“Mum says alcohol’s a drug,” Mabel crows. “She says it’s a poison.”
“She’s right,” I groan.
“Well, I’m glad you think that,” Theo says to Mabel. “I’ll remind you of it whenyouwant to go out drinking.”
Mabel tugs on a strand of her long fair hair. “As if! I’mnevergoing to touch alcohol!”
“How do you sayalcoholin Italian?” gabbles Archie, his green plastic glasses slipping down his nose.
Theo pushes them up again. “I’ve no idea, squirt. We can look it up later.”
Callum makes a gagging sound. “Seriously, that smell is minging.” He opens his window so wide that the sound of the motorway overrides any attempt at conversation. That works for me.
Mabel puts her earphones in and starts listening to music I imagine is her usual Harry Styles or Taylor Swift, while I see from the screen of Callum’s phone he’s listening to Oasis. I close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting in Montemagno, enjoying the sunset. I look at my watch: I just have to get through the next five hours and I’ll be there.
When we arrive at the airport, we discover our flight’s been delayed until lunchtime. Deflated, we trudge through security, battle our way through the crowds, and manage to find four seats that have just become empty. Theo insists on standing and I clear away the remains of the previous occupants’ breakfast—which makes me want to throw up again. Over his shoulder I notice a bar packed with early-morning drinkers and am suddenly desperate for the hair of the dog. But I couldn’t bear to defend myself against more accusations of alcoholism. Besides, when we get to Italy I want to drive: that way I won’t have to do too much talking.
To pass the time, Theo suspends his usual rule and allows Callum and Mabel unlimited screen time. Archie and I lose ourselves in a marathon game of Top Trumps—playing not just with our favorite set Great British Bakes, but also Wonders of the World and Creatures of the Deep. I focus on the detailed description of manatees and conger eels and, by the time we hear the call for boarding,think I’ve memorized every statistic for the Blue Blubber Jelly fish.
“Adam, can I sit next to you?” squeaks Archie. “I’ve got Skyscrapers and Dinosaurs in my bag!” He smiles, revealing a gap where his two front teeth recently fell out.
“Of course you can!”
Across the aisle from us, an argument erupts between Callum and Mabel over who gets the window seat, then—when Theo tries to settle it by taking the seat himself—they start elbowing each other for control of the armrest. Once we’ve taken off, Theo has to sit between them, setting his stopwatch to split their time in the window seat.
“How many people are on this plane?” Archie asks me.
I look around and give him a rough calculation.
“How high does it go in the sky?” he continues.
I find the answer to this in the airline’s brochure.
“Why does it not fall out of the sky?”
This I have no idea how to answer but Archie’s eyelids are drooping. Soon, he’s nodded off—and I’m not far behind.
Miraculously, I manage to sleep for over an hour. By the time we’re landing, I feel much less rank.
It takes us nearly an hour to clear customs and collect our luggage, but when we finally emerge from Pisa Airport, one of the first things we see is a cluster of those tall, slender cypress trees that I always associate with Tuscany. Above them, the sun’s blazing in a sky that’s almost exactly the same blue as Callum’s Manchester City football shirt. And all around us, we hear the distinctive sound of crickets rubbing their wings together.
I feel a rush of excitement. “Get a load of that, kids! We’re onholiday!”
“Yeah!” warbles Archie, wiggling his bum. “Woo-woo!”
An Italian couple who are passing give him a smile.“Che carino!”says the woman.
I’ve no idea what that means but guess it must be something about Archie being cute—and he is, with his freckled cheeks, carrot-colored hair and skinny little legs. I return her smile.
Mabel, on the other hand, scowls. “Archie, you’re so cringe!”
In response to this, he begins circling her and wiggling his bum even more.
Theo steps in. “Gang, look at that sunshine. Isn’t it superb?”
Callum runs a hand over his short fringe. “Mum’s text—apparently the weather’s sick in Atlanta.”
“Everything’ssick in Atlanta,” adds Mabel.
