Mabel pulls down the sides of her straw hat, while Callum does the same with his bucket hat. Archie transfers Thor into his left hand and grabs onto mine with his right.
We spot a fridge full of ice cream in the window of a scruffy old café. We join the line at the serving hatch, overlooked by a trio of aging Italian men huddled around a table. They’re drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, empty packets and glasses strewn between them. One of them has ruddy, vein-threaded cheeks, another a burgundy, bulbous nose, the third a belly that looks like a balloon resting between legs he’s spreading widely. As this man scratches his crotch and sneers at us, my heart slams into my throat.
The other day, the kids came to Camaiore just with Theo. Whenever I’ve come—usually to pick up bread from the bakery—I’ve been on my own. This time, however, Theo and I are wearing our matching Panama hats, almost advertising our status as a gay couple—a gay couple with some kind of family. And it’s not one it looks like these men accept.
“Right, what does everyone fancy?” I chirp, when we reach the front of the line.
To my surprise, each of the kids asks for an Italian flavor. Callum goes forstracciatella, Mabelfrutti di boscoand Archiepanna cotta.
“Superb choices, gang!” says Theo.
One of the old men mutters something to his friends. Suddenly, I wish I could speak Italian. His friends respond with disdainful laughter, one of them veering into a hacking, smoker’s cough. Actually, I’m glad I don’t speak Italian.
Archie gets his ice cream first and goes to sit down at the only other available table, directly next to the men. A nervous-looking Callum and Mabel follow.
Theo and I pay the bill and take our ice creams. While I have my usualpistacchio, this time partnered withnocciola—or hazelnut—Theo has his usualbacio, with a second scoop offior di latte. We sit down and tuck in. Theo asks if he can have a taste of mine and, with one eye on the old Italian men—and a determination not to hide—I scoop some up and feed it to him. He misses the spoon and it hits the side of his mouth. We both giggle and I give him a slap on the shoulder.
“Maniaci!”snarls the man with red cheeks.
“Degenerati!”hisses the one with the purple nose.
“Depravati!”growls the one with the belly.
I don’t need to consult my translation app to know they’re insulting us for being queer. It’s like I’ve been slapped across the face. Theo looks equally startled and tries to break out of it by coughing into his fist.
Thankfully, Archie is too absorbed in his ice cream to have heard anything. Callum and Mabel, on the other hand, did.
“Dad,” asks Mabel, “did they just say something homophobic?”
Callum’s forehead is rutted. “You’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?”
Theo sighs and leans towards them. “What can I say? We don’t even speak Italian.”
I let out a short breath. “Look, let’s just not rise to it.”
“Exactly,” says Theo. “It’s not as if we care what they think.”
“Let’s just sit here, hold our heads up high, and enjoy our ice creams.”
We try, but it’s difficult to avoid the men’s staring. And none of us is enjoying our ice cream, except Archie.
A tear rolls down Mabel’s face. “Please can we go,” she says, wiping it away with the back of her hand.
“Yeah, I’ve had enough,” says Callum, pushing his ice cream into the center of the table.
“Thisnocciola’s rank,” I say, trying to inject some humor.
“Come on,” says Theo, pushing back his chair. “Let’s go back and set up that barbecue.”
While Theo assembles the barbecue, I sit on the patio, looking out over the valley. Above my head, the vines that twist in and outof the pergola are hanging with bunches of increasingly plump grapes. And breaking through the usual sounds of crickets and birds is the familiartwit-twooof the owl that we still haven’t seen.
But this evening I don’t give it a second thought. Because in my head I’m replaying the old men’s insults. And I’m blazing with rage. How dare they? How dare they think we’re bad people, just because our love is different to theirs?
A lizard slithers over the rocks bordering the lawn and comes to a stop by my feet. I’m amazed at how perfectly still it holds itself. As I’m wondering if it’s one of those that lives in the larder, another insult crashes into my head—it’s Wilf’s dad calling him a freak of nature.
I shift in my seat and the lizard slithers off across the patio and up the wall of the house.
The atmosphere is sullen. Mabel is sitting at the opposite end of the table, her earphones in, listening to Harry Styles. Archie is inside, in the smaller first-floor lounge, playing with his wrestlers.
