had ever known. The fabric, rotted in places by summer after
summer of not being put away promptly enough when rain began to fall, had now ripped
in several places, and it was only a matter of time, Isabel thought, before it would
give way altogether and deposit the person sitting on the chair unceremoniously on
the grass. She would not mind if that happened to her, or to Jamie—it seemed as if
deckchairs were designed to humiliate their owners, to trap their fingers, to dump
them on the ground—but she did not want it to happen to a visitor.
Now, sitting in the shade on that particularly hot day, Isabel struggled to eat a
slice of onion tart without distributing flaky crumbs of pastry or fragments of onion
all over her clothes. Jamie did not have that problem. He had disposed of his shirt
and had only an old pair of jeans to worry about. She glanced at him, and then glanced
away. There was no spare flesh on him, she thought; just muscle. She had always felt
that somehow it was unfair: Jamie never went to the gym. So did one get likethat, she wondered, just from playing the bassoon? She glanced at him again; his skin
was brown from exposure to the summer sun, and he was perfect. She wanted to touch
him. But did not, and instead looked up at the sky, which was empty.
“Do you believe in angels?”
He had not been paying attention; a bee had landed on his foot and he had leaned forward
to flick it off.
“Do I believe in eagles? Of course I do. Who doesn’t? You can see them flying about
in the Highlands.”
“Angels.”
“Oh, that’s another matter.”
Isabel looked back up at the sky. “There is no evidence for the existence of angels,
and I suppose we must reluctantly conclude that they don’t exist. It’s a pity, I think,
because I can just imagine them floating across a sky like this one.”
Jamie looked up.
“What’s that poem you quoted to me once?” he asked. “Something about Italy.”
Isabel closed her eyes. “ ‘Angels in Italy.’ Al Alvarez wrote it. He’s in Italy, in
the country …”
“Tuscany, of course.”
“Of course. And suddenly he sees angels. He says something about how they make no
sound, although their wings move. That’s how it starts.”
Jamie was intrigued. “Their wings make no sound? That’s what he says?”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “And then he goes on to say that people down below are doing all
sorts of ordinary things—like cutting wood with a buzz-saw. And the leaves on the
vine rattle like dice. All while the angels are crossing the sky, until the clouds
take them.”
Jamie whispered again, savouring the words. “Until the clouds take them.”
Isabel was silent for a moment. Then she turned to face Jamie. He was watching her.
His eyes were kind. She reached out and laid a hand against his cheek and then let
it slip down to his shoulder. His skin was smooth. If he had wings, they would sprout
here, perhaps, right here; great wings; angel, angel.
For a few minutes nothing was said. She felt Jamie’s shoulder move slightly as he
breathed; she felt, she thought, his heartbeat. She willed him not to say anything,
not to disturb the moment. They looked at each other. His lips moved almost imperceptibly
into the slightest, the faintest of smiles.
And then it seemed right to speak. “I saw Eddie this morning,” she said.
He sounded drowsy. “Oh yes?”
“He wants to get engaged to a girl he’s met.”
Jamie smiled. “Good. Poor Eddie.”
“He’s still very young.”
Jamie thought that did not matter. “He thinks he’s old enough to set up home with
her. That’s what he wants.”
“Perhaps.” She paused. She had taken her hand away from his shoulder now. There had
been a moment, an extraordinarily intense moment, but it had passed and they had begun
to talk about Eddie. What had happened?
The deckchair canvas protested—a tiny, ripping sound as a bit more gave way. And then