Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  “Is Elisa here? I think I need a Shiatsu massage more than an English lesson this evening.”

  That said, she forfeited her time with me learning the finer points of the Present Perfect tense for an hour of concentrated pummelling on her meridian points, feeling much better and less stressed when she left.

  A group of pensioners impressed me by their tenacity to learn enough English to go to Amsterdam on their own. They came back euphoric to think they had understood everything and had been understood.

  I nicknamed one group of two sisters and their friend who were at senior school, the Singing Trio because they used to make up a song and sing it to me at the end of each school term. When they went to university, they still came to see me. Occasionally, I taught the son or daughter of one of my early pupils. I watched unsure adolescents blossom into mature adults and most of them kept in touch, popping in to see me at Christmas often with a present.

  “Honestly,” Mum used to say, “they pay for lessons and give you presents, too. It could only happen in Italy.”

  26

  Where are my Sleeves?

  Opening the shutters one morning and looking out onto the snow-capped mountains, I had to admit that life was good. Now and again, I received a phone call from the CTP, a school at Delebio, a small town on the opposite side of the river Adda from Piussogno, asking if I’d be interested in taking evening classes but I always declined because with choir practice and other commitments, I had a fairly full schedule.

  We also had Elisa’s wedding to look forward to in May. Whereas San Michele will always be attributed to Alex and Lorena’s wedding, Sant’Antonio will always remind me of Elisa and Cristian’s because they told us they were going to get married the following year, when we came home after the festivities.

  *

  “Mum, can you believe it, my wedding dress has arrived but not the sleeves and they won’t be here before the first week of May!” A slight tremble in her voice betrayed my daughter’s normally positive attitude to life, but what could I say? She had chosen a dress from a shop which liaised with one in America where the dresses were actually made, and although it had seemed like a good idea at the time, now it looked like a monster of a hiccup.

  “Listen, the wedding is nearly a month away, so we’ve got plenty of time.” I did my best to sound reassuring but in actual fact I couldn’t help worrying. Her detachable sleeves were an intrinsic part of the dress and without them I envisaged more than a headache for us.

  “Let’s have a cup of tea,” I suggested.

  “Mum, I don’t want a cup of tea, I want my sleeves!”

  Our son, Alex and Lorena had arranged their wedding in six months, nine years ago and, apart from a few hitches regarding the restructuring of their flat, everything had gone smoothly. Naturally, I expected this one to be no different.

  “Mum, I want the roses for my bouquet to be this colour,” my daughter said, holding up a tiny fuchsia rosebud. Elisa certainly knew what she wanted. She scoured the florists relentlessly until she found the exact coloured roses for her bouquet and then asked me for my opinion regarding the flower arrangements she’d selected for the church.

  “Mum, will you come with me to look for a wedding dress?”

  Would I? I’d been waiting years for this moment.

  “Of course I will!”

  Seeing my daughter standing before me in a mass of white satin with a bodice of French lace left me speechless, an event in itself. However, two weeks later, having tried on numerous different styles and looking through brochures in three bridal shops, Elisa still hadn’t found what she was looking for.

  “Oh well, there are lots more shops to go to.” Or so I thought.

  Eventually, she found the dress of her dreams and Michele and I accompanied her for the fitting. Our daughter looked lovely. Fortunately, the elusive sleeves found their way across the Atlantic in good time, and all was fine until the day we went to collect the dress.

  “Papà, stop the car! I can’t remember if the veil is in the bag or not.”

  Michele parked as soon as possible and Elisa jumped out to check the bag in the boot.

  “Nooo!” We didn’t need to ask any questions. Her wedding dress, shoes and other accessories were packed in the car – but not her veil. Retracing our way back to the shop, I realised a near disaster had just been avoided. The shop was not only a good half an hour away from Piussogno by car but it was only open by appointment.

  *

  My family and friends came from England for the wedding and Alex and Lorena took over the catering side, realising that maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to feed a minimum of twenty-three people at each sitting over several days. The evening before the wedding, a group of friends, led by the groom-to-be, came to serenade Elisa. With the help of a constant flowing jug of red wine, the singers filled the still night air with words that came from the heart. We all agreed – it was pure magic.

  Despite the previous dull, wet weekends, a bright blue sky and brilliant sunshine heralded the day of the wedding

  “Mum, where are they? They should be here by now!” For a moment my daughter, usually so calm and collected, was in panic mode.

  “Don’t worry! They’ll be here any minute.” Crossing my fingers, I willed her best friends to walk through the front door. They didn’t, of course, and Elisa looked once more out of the window, then at her wedding dress hidden inside an elaborate white cover, before pacing the bedroom floor.

  “You won’t forget to take my comfy shoes, will you?”

  “No!”

  “And you won’t…” Her sentence went unfinished as a shrill ringing of the doorbell announced the arrival of her two friends and laughing and giggling like fifteen year olds, they disappeared into her room to dress the bride. ‘Yes,’ I thought to myself, ‘Saturday, 22nd May, 2010 will certainly be a date to remember in the Baker/Barona household.’

  I checked my watch: 1.30pm, people would soon be arriving and I still hadn’t changed. With 230 guests, this promised to be some wedding.

  “Why aren’t you dressed? Everyone’s ‘ere already!” Michele, the father of the bride, took his role very seriously in typical Italian style. He had been organising the buffet for the past two months and had bought enough food and drink for the entire population of our village.

  “Valerie Anne, get in that bedroom and change into your wedding outfit!” My mum, a sprightly octogenarian, dared me to do otherwise.

  “Give me five minutes.” Closing the door, I thought back to my own wedding which had been organised in three months – and by my mum, no less. A lot had happened since I first arrived in Piussogno, in 1977… And now Michele would soon accompany our daughter up the aisle. Where had the years gone? Before I lost myself in reveries, I changed in record time and joined the guests.

  27

  The Choir Goes To London

  “You know, it would be lovely to take the choir to London to see the sights and go to organ recitals and hear the choir in St Paul’s Cathedral,” Patrizia said, wistfully.

  “Let’s go then.” I was always ready to go to England.

  “We’ll see what they say after the next choir practice,” she decided.

  Patrizia went to London regularly at the end of each school year and so we suggested organising a long weekend while she was there. There was mixed reaction from the choir members: some, like me, were ready to go, others wanted to know more before committing themselves, and a few said they didn’t want to go. Nearly all of them said it was far too early to start planning – Italians hardly ever make arrangements so long in advance – but we both knew that it would take a lot of time and effort to organise the trip in July and nine months wasn’t too soon.

  While teaching at a local pre-school, taking choir practices and looking after her family, Patrizia still managed to make
all the necessary arrangements. She booked us into the place near the Oval where she stayed each year. She went to a travel agency in Morbegno and booked seventeen seats on an early flight and then she organised a fun-packed itinerary including sightseeing, an organ recital and service in St Paul’s Cathedral. An air of expectation permeated through Piussogno and as the departure date drew nearer the excited participants wanted to know how we were getting to the airport. Not wanting to risk going to Malpensa Airport in individual cars with the possibility of a flat tyre or even worse, an accident and missing our flight, we decided to hire a minibus.

  Patrizia and I had both emphasised the fact that the group needed to take an umbrella because the English weather could be so unpredictable but for once, the sun shone in a clear blue sky and we didn’t even need a jumper. We stayed in a hostel run by Maltese nuns and on our arrival, I had a terrible urge to laugh when the one in charge repeated a set of rules as she handed out the keys as if we were school girls. I nicknamed our room the cell and Tunella, my cell mate, and I irreverently added a few more regulations to the list.

  Making sure seventeen Italians all managed to get on the same tube or bus became a challenge but not a physical impossibility – Patrizia and I switched into teacher mode. Only once did a group get left behind and Patrizia had to jump off at the next station – having gestured frantically to them to wait where they were – and go back to get them while I stayed with the others on the tube and got off at our arranged destination. It was all part of the fun.

  “Cosa vuol dire ‘sorree’?” Tunella asked me, after a passer-by had said it to one of our group.

  “Sorry means ‘scusa’.

  They had plenty of practice when they accidently bumped into someone on the tube, on the bus or on the crowded pavements.

  “How could you leave all this?” they asked me, lapsing into dialect, as we gazed out of the Millennium Eye, mesmerised by spectacular views of the city.

  “Don’t forget I come from Poole, not London,” I reminded them.

  “Yes, but your town is near the capital, isn’t it?” someone else said.

  “Well, it isn’t exactly down the road,” I tried to explain, “I suppose it’s about the same distance from Piussogno to Milan. London is very special, though…and so is Poole.”

  “And you gave all this up for Michele,” another choir member added.

  “Yes, I did.” I’d certainly have a lot to tell Michele when I rang him that evening.

  “You must have been very homesick when you came to Piussogno, leaving all this.”

  “I can’t say it was easy at the time but now I’m quite happy where I am,” I answered truthfully.

  “Oh look! There’s a double decker bus…” You could almost feel their excitement.

  Apart from comments regarding English gastronomy, everyone enthused over the sightseeing tour Patrizia gave the group. Watching them pointing to a monument or taking a photo of the Thames, I couldn’t help but wonder at the difference between life in Piussogno and life in a city. I suddenly realised that, having lived for so long in Italy, I felt more like a tourist than a native and Patrizia was far more familiar with London than me.

  The Sunday service in St Paul’s enthralled our group and became the highlight of our trip. As we filed out of the cathedral, no one wanted to leave, so we decided to have an impromptu picnic in the church grounds. While Milena delved into her haversack to find salami, cheese and a bottle of wine, two others went in search of bread and I paired up with Claudia to buy fruit. Naturally, someone had remembered to ask a nun for a knife to slice the salami and cheese – Italians are so incredibly organised where food is concerned. It was only after our meal that we realised that what had served as a table was actually a tomb. Still, not many choirs in northern Italy can boast of having sung in St Paul’s, then had lunch outside in the cathedral grounds.

  28

  Full Circle

  An infernally hot summer came and went and in September, I had yet another call from the CTP at Delebio, asking if I was interested in giving English conversation and this time, after much deliberation, I accepted.

  “Mi puoi dire cosa significa CTP, per favore?” I realised I had no idea what the letters stood for.

  “Certo. Centro Territoriale Permanente.”

  The secretary then explained that the Life Long Learning Centre was a school which catered for adult education, specifically Italian courses, and also offered foreign language and computer ones. Apparently, a number of people had enquired about English conversation lessons.

  It meant giving up my place in the choir because I’d now be teaching instead of singing but I really missed being in a classroom and knew the time was right for a complete change.

  “They asked me to submit a CV and my teaching certificate. At last someone actually wants to see my teaching credentials,” I told Michele.

  Walking into the building for the first time, I felt as if I’d come full circle. I’d left Poole as a young teacher, eager to put my college years into practice but since arriving in Piussogno, I had never had the opportunity to teach for more than a few months at a time. Now I had the chance to do the job I loved on a permanent basis.

  Monica, who was head of the foreign languages department, introduced herself and couldn’t have been more helpful. She also introduced me to Cinzia, who as well as being the head of the Italian department, acted as a referente or contact person; her dynamic personality reflected the contents of her personal cupboard which proved to be more like Aladdin’s Cave than a typical classroom one.

  “There’s everything you can think of in here from books and the usual school paraphernalia to food, comfortable shoes and slippers but there are two fundamental things you’ll never find: men or money!” Cinzia told me, laughing.

  Monica showed me her more sober cupboard containing the English material she had compiled over the years and pointed out the shelf where she kept books and visual aids necessary for my lessons and then I met the other members of the staff who all made me feel very welcome. I waited impatiently for my first class and loved every minute of it; the students were enthusiastic and responded actively and imaginatively to the topics I prepared. Over the months, the groups increased and then Monica asked if I’d take a Beginners course. This proved to be a challenge for me as well as the students because being used to conducting my lessons in English, the Italians hadn’t the faintest idea what I was talking about and I found sixteen pairs of extremely wide eyes looking at me out of stricken faces. However, after a chat with Monica, I adapted my method of teaching to their requirements and with the help of visual aids and a certain amount of Italian incorporated into the lessons, we came to a happy compromise.

  “’Ow did it go?” Michele asked as I put my bag on the table after finishing the lesson before the Christmas holidays.

  “Brilliantly,” I told him. “One of the students brought a Tiramisù she’d made – which was absolutely delicious – and others brought cold drinks and a bottle of sparkling wine.”

  “Cosa?” he could hardly believe his ears.

  “Yes, and we said she’ll have to make another one at the end of the school year.”

  So began my career on the staff at evening school between enjoyable lessons, mouth-watering plates of Tiramisù and impromptu birthday parties complete with presents.

  However, it wasn’t only the number of students that was increasing, on the home front, my family continued to grow with the arrival of Elisa and Cristian’s son, Paolo in 2011. Two years later, their daughter Lucia was born in May, and Elena, Alex and Lorena’s daughter, arrived five months later in October. 2013 can only be described as being extremely exciting and fruitful.

  *

  “Anything special happening from 10th to 12th May next year?” I asked the family who had come for one of my inimitable lasagnes.

  �
��Why, are you going somewhere?” Alex looked up from his plate.

  “Yes, I am. I’m going to Dublin with the English group at the CTP.”

  Silence reigned as they digested this piece of information. It was a typically grey, autumnal evening and apart from the arrival of our new granddaughter, Elena, there had been no surprises lately.

  “Lucia will be one on Thursday, 8th May but is there anything else that I’ve forgotten like Christenings or First Communions?”

  Before I actually confirmed a place on Monica’s list I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be missing out on any major family events. With five grandchildren to date, teaching commitments, village events, not to mention trips to see my family in England, you could say I was quite busy.

  “We’ll probably celebrate Lucia’s birthday with cousins at the weekend but we can have a party for grandparents on the eighth,” said Elisa.

  “I don’t think there’s anything at the moment,” Alex replied. “But it’s a bit early to plan ahead, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is – by Italian standards,” I couldn’t help adding. “Do you want to come with me?” I asked Michele. “You’ll have to enrol on one of the English classes with me or if you’d rather, you can go with Monica.”

  His look said it all and I gathered I’d be going alone. I didn’t mind, though. I’d be back before he had time to miss me. I’d always wanted to visit Dublin and now, thanks to the school, I could. Monica had the difficult job of organising our weekend in Ireland and naturally, she didn’t want to leave anything to chance. I just had to write a couple of emails and check her itinerary. Although our trip was seven months away, I knew the time would fly by – and it did.

  “Quando parti, Nonna?”asked Fabio, my eight year old grandson.

  “I’m going to Dublin next weekend,” I answered.

  “E quanti siete?” He was certainly one for detail.