Dear Olivia

by Mary Contini

  He took her face in his hands and gently traced her features with his fingers. She held her breath, transfixed. He traced her forehead where her dark brown hair was pulled back from her face. He traced each eyebrow, and gently smoothed her frown. He lightly drew his finger round each gentle, almond-shaped eye. He cupped his hand over her cheek, running his fingers tenderly under her chin. He traced the strong line of her nose with his forefinger. Then with the finger suspended inches from her lips so that he could just feel her warm breath, he looked into her eyes and whispered quietly, ‘Marietta, I dedicate my life to you, my love. I will be your friend and your protector; I will be your father and your mother. I will be your brother and your lover. I will be your self.’

  Then, without another word, he stood up, playfully squeezed her cheek with his thumb and finger, just like her older brother did, and turned and walked away.

  The next time she saw him it was three years later when he came back to marry her.

  5

  Fontitune

  1913

  It did snow that evening, as Don Dioniso, Tadon Michele and Marietta had all predicted. By the time the Crolla entourage climbed back up to Fontitune the track was already thick with snow, slowing them, so much so that it was well after dark before they got home. The cold had settled down to a new, fierce intensity. In the dark valley between the mountains the silence was wonderful. They knew that once the snow came it stayed. They were all subdued, contemplating the weeks ahead.

  Life settled into the daily grind of winter in the mountains, all the excitement of the festa now a distant memory. The cold was unforgiving, settling into the bones, gnawing at the spirit. But there was no time to complain; there was plenty of work to do preparing for the spring when the sheep would come back from the coast.

  Like all other sheep-raising communities in the Abruzzo, the families in Fontitune followed the age-old practice of transumanza. In the autumn they moved their flocks of sheep down from the mountain pastures to the plains of the coast as far south as Apulia. They would walk, often with their womenfolk and children, along the age-old tratturi, tracks that had been followed by shepherds and their flocks since Roman times. In spring, as the weather warmed, they drove their flocks back up to the cool pastures in the mountains.

  Tadon Michele’s nephews and their families had moved with the sheep this winter, leaving Alfonso, Emidio and Pietro here in the Fontitune. This was the problem facing them. Larger extended families meant there was not enough work for all; an insidious unemployment was driving them out. They were a hard-working, self-sufficient people. They had survived on their wits and ingenuity for centuries. This was a new problem they were facing and it required a drastic new solution.

  The men spent their days repairing tools, building walls, repairing roofs and mending the reed baskets they would need, ready to make the cheese. The women completed their daily chores: clothes to wash, by hand in cold water in the trough by the well, clothes to mend, garments to make. The children had their own chores: picking wild herbs and nuts, sweeping the area outside the house, chopping wood. All the women and children were illiterate. Some of the men had been taught to read and write in the army but they had no books to read, no paper to write on.

  The daily preparation of food was the most pleasurable task. The diet was made up of warm heavy food, food to fill them up: tordiglione, golden polenta, flavoured with spicy bitter greens, or pasta, made by hand from wholemeal flour. From the start of the day, big pots hung over the fire, steaming with thick, nutritious soup cooked with vegetables and flavoured with slices of salsiccie. Slabs of lardo were pounded with dried peperoncino, parsley and garlic and slowly melted into the broth as it simmered. The warmth and smells filled the stark room, transforming it into a haven.

  Bread was baked once a week in the communal oven. Old dried bread was used in all manner of ways to subsidise the meagre food: steamed with winter greens and garlic or grilled by the fire and rubbed with garlic and thick cloudy olive oil. Sometimes it was simply splashed with water, drizzled with oil and dried herbs and left to go soft and soggy, juicy and comforting to eat. In this cold the peasants had hearty appetites and the pork fat and olive oil helped provide welcome calories.

  The animals had to be cared for. Housed in the bottom room, they also were dulled by the cold. Each day their mess was swept out, piled behind the house, ready to be spread into the ground as soon as the snow melted. Pietro’s pig was given pride of place and extra polenta was cooked for it. The goats were cared for by the women. As soon as the spring came their welcome supply of fresh goat’s milk would return.

  Time passed slowly; reserves of food became low. The cold was relentless. When the sun shone it was glorious but once it dipped behind the mountains the women sat huddled at the fire and crocheted by the light of an oil lamp, praying and longing for respite from the discomfort.

  It was a dull and overcast day, not a shaft of light brightening the sky. It was Candlemas day, the second of February, forty days after the birth of Christ, the day of purification. Maria was now quite heavy in her pregnancy and was anxious about the impending labour. She had helped her cousins when their time came, and was apprehensive of the ordeal ahead.

  The calendar was intrinsically bound up with their pattern of life. This day was the dawn of the year: the day half-way between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, the end of the winter and the beginning of spring. The men knew the jobs they needed to do. The dull day bore a good omen that winter would soon pass. Tadon Michele, Alfonso and Pietro began to spread the composted manure over their meagre fields. As they worked with the land, they anticipated the change and their spirits rose.

  At the end of the day, after their work was done, the men settled down in the hut half-way up the hill, in the forestelle. They wouldn’t go back to the village for a week or two, until everything was prepared for the returning sheep. They built a fire and shared some hard, dark bread, chewed on some slices of spicy salsiccie and broke off chunks of strong pecorino cheese. They warmed themselves with a goat-skin of wine and wrapped up in their dark, heavy over-cloaks worn on top of their sheepskin, mastruce. Their wide black hats were pulled down over their foreheads.

  Twilight was magical: as they looked across the valley they saw the lights flickering in houses dotted all around. Families lit their holy candles, kept from Christmas, to celebrate the coming of spring. In every home the women prayed to the Madonna and St Bridget, for their daughters and themselves.

  Pietro used a long tube to blow the fire from below to keep the flames from dying down. He too lit a candle at the Madonna, a weather-beaten statue which had been in the alcove outside the hut for countless years. The men started to say their prayers, a rhythm of gentle chanting, natural between them. When they had finished they fell silent, filled with their thoughts.

  ‘Ragazzi, figlie mie, tutto sta cambiando, everything is changing.’ Tadon Michele had tears in his eyes. He knew they would never spend time like this again. For him it was all over. He spoke with an air of resignation, soft words to give confidence to his sons.

  ‘C’è niente da fare. There’s nothing we can do. The world that I have known is disappearing before my very eyes. My father and his father before him travelled the same path but you boys can no longer follow.’ He shook his head in resignation. ‘It’s all changed. Alfonso, my son, your path will be the most difficult, the most dangerous. Have you made up your mind?’

  ‘Yes, Papà.’

  Tadon Michele looked out over the valley.

  ‘Look at all these lights. Look at all these families that pray to God and follow the rituals of centuries. These are the traditions that bind us together.’ He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Alfonso, when you go, don’t forget your God. Don’t forget your traditions. Don’t forget us. Remember what Don Dioniso said? He had a point. If you put money and riches beyond your family you’ll lose everything. That is so true. Ricordi, Alfonso?’

  ‘I know, Papà.
You know we have no choice. We cannot survive here. My child will be born soon, se Dio vuole. What future is there for him? There’s a chance for us in Scotland. It’s not like London and New York, not like Manchester, full of Italians that have already set up business, all competing with one another. In Scotland there are still so many small towns, so many opportunities. We need to go now, before it’s too late. Before others go. We’ll lose our chance if we don’t go now.’

  Pietro, the quiet one, was listening to everything.

  ‘Alfonso, if you agree, I have decided to stay here. I’ll look after the sheep and the family; you are free to go. Emidio can go with you. We’ll manage more easily with fewer mouths to feed. If you can, send some money.’

  The men fell silent, contemplating the changes ahead.

  ‘When will you go, Alfonso?’

  ‘As soon as the baby is born. I’ll wait until Maria is well again, please God, then Emidio and I will go. We’ll get on well, Papà, I’ll look out for him.’

  ‘Alfonso, never forget you are a shepherd. You are a shepherd of shepherds, a man who thinks, a man who cares for his family and his flock. Don’t change. Be a shepherd there, Alfonso. Be true to yourself. Be strong for the families that follow you. Be honest. Look out for the weak. Some of the young lads have been in trouble. Some have been fighting over money or gambling. Be careful. Try to set a good example. Work hard, protect your family. Don’t be driven by success. Be driven by loyalty to your family and your country. Be honourable to God and Italia and you won’t go wrong.’

  The two men looked at each other. Both had tears in their eyes.

  The next morning, spring arrived. The clouds had lifted, revealing a glorious blue sky, clear all the way across the valley. The view was magnificent: rolling hills, houses perched precariously on the steepest of slopes, the River Melfa sparkling in the distance. Birds twittered in the trees, chattering excitedly together.

  ‘Buon giorno, Papà. Come stai? How are you this morning?’ Pietro hadn’t slept. He had worried through the night about his father. They were going to have to say goodbye to Alfonso and Emidio and then to Maria and her new baby. They might never see each other again. Now that the decision had been made, Pietro realised the enormity of it all. ‘Come stai?’

  Tadon Michele was courageous. These boys had to find their own way in life, even if it hurt him. That was nature’s way. That was God’s way. He wouldn’t let Alfonso know that his heart was broken. Alfonso was full of hope, full of ideas. He need not understand the agony of his father. His own time would come.

  When Pietro asked him again how he was feeling, Tadon Michele slapped his son on the back.

  ‘Benissimo! Couldn’t be better!’

  The snow gradually melted, first on the rough track and then at the edges of the streams. About two weeks later, their work all completed, the men walked back down to the village. Alfonso noticed the crocus and the blue hyacinths pushing through the snow, creating a tinselling effect of pastel colours.

  The air was delicious and as the sun rose it warmed their backs. They removed their cloaks and jackets and strode towards the village with their sleeves rolled up, their hats in their hands. When the children heard Alfonso’s familiar call they came running to greet them, jumping around and screeching with delight. The goat had given birth. The first kid of spring had been born through the night. The winter was definitely over!

  As if motivated by the goat, Maria went into labour. Pietro set off to I Ciacca to fetch her mother, Arcangela. Meanwhile Filomena took control. The poor girl was kept moving around, up and down, up and down, until she felt faint with exhaustion. When the pain became too intense she was given small sips of wine and infusions of wild herbs to relax her. Arcangela arrived just in time to support her daughter as she squatted in preparation for the birth.

  Alfonso was chased from the house out of the way. He needed a job to do. He could kill the chicken.

  ‘Vai! Amazza il pollo!’

  The chicken was similarly despatched, its protesting and screeching doing nothing to distract from the cacophony coming from the bedroom. Its throat was wrung, it was bled and plucked and, once washed, Filomena put it in a pot, covered it with cold water and put it on the fire to simmer. She hovered nervously over the hearth, skimming the broth frantically every time she heard Maria cry out.

  Maria had a boy.

  She was overwhelmed by the disproportionate surge of love she felt for this squalling creature they laid on her breast. She had never experienced emotion as overpowering, such unconditional love as this, not even when she was with Alfonso.

  The child was born, according to Arcangela, with an open hand outstretched immediately to his nonna. This was a sure sign that Alfonso’s first-born would be generous of nature. Born on a Sunday, he would be called Domenico. Satisfied, the women cleaned the baby, then the mother, then fed her some chicken broth.

  News travelled fast. A stream of visitors and well-wishers made their way up to Fontitune. Don Dioniso himself made the journey up the hill, the ass that was carrying him sweating and snorting under the strain. Immediately the priest descended from the animal, the baby was baptised. They all heaved a sigh of relief. They knew that a baby that died without being baptised would be abandoned in limbo for eternity, a fate worse than death itself.

  Maria’s spirits lifted with the arrival of her baby. Spring on La Meta was lovely. Alfonso was sweet and attentive, proud of his healthy wife and their beautiful son. While he was working in the fields she walked for hours on the hills, Domenico strapped to her breast with a linen strip of cloth. She looked for wild herbs and roots. She knew each by instinct, its season and its properties. Young leaves of cicoria to eat in salads, the same plant that in winter she would stew with olive oil, chilli and garlic. Dentedilione and finocchio, chenopodio and crescione d’aqua were all collected for salads. She knew where to find la rugetta and the thin, succulent leaves of barba di prete. In the winter she had collected the root of this to use when they roasted the porchetta.

  As she walked on the meadow she crushed oregano and thyme underfoot and their aroma pervaded the air. Asparago selvatico was good, cooked with eggs, and later on, in May, when the elderflower showed its abundant bunches of star-shaped flowers, she would fry the highly perfumed flower in a light batter of egg and flour as a special treat for her husband.

  Sometimes she walked to Prato di Mezzo, the field halfway up the mountain, to see Alfonso, courted by pink and apricot almond blossom and the citrus scent of orange. Clumps of violet crocuses prompted her to sit dreamily and pick the stems, forgetting the time as her baby slept beside her. She saved the stems in a folded leaf, ready to dry and store, making precious saffron for flavouring special dishes.

  Alfonso found her like this one morning, propped against the bark of an almond tree, suckling her baby, dozing in the warm April sun. He knelt and kissed her. How blessed they were to have this peace and joy between them. They gazed at the child sleeping at her breast, enraptured by his beauty and presence. They wept gently, praying that one day his life would also be blessed with a loving wife and son of his own.

  They sat quietly, treasuring the mountains, the river sparkling in the sunlight and the clear view away down the valley. Birds flitted among the trees. They soaked up the warmth of the sun. Alfonso kissed her gently on the lips.

  ‘Cara, ti voglio tanto bene. I love you.’

  ‘Ti amo, Alfonso. Per sempre,’ she breathed, contented.

  ‘Maria, as soon as the sheep arrive, I’ll go.’

  ‘I am prepared, Alfonso. Now that the baby is here I know it’s for the best.’ She lied to him. Deep down she didn’t believe that, but she knew he had to go.

  ‘Don’t worry about anything. I’ll send you money as soon as I can. You can come by train; it’ll be much easier for you. I’ve already spoken to Giuseppina. She will come with you. She’s going to join her husband in Manchester. She’ll help you with the baby.’

  ‘I’ll miss La Meta so m
uch. I can’t believe we are going to leave all this beauty.’ As she spoke she pushed her fingers into the earth as if she could put roots down just like a plant.

  ‘Coraggio, carissima. Scotland is beautiful too. There are hills and mountains as well. You’ll be surprised how beautiful they are. Lakes and rivers, wild flowers and blossom, just like here. You’ll be enchanted, my darling, and you will learn to love it as well.’

  Maria didn’t answer. Her heart felt as if it had stopped beating and time had frozen. She felt that, at that moment, her life had stopped and from now on she would have to learn to live again. She felt in a way as though part of her had died.

  6

  Italy

  May 1913

  In Fontitune news came that the sheep were on the way. They were at Ponte Melfa. They would arrive any day. It had taken over a fortnight to travel from Castel del Monte, south of Bari. It was a slow journey. Twice a day the lactating sheep had to be milked, and then the milk had to be made into cheese. The shepherds and their wives shared the work but it all took time.

  Collective flocks of sheep belonging to different families and landowners were kept together, thousands of sheep moving as one flock. Few shepherds owned any sheep. Most of the flock belonged to wealthy landowners, massari di pecori, who had amassed great wealth over centuries. It was they who had kept the peasants impoverished.

  As the flocks made their way along the dirt tracks, the shepherds paid taxes at tolls positioned on the ancient Roman tracts, tratturi. For villagers en route there was great excitement and anticipation. Not only was there the first fine fresh cheese of the season to sample, there was news to be exchanged and gossip to be savoured. The only method of communication was by word of mouth. These itinerant people traded tittle-tattle as well as cheese.