Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  Patrizia decided to ask permission to hold the meeting in the primary school, in the square. Nearly all of the villagers turned out to see what this choir business was all about. After much debate regarding the evening for practices – it couldn’t be held on a Wednesday because there were usually football matches on television, then the time – not before 8.30pm because a lot of people worked until 7pm and we had to take into consideration the fact that they needed to relax a bit after the meal – so, we settled for Tuesdays at 8.30pm in the church. On 15th February, 1991, Michele, Alex, Elisa and I went along, even though I suggested Michele stayed home. He has a great voice singing in the shower but elsewhere, it doesn’t seem to have the same effect.

  “Now, I want to hear all of you sing a few notes in order to sort out the voices,” Patrizia said in Italian and not dialect. A few people started muttering and looking uncomfortable, others looked behind them to see how far away the door was.

  She played the organ and asked a group of young women to sing. After much coughing and giggling, but no actual singing, she chose a different tactic. Catching my eye, she asked how many people played musical instruments and could read music. I put my hand up, so did Alex and Elisa and several young teenagers followed suit. I smiled encouragingly at Patrizia – it was a start. She forced a smile back then began playing a well-known hymn and everyone joined in. An hour and a half later, as we got ready to go home, Patrizia asked me to stay behind.

  “Have I done the right thing?”

  “Of course you have. It’ll just take a bit longer to teach new hymns, that’s all. Don’t worry.” I felt quite optimistic, that is until I found myself between two sopranos, who should have been contraltos and who sang their own thing regardless. I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Michele was a regular member until I winced once too often. At that point, he decided that maybe he should stick to his personal renditions in the shower.

  With dedication and determination, Patrizia formed a choir of thirty men, women and teenagers and if not defined as a first class choir, no-one could fault the enthusiasm in the way the hymns were sung. Invariably, a soloist at some point gave a unique interpretation of the music.

  “Listen, let’s try and finish on the same note, shall we?” Patrizia suggested diplomatically.

  Naturally, I became an ardent soprano and Patrizia’s love of the English language meant that certain pieces in my mother tongue challenged the congregation and choir members alike. It’s to her credit that she managed to transform a handful of people with little or no knowledge of music into a group that could tackle any piece of music with three or more voices. The choir became an important part of village life and we practised religiously for special festivals and even weddings. An air of expectancy filled the church as Patrizia took her place at the organ. What would the choir sing today? Our organist loved to vary her themes and we, her choristers, had to live up to her expectations. We’d be rewarded with a smile and a nod when we managed to give a relatively good performance, but if we missed our cue because we weren’t paying attention or didn’t sing with feeling, her look spoke volumes.

  Her introduction of the Savannah adaptations for set pieces during the service brought an ethnic touch to it and as she swayed to the rhythm as she played the organ, certain choir members (no names mentioned) also found it incredibly difficult to keep still. Whoopy Goldberg’s adaptation of Sister Act would not be amiss.

  16

  Flying High!

  “Avete comprato un cavallo?” Too busy thinking about what I had to buy in the shop, I hadn’t seen the woman in front of me.

  “Oh, ciao. Cosa?”

  “Avete comprato un cavallo?” she repeated her question. Why on earth did she think we’d bought a horse?

  “Perchè?” I was curious to know why.

  “Beh, cos’è quell’affare nel parcheggio?”

  I had to laugh when I realised she was referring to our friends’ camper with the microlight trailer behind it which stood proudly in the car park at the bottom of our drive. When Kathy went back to England, we promised we’d keep in touch and we did. She and Colin had trundled into Piussogno the day before to see us and word had already got round that there had to be a horse inside it. I decided to put the record straight.

  “No,no. Non è un cavallo, è un deltaplano,” I explained, but Rosa still wasn’t any the wiser.

  “Un…che cosa?” She didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, so I resorted to gestures to help explain the rudimentary microlights, which in fact looked more like flying chairs that we saw occasionally buzzing above us on clear days at weekends.

  “Ah, quelle cose.” A smile spread across her face as she finally understood what lay hidden in the trailer. We exchanged a few more pleasantries then I said goodbye and walked into the shop.

  On this particular Saturday in December, 1991 as I did the shopping, Kathy and Colin drove down to Nuova Olonio, a local village where microlights could take to the air and began preparing for their flight. With the children home for the Christmas holidays, we arranged to meet them later.

  “Mum, be as quick as you can. Don’t stop for a chat…” as if I would.

  By the time we joined our friends, the microlight was ready for take-off and several microlight owners stood around, giving it an appreciative eye. Compared to the Italian models, some which resembled tricycles with wings and others high-backed chairs, Colin’s jet-like craft seemed much more superior, and he looked pretty impressive himself dressed in a bright red flying suit with goggles.

  “Don’t you think he looks like the infamous Red Baron?” Kathy asked us, laughing.

  A watery sun in a bright blue sky did little to alleviate the chill in the air but with adrenalin racing through our veins, none of us felt the cold. Alex and Elisa couldn’t wait to climb into the back seat and have a go – and neither could I. Michele, on the other hand, stood to one side, looking disconcertedly at the machine.

  “Vuoi provare anche tu, Papà?” Elisa wanted to know if he was tempted to try.

  “Beh, non lo so. Magari non c’è tempo per far provare tutti.” Maybe there wouldn’t be time for all of us to have a ride but I had the feeling that Michele would forfeit his turn anyway.

  “Who wants to go first, then?” Colin asked, ready for action.

  “Can I, please? Then Elisa can go,” Alex said as he tightened his scarf round his neck, pulled his beret over his ears, then adjusted his crash helmet before climbing into the back seat, his smile growing bigger by the minute.

  Colin checked the control panel, switched on the engine, and as the motor revved quicker and louder, the microlight rolled forward, picking up speed before launching itself into the air. Gloved hands shaded eyes from the light to get a better view as we watched the craft disappear into the distance above the mountains. Twenty minutes later, Alex landed back in the field and reluctantly gave up his place to Elisa.

  “It’s fantastic,” he enthused. “I saw our house and the river Adda and we went as far as Morbegno.”

  “Ready, Ellie?” Colin asked his next passenger.

  “Yes, yes!” she replied happily, waving to us as Colin manoeuvred the microlight into position for take-off once more. Just as the aircraft gathered height, Alex chose that moment to enlighten his father on a few facts he’d gleaned from Colin during his ride.

  “Papà, I asked Colin what would happen if we had engine problems or we hit something and if we’d have time to put life jackets on. He said we’d be quite safe in the air and would continue to glide – just the landing bit could be tricky.”

  Michele’s face was a picture as he scanned the sky for his daughter in a bid to quash any irrational thoughts. Kathy and I couldn’t help laughing.

  “It’s okay. Elisa will be fine,” I assured him – and she was. Her face mirrored the euphoria she felt as she clambered out.


  “It really is fantastic! Everything looks so small: houses, cars, the river. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,” she said, enthusiastically.

  “I’ve got enough fuel left for one more flight. Who wants to come?”

  “Me! I’d love to have a go.” I’m worse than the children, I thought to myself.

  “Right, hop in, then,” Colin told me.

  I had conveniently forgotten that the higher you go, the colder it gets and I didn’t have a scarf or gloves. As the microlight had no protection against the elements, a raw chill suddenly hit me in the face, spreading slowly through my body until I didn’t know whether the trembling was due to the sheer excitement of it all or the low temperature. As we glided over the mountains, the beauty and tranquillity of the scene below us made any momentary discomfort worth it. I felt as if I was genuinely flying and at one with nature. Spotting a few landmarks, I pointed them out to Colin.

  By the time we joined the others, my ears and hands were numb and my teeth chattered uncontrollably but it had been an experience of a life time.

  “That was great. You don’t know what you missed,” I said to Michele.

  “Oh, I think I do. You look very cold.” He shivered, involuntarily.

  “I’ll take you next time, Michele,” Colin promised.

  Michele grinned and nodded. Somehow, I didn’t think he would, though.

  We invited them to stay for Christmas and they insisted on buying the turkey and cooking it. The idea of not having to put my culinary talents into practise more than appealed to me. What I hadn’t bargained for was trying to fit an eight kilo turkey with all the trimmings into the oven.

  “Wow,” said Alex “that’s some turkey.” His eyes shone at the thought of it and his smile grew bigger by the minute. However, a week later, we still had turkey on the menu. We’d eaten it hot with boiled potatoes and vegetables, cold with salad, minced in a pie with chips and lastly, in a soup.

  “Is that the last of the turkey?” Alex asked tentatively, his eyes shining a little less brightly.

  “Yes, that’s the last of it,” Colin answered, almost apologetically.

  “Ah,” Alex breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.

  All too soon, we had to say goodbye to Kathy and Colin. Their parting gift to us was an electric Polenta Maker. Most of the elderly locals still made polenta in what resembled a cauldron over a fire and even though it was becoming more popular to cook it on the gas stove, you still had to stir it continually with a wooden spoon. This present meant that I could do it myself without having to rely on Michele.

  “Thank you!” I said, hugging them both.

  “Every time you eat polenta, you can think of us,” Kathy and Colin said before climbing into their camper.

  I knew that both Alex and Elisa would miss them: they’d taught Alex to play chess and Elisa to ice skate but the children were used to saying goodbye to their English relations and managed to smile as Monty, the camper left for Southend-on-Sea. A few days later, the Christmas holidays came to an end, the children returned to their desks at school and life fell into its usual pattern.

  17

  Pot the Black Ball

  Alex and Elisa finished their three years at middle school and then, after considerable consideration, chose to attend Geometra – the land surveyor senior school at Morbegno. Having been voted parent rep for both of them – principally because I’d been the only parent there on the day of voting (both times) – I had first-hand knowledge of what the teachers expected from their classes. Being used to the happy-family atmosphere of primary school, then the slightly more formal middle school, I found the distant rapport with most of the teachers at senior school quite daunting.

  “Shall we have merenda, Mum?” Elisa asked.

  “What? It’s only 2.30pm.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll finish doing my homework then.”

  I looked at Elisa and wished she’d give me one of her sunny smiles. She was in her first year and Alex was in his third.

  “Oh, come on. Who cares what time it is? Let’s have a break now,” I said.

  Later, as we dunked our biscuits unceremoniously in our tea, I broached the subject of school again.

  “You know, I loved going to Parkstone Grammar,” I told Alex and Elisa who rolled their eyes at each other as if I were mad.

  “We had a lovely rapport with the teachers, too,” I added.

  “What? Do you really mean that?” Alex asked incredulously.

  “Yes, and we all cried on our last day.”

  “You didn’t really, did you?” Elisa challenged.

  “Look, not all schools are the same. I really enjoyed mine.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be crying on my last day,” Elisa said.

  “Not unless they’re tears of happiness,” Alex laughed.

  I felt sad to think they didn’t enjoy school as much as I had. They had both made new friends but neither of them looked forward impatiently to lessons or wanted to discuss various aspects of new subjects at mealtimes. ‘Five years is a long time to dislike school,’ I thought, and wondered for the umpteenth time if they had both chosen the wrong school.

  I had to admit that I didn’t relish the meetings at Geometra. I missed the cheerful banter between the teachers before they got down to the serious business of scholastic progress and performance in the classroom. Another obstacle was the language. I prided myself on being able to converse on any level in Italian but, until now, that hadn’t included teachers at senior school. They apparently used a diction alien to struggling foreigners.

  “I wish the teachers would use vocabulary that I understood instead of words I’ve never heard of before,” I moaned to Michele after a particularly difficult meeting at Morbegno. “Perhaps I’ll take a dictionary with me next time.”

  “Ma dai,” Michele couldn’t believe it had been that bad.

  “Honestly, I missed half of what one teacher said because I was too busy trying to remember three new phrases.”

  “And what were they,” Michele asked.

  “I don’t know, I can’t remember,” I couldn’t help laughing.

  I convinced myself that the next meeting would be fine and it probably would have been if I hadn’t been so fascinated by the way one of the staff spoke without moving his lips.

  “If he hadn’t been like a ventriloquist, I’d have understood everything this time,” I assured Michele.

  “Sì, sì,” he nodded, “certainly, you’ll ‘ave no problem next time.”

  Not sure whether he was teasing or not, I decided to let the matter drop.

  *

  The majority of new houses had a basement with a table and chairs and a fireplace where family and friends could meet up for a meal or eat roasted chestnuts without worrying about making the actual house dirty. The arrival of the pool table in our basement caused quite a sensation. Word inevitably got around that we had a professional one and naturally everyone was curious to see it. Michele’s friends were suitably impressed and accepted invitations for a game.

  “It’s brilliant,” I told Julie one morning over coffee. “We couldn’t have chosen a better time to put the pool table together.”

  “Alex is sixteen, isn’t he?” she asked.

  “Yes, the age most boys are going to bars, but instead, he and his friends go down to the basement for a game.”

  Sometimes, a small group turned up to study but funnily enough, I usually heard the chink of the cues hitting the balls after a while.

  “Well, who won?” I’d query when it was time to go home.

  “How did you know?” They seemed genuinely surprised.

  “I heard the balls upstairs,” I answered.

  “Ah,” they’d say before looking sheepishly at each other.

  I had to sm
ile, if not the most academically orientated students, at least they were very happy, friendly boys.

  Michele and I enjoyed a game of billiards with friends especially on a Sunday afternoon during the cold winter months when it could take hours trying desperately to pot the black ball.

  “Time for merenda,” I’d say and we’d stop for a cup of tea and a slice of cake before continuing the game. Invariably, our guests would still be with us when I suggested cooking spaghetti for everyone. I enjoyed these impromptu meals – even though it meant working a miracle in making a few rolls and some slices of cold meats into enough food for all.

  Around this period, a miracle really did happen – Michele finally gave up smoking. The children and I sent up a silent prayer. His cough disappeared and he found a new lease of life which included the return of his taste buds. This proved a positive factor for him but meant he became food critic number one where my culinary efforts were concerned.

  “Why didn’t you sweeten the apple crumble?” he asked.

  “I did but you’ve been nicotine dependent for most of your life and you’re only just beginning to taste real food,” I explained with all the patience I could muster.

  “Did you forget to salt the pasta again?” he questioned on another occasion.

  “No, I put in an extra helping for you,” I countered, through gritted teeth.

  At that moment, Carla popped in to see us.

  “Che cos’avete mangiato?” she wanted to know what delicacy I’d served up for lunch. I felt very tempted to say: insipid pasta – again!

  18

  Translate, Please!

  Many Italians emigrated to America and Australia in the early 1900s but despite the distance, kept in touch with their relatives back home. However, as time passed, not all the younger offspring learnt Italian and so I often had to translate letters, written in English, at Christmas and birthdays for the locals. Likewise, whenever anyone came from abroad to meet their extended family, they somehow ended up on my doorstep to enjoy a cup of tea and a chat – in their mother tongue.