull ourselves together, Grandpa stumbled over something on the ground and thumped over backwards like a sack of potatoes and we started off all over again.

‘Come along now,’ he said at last. ‘We must behave like Responsible Personages. ‘Let’s go and have a look. Take my arm, Janey dear. The torch is a goner so we’ll have to do without. At least there’s a little shred of moon.’

Our eyes were getting used to the dark and we could see a path nearby. Grandpa showed me that as well as the big stone plinths and tombs there was another way of being buried in Italy.

‘See here,’ he pointed.

On our left was a high wall, but in the gloom you could just make out that it was divided up into squares like a giant filing cabinet.

‘The ground’s so rocky in so many places here that they can’t just bury everyone,’ Grandpa said. ‘So they put them in these, above the ground, and close them up and they have their names on them, see?’

There was a little picture of the person on most of them and some had little nosegays of flowers fixed to them as well.

‘Well here they all are. Peaceful, isn’t it?’ Grandpa said.

The funny thing was, it could have felt very scary there. If I’d been on my own I would have seen ghosts and skeletons jumping out from behind every grave with black holes for eyes. But I was there with Grandpa and the way he talked about the dead people, it was just as if they were friends, people just like us who’d sort of lain down for a snooze.

We could smell the night now, the earth and the herby plants.

‘We’d better go back, my little dear,’ Grandpa said. ‘Brenda will be worrying.’

I climbed back over the clanky gate and managed to jump down into the street, then stood looking up at Grandpa as he swung one leg over.

‘Here we come!’ he announced. And then, ‘Oh, darn it! Got my trouser leg caught on something down there –
darn it
!

He was sprawled along the top of the gate, leaning down, muttering and cursing. I didn’t notice the footsteps coming along the road until the man was quite close to us and Grandpa was still calling out,

‘I’m going to have to go back over or I’ll lose my trousers, and that won’t do!’

The man seemed to have magicked himself right next to me. He was small and round and wearing a wide black hat and black clothes. He stopped and looked at me, then up at the top of the gate with big, solemn eyes.

‘Grandpa!’ I called, panic-stricken.

‘What is it?’ He peered over at us, both looking up at him. Even in this most undignified state, Grandpa managed to raise his hat.

‘
Buona sera
, Padre,’ he said. Good evening, he was saying.

The little round man touched the brim of his hat, most politely. ‘
Buona sera, signore, signorina
,’ he said, giving each of us a nod. Then he disappeared along the street. I’m sure he was smiling.

With a grunt and a ripping sound, Grandpa managed to get his trousers freed and his feet back on the ground.

‘That’s better!’ he said cheerfully. ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’

‘No – who?’

‘The local priest. Fine chap – didn’t bat an eyelid, did he?’ he took my arm. ‘Come along.’

When we walked back into the caravan field, the toilets were still going
Whoosh!
All by themselves.

III.

LOG BOOK

Where’s Grandpa gone this time? He’s gone off again and left us in this
boring
dusty campsite outside Vicenza where there’s nothing to do. Ever since we’ve been in Italy he’s been ‘sloping off’ – that’s what Brenda calls it. And he never takes me with him and I’m FED UP with it! I am
affronted
.

Oops. I stopped writing. I’d already broken my rules about not putting moods and rants into the front of my Log Book. But I was
fed up
. I was sitting on the step of the caravan writing and I had a nasty feeling Brenda (who was also none too pleased) was brewing up some sewing. So I was trying to look busy. But why was Grandpa being so mean?

Last time he took off it was outside Milan. After several hours he came back, triumphant.

‘Look at these beauties!’ Tucked under his arm was a parcel of soft felt, and out of it he unrolled two figures and stood them on the table next to the butter. They were both men, golden in colour, with wreaths of vine leaves round their heads. Otherwise they were stark staring naked.

‘Bronzes,’ Grandpa declared, running a loving finger down one of their spines. ‘Fine work. Marvellous, aren’t they?’

‘Er, very nice.’ Brenda eyed them, doubtfully. I think she thought they were a bit
too
realistic.

I stared at them wondering why statues are allowed to go naked but no one else.

‘I need to lay the table,’ Brenda said frostily. ‘And should you be displaying those in front of Janey?’

Grandpa rolled the bronzes back in their felt and stored them at the bottom of the cupboard.

Now he’d gone off again. Brenda was in her apron, washing up.

‘There’s no telling where he’s gone or what he’s up to,’ she sighed. After a moment she turned to me. Trying to console one or the other of us but I wasn’t sure which, she said,

‘Tell you what. We’ll go and fetch the water, and then start on that patchwork, shall we?’

Oh dismal, oh I knew it! I wanted my friends! I wanted Charlotte to be here and us running about having adventures, not stuck in, sewing! But she wasn’t here and what else was I going to do? It wasn’t Brenda’s fault. Trying not to sound sulky I said, ‘OK then.’

It was a warm afternoon and we left the door open so that the smell of pine trees drifted in. Brenda sat me down on the back seat, with a big pile of material between us, which made me feel gloomier still. What were we supposed to do when so much of the material consisted of some old curtains which were the sludgy green of old pondweed?

Rifling through the rest I found a pale pink piece with tiny roses on it.

‘Shall we start with that?’ Brenda looked eagerly at me.

She showed me how to tack the material on to hexagons of card and then, placing the two front sides together, stitch them together along one edge. Every stitch Brenda made with her clever fingers with their red polished nails, was perfect. Mine were all baggy and the cotton kept getting knotted. Mostly I felt like screaming and throwing it across the caravan but didn’t want to hurt Brenda’s feelings.

‘There!’ she said as the first two hexagons were at last joined by one edge. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

And it did look lovely. Patchwork might be a bit soothing after all.

Suddenly, without looking at me, Brenda said, ‘Are you all right dear? Here with us, I mean? We do so want to look after you properly.’

I nodded, not knowing what to say. They were looking after me perfectly well but I didn’t know how to tell her that.

‘Let’s do another one!’ Brenda said brightly.

We worked away for a bit and I was just pinning a fourth hexagon – pale blue this time - on to the others, to be stitched when we heard a Bang and Thump!

‘Right-ho Janey – come along. I’m going to need your help!’

Grandpa erupted through the caravan door, his blue and white striped shirt billowing outside the faded old trousers, his eyes alight with excitement.

‘I’m going to unhitch the car and you and I have got a little job to do. And I’ll need the feather bed – bring it out will you please?

‘George?’ Brenda followed us to the car as I dragged the feather bed across. She still had her sewing in her hand. ‘What are you up to?’ She sounded a bit annoyed, but mostly hurt that he kept doing things without telling her.

Grandpa had already unhitched the car from the tow-pin on the front of the caravan.

‘Just a little something I’ve found. Janey can give me a hand – jump in girl! We’ll be back soon!’

I hung on to the door as the Landrover lurched over thick tussocks of grass to the road.

‘Thing about this part of the country,’ Grandpa yelled over the rattle and roar. ‘They do a lot of stone carving – splendid stuff!’

Quite soon we reached a big yard with a ramshackle wooden fence round it. The yard was full, as far as you could see, with stone shapes the colour of pumice: figures of boys and girls, cherubs and angels, vases, pots and obelisks and lots and lots of animals.

A man with a dark stubbly face, who Grandpa called Ernesto, led us through the yard.

‘Here we are!’ Grandpa pointed with a flourish. ‘These are our little fellows. Marvellous, aren’t they?’

Side by side sat two stone dogs, ears pricked up, their noses almost touching. Each was carved so that they sat on a square base. They were big enough to reach up to my waist and they were elegant. Setters or gun dogs, Grandpa said. They had intelligent, friendly faces, each one with its face cocked a little to one side. I rubbed a hand over their rough, cold heads, then looked at Grandpa, puzzled.

‘Are they yours?’

‘Yes, yes. Signed and sealed. We just need to get them into the car.’

‘But …What? You mean they’re coming
with
us?’ If he filled up the back of the car with dogs, where on earth was I going to go?

‘Plenty of room, ‘Grandpa said with his usual breezy optimism. ‘We’ll manage.’

With the help of stubbly Ernesto, we fitted the dogs in through the back of the Landrover and they snuggled up, head to tail. Grandpa was in luck, because they just fitted into the base of the car, with space for his mysterious box wedged beside them. One was sticking up a bit more than the other though.

‘Now, we just need to pop the feather bed on top and you won’t notice they’re there,’ Grandpa said. ‘There – you hop in and try it out.’

I climbed on to the grey covered feather bed and the bodies of stone dogs. The bed moulded itself around the bumps and gaps and after wriggling about a bit I found I could get comfortable.

‘All right?’ Grandpa beamed at me.

I grinned back. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s a girl.’

‘
DOGS?
’ Brenda peered suspiciously into the back of the Landrover. ‘Where?’

I lifted a corner of the feather bed and Brenda stared, blinking, at the sight of a dog’s bottom and tail.

‘You mean….’ Her voice was quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before a big explosion. ‘That you’re expecting us to take them with us? All the way through Italy and back? George – have you gone
mad
?’

From the look in Brenda’s eyes behind her glasses, I could see she was really upset. Grandpa and I stood like children being told off by the head teacher. But I felt sorry for Brenda. Grandpa never thought to ask her opinion about things like this. She started to move away, tears in her voice.

‘It’s bad enough having to travel like this…. Like
gypsies
, instead of going to a nice little hotel, something civilized and
decent
… But I thought we could at least do it with a little bit of decorum.
Honestly
…’ She pulled a hanky from the pocket of her apron. ‘Feather beds… Naked men… Dogs…I feel as if I’ve joined a travelling circus.’

She stumped off to the caravan, her hanky pressed against her nose.

‘Oh dear oh dear,’ Grandpa sighed.

After a moment he went in after her and shut the door. I stayed outside. There are some things grown ups just have to be alone for.

IV.

LOG BOOK

Venice - Venezia

On the map Venice’s big canal looks like a snake, with the water winding through the city it as if it should have a hissing head at the end.

Grandpa says Venice is something you Have To See. I haven’t seen anything yet though and it’s dark outside now. There are crickets round us scraping and scraping. I love it. I’m sure I heard an owl a moment ago as well. I am sitting in bed and Auntie Brenda and Grandpa are getting ready for bed, lumpity-lump as usual! I can only just see and they don’t know that I am writing behind here.

We are parked up at a place called Mestre outside Venice. You can’t take cars into Venice anyway – there are no cars, no roads, only water and boats! Next to the caravan there is a tree which Grandpa has named the Prolific Vegetable. It’s got enormous brown leathery pods hanging from it which he calls ‘locust beans.’ They are really Carob, but locust beans sounds better.

When we arrived there was a tiny, scrawny tabby kitten hanging round the caravan. I’m sure it was starving, it looked so hungry. I asked Brenda if we could give it some milk and the poor little thing drank it all up at one go and then the man from the caravan next door came out and shooed it away. It was so scared and it ran off under the other vans. Just as I was making friends with it! He was a BIG FAT BULLY and I keep giving him DIRTY LOOKS every time I see him. I’ll see if the little cat is there in the morning. Grandpa said, ‘Oh he’ll be back. He knows where the grub is.’