The Importance of Being Seven (35 page)

Over the next few days, Domenica and Angus slipped naturally into a daily routine as peaceful and as soporific as the Tuscan countryside itself. Breakfast was taken on the patio at the front of
the villa, gazing out over the gently rolling countryside to the little hill town of Sant’ Angelo in Colle in the distance. Sitting over large cups of milky coffee, they discussed the day ahead with all the urgency and anxiety of those who knew that they had nothing to do – that is, with none of either. An outing might be suggested, but not necessarily acted upon – perhaps a run down to the abbey at San’ Antimo or over to Monte Oliveto Maggiore to view the frescoes of Giovanni Bazzi,
il Sodoma
. ‘Such an unfortunate nickname,’ said Domenica. ‘Like all nicknames, so unkind.’

Angus did not think that true: there were affectionate nicknames, too, but he did not argue; not here in this setting, with the heat beginning to make the hills shimmer and the air fill with the orchestral shriek of insects.

‘I’d also like to see his frescoes in Siena,’ he said. ‘In the Basilica of San Domenico, Domenica.’ He paused. ‘He depicts the life of St Catherine of Siena. Such a tiresome saint, I’m afraid, with all her fasting and constant letter-writing. But she meant well, I suppose. She eventually gave up water – an ultimate sign of piety.’

‘And?’ asked Domenica.

‘That was the end,’ said Angus. ‘Giving up food is one thing, but water’s another, I’m afraid. Her eating disorders made her seem very light, apparently. Her supporters saw her floating above the ground from time to time.’

‘Like St Joseph of Copertino,’ said Domenica. ‘Didn’t he float?’

‘No, he actually flew through the air. There’s a distinction, you know. That’s why he’s the patron saint of air travellers.’

Leisurely discussions about saints and their doings; talk of artists and their frescoes – all conducted against a backdrop of a landscape so entrancing as to be reminiscent of that which the great artists of the Renaissance had chosen for their paintings – filled the morning so effortlessly that the arrival of noon was always a surprise.

Antonia was not forgotten. There was a daily telephone call to check up on her progress. At first this call was made to Santa Maria Nuova in Florence, and then, after her transfer to the countryside, to the convent at which she was being looked after
by the Tiny Sisters. For the first few days they spoke to a nun who reported on Antonia’s condition, but after that the patient herself was allowed to come to the phone, and assured them that she was very comfortable and being well looked after by the sisters. ‘They are teaching me needlework,’ she said. ‘And I am joining in their devotions. The sisters are very welcoming.’ There was no mention of Giotto or Botticelli – a good sign, Domenica thought, in the circumstances.

And if Angus and Domenica found contentment in that place, so too did Cyril, perhaps to an even greater degree. For him the Italian countryside was an exquisite patchwork of possibility in which intriguing scents jostled one another for his attention. He had also made several new canine friends, a motley band of three high-spirited Italian dogs that had some connection with the nearby farm, although they did not appear to live there.

Their collars, inspected by Angus, for whom they had a particular affection, revealed their names: Claudio, Ernesto and Cosimo, and there were traces of an inscribed address too, but this had been worn away and was now unintelligible. The farmer’s wife fed these dogs, but disclaimed ownership; they were, she explained, dogs who had always been there, descendants of a dog that had once belonged to a wiry shepherd who had ridden with great distinction in the Sienese Palio years before. That was all she knew.

Cyril met up with these dogs every day and went off with them on some mission, the details of which Angus was never able to ascertain. They returned at midday, their tongues hanging out for the heat, and enthusiastically drained the bowls of water he put out for them.

‘It’s strange,’ said Domenica from her deckchair in the shade. ‘It’s very strange to think of Cyril having an independent existence. And yet he does, doesn’t he? Didn’t he have an affair once?’

‘It was very brief,’ said Angus. ‘They only saw one another once. It was in Drummond Place Gardens.’

‘And yet she had puppies, didn’t she? Six or seven, weren’t there?’

Angus nodded. ‘Yes. And their owner landed me with them.’

‘What happened to them, Angus? You never told me.’

Angus sighed. ‘I felt very bad about it,’ he said. ‘At least at first. I feared that I had made a terrible mistake giving them to a stranger whom I met walking through Drummond Place. Then I heard what had happened and I’m relieved to say the outcome was very satisfactory.’

Domenica raised an eyebrow. ‘They found a good home? All of them?’

‘Yes, as it happens, they did. They ended up in a small travelling circus in Ireland, would you believe? Finn MacNamara’s Jumping Dogs was the name of the outfit. They were trained to jump through hoops and so on. Apparently they’re very happy – dogs love performing. They’re based in Cork, but go all over Ireland doing their tricks.’

Domenica said that she thought this a very satisfactory ending. ‘As a child,’ she said, ‘I always wanted to join the circus. What child hasn’t?’

‘I wanted to go to sea,’ said Angus. ‘We used to go for holidays on Mull when I was a boy, and I loved watching the boats. I thought that there would be nothing more exciting than to be a stowaway. In fact, when I was eight, I tried to stow away on the MacBrayne ferry from Oban. My parents were watching me, of course, and saw me hiding in one of the deck lockers.’

Domenica laughed. ‘Not a good choice of ship,’ she said. ‘You would just have gone backwards and forwards between Oban and Mull. Until you were eighteen perhaps.’

‘And now …’ said Angus.

She waited for him to continue. What did he want to say? Those two words –
and now
– seemed to point to a whole hinterland of regret. And now it is too late. And now my dreams are but as dust. And now there is so little time left.

He said nothing further. She waited. A breeze, so gentle as to be almost undetectable, had blown up from the south, touching the branches of the olive trees, creating a ripple in the grey-green sea of leaves.

Nothing really happened – and then everything happened. Domenica would later find it difficult to reconstruct events: understandably, perhaps, so emotionally significant was that day, and so unexpected its central, crowning moment. Or was it really unexpected? Might she have detected in Angus’s look, in the manner in which he seemed to be weighing every word he uttered, in the way that his hand was trembling as he handed her a cup of coffee, that he was on the verge of some moment of annunciation? Perhaps; and yet she did not, with the result that when Angus suddenly cleared his throat and addressed her, she was not ready for what was said.

‘You know, Domenica, when you look at your life,’ he began, ‘by which I mean when I look at my life, I can hardly reflect upon it with complete satisfaction.’

Domenica disagreed. ‘I don’t know, Angus,’ she said reassuringly. ‘You’ve achieved something, surely. Your work is well regarded. You enjoy the privilege of being able to devote your time to painting – which is what you love, I believe. Many would consider you fortunate.’

Angus shook his head. ‘No. That’s kind, but no. I paint portraits of company directors and the like. That is all. I leave nothing of worth behind me – no great work, no painting that really adds to our artistic patrimony. I am, I’m afraid, something of a failure.’

Domenica frowned at this. Angus was not given to self-pity – something that she had heard him railing against in others. Was Angus coming down with delayed Stendhal Syndrome? Who would be next? Cyril? Was there a veterinary equivalent of the unusual condition; a version that struck dogs who were suddenly confronted with a tantalising choice of exotic scents?

‘Oh, I am aware of my relative good fortune,’ Angus said quickly. ‘And there is only one respect in which I might be more fortunate than I am already. And that is if you were prepared to …’

She looked at him politely. ‘Prepared to what?’

He was staring at the sky, as if inspiration were to be found in that quarter. Somewhere, over the hills, there was the drone of a tiny
engine. Somebody is cutting wood with a buzz-saw … The line from that poem about angels in Italy; so evocative. And then, over the brow of a hill, still a speck in the clouds, came a minute aircraft – a wing under which a man was suspended by rigging yet invisible.

‘Icarus,’ muttered Angus.

Domenica looked up. ‘About suffering they were never wrong,’ she said quietly.

Angus had heard the line before; Domenica had quoted it to him on more than one occasion. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Auden is so right, isn’t he? Icarus falling – the boy’s white legs disappearing into the green sea – all unnoticed because the rest of the world has to get on with its business.’

There was a silence. The tiny aircraft approached and was soon overhead. Icarus could be made out quite clearly, and he spotted them and waved. Cyril, looking up, barked, in greeting or warning – it was hard to tell.

Domenica returned her gaze to Angus. ‘You were saying: would I be prepared. Prepared to do what?’

He took a deep breath. ‘To marry me,’ he said quietly.

It was easier than he thought. Icarus did not fall from the sky; the ground did not open; the earth did not wobble on its trajectory.

If Domenica was taken aback, she did not show it. ‘How kind of you, Angus,’ she said. ‘What a sweet question.’

He did not know how to interpret this. ‘I know I’m nothing much,’ he said. ‘And I have Cyril. And my clothes, I know, are a bit old-fashioned.’

She looked at his trousers, at the frayed collar of his shirt, at the scuffed moccasins. A man’s clothes were no impediment; look at what Elspeth had done for Matthew’s wardrobe. His crushed-strawberry corduroy trousers, the distressed-oatmeal sweater, were either dealt with already, Domenica believed, or soon would be.

‘Oh, Angus,’ she said. ‘You’re perfect as you are. You. Your clothing. Even your dog. All perfect.’ She paused, noticing his astonishment. ‘And as for your question, the answer is: of course. I’d love to marry you.’

He gave a cry, and reached out for her hands, gripping them tightly in his.

‘I didn’t think you’d say yes,’ he said. ‘I thought …’

‘But of course I’d say yes,’ said Domenica. ‘We’ve been friends for years, haven’t we? And we look on the world with much the same eyes, don’t we?’

Angus nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, we do. Certainly we do.’ He paused. ‘Of course, there is the question of …’ He looked over towards the place where Cyril was stretched out in the shade.

Domenica followed his gaze. ‘Cyril? I don’t see an issue there, frankly. I’ve rather come to like him recently, as you may have noticed. And he’ll be happy living in …’

A shadow crossed Angus’s face. They had not begun to discuss that arrangement. His flat in Drummond Place was larger than Domenica’s flat in Scotland Street, and he thought it would have made sense for them to establish their common home there. But now he remembered that Domenica had been born in Scotland Street, and might be reluctant to move.

‘We can discuss all that later,’ he said. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for details.’

They sat for a moment, neither saying anything, both savouring this moment, which would, they knew, define the rest of their lives. And they were only nudged out of this state by the sound of a motorcycle making its way up the track to the villa.

Angus got up and went to greet their visitor.

‘James!’ he exclaimed, as the motorcyclist removed his helmet and laid it on the petrol tank of the dusty silver Ducati.

James Holloway raised a hand in greeting. ‘I heard you were here,’ he said. ‘And I just had to pop in. I’ve been in Siena, inspecting a painting. A possible portrait of James V has turned up – I looked at it yesterday. And now, duty done, I thought that I might take a few days to ride around these hills. And what do I find? Half of Edinburgh tucked away in various villas. Quite extraordinary.’

Angus laughed. ‘Actually, we have some news,’ he said. ‘Very important news.’

‘Tell all!’ said James.

Rapidly abandoning his motorbike, James Holloway rushed to congratulate Domenica.

‘The best of all possible news,’ he said, kissing her lightly on both cheeks. ‘Some might say long overdue, but good news often is, isn’t it?’

Domenica smiled. ‘One mustn’t rush these things.’ They both laughed.

‘And now,’ James said. ‘We must celebrate. A party, I’d say? This evening? Here?’

Angus said that they would love to celebrate, but was the idea of holding a party not somewhat ambitious? ‘There’d just be three of us,’ he said. ‘You, me, and Domenica.’

James raised a finger in contradiction. ‘There are actually plenty of your friends within hailing distance, more or less. Leave it to me.’

By happy coincidence, Mary and Philip Contini were not far away, staying in a small village where they were sampling a particularly fine olive oil. They told James that not only would they be happy to come to the party, but, more than that, Mary would roll up her sleeves and do what she could with whatever supplies Domenica had in her kitchen. They would bring olive oil.

There were others who were equally obliging, with the result that when the guests started to arrive at six o’clock that evening, a miracle on the scale of that performed at Cana was in the making. Loaves and fishes had been found in abundance as Italy opened her store cupboards in a spontaneous display of generosity and good feeling. There was more than enough.

‘We’re very lucky,’ said Angus, as he stood beside Domenica and surveyed their group of friends.

‘Look at everybody,’ said Domenica. ‘Who would have thought it? Alistair Moffat – I’m right in the middle of his wonderful history of Tuscany, and there he is. Will Lyons, here to cover a Chianti festival for the paper. Andrew and Susanna Kerr – off to some lecture on the Piccolomini library in Siena. Peter de Vink in a farmhouse just six miles away. The Cliffords – Tim about to find some
long-lost masterpiece under a sofa in Montepulciano. Astonishing. Malcolm and Nicky Wood in Italy because she’ll be singing at some concert in Florence. Amazing, Angus. Quite amazing.’

Angus thought for a moment. ‘Poor Antonia!’ he said. ‘She’s missing all this.’

Domenica did not reply immediately. She was not sure that Ant onia would have enjoyed this occasion, as she had set her sights on Angus. But now that she was with the sisters in the convent things might be different – and there was some evidence for that. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Such a pity. But I had the impression when I spoke to her last on the phone that she was thinking of … Well, I felt that there was a hint of a vocation.’

Angus smiled. ‘Would she make a very convincing nun?’

‘Stranger things have happened. And for all we know, there may be a post-Stendhal Syndrome Syndrome. Who knows?’

‘Not us,’ said Angus. He paused. ‘Edinburgh seem so far away, doesn’t it. You know that I phoned Matthew earlier today? I told him the news. He said that he’d tell Big Lou. I’m sure that she’ll be happy, although I do wish …’ He left the sentence unfinished. He wished so much for Big Lou, and he was not sure that life would ever bring her what he wanted for her and what she deserved. There were people like that, he thought; people for whom one wanted only happiness because that is what they deserved, but who were destined to be denied it because the gods, and the world, were unfair. The queue for happiness was not well ordered, he thought; it stretched out and wound round corners, and sometimes, it seemed, the end was so hard to see.

Cyril was excited by the arrival of all the guests, whom he welcomed individually, licking their ankles, if exposed, nuzzling at hands lowered to pat him on the head. His own friends had arrived too – the three Italian dogs, Ernesto, Claudio and Cosimo – and they joined Cyril in a search for scraps from the human repast – an abandoned piece of bread, a fragment of chicken, a twirl of tagliatelle.

As the evening wore on there were toasts. James made a short speech in which he referred to the positive omens that had accompanied this celebration of the engagement: an evening sky that was
cloudless; a flight of birds that dipped and swung overhead, as if in aerial salute. All agreed with this view of things, and had the Italian Air Force aerobatic team swooped overhead, trailing smoke in the three colours of the flag, nobody would have been unduly surprised.

‘You must say something,’ James whispered to Angus. ‘What about one of your poems?’

Angus stepped forward. He looked at his friends. He cleared his throat.

Dear friends
, he began,
there is no timetable

For happiness; it moves, I think, according

To rules of its own. When I was a boy

I thought I’d be happy tomorrow
,

As a young man I thought it would be

Next week; last month I thought

It would be never. Today, I know

It is now. Each of us, I suppose
,

Has at least one person who thinks

That our manifest faults are worth ignoring;

I have found mine, and am content
.

When we are far from home

We think of home; I, who am happy today
,

Think of those in Scotland for whom

Such happiness might seem elusive;

May such powers as listen to what is said

By people like me, in olive groves like this
,

Grant to those who want friendship a friend
,

Attend to the needs of those who have little
,

Hold the hand of those who are lonely
,

Allow Scotland, our place, our country
,

To sing in the language of her choosing

That song she has always wanted to sing
,

Which is of brotherhood, which is of love
.