Chapter 12
At the end of our first working week, we treat ourselves to an early finish.
Not only have I managed to sort through the entire house—clearing out Wilf’s belongings and all the furniture that won’t work in a holiday let—but I’ve also accompanied Giuseppe to hardware stores, builders’ merchants and bathroom and kitchen studios.
I’ve pored over brochures, websites and artists’ impressions, and made all the important decisions on everything from units to surfaces, shower curtains to storage racks. I deserve a break.
Theo suggests driving into Lucca to show the kids the Italian tradition of la passeggiata, or early-evening, sociable stroll.
But they interpret this as an attempt to smuggle through a bog-standard walk and revolt—Archie included.
So Theo pivots to a bike ride, remembering that when he and I stayed in Lucca, many Italians didn’t just stroll along the path over the city walls, but they also cycled it.
“What do you reckon, gang?” he booms. “Shall we do it?”
Archie is the only one who answers but Theo interprets this as a “yes” from all of them.
We remember seeing a bike hire shop just inside the city walls, by the Porta Santa Maria, so look up the address, enter it into the satnav and set off.
It’s a twenty-five-minute journey and I insist on driving, largely to avoid engaging with Callum and Mabel, who won’t stop moaning about being dragged away from the house, even though they moaned about being in the house.
But it’s a difficult drive, with heavy traffic and two junctions that don’t make any sense, plus countless cyclists riding double and sometimes triple file.
When we eventually arrive, there’s little parking, forcing me to try and parallel park at the side of a street—which I can’t manage at the best of times, never mind before an audience of sniggering teenagers.
Eventually, I accept defeat and let Theo do it.
When we arrive at the bike shop, Theo goes inside to make our booking, while I wait with the kids, perusing the long lines of bikes to choose which we want.
In the children’s section, Archie spots one that’s bright green. “Can I have that one, Dad?”
I wince at his mistake.
“As if Adam’s our dad!” Mabel hisses.
“Of course you can,” I cut in. “It’ll match your glasses.”
“Green’s my favorite color,” Archie announces, proudly.
He snuggles into me and I put my arm round him. Then I worry that Mabel will think I’m encouraging him, that I want him to think of me as a second dad. All of a sudden, I feel hopeless.
It’s a relief when Theo comes back, stuffing his wallet into his denim shorts. “All set, gang?”
We each take the bike we’ve chosen, adjust the seat and familiarize ourselves with the gears. Then we push them over the pedestrian crossing, mount the seats and cycle up onto the tree-lined path that runs along the Renaissance fortifications.
“This way round!” shouts Theo, taking the lead.
Callum follows, then Mabel, with Archie cycling at the side of me.
There are several other people riding bikes but most are on foot, strolling and chatting, pushing babies in prams and toddlers in buggies, or being pulled along by dogs, usually pugs or dachshunds.
There’s a relaxed, friendly atmosphere and the early evening sun glints at us through the trees.
On our left is an expanse of grass on which teenagers are sunbathing and smoking, young men are exercising in an outdoor gym, and older women are doing yoga or tai chi.
On our right is the city itself—the roofs of its tightly packed mustard, rhubarb and vanilla houses tiled with terracotta, the odd church steeple or factory chimney rising amongst them—the deep green Apuan Alps forming a protective ring around it.
“Mamma mia!” a cyclist shouts as she almost crashes into her friend. Theo turns back and we exchange a smile: although this is a regular occurrence, we still enjoy hearing Italians saying it.
I gaze out over the city and remember our first visit to Lucca—our trip to see the trees at the top of the Torre Guinigi, our browse around narrow streets packed with old and new shops, and our look around the rather austere cathedral, balking at the sight of the mummified body of some dead saint on the altar.
We made a hasty exit and found a bar in the square opposite, where we enjoyed an aperitivo, and—as this was the night after Signor Mancini showed us the house—our conversation fizzed with excitement.
“Look, no hands!” Archie shouts, raising his arms up in the air. “Look, Dadam!”
Mabel flips. “Archie, what’s wrong with you? You’re such a thicko!”
Theo swings his bike to a stop in front of Mabel. “Don’t say that. He’s only eight. There’s no need to be cruel.”
Instantly, tears spring to her eyes. “Stop having a go at me, Dad! You’re always having a go at me! I can’t take it anymore!”
She turns and cycles off in the direction we came, wailing loudly, attracting the attention of Italians on their passeggiata.
“Mabel, come back!” shouts Theo.
But she ignores him.
He sets off in pursuit, calling to us, “Just give me a minute.”
But it’s obvious that this is going to take longer than a minute.
“Come on,” I say to the boys, “let’s follow them. We don’t want to get split up.”
“Is she running away?” Archie asks.
“I don’t know what she’s doing,” I answer, trying not to sound weary.
The three of us ride back, keeping our eyes on Mabel.
But she turns off the wall and flies down the path leading to the road.
When she reaches the bottom, she misjudges her speed and has to slam on her brakes.
But it’s too late: she comes to a stop with her front wheel on the tarmac, directly in the path of a silver Fiat.
It swerves out of her way and bumps into an iron bollard.
Fuck!
“Get off your bikes!” I instruct the boys, quickly. “We’re not cycling down there.”
Callum’s face has drained of color. For once, he doesn’t argue.
By the time the three of us reach the site of the accident, a small crowd has gathered. But no one’s been hurt and Theo looks like he’s managed to placate the driver—who happens to be Scottish—and is handing over his insurance details.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s alright,” the man replies. “It’s only a hire car. I’m sure the wee girl has learned a lesson.”
Mabel is standing by her bike, sniveling. But she doesn’t look remorseful in the slightest. She whips out her phone and starts typing. I hope she isn’t messaging her mum.
I’ve no idea how Theo’s going to handle her, because we’ve barely had time to push our bikes back to the shop when his phone rings.
“Hi, Kate,” he says, flashing me a rictus smile. “Gang, your mum’s on the phone!”
I suggest we grab a table outside the café next door and order us all a soft drink while, one by one, the kids step away to speak to their mum.
Theo and I sit in silence.
When Archie comes back, he looks troubled and confused. Callum is sullen and unreachable. Mabel’s blazing with defiance.
She thrusts the phone at Theo. “Mum wants a word.”
It’s difficult for me to follow the conversation with only Theo’s responses, but—as far as I can make out—Kate’s using the accident as an excuse to challenge his competence as a parent.
“Kate, I understand that but they’re perfectly safe.
… Yes, I know she’s upset and I know this is hard for her.
… You know, I am capable of keeping an eye on my own children.
… You’re very welcome to speak to your lawyer.
… Bloody hell, I was not distracted by Adam. … Kate, he’s a perfectly good driver!”
He turns away so I can’t hear any more. But I’ve heard enough.
I can’t delude myself any longer. My sisters were right and Kate’s trying to sabotage our summer. She’s out to destroy me—or at least my relationship with Theo. And not just that, but it looks like she’s manipulating Mabel—and maybe Callum, too—to achieve her ends.
Once again, I feel upturned by an awful feeling of despair. What can I do? I can’t fight back. I’d never win against their mum.
And I wouldn’t want to: I wouldn’t want to turn any children against their mother. I still miss mine and would give anything to have her back.
I’ll have to discuss it with Theo later.
When we get back to the house, Theo puts Archie to bed, while I go up to the castle to watch the sunset.
The climb is getting more difficult as the earth continues to erode.
I’ve already asked the builders to construct a proper path—which they’ve said they’ll do, using logs to create steps and iron staves to hold up a rope handrail—but I’m going to have to persuade them to move this up their list of priorities.
God knows how Luisa and the other diggers have been managing to get here every morning.
When I enter the clearing, I discover that the diggers have divided the land into some kind of grid system that’s mapped out with red string.
There are sticks with measurements on them and little numbered markers poking up at the corners.
It only looks like a thin layer of soil has been removed from a handful of the squares.
But I don’t want to touch anything, not even the squares in which the digging hasn’t started.
So I skirt around the edges, dodging boxes of equipment and stacks of what look like sieves with wooden frames.
I find the spot on the stone wall where Theo and I sat the first time we came to the house. As then, the sun’s about to dip behind the mountain and is spilling out sensuous rays of pumpkin, apricot and peach.
I smile.