36
IF GILES IMAGINED he’d worked hard during his final days at St Bede’s, in those last two years at Bristol Grammar School both he and Harry became acquainted with hours only Deakins was familiar with.
Dr Paget, their sixth-form master, told them in no uncertain terms that if they hoped to be offered a place at Oxford or Cambridge, they would have to forget any other activities, as they would need to spend every waking moment preparing for the entrance exams.
Giles was hoping to captain the school’s First XI in his final year, while Harry was keen to land the lead in the school play. Dr Paget raised an eyebrow when he heard this, even though Romeo and Juliet was the set text for Oxford that year. ‘Just be sure you don’t sign up for anything else,’ he said firmly.
Harry reluctantly resigned from the choir, which gave him two more free evenings a week to study. However, there was one activity no pupil could exempt himself from: every Tuesday and Thursday, at four o’clock, all the boys had to be standing to attention on the parade ground, fully kitted out and ready for inspection as members of the Combined Cadet Force.
‘Can’t allow the Hitler Youth to imagine that if Germany is foolish enough to declare war on us a second time, we won’t be ready for them,’ bellowed the RSM.
Every time ex-Regimental Sergeant Major Roberts delivered these words, it sent a shiver through the ranks of schoolboys, who realized as each day passed that it was becoming more and more likely they would be serving on the front line as junior officers in some foreign field, rather than going up to university as undergraduates.
Harry took the RSM’s words to heart and was quickly promoted to cadet officer. Giles took them less seriously, knowing that if he was called up, he could, like his father, take the easy way out and remind them of his colour-blindness to avoid coming face to face with the enemy.
Deakins showed little interest in the whole process, declaring with a certainty that brooked no argument, ‘You don’t need to know how to strip a bren gun when you’re in the intelligence corps.’
By the time the long summer nights began to draw to a close, they were all ready for a holiday before they would return for their final year, at the end of which they would have to face the examiners once again. Within a week of term ending, all three of them had left for their summer break: Giles to join his family at their villa in Tuscany, Harry to Rome with the school’s Arts Appreciation Society, while Deakins entombed himself in Bristol Central library, avoiding contact with any other human beings, despite the fact that he’d already been offered a place at Oxford.
Over the years, Giles had come to accept that if he wanted to see Harry during the holidays, he had to make sure his father didn’t find out what he was up to, otherwise the best-laid schemes of mice and . . . But in order to achieve this, he often had to get his sister Emma to join in the subterfuge, and she never failed to extract her pound of flesh before agreeing to become his accomplice.
‘If you take the lead over dinner tonight, I’ll follow up,’ said Giles once he’d outlined his latest scheme to her.
‘Sounds like the natural order of things,’ said Emma scornfully.
After the first course had been served, Emma innocently asked her mother if she could possibly take her to the Villa Borghese the following day, as it had been recommended as a must by her art mistress. She was well aware that Mama had already made other plans.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she said, ‘but your father and I are going to lunch with the Hendersons in Arezzo tomorrow. You’re most welcome to join us.’
‘There’s nothing to stop Giles taking you into Rome,’ interjected his father from the other end of the table.
‘Do I have to?’ said Giles, who had just been about to make the same suggestion.
‘Yes, you do,’ replied his father firmly.
‘But what’s the point, Pa? By the time we get there, we’ll have to turn round and come back. It’s hardly worth it.’
‘Not if you were to spend the night at the Plaza Hotel. I’ll call them first thing in the morning, and book a couple of rooms.’
‘Are you sure they’re grown up enough for that?’ asked Mrs Barrington, sounding a little anxious.
‘Giles will be eighteen in a few weeks. It’s time he grew up and took some responsibility.’ Giles bowed his head as if he had given in meekly.
The following morning, a taxi drove him and Emma to the local station just in time to catch the early morning train to Rome.
‘Be sure to take care of your sister,’ were his father’s last words before they left the villa.
‘I will,’ promised Giles as the car drove off.
Several men rose to offer Emma their seat as she entered the carriage, while Giles was left standing for the entire journey. On arrival in Rome, they took a taxi to the Via del Corso, and once they’d booked into their hotel they continued on to the Villa Borghese. Giles was struck by how many young men not much older than himself were in uniform, while almost every pillar and lamp-post they passed displayed a poster of Mussolini.
Once the taxi had dropped them off, they made their way up through the gardens, passing more men in uniform and even more posters of ‘Il Duce’ before they finally reached the palatial Villa Borghese.
Harry had written to tell Giles they would be setting out on their official tour at ten o’clock. He checked his watch – a few minutes past eleven, with luck the tour would be nearly over. He bought two tickets, handed one to Emma, bounded up the steps to the galleria and went in search of the school party. Emma took her time admiring the Bernini statues that dominated the first four rooms, but then she wasn’t in a hurry. Giles went from gallery to gallery until he spotted a group of young men dressed in dark claret jackets and black flannel trousers, who were crowded around a small portrait of an elderly man dressed in a cream silk cassock with a white mitre on his head.
‘There they are,’ he said, but Emma was nowhere to be seen. Not giving his sister another thought, he headed over to the attentive group. The moment he saw her, he quite forgot the reason he had come to Rome.
‘Caravaggio was commissioned to paint this portrait of Pope Paul V in 1605,’ she said, with a slight accent. ‘You will notice that it was not finished, and that is because the artist had to flee from Rome.’
‘Why, miss?’ demanded a young boy in the front row, who was clearly determined to take Deakins’s place at some time in the future.
‘Because he became involved in a drunken brawl, during which he ended up killing a man.’
‘Did they arrest him?’ asked the same boy.
‘No,’ said the tour guide, ‘Caravaggio always managed to move on to the next city before the forces of justice could catch up with him, but in the end the Holy Father decided to grant him a pardon.’
‘Why?’ demanded the same boy.
‘Because he wanted Caravaggio to carry out several more commissions for him. Some of them are among the seventeen works that can still be seen in Rome today.’
At that moment, Harry spotted Giles gazing in awe in the direction of the painting. He left the group and walked across to join him. ‘How long have you been standing there?’ he asked.
‘Long enough to fall in love,’ said Giles, his eyes still fixed on the tour guide.
Harry laughed when he realized it wasn’t the painting Giles was staring at, but the elegant, self-assured young woman who was addressing the boys. ‘I think she’s a bit out of your age group,’ said Harry, ‘and I suspect even your price range.’
‘I’m willing to take that risk,’ said Giles as the guide led her little group into the next room. Giles followed obediently and positioned himself so he had a clear view of her, while the rest of the group studied a statue of Paolina Borghese by Canova, ‘arguably the greatest sculptor of all time’, she said. Giles wasn’t going to disagree with her.
‘Well, that brings us to the end of our tour,’ she announced. ‘But if you have any more questions I will be here for a few more minutes, so don’t hesitate to ask.’
Giles didn’t hesitate.
Harry watched in amusement as his friend strode up to the young Italian woman and began chatting to her as if they were old friends. Even the little boy from the front row didn’t dare to interrupt him. Giles rejoined Harry a few minutes later, a large grin plastered across his face.
‘She’s agreed to have dinner with me tonight.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Harry.
‘But a problem has arisen,’ he added, ignoring his friend’s Doubting Thomas look.
‘More than one, I suspect.’
‘. . . which can be overcome with your assistance.’
‘You need a chaperone to accompany you,’ suggested Harry, ‘just in case things get out of hand.’
‘No, you ass. I want you to take care of my sister while Caterina introduces me to Rome’s night-life.’
‘Not a hope,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t come all the way to Rome just to act as your babysitter.’
‘But you’re my best friend,’ pleaded Giles. ‘If you won’t help me, who else can I turn to?’
‘Why don’t you try Paolina Borghese? I doubt if she has any plans for tonight.’
‘All you have to do is take her out for dinner, and make sure she’s in bed by ten.’
‘Forgive me for mentioning it, Giles, but I thought you’d come to Rome to have dinner with me?’
‘I’ll give you a thousand lira if you take her off my hands. And we can still have breakfast at my hotel in the morning.’
‘I’m not that easily bribed.’
‘And,’ said Giles, playing his trump card, ‘I’ll also give you my recording of Caruso singing La Boheme.’
Harry turned to find a young girl standing by his side.
‘By the way,’ said Giles, ‘this is my sister, Emma.’
‘Hello,’ said Harry. Turning back to Giles, he said, ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’