had a double room, both saying to the landlady that they didn’t mind at all about sharing a bed. Pat introduced Bee to her Florentine friends.
They looked at houses and flats for sale, which in itself would have made an entertaining hobby. Pat would have bought an apartment at the top of a twelfth-century tower near Orsanmichele, but Bee wanted a garden. With the help of Pat’s friend Sara, who taught English at the university, they eventually found a house. It was just south of the Arno, outside the old city walls, which Mussolini, the barbarian, had pulled down. It was in walking distance of the Uffizi, and it had running water and a fig tree. They planned to find students to rent it during the academic year, and to live in it themselves in the summers. “We can plant rosemary,” Bee said. All their plans were “we,” and Pat thrilled to it every time.
“I can probably help you find students,” Sara said. “This year I might be interested in living there myself. My lease is about to run out, and it is a lovely house.”
“That would be perfect,” Pat said.
One day they saw a family walking across the Ponte Vecchio with the father reading aloud from Pat’s guidebook. Bee nudged Pat, and Pat stared hard at the statue of Cellini in the middle of the bridge, blinking tears out of her eyes. “It’s really helping people,” she said, when they had gone on in the direction of the Pitti Palace. “I saw it on the shelves, but I didn’t really believe people would use it.”
“Why did you write it then?” Bee teased. “It’s real. It’s a real achievement. You can be proud. I’m proud of you.”
Pat glowed.
On their last day in Italy Pat went into the Duomo alone and went down on her knees to thank God for Bee.
“I am bringing you my joy, Jesus, as I was taught as a child. Thank you for Bee. Thank you for making her, thank you for letting me find her, thank you for making me worthy of her. Thank you for our house in Florence, for her fellowship, for my teaching. Thank you for our lives, our love. And if this is all there is, if she decides she wants a man later, wants to marry and have children, then so be it. Thank you for giving us this time to be together and be happy,” she prayed. She felt God heard her and looked down on her in kindness. When she stood up again in the perfect harmony of the Duomo she had tears of joy in her eyes.
10
Babies: Tricia 1952–1961
Tricia’s second baby was born dead. The birth was as hard a struggle as Doug’s had been, two days of labor with nothing to show for it at the end. The dead child was a girl. Mark had her baptized Hilary. Tricia was too ill herself to have any say in the matter. It took her a long time to recover from that birth. Her mother came down to care for Doug while she was in hospital, and remained for a few months afterwards, during which Tricia felt constantly exhausted. It was the most she could do to eat and talk to Doug. Going to the bathroom left her needing to rest for an hour. Her mother went home in October. Tricia’s doctor prescribed exercises and a tonic. She slowly regained her strength. At the time of the Coronation, in June, Mark again brought home a bottle of wine and left it sitting on the sideboard. Tricia saw it as she came in from the kitchen and almost without thinking picked it up and smashed it in the fireplace. The plummy scent of red wine rose immediately into the air, and she stood staring at the green glass shattered all over the grate.
Her rebellion did no good, of course. Mark, coming in, looked at her and the broken bottle patiently. Her violence had put him in the right, made her into the child and him the adult. It bought her one night, for which she had to pay with reduced housekeeping money the following week, for he stopped the price of wine out of it.
This pettiness astounded her. Where was the man she had thought she was marrying? Or forget that, where was normal human decency? She would not do that
They looked at houses and flats for sale, which in itself would have made an entertaining hobby. Pat would have bought an apartment at the top of a twelfth-century tower near Orsanmichele, but Bee wanted a garden. With the help of Pat’s friend Sara, who taught English at the university, they eventually found a house. It was just south of the Arno, outside the old city walls, which Mussolini, the barbarian, had pulled down. It was in walking distance of the Uffizi, and it had running water and a fig tree. They planned to find students to rent it during the academic year, and to live in it themselves in the summers. “We can plant rosemary,” Bee said. All their plans were “we,” and Pat thrilled to it every time.
“I can probably help you find students,” Sara said. “This year I might be interested in living there myself. My lease is about to run out, and it is a lovely house.”
“That would be perfect,” Pat said.
One day they saw a family walking across the Ponte Vecchio with the father reading aloud from Pat’s guidebook. Bee nudged Pat, and Pat stared hard at the statue of Cellini in the middle of the bridge, blinking tears out of her eyes. “It’s really helping people,” she said, when they had gone on in the direction of the Pitti Palace. “I saw it on the shelves, but I didn’t really believe people would use it.”
“Why did you write it then?” Bee teased. “It’s real. It’s a real achievement. You can be proud. I’m proud of you.”
Pat glowed.
On their last day in Italy Pat went into the Duomo alone and went down on her knees to thank God for Bee.
“I am bringing you my joy, Jesus, as I was taught as a child. Thank you for Bee. Thank you for making her, thank you for letting me find her, thank you for making me worthy of her. Thank you for our house in Florence, for her fellowship, for my teaching. Thank you for our lives, our love. And if this is all there is, if she decides she wants a man later, wants to marry and have children, then so be it. Thank you for giving us this time to be together and be happy,” she prayed. She felt God heard her and looked down on her in kindness. When she stood up again in the perfect harmony of the Duomo she had tears of joy in her eyes.
10
Babies: Tricia 1952–1961
Tricia’s second baby was born dead. The birth was as hard a struggle as Doug’s had been, two days of labor with nothing to show for it at the end. The dead child was a girl. Mark had her baptized Hilary. Tricia was too ill herself to have any say in the matter. It took her a long time to recover from that birth. Her mother came down to care for Doug while she was in hospital, and remained for a few months afterwards, during which Tricia felt constantly exhausted. It was the most she could do to eat and talk to Doug. Going to the bathroom left her needing to rest for an hour. Her mother went home in October. Tricia’s doctor prescribed exercises and a tonic. She slowly regained her strength. At the time of the Coronation, in June, Mark again brought home a bottle of wine and left it sitting on the sideboard. Tricia saw it as she came in from the kitchen and almost without thinking picked it up and smashed it in the fireplace. The plummy scent of red wine rose immediately into the air, and she stood staring at the green glass shattered all over the grate.
Her rebellion did no good, of course. Mark, coming in, looked at her and the broken bottle patiently. Her violence had put him in the right, made her into the child and him the adult. It bought her one night, for which she had to pay with reduced housekeeping money the following week, for he stopped the price of wine out of it.
This pettiness astounded her. Where was the man she had thought she was marrying? Or forget that, where was normal human decency? She would not do that
Similar Books
