He looked at her. He thought of the person she had been and the woman she was yet to become. He loved her completely, through all time. Through the trials they had known and the unknown mess and grief and joys yet to come. And he realised what he should have always known. It was her. She was the whole point.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can see him.’
After the meal they walked the long way back to the hotel, through labyrinthine streets and alleyways, taking wrong turns and finding themselves in tiny squares.
‘I miss Dougie,’ he said. ‘I miss him every day.’ He was saying it out loud, not to upset her, but to show her and himself thathe was acknowledging something. That he couldn’t wash that away.
‘I know, love. You don’t have to pretend any more.’
He thought of her words. The ones she had written him in the letter.Sometimes you have to let your heart break in order to stay alive.
They walked on a little further.
‘It’s marvellous, isn’t it, Wilbur?’
He felt happy. But it was a different kind of happiness to what he had known before. This time it felt less fragile, as though it could survive other things alongside it. Like a tenacious flower that would bloom every year.
‘Yes! Yes, it is. Life is marvellous. You are marvellous. Venice is marvellous …Sheffieldis marvellous.’
Maggie looked at him with fond eyes. ‘You pudding. You sound like Charlie used to when he was on a trip!’
But Wilbur kept going. ‘Charlie Applewoodis marvellous. And Claudette Campbell is marvellous. And I can’t wait for their wedding. I’m going to be there this time.’
‘Eh? Are they getting married?’
‘Oh yes. Not that they know it yet.’ He paused. Then carried on, making Maggie laugh in the process. ‘Doreen Taylor is marvellous … Dear old Victor Willows – you know, the man I talk to in Endcliffe Park – he is marvellous … Italian food is marvellous … My wife’s art is marvellous … Reading books is marvellous …’ He thought about that. ‘I’m not going to stop reading,’ he said adamantly.
‘I never said you would.’
‘I know. But I’m just saying. I’m always going to have time for it. And for you.’ He remembered the telephone conversation that he saw himself having on the eve of his death. ‘This is it. These are the good old days. We are living them. They aren’t always going to be easy, but one day we will look back and know them as that.So I’m going to try and live them as that … to be nostalgic about the present.’
Maggie smiled and felt a subtle shift, as if some barely recognised worry had lifted and the air was clear.
The Violin
It was ringing midnight as they eventually reached the open vastness of the Piazza San Marco, street lamps on every side, the square in the middle enveloped in golden light, the bell in the basilica throwing its dancing vibrations all the way to the stars.
Wilbur wondered if he had reached the pinnacle of human emotion, experiencing what he was feeling right there, in that moment in the centre of Venice in 1974.
‘Listen, Maggie, I want you to tell me if I start to lose this me. This one right here. Make sure I never sack poor old Charlie.’
‘Why would you sack Charlie? He’s been brilliant. And he loves you.’
‘I know. I know. But the future can do things.’ He thought of something else. ‘And Mam … I know she’s not always easy. But you are right, I should be gentler with her. We should probably have her round on Sundays. Not just once in a blue moon.’
Maggie smiled and squeezed his arm. ‘Well, she’s always lovely to me. So that sounds like a good plan.’
And Wilbur nodded, as if realising it for the first time. ‘Sheislovely to you. Yes.’
Just a short walk away, a busker was playing Verdi on a violin outside the Caffè Florian. Wilbur and Maggie joined the small late-night crowd at the back. Maggie took a photograph, then grinned and nestled into Wilbur’s shoulder.
‘Aren’t you worried?’ she asked. ‘About turning all that money down?’
‘No,’ said Wilbur.
‘But what if you regret it?’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
