Somewhere warm and dry.
Looky there! A head of hair!
A castle in the sky!
The hair was messy, curly, tressy
A tangled web of knots.
The mousey dived right in at once
And settled on the spot.
The little girl who owned the hair
Said, ‘Welcome, little mousey.
I hope you’ll feel quite safe and warm
In this, your brand-new housey.’
And so the mousey dwelt therein
Amidst the messy curls.
Warm and dry and safe at last
Atop the little girl.
By the end of the poem, Freja was smiling and quite eager to excuse her childish and needy behaviour. ‘I’m so sorry, Tobias. I really am being a dreadful baby with all this sniffling. You’ve been very kind and I truly am having a satisfactory time here — even happy quite often. It’s just that I . . . I . . .’ Her heart began to race. The tears welled up and she was blubbering once more!
Freja looked around the cottage for inspiration, a convincing excuse. Her watery gaze skimmed over teapots, dictionaries, gnawed curtains and lumpy cushions, settling at last on the book she had been trying to read, Rome’s Reward. It would have to do. She threw back her head and wailed, ‘I WANT TO GO TO RO-O-O-OME!’
Tobias was stunned. And rightly so. This was certainly a step up from crying over marmalade and bubble baths!
‘Hmmm,’ he murmured. ‘And here was I, thinking it might be slippers or porridge. Even something about Finnegan licking your face too often. This is not at all what I expected.’ Still hugging Freja with one hand, he tugged at his ear with the other. ‘But it’s a jolly coincidence, that’s what it is. Why, just this morning, I received a third letter from my publisher urging me to take a trip to Rome. My new novel, Rome’s Reward, is coming out there in two weeks, you know. They want me to do some sort of promotion — a bookshop reading, I think. And now this . . . you, crying for Rome . . . extraordinary!’
Freja wiped her nose on Tobias’ sleeve and whimpered.
‘You really are a sad sausage, aren’t you?’ said Tobias. ‘Want to go to Rome, eh? Well . . . let me see . . . we might . . . yes, yes . . . we might just be able to kill two birds with the one stone.’
Freja’s little body shuddered.
‘Buckle up, old chap!’ Tobias held the girl at arm’s length. ‘If it’s Rome you want, it’s to Rome we shall go!’
Freja was completely shocked out of crying.
‘I must admit,’ Tobias trundled on, thinking aloud, ‘I did enjoy Rome when I was there last. I was rather bogged down in my research and didn’t really meet many people, but I did like the look and feel of the place. I do prefer to be home in Hampshire when writing, but I suppose I might just as well sit at a desk in an apartment in Rome as a desk in Myrtle Cottage. I’ll still write every day and go for long, rambling walks. They’ll just take me through ancient Roman ruins and crowded marketplaces rather than meadows and forests. And you and Finnegan will do your thing . . . whatever that might be. Why, surely, our lives will barely change.’
Within the week, Tobias Appleby had packed three boxes and two suitcases of necessities, leased an apartment in the centre of Rome, sent his motorcycle and sidecar ahead by rail, locked up Myrtle Cottage, and was boarding an aeroplane with a ten-year-old girl and an enormous Irish wolfhound. Apparently, if you pay for the seat and make sure there are no stowaway fleas, a dog can travel first class with the best in the land.
And Freja, though stunned at what she had started, didn’t have the heart to stop it once Tobias was on a roll. He was, after all, doing it for her, just to make her happy. How could one possibly repay such kindness?
She would repay, she decided, by going cheerfully along with the scheme.
Even though it meant another scary change.
Even though Rome was a city filled with people. Millions of people.
Even though every new move felt like she was being dragged further and further away from her old life with Clementine.
The jet engines roared to life.
The plane taxied along the runway.
Finnegan yawned and licked Freja’s ear.
‘Rome,’ Freja whispered. ‘What have I done?’
And her stomach lurched as the plane left the earth and soared up into the unknown.
CHAPTER 12
Pesky pigeons
‘Good morning, beautiful Rome!’ Tobias flung open the doors of the second-storey apartment, stepped out onto the balcony and tilted his face up into the warm Italian sunshine. He laughed and waved his lanky arms about like a conductor, all the while breathing deeply and sighing loudly. Freja knew exactly what he was doing, because in her own quieter way, she did the same thing each day. He was feasting upon this fascinating city — the sight of peeling green shutters against faded ochre walls; the music of church bells and shouted conversations; the smell of basil, garlic and wood smoke as the pizza ovens were fired up for the day.
Freja watched in delight as Tobias spun around, his green eyes sparkling, his cardigan flapping, his arms waving in the air. It was, she thought, a beautiful moment of joyous abandon. Except for one unfortunate fact. Tobias had forgotten about the open bottle of ink in his right hand. Jet-black liquid sloshed through his fingers, splashed onto the tiles and dripped over the edge of the balcony.
‘Santa Maria!’ roared a voice from below.
‘Whoopsy!’ Tobias grimaced and shoved the now-empty bottle into his trouser pocket. He wiped the ink from his hands onto his bottom. Stepping forward, he leaned over the railing and looked down into the cobbled street. Freja ran to his side.
Mother Superior Evangelista, a nun from the nearby convent, was frozen to the spot. She rubbed at a blob of ink on the front of her creamy white habit, turning it into a thick, ugly smear. She gasped, gaped at her blackened thumb and tilted her gaze upward.
Her eyes, upon meeting Tobias’, widened then narrowed to two angry slits.
Uh-oh, thought Freja. She recognises him. She knows it was Tobias who knocked her off her bicycle two days ago!
‘Tss!’ Mother Superior hissed. ‘Idiota!’
Freja leaned in to Tobias. ‘Idiota?’ she whispered. ‘I think there might be a similar word in English.’ The corners of her mouth twitched.
Tobias gave her a crooked smile, then looked back down at the nun. ‘Sorry! Excuse me, Mother Superior!’ He clutched his chest and grinned like a sick cat, but the nun continued to scowl.
‘Maybe,’ suggested Freja, ‘she’s waiting for you to apologise in Italian.’
Tobias nodded. ‘Good idea, old chap!’ Leaning further over the railing, he swept his arms wide and bellowed, ‘Scusa, Mamma Spaghettiosa!’
‘Mamma Spaghettiosa?’ shrieked the old woman. She stomped away, shaking her head.
Freja giggled. ‘Spaghettiosa?’
Tobias let out a long, loud breath. He rubbed his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. He patted his cheek, chuckled a little and scratched his nose. He clasped his chin and wondered aloud, ‘Now what was it that brought me out here in the first place?’ Each simple gesture spread the remaining ink on his hands further afield. Soon he looked more like a work-weary coal miner at the end of a twelve-hour shift than a successful crime writer living abroad in Rome.
Finnegan sauntered onto the balcony. He and Freja stood side by side, staring up at Tobias.
‘Ink . . .’ muttered the absent-minded writer. ‘Pen . . . sunshine . . .’
Finnegan cocked his head towards Freja and whined.
Resting her hand on the dog’s back, Freja whispered, ‘Give him time. He’ll work it out sooner or later.’
‘Ink . . . pen . . . writing!’ Tobias cried, finally lighting upon the answer.
He ducked back inside and, moments later, a heavy oak desk came sliding through the French doors and onto the balcony. Tobias grunted, pushed and heaved until he was satisfied with its position, then straightened the i
tems on top — his ancient typewriter, several medical journals, a tin of pencils and nib pens, a fresh pot of ink and a scruffy pile of papers weighed down with a teapot shaped like the Pope. He disappeared and returned once more, wheeling a large swivel chair he’d bought at a flea market three days ago. It was remarkably like the one he had in England, except more rickety, if that was possible. Placing the chair before the desk, Tobias gave it a complete twirl, then plonked himself down. He tucked a pencil behind one ear, threaded a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter and began to jab away at the keys.
Tobias had not typed more than three words when a large green-and-grey pigeon flew across the balcony and landed on the typewriter. Tobias swept the pigeon away with his hand. It flapped about in the air, then returned to exactly the same spot.
Finnegan barked. Freja giggled. Tobias moaned. They’d been in Rome long enough to know that where one pigeon lands, a dozen or more are sure to follow.
Within moments, the desk was a living, moving mass of green-and-grey feathers. Pigeons scuttled back and forth, fluffing their chests, bobbing their heads, pecking and cooing. Especially cooing.
‘Go away!’ cried Tobias ineffectually. ‘I can’t work with all this gossiping.’
‘Gossiping?’ asked Freja, creeping a little closer.
‘Yes, gossiping,’ said Tobias. ‘Pigeons love to gossip. Why do you think they gather in such fussy clusters all the time?’
‘I thought they were looking for food,’ said Freja. ‘Breadcrumbs . . . or corn.’
‘No, no, no!’ Tobias waved his hand dismissively. ‘They’re blurting out their latest titbits of gossip. Then they’ll fly off, each in their own direction, and share it with a whole new flock. And so the gossip will travel through Rome faster than if it was shouted from the balcony of the Pope’s apartment in the Vatican. Listen.’
He pointed to one of the pigeons and spoke with a comical Italian accent: ‘Signore and Signora Rappalino have been screaming and shouting at each other since sunrise.’
Pointing to a second pigeon, he said in a high-pitched Italian accent, ‘Nobody argues like the Rappalinos.’
Pointing to a fat, scruffy pigeon, he boomed, ‘Except for the Sciarras!’
Freja giggled again. ‘You’re right! They’re dreadful gossips.’
Tobias nodded, then continued to speak for the pigeons: ‘Young Bruno Bellini crashed his Vespa last night. Drove straight through the window of the Pope’s favourite pizzeria.’
‘The Pope eats far too much pizza.’
‘Pizza never hurt anyone.’
‘It hurt Signore Russo. Look how fat he got, then — POOF! — he exploded!’
‘He didn’t explode. He was hit by a train.’
‘Same result.’
‘Have you seen the new curtains Signora Sala has hung in her living-room window? Black with brown and yellow flowers.’
‘Brown and yellow flowers?’
‘Urk! That woman has no taste.’
‘No taste at all.’
‘And she has an enormous bottom!’
It really did look as though the pigeons were speaking the words as they fluffed and pecked and warbled about on the desk. Freja laughed until her tummy ached.
Tobias tugged at his hair and moaned, ‘See, old chap? They gossip on and on and on, and even though one does not want to participate, one can’t help getting sucked in. I’m now thinking all about poor Signore Russo and his five fatherless bambini. And Signora Sala’s enormous bottom . . .’ He made a wide, circular motion with his hands. ‘I haven’t a thought to spare for the villain of my novel. Let alone the hero!’
Freja scrunched her nose. She disappeared into the apartment and returned a moment later with half a loaf of bread. The pigeons flapped excitedly into the air, wings and tail feathers brushing her face. She leaned over the railing and tossed chunks of bread down into the street below. With a whoosh of green and grey, the pigeons were gone.
Tobias lifted a feather from the table and tucked it into his hair. He nodded to Freja, pulled his chair in to his desk and cracked his knuckles.
‘I thought Finnegan and I might sneak out on our own today,’ said Freja. ‘I want to post a letter to Clementine, then we could explore a little.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Do I need to change before I go?’
Tobias spun around and stared. Freja wore her hiking boots, a crumpled cream blouse and a lumpy green pinafore. The pinafore was, in fact, Tobias’ favourite woollen vest. Freja had taken a shine to it. She even wore it inside out and back to front as she had seen Tobias do three times out of four. Pinned to each of her shoulders was a sprig of olive leaves.
‘Do I need to change?’ she asked once more.
Her curly blonde hair shone like an angel’s halo in the bright Italian sunshine.
‘Why ever would you need to change?’ cried Tobias. ‘You look simply perfect, as always.’
Freja’s face broke into a grin to match her golden halo — pure and bright. She waved, giggled and skipped into the apartment. Finnegan was right at her heels, a shaggy grey bodyguard. And as she went, she heard Tobias speaking with a deep, dramatic voice as he tapped away at his typewriter: ‘Suddenly, from the dank, dark depths of the chasm flew a pigeon, flapping, cooing, shedding feathers and fear in equal measure.’
CHAPTER 13
Kindness and crowds
Freja and Finnegan trotted down four flights of stairs, across the courtyard where Tobias kept his motorcycle and through the heavy timber doors that led out into the narrow street.
Freja stopped, rested her hand on Finnegan’s neck and took a deep breath. They had been in Rome for a whole week now. She and Finnegan had ventured out every day with Tobias, but this was their first time alone.
‘I can do this,’ she whispered.
‘Woof,’ said Finnegan. Not that he agreed. He just liked to reply when Freja spoke. She could have said, ‘Six times nine is a thousand,’ and Finnegan would have said, ‘Woof!’
A pale blue Fiat puttered by, followed by a man on a bicycle. The cyclist clung to the handlebar with one hand and held a cone of strawberry gelato aloft in the other. He wibbled and wobbled, and the gelato fell out of the cone, landing on the cobblestones with a splodge. Unaware of the disaster, he rode on. Finnegan cleaned up the mess in three slurps.
‘Good boy,’ said Freja.
Finnegan licked his lips and wagged his tail. His left eye twitched a little.
‘Brain freeze,’ explained Freja, and she gave his head a warming rub.
Looking along the street to a café, she frowned. The waiters were setting out tables and chairs in the sunshine, ready for early customers.
‘People!’ she sighed. Her tummy tightened. It would be different exploring without Tobias. Tobias could always be depended upon to do or say something odd, thereby drawing all attention to himself. He was a wonderful companion for outings, for Freja rarely had to say a word. In fact, she was hardly noticed.
‘Tobias and I are like a polar bear and an Arctic fox,’ she told Finnegan. ‘If an Arctic fox walked into a café, the waiter would be astonished. But if a polar bear and an Arctic fox walked into the café, the waiter would barely notice the fox. The polar bear would draw all his attention.’
‘Woof!’ Finnegan swiped his tongue across her cheek and grinned.
‘Yes,’ said Freja. ‘I know. You’ll be with me all the way . . . and those waiters are busy with their work . . . and I really do need to post this letter . . . and I would love to see some more of Rome. It’s wonderful, despite all the people.’
Freja started along the cobbled street, making sure to stay pressed up against the wolfhound’s comfortingly large body.
‘Ciao, Goldilocks!’ A tall, dark-haired waiter smiled and waved his tray at Freja.
Freja’s cheeks burned and her legs turned to jelly. She grabbed a fistful of Finnegan’s fur and looked around for somewhere to hide. The only place, however, was beneath a table and that was right next to the waiter.
>
‘Ciao, bella bambina!’ yelled a plump chef from inside the café.
Freja rushed on.
An old woman hung out from a window, two storeys above, beating the dust from her rug. She stopped and waved down at Freja, smiling. ‘Buongiorno, bambina!’
Freja swallowed and walked a little faster.
‘Ciao! Ciao, bella!’ cried the bartender from inside the next café. He lifted a glass in the air in a kind of salute.
‘Ciao, bella!’ cried another waiter.
Freja ran, stumbling over the cobblestones, until a tall, slim lady called out from the flower shop. ‘It’s a little golden angel running by!’ She waved a large pink dahlia in the air, then pointed it at Freja. ‘Your curls! The spirals! They are like fusilli pasta! Golden fusilli! Astonishing!’
It was all too much. Freja froze and her hands flew to her hair. Her messy, feral hair. Why hadn’t she worn a hat?
‘Bella!’ cried the lady, stepping into the street. ‘Do not cover your hair. It is magnifico! Golden fusilli is a beautiful thing.’ She pointed to her own brown locks and frowned. ‘We see this sort of hair all day, every day. Brown is so common in Rome.’
Freja dropped her hands to her sides and whispered, ‘It’s chocolate, not brown.’
The woman laughed. ‘Chocolate! Cioccolato! Delizioso!’ Her voice was deep, warm and musical. A kind voice.
‘I think chocolate hair is beautiful,’ said Freja. ‘Especially tidy chocolate hair.’
The woman stepped forward and tucked the giant pink flower behind Freja’s ear. ‘A lovely flower for your lovely hair. You are a splendid girl.’ She smiled and retreated into her store.
Finnegan poked his nose into the middle of the dahlia, then sneezed. Freja giggled. She touched the flower, glanced back at the cafés and apartments she had already passed, then walked on, her chin a little higher, her step a little lighter. She barely flinched when the next three waiters waved and cried, ‘Ciao!’
Two blocks along, the narrow street spilt into a wide, open place called Piazza di Spagna. It was one of Rome’s most popular sites. The crowds thickened and Freja, much to her surprise, felt herself relax. She passed through a rabble of noisy nonnas, smelly backpackers, tortured artists, beautiful women, untamed toddlers, bellowing fruit vendors, bald-headed monks, strutting policemen and tourists in clumps large and small. It was like slipping into a giant seal colony where one was swallowed up in the press of blubber, the noise of barking, the smell of seawater and fish. One little girl with fusilli-feral hair would barely be noticed.
The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome Page 6
