The Importance of Being Seven by Alexander McCall Smith
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.
85. The Timetable of Happiness
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.
Alexander McCall Smith, The Importance of Being Seven
(Series: # )