“Can you really see an island?” asked another.
“There aren’t ships that big, are there?”
“Maestra Giorgia, come and see what Alex has done.”
The teacher walked over to the group, happy to see that the disagreement had been forgotten and the children were friends again.
“Alex, would you like to tell us about your picture?”
Although not one to enjoy being in the limelight, he was always ready to talk about his second home, as he called England.
“This is Canford Cliffs where we go when Mummy finishes working – it’s near Nanna’s house. Sometimes we have lunch on the beach, too. I like making sandcastles and boats. And this island is the Isle of Wight – we can just see a bit of it. Very often we see big ferries going to Poole Quay.”
“What’s Poole Quay?” Greta asked.
“It’s where lots of ships and boats go,” Alex answered importantly.
“Poole is where Mummy was born, isn’t Alex?” Elisa had joined the group, too and didn’t want to be left out.
“That’s right, Ellie.”
“Do you eat pasta on the beach?” Enrico enjoyed his food and couldn’t imagine a day out without a substantial meal.
Elisa laughed at the idea of sunbathers tucking into a plate of pasta at midday.
“No, of course we don’t. We have ham rolls or sandwiches and crisps, don’t we, Alex?” She looked at her brother for confirmation.
“You must get hungry,” Enrico shook his head meaningfully.
“Nanna always gives us a big breakfast, so we don’t want a big lunch,” Alex explained.
“What do you have when you get up, biscuits and milk or a brioche?” Serena didn’t often join in group discussions, preferring to watch and listen instead, but this time curiosity got the better of her.
“We have Cornflakes or Frosties with milk, a cup of tea, and a slice of toast. And sometimes, if I’m hungry, I have a second lot.” Alex smiled at the shocked expressions of his friends.
“What, all that when you get up?”
It was a difficult concept for most of the children because going to bed late meant they slept on in the morning, giving them little or no time for breakfast.
The second time he got off the school bus looking extremely serious was when he was given the role of Peter Pan during Carnival time.
“I don’t mind being Peter Pan, it’s just that I don’t want to wear a pair of green tights. I’m a boy not a girl!” Tears filled his eyes as he told me that the teachers just didn’t understand. No way could he wear tights like Elisa. Nor had he bargained for his mother to take his teachers’ side. In the end, we managed to find a pair of extremely thick, dark green tights which Elisa said she would never have worn because ‘they were for boys’ (bless her) and the problem was resolved – or so I thought. Years later, Alex confessed that he’d never really forgiven me for making him wear tights. I explained that I hadn’t been a parent for long and I was still working on it. My son was not amused.
On the day of the performance, parents and relatives turned up to watch the Carnival Show and we felt exceptionally proud of our very own Peter Pan. Come to think of it, his ready smile wasn’t quite so genuine that day. Peter Pan will certainly live on in his memory!
I couldn’t complain about their pre-school. Giorgia and Marina made sure they learnt the basic skills, teaching them in a way which made learning fun. They incorporated a lot of rhymes and songs into their curriculum and at the end of every term they put on a show which was very well performed. Sometimes, the children went for walks looking for chestnuts which the cook roasted for them. Several mothers asked me what I thought of asilo and the teachers and I told them quite truthfully that I couldn’t have wished for nicer and more competent maestre and the location of the school was perfect for the children. My only criticism, if you could call it that, was the fact that these three to six year olds were away all day.
“E…com’è l’asilo in Inghilterra?” they asked me.
They wanted to know about such schools in England and I surprised them with my answer.
“Ma, dai, vanno all’asilo per solo due ore e mezzo?” They couldn’t believe that children only went to play groups for two and a half hours a week. I explained that parents had the choice of sending their children all day to a private nursery if they wanted to, but, it made no impact. It was even worse when I broached the subject of first school.
“E iniziano la scuola elementare a cinque anni?” To hear that they started full-time education at five as opposed to the age of six in Italy was too much. How did the children manage to sit still at that young age? No, it just didn’t seem right.
I diplomatically changed the subject.
6
Excitement in the Valley
Opening the shutters, I heard the sound of a helicopter nearby. So much for peace and quiet and a lie-in on a Saturday morning, I thought. When it’s not the children waking up early, it’s aircraft making a noise. Strangely enough, the throbbing continued to echo in the air. I went out into the back garden and looked up at the sky trying to follow the constant whirring of helicopter blades. The noise seemed to be coming from Cercino, the village directly above us.
“I wonder what’s going on?” I said to Michele, who like me was craning his neck trying to get a glimpse of the helicopter.
“Per’aps they are taking up ‘eavy equipment because someone is building a chalet up the mountain,” Michele suggested.
“I don’t think so because it sounds as if the helicopter is just hovering instead of going backwards and forwards. Almost as if it’s looking for something,” I added, certain that there had to be a more exciting reason for this flurry of activity.
“I can’t say life’s dull in this village,” I laughed, straining to see what the aircraft was doing. Michele and I continued watching the sky, the incessant droning increasing and decreasing in volume until raised voices from our two young children indoors brought me back to the present and I didn’t have any more time for daydreaming. The incessant whirring continued all morning and Alex popped outside every so often hoping to catch sight of the helicopter with Elisa toddling behind him.
“You’ll never guess what ‘appened,” Michele could hardly contain his excitement.
I stopped feeding our 15 month old daughter and looked up, waiting for him to enlighten me.
“I ‘eard it at the bar – everyone’s talking about it. You remember the kidnapping they’ve been talking about on the news? She was kidnapped in May from ‘er house on Lake Como …”
“Gaby Kiss Maerth?”
“Yes, ‘er. The ‘elicopter we ‘eard this morning was looking for ‘er and they found ‘er.”
“What? She was kidnapped and kept here at Cercino?” I couldn’t believe it.
“No. She was kept in a place above Traona,” he explained. “That’s why we couldn’t see the ‘elicopter.”
For once, I was speechless. My weekly letter to Mum would be infinitely more interesting than usual. So far 1982 could not be described as boring: to date my daughter had celebrated her first birthday in Poole and had taken her first steps on British soil and this was a fortnight after the Italian football team won the World Cup in July; my son had started pre-school in September, which was the same month I’d joined the Foreigners’ Club; and now a kidnapping, which we’d been following closely on the news, had taken place nearby and it was still only 1st October.
Listening to the news that evening, we learnt that Gaby Kiss Maerth had been kept a prisoner for 148 days in a ‘cellar’ near Traona. A ransom had been paid, apparently, but the exact amount had not been stated. The 18 year old girl had been released earlier and was in reasonably good health. Michele and I looked at each other.
“The Valtellina is certainly on the map now,” I sa
id.
For the following days, newspapers and the media talked of nothing else. The kidnappers happened to be local people and the villagers took great delight in adding extra bits of personal information to whoever was listening. My daily shopping trips naturally took longer than usual and Michele spent more time at the bar discussing various aspects of the abduction. As the gossip mill churned out facts mingled with fiction, a story evolved about the kidnapped girl falling in love with one of her captors.
“E’ vero, è tutto vero,” the lady who had been embellishing the latest facts to a captive audience, nodded her head for emphasis.
‘I’m sure it’s true,’ I thought to myself, trying not to smile. Italians certainly had a talent for drama. Their facial expressions and body language enhanced the urgency or importance of what they wanted to say at the time. They could make the most insignificant piece of information become a top secret scoop. Even my two children were showing the first signs of theatricals: their eyes became bigger and bigger as they gesticulated to emphasise what they were saying – which could be anything from wanting another biscuit, to not being responsible for breaking a toy – it was in their blood. On occasions, I found it extremely difficult not to laugh, but then who said being a parent is easy?
I did my best to teach Alex and Elisa to be good little people, explaining the difference between right and wrong, and taught them to be polite.
“You must always remember to say please and thank you,” I told them.
“What happens if we forget?” Alex wanted to know.
“Nothing. But it’s more polite if you remember to say those two magical words.”
“We’ll try and remember, won’t we, Ellie?” Alex said.
Italians had a tendency to say: Give me… or I want… which grated on respectful English ears, especially mine.
After having the children, I realised I became less tolerant with some aspects of Italian life when I was tired or missed my family and it became more difficult for me to have Baker Moments, where pangs of nostalgia enveloped me, as the children grew older and sensed my mood. Sometimes I wished I could be walking along the beach at Canford Cliffs in Poole with my children looking for shells and pointing out ships on the horizon.
“Mummy, why aren’t you smiling?” Alex looked into my face with worried dark eyes.
“It’s all right, darling,” I assured him. “I was just thinking about what I’m going to give you for dinner tonight.”
“Oh,” he grinned back, happy with my answer. Everyone knew how much I loved cooking.
Invariably on a Sunday afternoon, while Michele worked at the disco, I went to see Kathy at Morbegno. Alex and Elisa called her ‘Auntie Kathy’ and adopted her as one of the family. On fine afternoons, they played happily in the garden with Prince, her loveable Collie, while Kathy and I drank English tea and had a good old moan about anything and everything. We always felt much better afterwards and ended up laughing.
Very often, when we came back from Kathy’s, we popped into the disco to see Michele. Music played an intrinsic part of our lives and the children loved going to the Rendez Vous. In fact, Elisa danced her first lento (slow dance) at the age of three. One Sunday afternoon, while I was talking to Michele’s cousin, she let go of my hand and darted through a sea of legs until she reached the dance floor. A young boy got down on his knees and asked her if she wanted to dance with him.
“Sì!” she grinned, holding on to him and swaying to the rhythm.
“Well, would you believe it!” Michele and I were quite the proud parents.
Everyone clapped as the blonde toddler with big brown eyes smiled at her audience at the end of the song.
“Ha la musica nel sangue,” Elisa’s partner was suitably impressed by her musical ear – but I had no doubt that Alex and Elisa had music pulsing through their veins. They had grown up with the Rendez Vous and loved the psychedelic lighting and dynamic rhythm around them.
“Do you think all three year olds dance like that?” Michele asked me later.
“Only those whose father has a disco!” I answered.
7
Oh, Fiorentina!
Alarm bells should have rung years ago in Eastbourne when, as my fiancé, Michele chatted incessantly about his beloved football team, Fiorentina. Shopping in W H Smiths one afternoon, he stopped mesmerised in front of the stand of foreign newspapers.
“Nooo!” Sheer elation lit up his face as he picked up La Gazzetta dello Sport. Back in our flat, as he flicked through the pages looking for news about his team, nothing could distract him – least of all me. However, on my arrival in Italy, I found out that Fiorentina were only just in la Serie A, the Premier League. Their weekly performance on the field generally caused great suffering to their fans but fortunately, they seemed to rally during the last matches of the season to avoid relegation to la Serie B, the Second Division.
Whereas football matches are mainly played on Saturdays and televised in the UK, this was not the case here. Games took place on Sundays and they were not shown on TV. Depending on which channel you tuned into, a panel of ex-players, referees and journalists, commentated on all the games being played simultaneously, as opposed to actually watching them live. Occasionally, they showed shots of the public at the stadiums but Michele had to wait for the early evening sports programme to see the highlights of the matches. I found this most bizarre and told him so:
“Where’s the fun in watching a player scoring a one-off Euro goal or a penalty kick being saved by the goalkeeper when the game’s over? You can’t tell me you enjoy just listening to comments on the game. It’s ridiculous.”
“Cosa? Can you move over a bit? I can’t see.” I did as I was told but not before a scantily dressed blonde waltzed on to the set holding a number 2 because a football team had scored a second goal.
“What the…why do you need a half-naked model to give the score? Aren’t the commentators able to do it?” Michele didn’t answer.
*
From the very beginning, I discovered a ritual to a Sunday afternoon. After lunch, Michele started commenting on the impending game: who Fiorentina were playing, where they were playing, who the referee was, and the line-up. Sorely tempted to say that I really couldn’t care less, the look of nervous apprehension on his face stopped me and instead, I tried to make some intelligent remark regarding the possible final score. Whether he actually heard me or not was a different matter.
At 3pm, he’d religiously take his place on the sofa and wait for kick off or rather, wait for the commentator to announce the start of the game. What annoyed me most was the fact that the commentators only followed the team they supported and invariably were quite bigoted in their views regarding their opponents. They raised their voices angrily when their team didn’t offer an hour and a half of nail-biting tension, arguing together making it impossible to understand a word. Still, this was Italian football and I had to accept it.
“What are you going to do now you have to work at the Rendez Vous on a Sunday afternoon?” I asked Michele a few days before the disco opened.
“Cosa?” Evidently, he hadn’t thought about it. “I’ll just ‘ave to ask people I know to tell me the score.”
If I thought that things would change now that Michele’s dream of opening a disco had become reality, I couldn’t have been more wrong. As all dedicated football fans will tell you, an unspoken pact between them is forged in times of dire necessity. Just before the start of the matches, a group of soccer mad followers left the dance floor and their partners and huddled together in a corner, heads bent over a small radio, a look of deep concentration on their faces as they tried desperately to follow the games above the throbbing of the music. If anyone needed Michele, they only had to look for what resembled a rugby scrum.
Whereas most football fans had the chance to applaud their team winning a match, Miche
le spent most of his time trying to justify his players’ lack of initiative in scoring.
“I wish you supported Juventus, Milan, Inter, or Roma. At least you’d have the satisfaction of celebrating more often.”
His reply was: “Fiorentina is Fiorentina.”
*
Seeing Alex perched on his father’s knee at only nine days old, watching “90° Minuto” the Sports programme giving the football results, I felt a pang of dejection: my son was destined to suffer like his father. Alex had been born healthy – but he was also born Viola, the nickname for Fiorentina. In fact, as he grew from a toddler to a little boy, invariably he ended up in tears on a Sunday when his favourite team lost. Once he started pre-school, he heard the other children discussing football and memorised their anthems. Michele was not impressed when Alex sang heartily: “Juve, Juve, Juve!”
“I’m glad you’re behind the wheel,” I teased, as the need to keep the car on the road stopped him from having an apoplectic fit.
“A quale squadra tieni?” Michele asked his son which team he supported. Looking crestfallen, Alex realised that he couldn’t meddle with his father’s sentiments where football was concerned.
“Ma Papà, è la Fiorentina!” he replied.
Peace reigned again. My poor son, brainwashed at four years old!
Very occasionally, a Fiorentina match would be televised and at these times Michele practically banned me from the living room – I had a habit of walking in front of the television just as one of the teams was about to score or I spoke at the wrong moment. I usually got the message, though and adjourned to the bedroom with a good book or I played with Elisa and left Alex and Michele to their Happy Football Hour. The pattern never changed. Before long, Michele started shouting at his players urging them to score. In his opinion, if they scored first it automatically gave them an incentive to win the match. The problem was being able to defend their goal area.
“Pass the ball, you idiot!” he’d growl, followed by a torrent of abuse when the player lost the ball. These outbursts had to be severely modified when Alex was old enough to repeat what was said.
Mamma Mia... That's Life! Page 3