Jarlath and he had often discussed Blaise Pascal, a pure intellectual in the truest sense, combining a love of mathematics and logical reasoning with an insatiable desire to understand mankind.
When he had told them he needed a leave of absence from work, snivelling Susan had been the worst. Still lamenting her late husband, when she had found out he had an ailing mother she had stupidly thought he could share her pain. Jarlath had displayed heightened levels of discomfort at Susan’s overkill of empathy. It was the kind of emotional display that never sat easily on the shoulders of the young.
Choosing a window seat, he was relieved that both seats to his right remained empty, and he was free to enjoy the clear blue sky above the clouds, losing himself in thought. It was often difficult keeping up the fa?ade of being nice, and he had no doubt that if any of his colleagues had been asked about him, their opinions would be completely flawed. This was of his own making, of course, as generally he made a point of only presenting a two-dimensional aspect of himself to the world. Accordingly, he had dished out his usual round of pleasantries before leaving, promising Jackie he would consider her suggestion to examine all forms of ‘up-skilling’ while he was away.
‘Oh, such a lovely man,’ he had heard Susan say as he’d closed the office door behind him.
He smiled grimly at the memory of being out of their company and able to breathe in fresh air.
Yes, he had earned his break, and not just from them but from the old bag too. He knew tongues would wag in the village about him taking a trip to Tuscany while her ladyship was on her last legs, but a week’s respite was what he needed. Let the local rumour mill churn out whatever it chose, it would never be any more than speculation.
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Standing in the elegant foyer of the Hotel de Tucci, he stood back and admired the black-and-white chequered floor. Across this enormous chessboard, guests, hotel staff, and overly pampered dogs and cats scuffled nosily. He would not stay long in Florence. One night’s rest was all that was required, then he would be ready to start the drive to Livorno. Choosing to take the stairs rather than the lift to his room on the first floor, he thought again about how his mother’s unintentional trips down memory lane had awakened feelings he had suppressed for far too long, and how it was with a mix of anticipation and trepidation that he planned the next leg on his journey. In many ways, his life was now echoing the words of Pascal: ‘Let each one examine his thoughts. He will find them all occupied with the past and the future.’ This empathy of thought pleased him.
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The drive to Livorno was a pleasant one, with russet-coloured rooftops dotting the landscape. The road eventually led into the lovely seaside town he remembered so well from his youth. The distance was short, a little over twenty kilometres, and he had switched cars at Pisa, enjoying the covert aspect of it all. Much time had passed since that old business, so there was really no cause for any concern, but being careful added a certain excitement to the proceedings. With the car window rolled down, he took in the familiar smells of a place to which he had always known he would return.
Mother hadn’t meant to resurrect the old wounds, but years of keeping her trap shut had been undone by the garbled workings of a decaying brain, and once resurrected, it had changed everything. It started harmlessly enough, but then, it usually did.
‘Do I look different today?’ she had purred, deluding herself that her beauty had returned.
‘No. Not particularly.’ The air in her bedroom had been dry, stifling.
‘But you are looking at me, staring the way you like to. You always liked looking at your mother, didn’t you?’
‘I was just looking, nothing more.’
‘You shouldn’t stare at me that way, people might talk.’
He had turned his back to her, but the idiotic bitch had continued.
‘But who cares about them? We don’t, my darling, do we? We never did. None of them understand. Jealously is a dreadful affliction, don’t you think?’
‘No one is jealous. You are rambling.’
‘Don’t lie, little boy. I can see right through you.’
Standing at her sick bed, he had breathed in the stench of her old age.
‘I am not a little boy any more.’
‘You are staring again.’
‘Am I?’
‘You know you are, and don’t lean on my shoulders so hard. It hurts. You think I’m weak-minded don’t you, but I have the measure of you.’
‘Just checking your reflexes, Mother. They are as sharp as ever I see.’
‘You were the same with that young tramp, staring at her too, following her like some demented lapdog.’
‘Why don’t you take your pills, Mother? You know how you like to lose yourself.’
‘She was a tramp, you know. Antonio liked tramps – young ones, especially. Don’t you remember? Don’t you? Oh, but you must.’