Geoff Hurst did make the England World Cup squad, but Col said he’d remain on the bench unless something bad happened to Greavesy.
Something bad happened to Greavesy. A leg injury put him out of the quarter finals.
Why’d you doubt? said Cress.
I feel ill, said Col.
Go to bed then, said Cress.
Till when?
Till the final, and Cress hung up.
30 July 1966 was the final, and the day history was made.
Outside Michele’s, the sun blazed down on the Campari canopy now faded to an attractive shade of pink. A crowd had gathered in front of a small black and white screen that had been precariously rigged outside. The atmosphere was electric. Literally. One spilt drink away from disaster.
It was from this vantage point that Cress, Massimo and Ulysses calmly saw England win the World Cup and, more importantly, Geoff Hurst get his hat-trick. They celebrated quietly and modestly on the terrace that night. A slightly better class of wine was had.
There’s only one Geoff Hurst! sang an ageing and topless overweight man in a pub somewhere in east London. Only one Geoff Hurst! There’s only one!
Soho Sid paid out with grace. He’d already made a mint so what did he care? They found out later that he’d been so intrigued by the bet, he’d placed the same one with Tubby Folgate, of all people, so Sid was quids in and Tubby back to his smarting ways.
Took Col an hour to get a telephone connection to Italy that night.
How much we win? said Ulysses.
A bloody fortune, said Col, unwrapping a mint.
The gang had pooled their bet money and three days later Pete shared out the winnings accordingly and everyone did very nicely for themselves, thank you very much. Col looked after Peg’s share on account of Ted. Peg had her ticket out of there, finally, but she just needed to know where to go.
Alys came back to Florence that summer. The summer she turned twenty-one.
She may not have had Peg’s looks, but she had something more. She read esoteric works and communed with nature the way Cress had been doing for years. She had taken acid once but never again. She had seen Bob Dylan play at the Albert Hall and thought he was something else. She’d had many lovers, including men, although her preference would always be women, because kissing women undid her soul. Her art school career had been unsuccessful, but it had given her time to enquire and try. She came back from painting and settled on drawing and technically she was brilliant, she just didn’t know what she wanted to say.
She walked through the concourse of Santa Maria Novella station with a porter following behind with her luggage. She wore her fringe high and her hair tied back, and denim flares and a white cheesecloth shirt and she had the requisite beads around her neck and a love bite on her shoulder from the woman she’d shared the sleeper with. A guitar in her left hand and the false-bottomed suitcase stashed with cash in her right. She saw Ulysses up ahead and her heart surged. Uly! she shouted. He turned. How she’d missed him!
Mud Angels
1966–68
Autumn rolled round again and brought shorter days and early nights and six weeks of continuous rain due to a cyclone over the Mediterranean. Northern Italy was awash.
Beginning of November, and Ulysses looked out from his workshop at the deluge. He could feel the damp rising up from the ground. It was nearly dusk, and the square was bleak and torn of life. The following day was a holiday, when the city celebrated the country’s victory over Austria in the First World War. People had already left for the weekend and Alys had driven Cress to Rome on account of the old fella’s keen interest in the Romantic poets. There were no guests in the pensione, so Ulysses was alone for the first time in years – a queasy proposition. He’d arranged to meet Massimo later that evening, a British industry gathering, something to do with the swinging Sixties and London. The rain was making the prospect of a night out unappealing.
The 50cm-diameter globe in front of him was his best yet. It was sold already to a family whose lineage went back a few centuries, not an uncommon occurrence in a city such as this. He was adding minor details, that was all now, brush in one hand, rag in the other. Paint dab paint dab, careful not to overwork it. The stand was being made by a carpenter nearby, a free-standing base made of oak with a brass meridian. It would break his heart to let it go.
He stubbed out his cigarette and decided to call it a day. He opened the door and emptied the hot coals from the scaldini into the gutter, then put on his hat and mac and turned off the lights. The sound was of rain only.
Coming out onto Via Maggio the smells and lustre of the alimentari drew him in. He loaded himself up with cheese and meat and pasta and two special bottles of wine and by the time he got to the square, he was soaked.