by Angela Petch
‘Penny for them?’ Francesco had crept up behind her, folding her in a hug, nuzzling the back of her neck as she tried to concentrate on chopping parsley and celery for a meat sauce.
‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ she said, thinking that he really wouldn’t and that she was an ungrateful cow to fantasize about a life without them.
‘Mamma, Babbo, stop it!’ Rosanna and Emilia were trying to insinuate themselves between their parents to break up their embrace.
‘Is supper nearly ready?’ Emilia, always hungry, asked.
In bed that evening when the children were asleep, Anna and Francesco talked through their day.
Francesco told her how he’d sat with Davide up in his room, sketching out more ideas for their tree-house. Last month their son had announced he was too old to listen to bedtime stories but they recognised he still needed the same special time they devoted to all their children before lights-out.
‘I don’t think it’s too serious, this teasing,’ he told Anna. ‘Children don’t like being different, that’s all.’ Francesco said, placing the latest Camilleri detective story on his bedside table.
‘Would it help, do you think, if I had a word with Signorina Grazia? Perhaps I could offer to help with English lessons and try and suss what’s going on?’
‘Maybe wait a while to see if he can sort it out himself? Sometimes it’s worse when parents stick their noses in.’ Francesco had taught for several years at Bologna University and despite his students being older than Davide, he was a good mentor and had a special sensitivity with youngsters.
Anna yawned, plumping up her pillow before settling down. ‘I suppose you’re right. But it’s a shame if he’s being picked on for having English connections.’
Snuggling nearer, Francesco stroked her arm. ‘He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’
And a little later, ‘Are you tired again?’ His hand had moved to her breast but she gently removed it.
‘I’m sorry, tesoro. I’m not in the mood tonight and tomorrow I have to take Davide down first thing for a tennis lesson in Sansepolcro, remember?’
‘Maybe you should think about booking an appointment for a check-up?’
‘No, no – I’m fine. Just tired. It’s to be expected with four children to look after.’
‘Plus a demanding husband,’ he added.
‘Sorry, tesoro.’
‘Only kidding, my darling.’
Kissing her chastely on her forehead he wished her sweet dreams, wondering if when they were sixty, with no children living at home, there would be more time for each other. They made love far less nowadays and he was worried at Anna’s constant fatigue. She was due a break. He thought about asking his sister, Teresa, to take over for a couple of days sometime soon. Then he would whisk Anna away for a weekend.
Upstairs in his attic bedroom, Davide shone his torch on the gap where the poster of Big Ben had been. After Babbo had pulled up his covers and kissed him goodnight, he’d tiptoed from bed and ripped it up, hiding the pieces in his secret box at the back of his clothes cupboard. The picture of the tower of Pisa could definitely stay, he decided, along with the framed photos of Uncle Harry’s Labradors. Dogs couldn’t help it if they were English and anyway they were really cute.
He felt beneath the quilt where he hid Steggy during the day and, hugging the green velvet dinosaur to his chest, he was soon asleep.
Chapter 2
At the weekend Francesco carried a breakfast tray up to Anna. On it was a pot of tea, brioches warmed in the oven, a bowl of home made plum jam and a single red rose picked from beside the entrance porch. He climbed back into bed, turning to kiss her. But she covered her mouth with her hand, ‘Sorry…haven’t brushed my teeth yet.’
He laughed, ‘Never used to matter.’
‘Yes, well, ten years down the line and three children later, lots has changed.’
Nevertheless she reached over to him, planting a kiss on his mouth. ‘To what do I owe this lovely treat?’
‘No reason and every reason,’ he replied, pouring her a cup of tea. His morning drink was always a strong espresso which he had already knocked back in the kitchen.
‘Sunday morning. Twins watching cartoons. Alba and Davi dead to the world. I thought we’d have breakfast on our own, for a change.’
‘Thank you, tesoro.’
As he spooned jam onto her plate, he glanced at her pale face and the bruised shadows under her eyes, even though she had slept ten hours.
‘Bad night?’ he asked.
‘Not particularly,’ she yawned. ‘I just can’t seem to shake off this tiredness.’
‘How about we take a long weekend break? There are no guests in the mill at the end of the month. Seems to me you could do with a change.’
‘I’m going back to England, remember? “A change is as good as a rest,” as they say.’
‘It will be tiring.’
She had promised to return to Surrey to help her older half-sister, Jane, move into a bungalow from the big house she had lived in for over thirty years. Although the sisters got on better than they used to, their personalities were very different and Jane could be difficult and touchy.
Francesco helped himself to a second brioche. ‘I still don’t understand why she can’t use professional movers. She has pots of money.’
‘She’s using a removal company but she still wants me there for moral support. She’s family, tesoro, and living over here I don’t help her as much as I should. I feel guilty. We’ve discussed this so many times.’
‘I know, I know and I’m only thinking of what’s best for you.’
She smiled at him. ‘What idea have you cooked up for this long weekend, then?’
‘I was thinking we could pop down and stay in an agriturismo in the Maremma and visit the area for Davide’s project.’
‘Brilliant idea! Then I can find out more about the transumanza myself and get involved.’
He watched her as she removed her nightie to get dressed; still lovely, her breasts firm despite feeding three babies. When she turned and saw him staring at her, she knew he wanted her back in bed – but what was the point of pretending?
‘Sorry, Francesco. I can hear the kids are up.’
He got out of bed and went over to search in a bookcase in the alcove.
‘You’ve got to promise me you’ll see a doctor, Anna. This tiredness is wrong.’
She came over, turning him round to face her and went into his embrace.
‘I don’t deserve you,’ she said, kissing him briefly on the lips. ‘I’ll go and see Jane’s doctor when I’m in England.’
‘Why not go here?’
She shrugged. ‘It’ll be all round the village. You know what it’s like.’
Seeing that he was about to insist, she slipped out of his arms. ‘Look, I’ve said I promise. It’s only a few weeks to go.’
At the door she turned, ‘Come and help me feed the hungry hordes.’
With the children’s breakfast cleared away and the table wiped clean of Nutella and plum jam, Francesco produced his books.
‘Davi, come and sit next to me and look at these old photos.’
The twins asked if they could go outside and investigate the new den. Having promised they wouldn’t stray far they left, chattering in the secret language known only to themselves. Alba curled up in an armchair near the dining table to read.
Anna sat down next to her son. ‘I’d like to find out more about the transumanza too, Davide. In England, drovers led sheep to market in London from all over the place but I don’t think they stayed away for months and months.’
Francesco pointed to a faded photo of a group of men standing amongst a vast flock of sheep. ‘This was taken up at the Viamaggio Pass,’ he read from the description underneath, ‘ from where they started the transumanza in our area. Look - the priest’s blessing the animals and then they’ll be off on their ten-day walk to the coast.’
‘Ten days?’ exclaimed David. ‘It
only takes a few hours to drive down there now, doesn’t it? What a mission!’
Francesco turned another page.
‘Look at this group of youngsters. They’re about your age.’
Anna peered at the picture thinking how undernourished they were.
‘Tell me again who went from your family?’ she asked.
‘I think Nonno did when he was quite young,’ he answered. ‘I’ve read that children as young as eight left on their own for the coast.’
‘Eight? That’s so harsh,’ Davide said.
‘People were very, very poor back then – it was the only way to survive,’ Francesco explained, turning more pages.
‘You’ve heard of Mussolini?’ When Davide nodded, his father continued. ‘He encouraged large families and sometimes there could be ten children , so in order to put food on the table even the youngest had to pitch in and help.’
Flicking through the book, he found what he was looking for and pointed to another image of a forlorn young boy standing in the middle of a ploughed field. Round his neck, tied on with string like a drum, he wore an empty petrol can. In one hand he brandished a stick. Francesco read out the caption:
“Omero Bravaccini, aged seven, scaring crows from crops.”
‘I can’t believe such young children had to leave their families,’ Anna said. She glanced at the poster-sized print of her children on the kitchen wall. Francesco had snapped them playing one hot August afternoon at the waterfall.
‘Can you imagine our kids managing that?’ she asked her husband.
‘But I still don’t really understand why they had to,’ insisted Davide.
‘Life is very different now,’ Francesco said, putting his arm round Davide’s shoulders. ‘If little Omero had stayed up here in the mountains he’d have starved. You know what our winters are like – how the temperatures can plummet below freezing for weeks on end.’
‘So?’ Davide said. ‘We stay here.’
‘Well, their animals needed winter grazing, so they had to be taken to where the grass was - down at the milder coastal area.’
‘And they didn’t have freezers then – and there was very little food, with snow covering everything,’ Anna added.
‘Exactly!’ Francesco said. ‘I think women and children and old people who stayed behind survived on anything they could store from the summer, like chestnuts and maize or fruit they dried.’
Davide was turning the pages now and his father continued, ‘Nowadays animals are kept inside huge barns when the snows come, like on Gori’s farm up near Montebotolino where he puts his Chianina cattle. But his grandparents used to have to make the annual transumanza trek before that.’
‘You never talk about your grandmother.’ Anna said.
‘She died when I was five and Nonno had already passed away. About the only thing I remember about Nonna Marisa was her beautiful smile and her lovely singing voice…’
Alba wandered over to peer at the photos.
‘I heard you mention Montebotolino. I’m going up there to do some sketching. Are there any pictures of the village like it used to be?’
‘Here’s one, I think,’ Davide said, pointing to a group of smiling peasants eating on the grass, in front of a line of stone houses.
Francesco reached over to take a better look.
‘It must be a harvest time snack,’ he said. ‘That’s in the little square where we go and light the oven for the Ferragosto pizzas.
‘My goodness, how the place has changed,’ said Anna. ‘Look at all those chickens scratching about and the haystacks in the background and all the people. It’s buzzing! The guests from the Mulino went up there for a walk after their meal at Piero’s restaurant last Sunday and they said they didn’t like it. They described it as a ghost town.’
‘I love it up there,’ Alba said. ‘I know it’s deserted but – it’s kind of nice like that. I don’t think it’s ghostly at all. It’s beautiful.’
‘Too remote for me to live up there permanently,’ Anna said. ‘And there’ve been robberies from those holiday houses too. Anybody wanting to break in can take all the time they want. There’s nobody there most of the time.’
‘Well, one day I’ll earn pots of money from my paintings, ‘Alba said, ‘and buy up all the empty houses and turn them into an Art School. I’ll live up there in splendour and you can all come and visit me! I’m off now. Is there enough petrol in the Vespa, Babbo?’
‘I think so. Don’t forget your helmet.’
Alba raised her eyes in despair and Anna smiled at her step-daughter.
‘Francesco, she’s eighteen, not eight,’ she said.
‘Yes, well Omar’s nearly thirty and he’s still in hospital.’
‘That’s entirely different,’ responded Alba. ‘He swerved on his bike to avoid a porcupine and it was at night. Plus he races round like a crazy thing…the Vespa can’t go that fast.’ She pulled her sneakers from the shoe-rack and changed from her flip-flops.
‘But there are plenty of boar during the day.’ Francesco persisted.
‘Babbo, I always wear my helmet. What is this?’
‘Sorry, Alba – just being a normal, protective father!’
‘Normal, neurotic father, more like’ she said, going over to hug him. ‘What the hell will you be like when I go off to Uni?’
‘Neurotic about what colour your hair will be next time we see you and how many tattoos you’ll have?’
Alba laughed, touching the streak of blue in her long brown hair. ‘How do you know I haven’t got tattoos all over my bum already?’ she said with a sparkle in her large eyes and she was out of the door before her father could say another thing.
It might feel great not to wear a helmet, Alba thought, as she drove away from La Stalla, and to feel the breeze whipping her hair about. But she’d tried riding without her visor down once and an insect had struck her in the eye. It was painful and she’d had to stop and wait until her blurred vision returned to normal. Anyway, she’d always wear her crash helmet - she wasn’t stupid. There were enough gory adverts on TV showing mangled bodies after road accidents.
The road to the little village of Montebotolino took her through the hamlet of Rofelle, past Piero and Manuela’s popular restaurant, l’Erbosteria. They were sitting outside and waved as she passed. After the cheese maker’s house, tarmac changed to an uneven dirt track and she slowed down. It was overcast today and the view towards the rocky outcrops of Sasso Simone and Simoncello was blurred and murky.
As she turned a bend, thirty metres in front of her an Alsatian walked slowly across the track. The dog stopped, sniffing the air for her scent, it’s muzzle contorted with a snarl – or was it a smile… Alba was transfixed by the animal’s piercing blue eyes and its erect stance. ‘You beauty,’ she whispered. Babbo had warned her to be cautious about stray dogs because of rabies but this animal seemed calm. It moved towards the forest and she let the motor die, parking the Vespa at the side of the track before cautiously approaching the forest’s edge. ‘Good boy!’ she called softly, peering into the gloom beneath the canopy of spruce. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
But it had disappeared into the shadows. She hadn’t seen an Alsatian around here before and wondered if somebody had abandoned it. It happened regularly with cats. In early spring she’d found two drowned kittens in the river near La Stalla, below the road bridge. She couldn’t understand the mindset of such cruelty.
Kick-starting the scooter she continued along the track. The roofs and bell tower of Montebotolino came into view and she approached the barrier that prevented vehicular access. Ernesto’s white Mini Cooper was already parked. It was an eighteenth birthday present from his wealthy father, a shoe factory owner who lived in San Marino. Her best friend, Bruna, had just started going out with Ernesto and the girls hardly saw each other now. Leaving her scooter propped on its stand, she walked a few metres to the tiny village square. They were on the grass, Ernesto’s head resting in Bruna’s lap, smoke spiraling
from their cigarettes into the fresh country air.
‘Ciao, Alba,’ Bruna called. ‘Come and join us. Alfiero will be here soon.’
She chatted to them for a few minutes, refusing their offer of a spliff, telling them about the stray Alsatian she’d seen down the road.
Bruna sat bolt upright. ‘My God, Alba. Are you sure it was a dog and not a wolf?’
‘Almost certainly a dog,’ she replied. ‘But - you’ve got me wondering now.’
There had been recent reports of wolves taking Gori’s calves in broad daylight.
‘Probably took one look at you and could see you weren’t Little Red Riding Hood,’ Ernesto said, getting up to brush grass from his white jeans.
‘Are you going to be okay on your own?’ he asked with a snigger, ‘with the big, bad wolf hanging around?’
Bruna laughed too and Alba realised the pair of them were high.
‘I’m not worried,’ she said, thinking that even if it had been a wolf, it had seemed more scared than aggressive. ‘Anyway, Alfi’s coming soon. I won’t be alone.’
She waved them goodbye, then as an afterthought she ran to their car, tapping on the window.
‘Don’t breathe a word to my parents. Promise me!’ she pleaded. ‘If they thought I’d seen a wolf up here they wouldn’t let me come on my own anymore.’
Ernesto started the engine and, as if he were taking part in a Formula One race, he let the tyres screech on the stony track. Then with a blast on his horn that ripped into the peace of the isolated village, he zoomed off down the mountain.