Callum splutters, “W-what do you mean?”
I jump in. “We are getting it installed but the earliest they can come is mid-August.”
Callum lets out a moan that sounds like it’s coming from a wild animal caught in a trap.
Mabel rushes to his side. “What, so we’re cut off forthree weeks?”
Theo rubs the back of his neck. “We’re not cut off. We’ve got mobile reception: you can always use my phone.”
“And mine,” I trill. “I’ve got loads of free minutes!”
Mabel sneers. “As if. Nobody speaks on the phone anymore. I need Wi-Fi for my Snapchat.”
“And what about my gaming?” growls Callum. “I’ve brought my Switch so I can play FIFA.”
Theo gives them a sympathetic expression. “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to wait.”
Mabel shakes her head. “I am devo!”
Callum throws his hands in the air. “This is proper shit!”
“Callum,” Theo booms, “don’t swear in front of Archie!”
Mabel bursts into tears. “Dad, you ruin our lives and all you can think about is swearing?”
“You lied to us!” Callum shouts at Theo.
“Just like youalwayslie to us!” wails Mabel.
Theo rears back, as if he’s been shot.
I wish they hadn’t said that.
An injured, tense silence sets in.
I feel a wave of tiredness and remember how little sleep I’ve had. I can’t resist any longer: I crouch down and start scratching my bites.
I need to go back to the house and put some cream on. Besides, there’s no point staying here. The magic has been shattered.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go back down.”
Chapter 7
At eight o’clock the next morning, our neighbor Luisa comes striding down the path. She’s in her forties, with an athletic figure and brunette hair that’s swept back in a pixie cut.
“Buongiorno!”she calls out, giving me a brisk wave.
“Buongiorno!”I repeat, immediately regretting not finding the time to do any more of my Italian course.
Trailing Luisa is a group of seven or eight volunteers who’ll be working on the dig. Once she’s given me a kiss on each cheek, she introduces them—but there are too many names for me to remember. Except Vito: that’s the name of a man who’s a foot taller than anyone else and the head curator at the museum, although he only looks to be in his thirties. Most of the others are past retirement age, although one woman is much younger and, I’m told, a student. More importantly, it becomes obvious they’re all Italian. I’m bombarded with a jumble of expressions but I assume they’re all friendly, as everyone’s smiling. I feel another stab of guilt for not being able to communicate. Then I remember the word forwelcome.
“Benvenuto!” I burst out in my best Italian accent.
“Benvenut-i!” Luisa corrects me, kindly. “It’s plural as you are welcoming lots of us.”
Shit, I can’t even get that right. “Benvenuti!” I repeat, grinning hysterically.
Everyone is dressed for work, wearing mainly multi-pocket cargo shorts, utilitarian tops with long sleeves, and sturdy, steel-capped walking boots, their heads covered with sunhats or bandanas. I realize why they’ll only be digging between eight and one: after that it’ll be much too hot. They’re also clutching hiking sticks, lugging heavy rucksacks, and pulling along trolleys of boxes packed with trowels, tape, notepads, water and snacks. Just as I’m about to ask how they’re going to get everything up the hill, a severely dented, dusty van comes chugging round the corner. It has an open back and sitting around the sides are six young men, all of whom are dressed in faded shorts and T-shirts, their exposed skin browned by the sun. Strapped in the center is a portable toilet and behind the wheel is our head builder, Giuseppe.
