We remember seeing a bike hire shop just inside the city walls, by the Porta Santa Maria, so look up the address, enter it into the satnav and set off.
It’s a twenty-five-minute journey and I insist on driving, largely to avoid engaging with Callum and Mabel, who won’t stop moaning about being dragged away from the house, even though they moaned about beinginthe house. But it’s a difficult drive, with heavy traffic and two junctions that don’t make any sense, plus countless cyclists riding double and sometimes triple file. When we eventually arrive, there’s little parking, forcing me to try and parallel park at the side of a street—which I can’t manage at the best of times, never mind before an audience of sniggering teenagers. Eventually, I accept defeat and let Theo do it.
When we arrive at the bike shop, Theo goes inside to make our booking, while I wait with the kids, perusing the long lines of bikes to choose which we want.
In the children’s section, Archie spots one that’s bright green. “Can I have that one, Dad?”
I wince at his mistake.
“As if Adam’s our dad!” Mabel hisses.
“Of course you can,” I cut in. “It’ll match your glasses.”
“Green’s my favorite color,” Archie announces, proudly.
He snuggles into me and I put my arm round him. Then I worry that Mabel will think I’m encouraging him, that Iwanthim to think of me as a second dad. All of a sudden, I feel hopeless.
It’s a relief when Theo comes back, stuffing his wallet into his denim shorts. “All set, gang?”
We each take the bike we’ve chosen, adjust the seat and familiarize ourselves with the gears. Then we push them over the pedestrian crossing, mount the seats and cycle up onto the tree-lined path that runs along the Renaissance fortifications.
“This way round!” shouts Theo, taking the lead.
Callum follows, then Mabel, with Archie cycling at the side of me. There are several other people riding bikes but most are on foot, strolling and chatting, pushing babies in prams and toddlers in buggies, or being pulled along by dogs, usually pugs or dachshunds. There’s a relaxed, friendly atmosphere and the early evening sun glints at us through the trees.
On our left is an expanse of grass on which teenagers are sunbathing and smoking, young men are exercising in an outdoorgym, and older women are doing yoga or tai chi. On our right is the city itself—the roofs of its tightly packed mustard, rhubarb and vanilla houses tiled with terracotta, the odd church steeple or factory chimney rising amongst them—the deep green Apuan Alps forming a protective ring around it.
“Mamma mia!”a cyclist shouts as she almost crashes into her friend. Theo turns back and we exchange a smile: although this is a regular occurrence, we still enjoy hearing Italians saying it.
I gaze out over the city and remember our first visit to Lucca—our trip to see the trees at the top of the Torre Guinigi, our browse around narrow streets packed with old and new shops, and our look around the rather austere cathedral, balking at the sight of the mummified body of some dead saint on the altar. We made a hasty exit and found a bar in the square opposite, where we enjoyed anaperitivo, and—as this was the night after Signor Mancini showed us the house—our conversation fizzed with excitement.
“Look, no hands!” Archie shouts, raising his arms up in the air. “Look, Dadam!”
Mabel flips. “Archie, what’swrongwith you? You’re such a thicko!”
Theo swings his bike to a stop in front of Mabel. “Don’t say that. He’s only eight. There’s no need to be cruel.”
Instantly, tears spring to her eyes. “Stop having a go at me, Dad! You’re always having a go at me! I can’t take it anymore!”
She turns and cycles off in the direction we came, wailing loudly, attracting the attention of Italians on theirpasseggiata.
“Mabel, come back!” shouts Theo.
But she ignores him.
He sets off in pursuit, calling to us, “Just give me a minute.”
But it’s obvious that this is going to take longer than a minute.
“Come on,” I say to the boys, “let’s follow them. We don’t want to get split up.”
“Is she running away?” Archie asks.
“I don’t knowwhatshe’s doing,” I answer, trying not to sound weary.
The three of us ride back, keeping our eyes on Mabel. But she turns off the wall and flies down the path leading to the road. When she reaches the bottom, she misjudges her speed and has toslam on her brakes. But it’s too late: she comes to a stop with her front wheel on the tarmac, directly in the path of a silver Fiat. It swerves out of her way and bumps into an iron bollard.
Fuck!
