Kate Forster - The Perfect Location

Pulling up the Corso Vanucci, the car stopped and the driver told Rose she would have to walk the rest of the way on foot, as there were no cars allowed on the old roads and pathways. Entering the Galleria, Rose was soothed by the quietness and the coolness of the building. Taking a map from a sleepy guard, who did not seem to recognize her, she stood and decided what route to take.

As she stood assessing the map, she heard voices in the quiet space and looked up to see a man with three little boys trailing after him. Rose smiled as she watched the smallest one with a blue drink bottle in his hand stop and touch a marble statue in the entranceway. She watched his small hands feeling the cold stone as she looked up at the statue of a woman on her knees. The boy’s father and brothers walked away but the small boy stayed at the side of the statue. Rose walked over to him.

‘Do you like the feel of the marble?’ she asked him in a gentle voice.

‘It’s cold,’ said the boy, looking at her, and Rose felt her heart open at the sight of his little face, so earnest and trusting.

‘Yes,’ said Rose, reaching out to touch the woman.

‘Why is she so sad?’ asked the boy.

Rose read the description of the statue. ‘Assetata,’ she said aloud. ‘She’s thirsty,’ she explained.

‘She needs a drink,’ said the boy, looking at the drink bottle in his hand.

‘She does,’ said Rose gravely.

‘Milo, hurry up.’ Rose turned to see the boy’s father in the distance of the gallery standing impatiently.

Milo ran towards his father and Rose watched him run, carefully hanging onto his drink. Rose walked in the other direction of the family, wondering where the mother was. Hopefully getting some much needed rest from the challenge of three boys and a grumpy father, she laughed to herself as she wandered the rooms.

In Room Three, the earliest paintings and artifacts were housed, showing the start of 13th century Perugian art. Wandering through the rooms, drinking in the history and creativity was Rose’s idea of heaven. Her knowledge of European art was extensive, but not Italian art and certainly not as far back as the 13th century.

Facing Duccio di Buoninsegna’s depiction of the Madonna and Child , with the six tiny angels watching them from above, Rose wondered if she would ever have a child of her own. She was aware time was running out for her on the fertility front. It didn’t matter what medicine did to stop the aging process, the plain fact was that if you wanted to get pregnant naturally then you had to do it when you were young. Facing her fortieth birthday in six months, Rose was keenly aware of her biological clock ticking like a time bomb inside her.

As she turned to walk into the next room, she heard the sound of running feet. Milo ran into the room, his little round face streaming with tears. As he ran towards her, he tripped on his shoelace and went sprawling in front of Rose onto his face, landing at her feet.

‘Oh dear, what a big fall! Come on, let’s get up.’

The child was sobbing quietly, a sound Rose recognized from her niece and nephew, one that a child makes when they have really hurt themselves.

‘Ups a daisy. Come on now.’ Rose sat on the wooden bench in the centre of the room and lifted the child onto her lap. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at you then.’

Assessing the child, she saw he had blood coming out of his mouth. Opening his mouth gently she saw he had bitten his tongue but no teeth seemed to be damaged. Rose waited for his parents to arrive, assuming they would be chasing after him, but the room stayed silent. The child nestled his head into her neck and she heard his breathing slow down and his sobs quietly ease away.

‘There you are, getting better? I have just the pill to make you tip-top in no time,’ she said, remembering the packet of barley sugar she had in her bag that she had brought to suck on when her plane took off. Taking out a piece she unwrapped it. ‘Open wide,’ she said and the child obediently did so.

Popping the sweet into his mouth, he put his head back on her chest and sucked contentedly. Looking up at the Madonna and Child hanging on the wall in front of her, she sent a little prayer up to the Patron Saint of Mothers to send her own little child to her one day.

‘Milo, bloody hell, we have been looking for you everywhere. You’re bloody hopeless, I’m very cross with you.’ A man came into the room, followed by two older boys, about six and eight.

Hearing his father’s voice, Milo started to cry again and clung to Rose.

‘I just wanted to give her a drink,’ he whispered in Rose’s ear.

Rose was unsure what he was saying and was about to ask him when the child’s father interrupted again.

‘You cannot run away from me, do you understand, do you?’ the father said, tearing the child away from Rose’s body and standing in front of him. Towering over the child, the man’s face was flushed. The two other boys looked at the floor.

‘Dominic and Jasper have been searching everywhere, as have I. Not good enough, Milo, really! Hopeless, hopeless, and where’s your drink bottle? You’ve lost that also, I see,’ said the man.

The small child stood frightened and shaking. ‘And now you’ve bloody wet yourself. Jesus Christ, Milo! Can’t you do anything right? When we get home, you will spend the rest of the day in your room. Do you understand me?’

Rising from the bench, Rose stood in front of the man. ‘Excuse me …’ she began.

The man snapped his head around to look at her. ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice slightly menacing. Rose recognized an English accent and thought she knew him from somewhere but wasn’t sure. Was he an actor? A politician? She stopped trying to place him when she looked at the small child’s face in front of her.

‘It’s not his fault he wet himself …’ Rose smiled at the child who was clearly traumatized.

‘Really? Well, if he had listened to me when I said he needed to go to the toilet then he wouldn’t be here all wet and embarrassing himself, would he?’

Rose tried again, ‘Well, accidents happen, nothing that can’t be fixed.’

‘Are you going to fix it? No? No. I’ll have to fucking fix it, as I always have to fix everything. Always up to me, and what do I get from them? Nothing. Just more fucking jobs to do and nothing in return. Christ! You’re all bloody useless.’ He directed this to not only the children, but also Rose.

Where her rage came from, Rose wasn’t sure. Was it because he had blasphemed in front of the Madonna and Child , or was it because she felt so motherly towards this little boy? Or was it that his words reminded her of Paul, yelling at her, telling her she was hopeless and then ignoring her as this man wanted to do to the small child?

‘You’re a bully. No wonder he ran away from you. I don’t blame him. I’d want to run away from you, too. And as for wetting his pants, well …’ She looked down at Milo and held his hand.

‘I would have wet myself too, if you had yelled at me that way, and I’m a lot older than him. You should be ashamed of yourself!’ she shouted. ‘I’m sure their mother would be shocked if she saw the way you speak to them. I think I should meet her or at least discuss your bullying of these kids or is she just like you also?’ Rose challenged.

‘Well, good luck, because she’s dead!’ the man shouted back at her.

Rose saw the middle child start to cry now. She felt awful but this man was too much for anyone to bear. She composed herself and put on her sunglasses. ‘Well, I suggest you get some therapy, for you first and then for the children just so they can have some strategies to learn to live with you.’

Bending down, she took Milo’s face in her hands. ‘Don’t worry about anything. Your tongue will heal and you will have an excellent excuse to eat yummy Italian gelato now. Never mind about wetting yourself. I wet myself all the time till I was seven. No shame in it, many clever people wet their pants,’ she said confidently and Milo looked up at her, his eyes wide.