Lifetime Lumbering

Lifetime Lumbering

Up until this visit to Italy Bridget, had avoided museums like the plague. She’d been one of those clumsy kids, all arms and legs in the wrong place, and things seemed to throw themselves on the floor when they saw her coming. She always imagined that the vases considered suicide a much preferable option than being accidentally elbowed by an eight-year-old.

Now, twenty years later, she was on her honeymoon with Richard and about to enter the doors of a gallery in Venice. So, it was up to her husband to keep her close and the museum guards to keep the artifacts safe from her. Over the last two weeks, they’d travelled Italy and ate their way through all the major cities. She’d managed so far to avoid delicate crockery and had only lightly injured that old woman in the church last Sunday. This very morning, however, Rick had pleaded with her to join him at the famous Museo della Musica. He was a violinist in the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra and was fascinated by all manners of instrument history.

It was located in a small church in St. Mark’s Square, surrounded by other ancient buildings and very near the basilica. She was entranced when they entered the neighbourhood. There were plenty of small restaurants and a trio played near a fountain. She felt and explained to Rick that with the warmth outside and perhaps a glass of chianti in her hand she’d be better off letting him explore on his own. He disagreed and taking her hand in his, led her to the entrance.

She hadn’t always been wary of museums, though she’d always been clumsy. It was a decision she’d made on her own at twelve, then strongly enforced at sixteen. She shamefully recalled the first incident as Rick read the welcome sheet just inside the door. Her grade 7 class had been visited by some curators of an Egyptian display. Bridget had been carefully handling an artifact when a piece broke off in her hand. She was mortified, this piece had been safely handled for thousands of years and as soon as it came within touching distance of her pre-teen hands, disaster! She’d tried to quietly alert her teacher and keep things between them. Mrs. Mahoney wasn’t having any of that secrecy thing, she marched to the front of the classroom, and with her strident teacher’s voice announced how “they must all be very careful and not ruin things like Bridget Behan had.”

While she and Rick walked side by side past a display of sheet music of Antonio Salieri’s compositions she ruminated on the last experience she’d had with antiquities. Her parents had taken her and her siblings to Scotland. They had been walking through Edinburgh Castle when she realized they’d all gone on without her. She had been standing in front of the armoury display when a thick accent intruded on her thoughts.

“I’ll bet you a pound you can’t get that on.” She turned to see a cheeky boy’s face, eyes alight with mischief, finger pointed at the suit of armour to the left of them. She shook her head in dismissal, as if she’d listen to a child, never mind take him up on his wager. She returned to her perusal of the weapons and imagined herself wielding the mace at Shirley West at school. Shirley had stolen David away from her on Valentine’s Day, it still stung so the odd fantasy of her demise kept her amused.

“Are you afeared? You look like a strong lass to me, give it a go while no one’s watching. I’ll keep look-out for ye.” Bridget eyed the blonde again, then turned to look at the suit again.

“Just the top part? I won’t get the helmet on.”

“Nay, just the breastplate bit, are ye up for it then, think of the stories you can tell when you get back to America.” He stood and looked her up and down as if sizing her up for the fit. He tipped his head to the side when she retorted she was a Canadian, then shrugged his narrow shoulders as if didn’t matter either way to him.

“Okay, go to the door and make sure there’s no one around then help me” He moved to do her bidding. After she had the two halves tied at her side she could feel the weight land on her shoulders. She turned slowly and watched him circle her in the other direction, exclaiming quietly in his bur. While she wondered what on earth she was thinking of agreeing to a stranger’s request she heard her name being called from a distance.

“That’s my dad, help me get this off.” She tried to untie the leather laces at the side but her hands were shaking.

“Come on, help me, what’s your name anyway, Angus or something?”

He stood and looked at her, then turned and ran out of the room. She almost cried with frustration but forced herself to calm down and untangle the ties. Once her fingers felt the straps loosen she inhaled a deep breath. Talking quietly to herself she eased the front plate apart from the back plate. In horror, she grasped that the inside of the plate metal was covered with small metal hooks and many of them had caught into the material of her sweater. She was effectively caught by her foolishness, the weight of the swinging back piece had her off balance as well. She looked about the room for a chair to sit on and ease the burden. After she lowered herself onto a large window seat she looked down at the tiny spikes and the sweater she’d donned just hours ago in their Airbnb. She accepted that she was well and truly hooked, the tears began to fall just as her dad’s voice spoke her name from the doorway. She looked up at his confused expression, and more tears fell with a familiar blend of shame and relief.

He approached her and took stock of the situation, gently advising her on how to help while asserting how much he loved her. They had the breastplate freed in minutes and while he hung it back on the frame she tended to the damage done to her sweater. When he turned back to her and extended his hand she took it and smiled up into the face of her forever hero with a quiet, ‘thanks daddy’.

Her dad had been gone for five years by the time of her wedding and she missed his quiet support every time she had a concern. Still holding on to Rick’s hand she realized that the reason she fell in love with him was his unwavering belief in her. Neither man expressed frustration when she knocked things over, burnt the toast because she was reading, or went to the pub in a sweater that was inside out because she’d lost her glasses, again.

They were almost finished looking at the displays, but Rick lingered over the Stradivarius collection. She unwound her fingers from his so he could place both hands on the glass-covered case and lower his gaze. She turned in place to find something closer to her interest and spotted a grouping of paintings, moving towards it she couldn’t have known that her purse would catch on a tuning peg of a nearby viola. It was being showcased on a pedestal across from the violins. The instrument went crashing to the floor, the neck coming away with a shriek from the upper bout.

Rick turned and regarded her, taking in the scene, the broken instrument on the stone floor of the church where they stood and reached out a hand to tip her face up to meet his.

“Bridge, hey look at me. It’s going to be fine. It wasn’t your fault.” He glanced up at the woman approaching, she’d greeted them as they entered and had engaged him about his interest in music. She stopped suddenly when she noted the damage, then knelt and reverently picked up the broken viola.

“Many, many euros to have this restored signor. It’s our oldest piece.” Bridget took a shuddering breath. She had money put aside for her retirement, she’d give it all up now if they’d take it. She turned to the woman, Marie was her name she remembered and started to speak, but before she could get a word out, Marie pointed at her and spoke.

“Maledetta” Marie shot at her. “I could see it in you before you entered this place. I knew that something would break before you left here, you are a woman full of bad luck, a cursed female. I would suggest sir that you flee before you too meet with a broken neck.” She shook the Viola at them both in demonstration.

Bridget wanted to cry, instead she turned and fled out the closest door. She didn’t know then if Rick made any financial arrangements, or what was said after she left. She walked until she found a table in the shade, then ordered a glass of wine as she’d wanted to do before the memories and real-time calamities paid a visit. She tried to relax and soak up the environment, closing her eyes when the trio started a Vivaldi melody, opening them when her husband spoke.

“I’m sorry Bridget, you tried to tell me but I figured you were exaggerating. No more museums, I promise” He raised one long finger to order a glass and bottle, then toasted their future, mishaps and all.