‘Great!’ Gianfrancesco seemed pleased. ‘But I promised my father I’d take the plums down to the store. Do you want to ride on the tractor with me?’
I could have danced around the orchard, such was my delight at the prospect of riding on the tractor. Although I wasn’t sure whether my mother would allow it, I replied that I would without hesitation.
‘Can you drive?’ I asked.
‘I can drive the tractor,’ replied Gianfrancesco. ‘My father only lets me drive it here on the farm though. I’m not allowed on the road. I’m going to learn to drive the car as soon as I can reach the pedals.’
My excitement must have been evident as I clambered up behind Gianfrancesco. Standing behind the driver’s seat on a little platform I felt like a giant, perched so high up. My head was level with the tops of the plum trees and I could see over the hedges to the pastures beyond, where a herd of brown cows was grazing.
‘Hold on tight,’ said Gianfrancesco. ‘It can get a bit bumpy.’
As the tractor chugged into life it almost shook me off the platform. Gianfrancesco was right. It was bumpy. We bounced across the orchard and down a gravel track, churning up great clouds of dust, much of which I swallowed because I couldn’t stop grinning.
The farm buildings were almost as grand as the house and of equally gargantuan proportions. They were arranged in a quadrangle around a wide sandy yard, each with a covered portico in front, like a cloister. As we came to a halt, several workers appeared and set about unloading the crates.
Although the buildings were old, inside they were equipped with modern machinery. We passed a milking parlour where cows were lined up in booths attached to hoses and pumps. I stood by the open door, transfixed.
‘What do you do with all your milk?’ I asked.
‘We sell some fresh and make cheese with the rest. Come and see if you like.’
At the far end of the quadrangle was a two-storey barn, where great wheels of golden cheese were laid out on wooden shelves. Hams hung drying from the beams.
I gazed along the lines of cheeses. They were stacked five shelves high. I tried to count them by singing my times-tables in my head, but there were just too many. The savoury smell of wood infused with centuries of maturing meats and cheeses made my stomach rumble very loudly. I was embarrassed, but Gianfrancesco laughed.
‘Sounds as though you’re hungry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got bread and cheese and a bottle of lemonade. Would you like some?’
We sat leaning against the barn wall in the cool shade, sharing Gianfrancesco’s bread and cheese with a side order of plums. I had never tasted lemonade before. I was expecting it to be sour, but just like everything else at Cascina Marchesini, it was wonderful. I decided that I liked Gianfrancesco very much. He wasn’t like the boys at school.
Eventually we meandered our way back to the house, stopping to drink at the fountain. My mother and Signora Marchesini were still busy inspecting linens and didn’t notice us as we passed the dining room and crossed the oval hall. At its far end was the chapel door. It took some force to push it open.
The chapel was not like a cathedral. It was quite small and there was little to indicate its original use. The pews had been pushed aside to make space for an enormous quantity of stored furniture. Tables were stacked on tables. Chests were balanced on dressers and sideboards. Crates were piled three or four high. The altar was banked up with chairs, their upturned legs strung with spiders’ webs. Boxes of ornaments, clocks and candlesticks fuzzed with dust covered every surface.
It was not a pleasant space. There was an acrid, unventilated smell to it, like bad breath.
‘A lot of this furniture came from a castle near Ferrara,’ said Gianfrancesco. ‘Some of it is over five hundred years old. We’ve got even more stored upstairs. My grandfather won the castle and all its contents in a card game.’
‘You have a castle too?’
‘No. Unfortunately he lost the castle in the next game. But he kept the furniture. He nearly lost this house a few times. I’m glad he didn’t. My grandfather was infamous.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means he was famous, but for bad reasons.’
‘What reasons?’
‘My father says he was drunk all the time. He made bad decisions. He closed the dairy farm and set up other businesses, but they all failed. He didn’t look after the house either - and he gave a lot of our money to the church here. There’s a picture of him here somewhere.’
Gianfrancesco disappeared behind a stack of tables and reappeared dragging a painting which was over twice his height and shrouded in a mesh of cobwebs
‘Allow me to introduce my infamous grandfather, Carlo Marchesini,’ he said with a grin and a theatrical gesture of his hand.
The portrait of Carlo Marchesini was much larger than life-size and showed a huge, fat man in high-waisted pantaloons and a red jacket, holding a brace of pheasants. Cascina Marchesini and the church of Pieve Santa Clara were in the background. The portrait was painted from an odd angle, as though the painter had been seated too low. Carlo Marchesini’s head was held high and I could see up his nostrils. He was quite literally looking down his nose at me.
‘I don’t know what my grandparents looked like,’ I said. ‘We don’t have any paintings at our house. We have a photograph of the Pope, but we’re not related to him.’
We stood contemplating the portrait of Carlo Marchesini until from somewhere in the distance I heard my mother calling my name.
‘I have to go,’ I said.
‘That’s a shame,’ replied Gianfrancesco. ‘I haven’t been able to show you the rest of the house. But you can come back here whenever you want.’
‘Can I?’
‘Yes. I would like that very much.’
I was thrilled.
Neither my mother nor Signora Marchesini were in the dining room. We hurried back through the kitchen and out through the side door where Signor Marchesini was standing leaning against a column eating apricots. The rabbit, now no longer alive, was hanging by its heels from a hook.
‘Your Mamma’s looking for you,’ he said as he dug the stone from an apricot with his penknife and ate the fruit in one mouthful. ‘But before you go, make sure you take some of our cheese. ‘Cesco, go and cut a nice big slab for Graziella to take home.’
My new friend raced off and soon reappeared with a wrapped package, which I took from him.
‘Thank you,’ I said, then repeated it twice more, just to make sure I was being polite.
‘Our pleasure,’ replied Signor Marchesini, winking.
I had heard my mother say to my father that rich people were not very nice, but Signor Marchesini seemed extremely kind.
Eventually my mother was ushered out by Fiorella.
‘Good afternoon, Signora Ponti,’ said Signor Marchesini, doffing his straw hat.
My mother lowered her eyes and did not reply, which I thought was curious as I had been ordered to speak when spoken to.
‘Hurry, Graziella,’ she said, ‘or we won’t be eating until nine o’clock. I didn’t realise we had been here so long. The clock in the house says it’s nearly half past six.’
‘Would you like me to run you back home in the car?’ asked Signor Marchesini, putting his hat back on. At this point I thought I might explode with excitement.
‘Thank you,’ replied my mother, ‘but I wouldn’t wish to trouble you. Anyway, I would have to come back for my bicycle. And it’s such a nice afternoon - the walk will be good for us. Your wife kindly offered to drop off the material tomorrow, so we don’t have anything heavy to carry.’
‘As you wish,’ said Signor Marchesini, tipping his hat deferentially with his index finger.
My mother blushed and also said, ‘Thank you,’ three times. I tried not to show I was disappointed.
We made our way back down the avenue of cypress trees as their shadows lengthened. My mother seemed preoccupied. As we passed the sentinel gateposts I imagined her
in Signora Marchesini’s red silk dress, and how it would flutter as she walked. Today she was wearing a yellow cotton dress, which she had made herself and embroidered with tiny cross-stitched flowers on the breast pocket.
‘I love it here,’ I said. ‘Gianfrancesco was really nice.’
There had been something about him which I could not quite put my finger on, but as I thought about my time with him, it came to me.
‘He reminded me of Ernesto,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Except he wasn’t naughty. And he said I can come back whenever I want.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. So can I?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘They have a lovely house. They do have their own church and lots of furniture which came from a castle. And they have a barn full of cheese.’ I brandished the package.
‘Some people have too much,’ said my mother, and withdrew back into her own thoughts.
I withdrew into mine, suspecting that perhaps I had fallen a little bit in love with Gianfrancesco Marchesini.
Chapter 10
My father was delighted with the cheese. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as my mother laid out our supper.
‘That was very generous of Marchesini,’ he said. ‘That’s an expensive piece of cheese there.’
‘Expensive for people like us,’ muttered my mother.
‘I hear they’ve mechanised everything,’ continued my father. ‘Pozzetti said they have machines for everything, even milking. I can’t imagine how the cows deal with that. Apparently their dairy is like a laboratory. Marchesini even had it inspected by the sanitation department and they gave him a certificate. Pozzetti said that they’re producing more cheese than they ever did, but they only need a fraction of the workforce because they have so many machines.’
‘That’s not good for the farmworkers,’ said my mother. ‘That’s only good for Marchesini’s pocket.’
‘It’s going the way of everything,’ sighed my father. ‘It’s progress.’
‘Progress?’ my mother said irritably. ‘How can it be progress if people can’t work and feed their families?’
‘They have to find other work elsewhere.’
‘There’ll be nobody left in the countryside in twenty years’ time. Just machines.’
‘Ah, but somebody will have to make the machines. The farmworkers can move to the cities and find jobs in the factories.’
My mother shook her head and tutted.
‘You’ve never been to a city,’ she said. ‘Cities are grim and dirty and full of miserable people. I’d rather be a poor farm labourer than a poor factory worker, that’s for sure.’
That evening, we all feasted. Mamma had made Papá’s favourite dish of frittata with zucchini. He cut off a piece of the cheese we’d been given, grated it over his supper and sliced it onto his bread. Once he had scraped the rind with his teeth, he took the hard outer crust and placed it in a cup of hot water.
‘That should soften up nicely for my breakfast,’ he said. ‘It’s the best cheese I’ve tasted for years.’
My mother said he had been greedy, but he just patted his full belly and burped.
I was tucked into bed shortly after. My mother kissed my forehead.
‘Be good. Go to sleep, and stay on your own side,’ she said.
I nestled down into the cool sheets, but I had no intention of falling asleep. The only reason I ever looked forward to bedtime was because I could eavesdrop on my parents’ conversations in the kitchen. It was a time for gossip, exchanges of news and opinions, and a time when I could learn things not meant for my ears.
‘Did Signora Marchesini give you a lot of work?’ I heard my father ask.
‘Yes. She has some antique table linen and ten sets of bedding which she wants repaired, washed and pressed. Most of the bedding is silk. It must have cost a fortune.’
‘It’s probably Marchesini silk. The Marchesinis used to farm silkworms.’
‘Silkworms? Here in Lombardy?’
‘Yes. It was one of Carlo Marchesini’s big ideas.’
‘Who’s Carlo Marchesini?’
‘Amilcare Marchesini’s father. He’s long gone now, but he thought there was more money to be made out of silk than there was out of milk. It worked for a while. The Marchesinis farmed the worms in one of those buildings you can see from the road. They had everything there - the farm, the processing plant. They used to grow mulberry bushes on their land to feed them.’
‘So what happened? Why did they stop?’
‘The silkworms caught a disease - some kind of atrophy. Everything stopped very suddenly. One moment it was a thriving business with dozens of jobs, the next it was closed. It was quite a blow for Carlo Marchesini. It hit him very hard.’
‘I expect it hit the workers harder,’ said my mother. ‘Rich people always stay rich.’
‘Well, I don’t know how rich they are now.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! That house, all that land, the furniture alone must be worth a fortune.’
‘I don’t know if they have a lot of actual money,’ said my father. ‘I have heard a few people say that they struggle. All that new-fangled dairy machinery was paid for with a loan from the bank. I don’t think they make much from the cheese. Just because you have a big farm doesn’t mean a big income. Think of all the expenses.’
‘They don’t seem short of money to me. Signora Marchesini was wearing a very lavish dress.’
‘I think that Signora Marchesini is Signor Marchesini’s biggest expense,’ my father said, sounding amused.
‘I don’t think she liked me,’ my mother told him.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She looked at me as though I wasn’t up to her standards.’
‘Don’t let that worry you. She looks down that elegant nose at everybody. But Amilcare Marchesini’s always been well-liked. He’s a good sort. Down to earth. He works the farm with the labourers and doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. The same couldn’t be said for his father though.’
‘Why?’
‘He was a drunk. He used to ride around on a big chestnut horse as though he was the King of Italy. He was a womaniser too. Carlo Marchesini had a string of young mistresses. His liking for the ladies got him into trouble many times.’
There was silence for a moment, then I heard my father chuckle and say, ‘Carlo Marchesini was shot in the arse.’
‘In the war?’
‘No,’ laughed my father. ‘It happened like this. At one point he was involved with a baker’s daughter. He used to visit her in the early hours of the morning when he knew her father would be occupied in the bakery. But one night the baker came home early and heard you-know-what going on upstairs. Carlo Marchesini puffing like a train, the daughter howling like a she-wolf.’
‘Hush,’ hissed my mother. ‘Graziella will hear you.’
My father lowered his tone. I lifted my head and strained my ears.
In a low, conspiratorial whisper, he went on, ‘So the baker takes his shotgun, goes running up the stairs and into the bedroom. By this time Carlo Marchesini has jumped out of the window and is running across the garden half-naked. The baker takes aim and shoots him - gets him right on the bare arse! They say Carlo’s wife had to dig out the lead shot with a knife and that one of his buttocks looked like the skin of an orange until the day he died.’
‘His poor wife,’ I heard my mother say. ‘If I’d been humiliated like that I’d have been tempted to use that knife very differently.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind the next time I go womanising,’ replied my father, and I heard the sound of a slap.
‘The boy, Gianfrancesco, seemed nice,’ said my mother after a while. ‘He looked after our Graziella.’
‘I haven’t seen him for a long time, but last time I did he looked exactly like his father did at the same age. Lean and lanky with arms and legs like over-cooked spaghetti. But he’ll fill out. All the March
esini men end up tall.’
‘Of course they do,’ said my mother. ‘Generations fed on good food and plenty of it. I don’t suppose their forefathers starved, like ours did.’
There was a pause. When my mother spoke again her tone was perplexed. ‘What’s Mina got against the Marchesinis? When I went to borrow her bicycle she was quite peculiar with me.’
‘What do you mean by peculiar?’
‘It seemed to put her in a very bad mood. I know she has her moods, but she’d been fine until I told her where I was going. She just stomped off and closed herself in the house.’
‘Mina grew up at Cascina Marchesini. Her mother was a silk-worker there.’
This astounding revelation made me sit up. I felt a pang of jealousy that Zia Mina had grown up in a place which I thought to be so wonderful, and I could not think of any reason why anybody would not love it. I tried hard, but couldn’t catch what my father was telling Mamma. Whatever it was, it took some time to explain and it made her gasp.
‘What!’ she exclaimed.
‘Mina’s ashamed,’ my father replied, more clearly now.
‘Graziella said something as we were leaving.’
‘What was that?’
‘She said that the Marchesini boy reminded her of Ernesto.’
‘And what did you think?’ my father asked. ‘Was he anything like Ernesto?’
‘I couldn’t say. I barely saw him.’
After those words, I must have fallen asleep - and so I heard no more.
*
Signora Marchesini dropped off her items the following day. She parked her Alfa Romeo by the gate. It was a thing of beauty, with an enormously long bonnet and elegant running boards. It made a gurgling sound as its engine cooled.
I watched as Signora Marchesini trod carefully across the yard. Today she was wearing a green floral dress, different shoes and a wide-brimmed hat, worn at an angle. It was held in place with a pearl hatpin.
‘Good afternoon, Signora Ponti,’ she said. ‘I have the linens in the car. Would you come to fetch them?’
‘Graziella!’ called my mother. ‘Come and help.’
Paradiso: Utterly gripping and emotional historical fiction (The Paradiso Novels Book 1) Page 13
