by James Runcie
‘I’m sure that is the right thing to do.’
‘It is the only thing to do.’
‘We don’t always know what’s right at the time do we?’ the headmaster said quietly. ‘Sometimes you just have to hope for the best. One can’t always rush to judgement.’ He spoke like a man who had resigned but had forgotten to tell anyone. ‘There are no absolutes.’
‘I think there are,’ said Sidney. ‘Fairness, justice, toleration, support for the weak, care for those in need, truth and love. Surely those principles are no harder to follow in a school than anywhere else?’
‘They shouldn’t be. But the balance between discipline and freedom is often hard with the young.’
‘And sometimes your staff let you down.’
‘It’s impossible to keep an eye on everything. You have to delegate responsibility. There are so many boys, all with differing needs. You have to help them find their own way without ruining them. It’s different with one’s own children. I try to keep mine at a tender distance. That way I do less damage.’
Sidney watched the headmaster’s defeated face soften. His eyes travelled to the family photographs on his desk as the man went on. ‘You never know whether you’ve got things right or not. By the time you’ve adjusted to one stage, they’ve moved on to another. In a school the first year is always the first year. They automatically renew themselves. You can give the same lessons every September and all the problems you have anticipated return. But in a family you have to keep adjusting as your children develop. They are always ahead of you.’
‘You might be good at one stage and hopeless at the next.’
‘You see some parents who are marvellous with the very young and hopeless with teenagers. It can also be the other way round. It’s easier with the children of other people. At a school they come and go. But your own sons and daughters are always with you. You worry constantly. The trick is to find out how much that concern is helpful and when to use it. So you keep re-evaluating the way you parent a child. You can never settle or be complacent. It’s harder to do that in a school. Do you have children yourself?’
‘A daughter. She’s two and a half.’
‘A lovely age. You should be all right until she’s thirteen. Then it’s hopeless. You have to let them reject you. Then you don’t really get them back until they’re married. But then they have children of their own and the whole process starts again.’
‘Do you ever tire of all this?’
‘Teaching? Children? Life? Which do you mean?’ the headmaster asked. ‘I can’t allow myself to tire. I’ve already run off the cliff. I just have to keep remembering not to look down.’
Inspector Keating decided to watch the World Cup final at Sidney’s house. He needed peace away from a wife and three daughters who, he knew from past frustrating experience, would keep interrupting and ask daft questions about the game at all the wrong moments. He made it very clear on his arrival, carrying a brown carrier bag full of bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale, that he didn’t want to talk about Millingham School if there was nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday.
‘All that money and privilege can’t buy happiness, can it?’ he asked, rhetorically, before holding up his hand and announcing: ‘This afternoon is dedicated to football alone and that is all we shall discuss.’
His words were clearly directed to Hildegard and Sabine, who were busy folding the laundry. All hope of further uninterrupted viewing was, however, kiboshed by the fact that, with England 2–1 up and nearly home, the doorbell rang.
‘Who on earth can that be?’ Keating asked. ‘It’s the middle of the bloody game.’
It was Marcus Pearson. Sidney closed the door on the match and showed the boy into his study. ‘You knew it was Adam Barnes all along, didn’t you?’ he asked. ‘Did he tell you he was going to do it?’
‘I guessed. But I don’t snitch. I thought if I confessed then Adam would get away with it. I knew my parents could put the pressure on to get me back in if I wanted and then I decided I didn’t want to do that anyway. So it didn’t matter what I did. I just wanted Adam to get away with it after what happened to his brother.’
‘So you took the blame for the explosion.’
‘It was the right thing to do. Both for Adam and for his mum. You couldn’t have her losing both children. He might have gone to prison or borstal or something. His dad left too. He doesn’t have parents like mine. They can get me off anything.’
‘I wouldn’t rely on that.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t when I’m older. But at school . . .’
‘Millingham have said that they will take you back? Your parents have complained.’
‘I bet they have. But I don’t want to return to a place that does those kinds of things.’
‘Perhaps one day.’
‘I don’t think so, Canon Chambers. Some things can never be forgiven.’
‘I despair that this may be true. Do you have any other plans?’
‘My godfather’s in London. He’s thinking of making a film about a school like mine. What could happen if some of the pupils fight back. I told him I had an idea. He wants to talk to me. So we’ll see. Then I might go to art college and study photography. Something like that.’
Marcus Pearson had just left when Germany scored. If there was no other goal then there would be extra time. They all settled down in front of the small grey screen. Keating asked everyone to maintain absolute silence until the game ended.
‘You see, ladies, football is the only thing I’m really passionate about,’ he explained as he opened another bottle of beer.
Sabine muttered that before she came to Ely she didn’t think the English had any passions; now she was not so sure. It seemed that English men cared only about two things: football and sex. Hildegard told her that if she started with that assumption then she wouldn’t go far wrong.
‘Would anyone like another drink?’ Sidney whispered and Keating waved a warning hand to silence him. Geoff Hurst broke clear.
‘Goal! Bloody hell! Bar! No! Crossed the line! Linesman. Is it a goal or not? Sidney!’
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘It is! Crossed the line! Goal! Three – two.’
‘And that’s the next thing to explain to you,’ Hildegard smiled as she took Sabine into the kitchen to bring in the ham and pickle sandwiches. ‘You have to understand all about English men and their love of beer. It is a bit like German men but, in important ways, it is also very different.’
‘And what are those ways?’ Sabine asked. ‘Perhaps we should watch the end of the football first?’
‘There is no end to the football,’ Hildegard answered. ‘We might as well make a start on the ironing . . .’
Florence
It was one of those changeable London days when it was possible to experience all four seasons between dawn and dusk. It began cold and warmed slowly before a light rain fell on to leaves that were just beginning to take on their autumn hue. Sidney was walking through the National Gallery with Amanda. He liked seeing his friend at her place of work. She was at her most serious there, unembarrassed by the professional dedication that she sometimes had to disguise in social situations where the idea of a woman who worked full time was seen as both an anomaly and a threat.
The date was 7th September 1966, the first time they’d been alone together since Amanda’s wedding in June. Sidney told her that he wanted to think more deeply about the relationship between art and religion and they stopped before the serene mathematical monumentality of Piero della Francesca’s Nativity. Despite the studied calm, the scene was not intentionally beautiful. The five angels looked ordinary. The heads of the shepherds were worn away. The Christ child had outstretched arms and was calling to be picked up (rather than blissfully sleeping), while the bullock in the stable stared impassively out towards the viewer as if nothing unusual had happened. Sidney could preach about this, he decided; how the remarkable can exist beside the everyday; homely, unpret
entious, accessible. One just had to seek it out.
‘Why don’t you come with me to Florence?’ Amanda asked. ‘I’m going in November.’
‘That’s a mad idea.’
‘They are often the best, Sidney. I don’t think you’ve ever visited, which is a black mark on your scorecard of culture. You will remember that Dr Johnson believed that “a man who has not been in Italy is always conscious of an inferiority, from his not having seen what it is expected a man should see”.’
‘But I have been there.’
‘In wartime. I think that’s different.’
‘I certainly wouldn’t want to repeat the experience.’
‘You could bring Hildegard. And Anna. You know how the Italians love children.’
‘She’s a bit young.’
‘Nonsense. I could show you all the sights. You could even give the Ely evangelicals a little anxiety by hinting that you might be going over to Rome.’
‘It’s true that Hildegard and I haven’t had a proper holiday in a long time. I was a little distracted by local events over the summer.’
‘At least in Italy there’s less chance of the schoolboys blowing up their science block.’
‘There still might be explosions, Amanda. I wouldn’t want to get involved with the Mafia.’
‘I would like to say that there’s absolutely no chance of that. But knowing you . . .’
Sidney thought through the idea. ‘I suppose that Hildegard and I could stay with the English chaplain, Timothy Jeffers. We were at Westcott House together.’
‘And I could take care of the flights; as a thank you for seeing me right with Henry.’
‘I didn’t do very much.’
‘You kept the faith.’
‘I just want what’s best for you, Amanda.’
‘Even if I don’t know myself?’
‘Especially when you don’t know yourself.’
The trip was booked for two weeks in late October and early November. Amanda promised to organise a private tour of the Uffizi since she was due to talk to them about an exchange of loans with the National Gallery. A wealthy British collector, Sir William Etherington, together with his wife Victoria, would be joining them. They were, apparently, ‘adorable’: influential in the art world, charitable donors, and interested in meeting people unlike themselves. They might even come up with a bit of money if Ely ever launched an appeal for restoration.
‘We’re always needing repairs,’ Sidney replied. ‘It’s an ancient building. Beauty is expensive to maintain.’
‘Don’t I know it?’ said Amanda. ‘You should see my hairdressing bills. I hope you’re looking forward to the trip. The weather may not be too good, that’s the only thing.’
She advised the Chambers family to bring waterproofs and their autumn coats, and told Sidney that he could even wear his clerical cloak if he liked.
Her friend wasn’t so sure. ‘Do you think?’
‘It makes you look almost medieval. And the Florentines like a bit of swagger. You’ll fit in.’
‘Is Henry coming?’
‘No. He’s never that keen to leave the estate. That’s partly why I’m asking. I’ll be lonely when I’m off duty and I’d like to be able to enjoy a little time off with the three of you. It will be good for my goddaughter to see some art. Get her started early. You will make sure she brings plenty of crayons and colouring paper? She could become the Artemisia Gentileschi of her generation.’
‘She’s still not three.’
‘I’ve heard that some Japanese children start the violin at that age.’
‘Well, we’re not Japanese and I don’t even know who Artemisia Gentileschi is.’
‘She was one of the greatest Florentine painters of the seventeenth century and the first woman to be admitted into their Academy. Anna would be a worthy successor.’
‘I think she’s more interested in The Magic Roundabout. Will you be travelling with us?’
‘I’ll go ahead and get as much work as possible out of the way before you arrive. Then I’ll be able to show you round. I only hope your chaplain’s accommodation is comfortable. Are you sure you don’t want me to sort out a hotel?’
‘There’s no need. Vicarage economy.’
‘But you aren’t a vicar any more, Sidney. You should travel in style.’
‘I don’t think that would create a good impression.’
‘That depends upon who you are trying to impress.’
‘I am fairly confident about my relationship with you, Amanda.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to take me for granted. And I don’t think you should spend too much time talking shop with a bound-to-be-tedious ex-pat clergyman who everyone in England has forgotten.’
‘I imagine that, living in Florence, he might be glad if that is the case.’
‘Perhaps so; but the city is small and even quite parochial when you get to know it. The Anglican Church isn’t much cop in terms of architecture and English holidaymakers only get in contact if someone’s died. If everything’s going swimmingly they don’t have any need for a priest and don’t bother coming to church at all. Thinking about it, you need to be careful we don’t end up like that in England.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I only hope you don’t go looking for trouble as soon as you arrrive. I know what you’re like.’
‘I don’t do it deliberately, Amanda. Sometimes trouble seeks me out.’
‘Then I will protect you.’
‘I hope the Lord will look after me.’
‘Well, I’ll be on hand if he’s busy. I imagine he’s got quite a lot on.’
‘Yes, Amanda, I imagine he has.’
The Reverend Timothy Jeffers and his housekeeper, Francesca Tardelli, welcomed the Chambers family at Pisa airport. They were an odd couple: an extremely tall, thin and bespectacled English priest in his mid-thirties and a dark-haired girl in her early twenties with sunglasses, a sleeveless black dress, long gloves and a fur wrap. Tim made the necessary introductions and ushered everyone out of the airport and into the back seat of a battered cream-coloured Fiat 1500. He couldn’t drive himself (hence the presence of Francesca) but still had to sit in the front as his legs were too long to be accommodated elsewhere, and he communicated with his housekeeper in a mixture of broken Italian and simplified English that gave the impression he couldn’t speak either language properly.
It was quite a squash with the luggage, and they drove with the windows open as Francesca smoked Nazionali cigarettes throughout the journey. It was a muggy afternoon that threatened rain without ever producing any. Tim thought there would be a storm that night.
They passed women selling the last of the watermelons by the roadside and then, as they approached the town, a Communist rally with red flags flying and students handing out the newspaper l’Unità. Tim told them that the country, unlike Francesca’s driving, was veering to the left, and that they should really have a quick stop at the Leaning Tower. Anna asked when it was going to fall over before announcing: ‘I feel sick.’
Francesca assured the company that she would go very fast and they would be home in under an hour, but the speed of her driving did little to alleviate any of her passengers’ fears. She used her horn aggressively at traffic lights, overtook on corners, and shouted ‘stronzo’ at anyone who blocked her path.
Timothy Jeffers was serene throughout, explaining that there was no danger of his housekeeper being stopped or given a speeding ticket because her brother was a policeman. Francesca pointed to the rosary over the rear-view mirror and turned round to the back to explain that she was protected by the Virgin Mary in heaven and her brother on earth. She had never been in trouble with the authorities, and could drive in any manner she liked.
Sidney spoke little, desperately hoping that the driver would spare their lives and return her concentration to the road ahead. He wondered if Geordie Keating’s sister was given such a free rein as a policeman’s sibling. He very much doubted it.
>
They approached the city from the west, passing Pontedera, San Miniato and Empoli. As they drove past the city walls and through the Porta San Frediano, Sidney tried to imagine how such a small medieval city had come into existence. What was it about Florence that made it such a cradle of power and beauty? And had its elegance come at a price?
On arrival at the vicarage in the Via Maggio, they were shown to their quarters. Hildegard had been hoping for a ‘room with a view’ over the Arno, or even a small but perfect courtyard, but there was only a narrow alleyway out at the back, populated by bicycles, rubbish bins and scavenging cats. Timothy apologised and said that everyone hoped they would be able to enjoy a perfect vista, but such a silhouette was only possible from the Piazzale Michelangelo. He would take them as soon as they had unpacked.
It was only when they finally did so, looking out over the city in the last of the light, that the Chamberses felt they had arrived. The view was a perfect golden mean, with the foreground, the river and buildings all in proportion against the darkening sky. The focus was the dome of the cathedral with its herringbone brickwork, marble lantern and octagonal drum emerging from the grey and golden façades along the Lungarno delle Grazie, now reflected in the waters of the Arno.
Sidney carried Anna on his shoulders as they walked back towards the Ponte Vecchio and into the Piazza della Signoria, where she was given her first Italian chocolate gelato. Here they were exposed to the evening passeggiata for long enough to realise that they would never be as well dressed as the Italians. The locals paraded past the Neptune fountain arm in arm, in fur coats and tailored suits, handsome hats and snappy shoes, their conversation animated by extravagant gestures, their faces more transparent with emotion than an Anglo-Saxon could ever be, filled with extremes of laughter, grief, bravura, surprise, joy and sorrow.