Weren’t there supposed to be thirteen of you? The van bounces on the rutted track turning into the campsite. It’s a dirty white. The driver hits the horn in celebration. Am I driving carefully? asks a sticker on the back. There’s a phone number and the name of a county council. The trailer with all the camping equipment and a couple of personalised kayaks bumps and trundles behind. Then people are spilling onto the grass, shouting, laughing, shaking hands. Mandy, Keith, Adam. Who’s got the bloody trailer key? Who’s got the duty list? Sugar! A tall chinless man in early middle age is trying to make a call from his mobile. At once Michela is excited, but anxious. The English are never quite the English she would like them to be, the English as she thinks of them when they are not there. One of the men is decidedly paunchy. It’s their language she loves. Mandy too turns out to be robust and squat. They are shaking hands. Miserable crick in the neck! the older woman complains. She wears a shabby smock and clutches a digital camera. The boy who runs into her is in his gormless early teens. Clot! Mandy tells him abruptly. Her accent is unmistakably South London. You’re on the cooking tent, Adam. Water canisters, please! Out of the e-mail and into the wetsuit, laughs the fatter, older man. I’m Keith. He grasps Michela’s hand with both of his. His eyes are glassy and jolly. Mandy takes a photo. One for the website. Weren’t there supposed to be thirteen of you? The girl asks again. Two coming separately, Keith explains. Already on holiday somewhere down south. Lucky sods.
The campsite is a cosmopolitan patchwork. The van moves slowly through a chequer of tents and chalets, the clutter of washing lines, cooking equipment, loud cries in Dutch, in Spanish, of children playing ball. Three grim teenagers are sitting around African drums, transmitting a nervous rhythm to the twilight. Suddenly the forests above are black, the mountains stark. We’ve got the pitches nearest the river, Michela explains. Furthest from the loos, a spindly girl moans.
Speech! Keith announces as soon as the van has stopped. Men and women, kids and kayakers, lend me your lobes! So here we are in Wopland at last. Okay, it’s been a long journey, I know, we’ve had a couple of sense-of-humour breakdowns, it’s only natch, but what we need now is maximum co-op-er-ay-shun! It’s nearly dark. We’re going to have to move fast. From this moment on nobody thinks of themselves until the kitchen tent is up, the van unpacked, the water canisters filled and supper under way. Is that clear? We before me, okay? Thine before mine. Then you can put up your own tents and get yourselves sorted. Remember: this is not, repeat not a holiday; it’s a community experience, right! As soon as we’re all done and we’ve eaten we’ll have the evening meeting and plan out tomorrow’s activities. Oh, and don’t forget to prepare your nominations for Wally of the Day!
As he finished speaking — and an Indian boy was already on top of the van furiously undoing tie-ropes — Michela saw Clive emerge from their chalet. His face more than ever expressed a contained, manly perplexity, a faint smile at the corner of the bearded mouth. Long time no see, he said, shaking hands with his old teacher. Wonderful place you found for us, Keith enthused. As the last light shrank behind the peaks, the valley was suddenly chill. How’s the river? High, Clive said. The glaciers are melting. Mallet please! someone was shouting. Mall-et!
Sorry to be so silent, Vince told his daughter. Once again the autostrada had come to a standstill. These are his first words of the drive. The air-conditioning hummed. The girl was changing CDs. Head down, lips pursed she looked at him sidelong, half smiled. What’s there to say? she asked. He felt ashamed. You’ve put up with Florence, he said. Now you get your fun, see some friends. Louise laughed: I liked Florence!
Then the car was shaken with an urgent rhythm. May I? She turned it up even louder. He nodded. He hated the music. It was shameful that he had nothing to say to her. Nothing has been said about Gloria. His daughter was staring intently, tapping on her knees. The landscape trembled with heat. For at least a mile ahead the cars glittered stationary, as if a great river sweeping down from the Apennines had solidified in the summer haze. The planet is burning up, he thought. An asset long since amortised. He felt quite untouched, shivery.
Swaying her head, his daughter smiled, still with a faint hint of compassion. She is thinking of her mother, he decided. How can a holiday like this do anything but make us think of her? Yet it isn’t really Gloria I am thinking of. He knew that. It was to do with Gloria, but it wasn’t her. I don’t see Gloria. He was suddenly anxious. I don’t hear Gloria’s voice when I remember the things she said. You think of nothing at all, he told himself. But so intensely. Life had not prepared him for this.
The pulse of the music became an obsessive repetition, a hectic running on the spot. The car throbbed. The song went on long beyond the point where you’d heard enough. The traffic stewed. Abruptly Louise turned the volume down: There is one thing though: if we’re camping, how am I supposed to recharge my phone? Vince was gripping the steering wheel, willing the cars to move. Dad? Sorry, what was that? How am I supposed to recharge my phone? In what sense? We’re camping, there won’t be plugs.
He looked at her. No idea, he said. He managed a smile. Do without it for a week. Live free. Dad! She shook her head and turned up the volume again. Only now did he notice she was cradling her mobile in one hand, as if expecting some vital call. She has been fondling her mobile all week, he thought. I haven’t even made fun of her. All at once the fierce drumming of the car stereo was challenged by the sound of a distant siren speeding along the emergency lane. Somebody has died, he decided. Someone won’t be going home.
Michela felt keenly how different tonight’s meeting was. Still, she had no presentiment of what was about to happen. Last week she and Clive had slept in the squalor of a centro sociale in Milan; more than two hundred people were spread across the floor of an abandoned warehouse. Many were smoking dope. There were angry speeches and chants, which she translated more or less for Clive. Sometimes someone stood up and spoke in English, or French, or German. They were speeches punctuated with slogans that everybody could repeat, whatever their language. Michela wasn’t sure if she was enjoying it, but felt keenly that they were right to be here. They shared a cause. Everything precious was under threat. Some final barrier was about to come down, some crucial dam would burst releasing the final great wave of destruction. They must be strong to resist. They must protest. She joined in the chants. There were people of all colours and nations, mainly young, all scandalised. Our world is a scandal, somebody stood to say. Quite probably it will end in our lifetime.