by Mary Contini
After scoffing the bread, they fell asleep with exhaustion. The next thing they knew they woke to the sound of the brakes screeching as the train drew up at four in the morning in Waverley Station.
When the wagon door was opened they lay still until they could see that the way was clear, then they jumped out and ran hell for leather as far away from the train as they could. A platform guard spotted them and started to yell and blow his whistle, but to no avail. These two men were fit and within minutes had disappeared into the station.
It was early, and still dark outside, but they were in Edinburgh.
They took a turning to the left, went up some steps and, hearing a lot of bustle and noise, walked straight into the early-morning fruit market that was held in Waverley Market. That took the biscuit. They had left the market in Torino to end up in another market in Edinburgh!
Walking round, they looked in amazement at the produce: leeks, cabbages, cardoons and greens, plenty of herbs and salads and peas in their pods. Long pink sticks of something called rhubarb and wooden trays with small cardboard cartons of green sour-looking gooseberries.
They were walking round the potato stalls, which appeared to be the most abundant and busiest, when they heard a few Italian voices. They looked round and there in front of them were two older Italian men, up at dawn buying potatoes for their fish and chip shops.
‘Buon Giorno, amici! Da dove venite? Where are you from?’
‘Madonna mia! Sant’Antonio!’ Alfonso was astonished. There were Italians everywhere!
It turned out that these were two men from Picinisco who had been working in Edinburgh for the last five years. They knew Giovanni Crolla and were aware that his brothers were on their way from Italy.
‘Bravi, ragazzi! You’ve made it! Well done! Giovanni will be in his shop. Wait a minute till we finish our business and we’ll take you down the road. Our shop is not far from his. We all work near each other.’
The men did their business, paying for the sacks of potatoes from a bundle of notes pulled from their back pockets. Emidio nudged Alfonso when he saw all the money this chap had. They spoke broken English with a strange accent. The man they were buying from was quite friendly. They obviously knew each other well. They piled six sacks of potatoes onto a barrow and Emidio helped pull it out of the market up to Waverley Bridge from where they made their way down towards Leith.
Pan’, Sal’ e Olio
Bread, Salt and Oil
This is tasty, filling and nutritious and nothing but dry bread, extra virgin olive oil and seasoning. It was also the way to use up old bread when nothing was wasted.
You need some old dry bread … good bread, sourdough or crusty Tuscan wholemeal. Cut the hard, dry loaf into thick slices. Place on a flat dish and sprinkle them with cold water, enough so they absorb the water but not so much that they become soggy. Salt the bread with sea salt and drizzle with a full-flavoured fruity extra virgin olive oil, perhaps from Lazio or Puglia. Season with chopped fresh garlic, chopped flat-leaf parsley and crush a small piece of peperoncino (dried chilli) over them.
Leave in the fridge for an hour and serve cool.
Zampone e Lenticchie
Stuffed Pig’s Trotter with Slow-cooked Lentils
Zampone is a pig’s trotter stuffed with chopped pork, spices and seasonings. These days you can buy a ready-prepared zampone from the big prosciutto houses in Italy, ready stuffed, seasoned and cured. It is a specialist product and comes in a foil packet ready to boil.
Place a kilo of zampone in a large pot covered with plenty of water, bring to the boil and simmer for 30–45 minutes (depending on size). Remove from the water and lay the packet on a warmed plate. When you open the pack a lot of juices will be released. Save these to serve with the slices of zampone and tasty stewed lentils.
The zampone comes resplendent with the pig’s nails … don’t be put off, you can just lay them aside.
for the lentils:
Lenticchie in Umido
Slow-cooked Lentils
300g Castelucchio or Lenticchie di Montagne
(small brown lentils)
2–3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic finely chopped
small piece of peperoncino (dried chilli)
2 sticks celery, peeled and finely chopped
50g smoked pancetta, chopped
2 Italian plum tomatoes, skinned and chopped
(tinned if no fresh ones are available)
some fresh sage leaves
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
boiling water
Check over the lentils to remove any grit. Rinse in a few changes of cold water.
Do check the sell-by date. If they are very old you should soak them overnight before cooking.
Warm the oil in a saucepan and flavour it with the chopped garlic and peperoncino. Add the chopped pancetta, cook it to brown it a little, then add the celery and tomatoes. Cook until the celery is softened. Drain the lentils, add them to the saucepan and cook them for a few minutes to absorb the flavours. Add a couple of fresh sage leaves and cover everything with boiling water, enough to cover about double the depth of the lentils. Add a final drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, then cover and simmer for about 30–40 minutes until the lentils are cooked. Add more water if necessary.
Check seasoning and serve with slices of zampone and some fluffy olive oil-mashed potatoes.
8
November 1913
Six months later Maria stepped down from the train, exhausted, into Waverley Station. She looked around and took a deep breath. The journey had been difficult, the train connections and boat journey daunting. Giuseppina had travelled with her from Italy but had left her at London, taking a train to Manchester to meet her family there.
Maria had sat in a carriage with strangers, foreigners in her eyes. She hadn’t understood a word they had said but she had been aware that she was being talked about. Domenico had cried for most of the journey from London, and the other passengers in the compartment had not been pleased.
It seemed as if Domenico had been crying ever since Alfonso had left in the spring. Living in Fontitune with a new baby, being at the beck and call of her mother-in-law, had been intolerable for Maria. She too had been crying ever since Alfonso had left. For weeks she had had no news. She had been so worried about him.
She and Marietta had waited anxiously in Picinisco every Thursday for the post to arrive. Sitting together on the low wall at the edge of the piazza, they looked forlorn, scanning the valley to catch sight of the bus. Their hearts were thumping as they watched it snake its way up the hillside. Week after week they left disheartened, when the old driver said again, ‘Sorry, girls. Nothing yet.’
Every week they kissed each other and returned to their homes, Maria up the hill, Marietta down, both disappointed and worried. The bus driver felt sorry for them. He saw girls like this in almost every village he went to all over the valley: young, beautiful Italian girls waiting for news from their lovers. At night he talked to his wife.
‘Our country is making the biggest mistake of its history.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re losing our youth. Our young and healthy are leaving in droves. I see it everywhere. The young men go and take their wives and families with them. Mark my words, before we end our days we’ll see these villages all over the mountains lying deserted.’
One Thursday the girls had been waiting as usual. Maria had brought Domenico and they played with him under the oak tree, splashing water at him from la fontana. They were so engrossed they forgot to look for the bus and didn’t realise it had arrived, spluttering and chugging as usual round the last, steepest bend, until they heard its horn peep-peeping excitedly.
The driver jumped down and ran excitedly across to the girls.
‘Girls, bellezze! Finally! A letter! Ecco!’
He waved the letter in the air and kissed both girls. The letter was addressed to Maria. He sto
od waiting for her to open it.
Alfonso couldn’t write, so he had dictated his letter. Maria couldn’t read, so she gave it to Marietta to read out. Maria stood with Domenico in her arms, with the bus driver, waiting to hear what it said. It was short and to the point:
‘Carissima Maria, siamo arrivati in Scozia.
Edimburgo e bellissima e tutto è a posto.
Un bacio per te, Domenico e tutta la famiglia.
Tuo caro marito, Alfonso.’
‘Darling Maria, we have arrived in Scotland.
Edinburgh is very beautiful and everything is fine.
A kiss for you, Domenico and all the family,
Your loving husband, Alfonso.’
All summer more letters had arrived, until eventually one had come with the money for her journey. Marietta had helped her get organised. Within a week she had been ready. Everyone from Fontitune and the whole of Picinisco had gathered to see her off and waved as Marietta climbed onto the bus with Domenico. With only a bundle of clothes and a pacco di formaggio e salsiccie she had sat in the front seat beside the driver, and left.
Now she stood on Platform 1 at Waverley Station with the baby strapped to her chest, the parcels at her feet, forlorn and almost in tears. Alfonso had said he would meet her but she couldn’t see him. She looked decidedly odd among the other people. Her clothes were grubby and crushed; her long peasant skirt, lacy long-sleeved blouse and coloured waistcoat incongruous in this busy city station.
Maria felt the other women looking her up and down. They were slim and well groomed, in graceful silk dresses with long velvet-and-wool coats that swept from their shoulders down to the ground. They wore wide-brimmed hats with feathers and flowers and carried beautiful little embroidered bags hanging on their leather-gloved arms.
The gentlemen were elegant, with smart top hats and neat jackets. Some of them smiled at her familiarly. Maria kept her eyes down, embarrassed. The noise of the steam from the trains, the whistles and shouts from the guards and the general hustle and bustle were strange and confusing. What would she do if Alfonso didn’t appear?
Map of central Edinburgh
Just as she began to lose hope, she saw him. Running along the platform, waving his hat high in the air to attract her attention was Alfonso, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Maria! Maria! Ecco mi! Ecco mi!’
Her heart leapt. She reddened. Her cheeks glowed.
He scooped her up and twirled her round, kissing her mouth again and again as if he could hardly believe she was real. The people on the platform stood around and stared at this motley crew of foreigners. What a commotion they caused!
‘Domenico, carissimo! Un bacio per Papà! Kiss your daddy!’
Alfonso took the six-month-old child from Maria and held him at arm’s length, studying his pretty face and broad forehead, his brown eyes and fairish hair. Was this his son? He had grown so big. He kissed Domenico again and again till the child started to cry and pulled away from this strange man, stretching his arms out towards his mother.
‘Darling Maria!’ he spoke the first word to her in English, ‘Darling, wife!’
Maria laughed. She hardly recognised him. He looked older, slimmer, different. He wore a dark jacket over grey trousers and a waistcoat. His white shirt was open at the neck, with a blue cravat tied jauntily round his throat. A white handkerchief flopped from the top pocket of his jacket. He looked very happy, proud to be welcoming his family to their new home.
Emidio had come with him, so now it was his turn to kiss her and embrace.
Alfonso was desperate to show her everything.
‘Andiamo, carissima. Let’s go.’
Emidio lifted her parcels. Alfonso took the baby. He held Maria’s arm and guided her out of the station up a steep road to Waverley Bridge.
In the fresh air, Maria immediately felt the cold, but was happy to see a clear blue sky.
‘Guarda! Carissima, look at our new home. Look at this beautiful city.’
In front of her she saw an imposing tall monument with a statue of a man sitting underneath. On the left swept beautiful gardens landscaped with plants and trees. Ladies and gentlemen were strolling arm in arm, looking relaxed and sophisticated. Paths led down towards the railway line that was running along the lower side.
Rising from the gardens were austere tall buildings with small windows layered one on top of the other, seven or eight levels high. The stone was dark, grey-black, severe and imposing. Following the line of a craggy slope with her eyes, she came to beautiful white houses that looked like fairy castles. Then she saw Edinburgh Castle, perched high over the city on a steep rock face. She caught her breath. She had never seen anything so magnificent.
‘See! It is wonderful isn’t it? Isn’t it? I told you.’ Alfonso was thrilled that she was impressed.
‘Now come and I will show you Princes Street, La Strada dei Principi!’
They walked up a small incline and crossed a busy road, with horses and carriages passing at great speed, and noisy, clanging open-topped trams pulled by sturdy horses along metal tramways. The ground was mucky with manure and mud and Maria had to lift her skirts to stop them getting even filthier than they already were.
They crossed a small road to a tall, dark corner building with wide glass windows decorated with gold gilt. Maria was entranced. In the windows were statues, each wearing splendid dresses and coats, wide-brimmed hats and leather shoes with delicate stitching and slender heels. There were windows displaying babies’ clothes, beautifully embroidered in the finest wools and silks. In another window was a large tree decorated with red velvet bows and golden baubles with piles of gaudily covered boxes and ribboned parcels underneath.
Emidio (left) and Alfonso, c. 1913
‘What do you think? Isn’t this incredible? One day we’ll go in here and I’ll buy you a coat like that one with the fur collar. You’ll choose a hat to match, with the longest most outrageous feather it can hold!’
Emidio joined in. ‘Look, you’ll push Domenico in that pretty basket on wheels and he’ll play with the toy as you walk.’
‘Oh, Alfonso! It is exciting! I couldn’t imagine such beautiful things and such fine quality. And look at this wonderful food. What kind of things are these? Pies and cheeses and cooked hams! Look how they decorate the cakes and the biscuits. It looks so tempting.’
‘You’ll see, Maria, we’re going to be so lucky. You won’t be lonely. There are about ten Italian families here, some of them you already know. Wait till you see. Come now, we have to walk about twenty minutes, then we will be home.’
He kissed her. He was very relieved that she had arrived safely.
Maria was happy too. She had been anxious and worried, but everything looked so wonderful. The shops and the castle and the ladies with their elegant men on their arms.
They started to walk east along Princes Street then turned down a long sweeping road towards Leith Walk. Alfonso pointed out buildings along the way: the North British Station Hotel towering above them at the east end of Princes Street with horse-drawn cabs outside and very important looking men sitting aloft. They passed the Vittoria Palais de Danse, which Emidio said people went to in the evenings to dance.
‘I go there with my friend, Maria.’ Emidio chirped up. ‘We get paid to dance with the ladies! They call me a gigolo!’
Alfonso and Maria burst out laughing. Trust Emidio. Che furbo!
‘Maria, ecco la chiesa: St Mary’s Cathedral. This is where we’ll go to Mass. It is different here. Only a few are Catholics. All the Italians are, of course. They all go to Mass, so you will meet them there. And that’s the Playhouse Theatre. People dress up in their best finery and go there to hear people sing.’
Emidio gave the low-down on the night life. ‘There’s sometimes an Italian with a barrel organ outside or another lady called ‘the Nightingale’ who sings opera songs in the street for money. It’s as bad as the piazza in Picinisco.’
They walked down further towards
a wide street with tall trees lining it on both sides. As they walked, Alfonso and Emidio gave Maria a running commentary about which Italian families lived in which houses, and showed her some shops that had the names Coppola’s, D’Agostino’s, Marandola or Crolla displayed outside them.
‘You’re right, Emidio. It is like the piazza. They’re all here!’
It was starting to get dark. A street lighter was going from lamp to lamp lighting the feeble gas lights, taking away some of the gloom that was settling over the city.
‘Sei stanca, cara? Are you tired? Not long now.’
They crossed to the right-hand side of the wide street, lined with elm trees. The pale stone buildings were very tall and elegant. The ground floors of the buildings were all shop fronts with arched double windows of engraved glass. Flickering gas flames from the lights inside gave things a magical appearance.
They passed a shop with the name ‘Green’s Furniture Stores’. In the window was a wooden table with four chairs around it. There was a vase of flowers on the table and a photograph of a young girl in a frame.
Then they passed a lawyer’s office, with a bright brass plate scrolled with letters and an imposing knocker at the door handle. After a few doors there was a shop called Lindsay & Gilmour with a gold pestle and mortar hanging outside. Alfonso said that was where you could buy medicines and tonics if you were ill.
