by Jo Thomas
‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘They’re here to help you. They know you can do it.’ He turns me back to face them.
I begin to smile. They’re not laughing. He’s right. They are here because they want to help. They think I can do it. Dream or no dream, it’s a lovely sight.
‘Hey!’ I hear Marco call crossly, and turn to see Nonna, her small wiry frame dressed as always in black, pulling on a hat. She’s still in her slippers.
‘Go back to the house, Nonna,’ he tells her.
‘What, and miss out on all the fun?’ she snaps back. ‘I’ve been doing this longer than you were alive. Thank God someone’s brought the old place back to life.’ She looks around at the misty scene and smiles widely. ‘Buongiorno, Ruthie.’ She nods at me and then sets to work next to Luigi and his wife at the lower branches.
Even Franco Pugliese is there with his wife. And, to my great surprise, Rosa’s parents.
They are all chatting, laughing and picking at my olive trees; setting up ladders, moving the nets from tree to tree, working in teams. Everyone is there except one person. I scan around again. Everyone except Anna-Maria, but then I really wouldn’t have expected her to be. I can’t believe they have turned out like this.
‘You! You did this, didn’t you?’ I turn to Marco and search his big blue eyes. ‘I thought you’d gone to find Ryan.’
‘Don’t worry. Ryan won’t be coming back this way.’ He looks to Franco, who raises a hand.
‘He’s on a big job,’ I say wearily.
‘He thinks he’s on a big job,’ Marco smiles. ‘By the time he gets there and realises there’s no work for him, we’ll be done here. No one will employ him now they know what he’s been up to.’
I look around and frown. I’m confused.
‘Why? Why would you do this for me? If I win this bet, you lose. You lose the house. Why would you do that?’
He smiles, and my heart flips over and back again. There’s an ache lower down, below my belly, that’s nothing to do with the olive picking.
‘Because you are an amazing woman, Ruthie Collins, and I think I must love you,’ he says, looking straight at me. The butterflies in my tummy tumble and loop the loop.
‘Damn! Now I know it’s a dream!’
‘It’s not a dream, really. I think I love you and have done from the moment you arrived. Well no, maybe not from then. But when I saw how hard you worked here, your determination, I began to fall for you. And I realised I loved you the day I saw you with the lawnmower in the olive grove.’
I stare at him in utter disbelief. The pickers seem to have stopped too, and I can feel all eyes on me. There are things I need to say, that I wouldn’t normally, but it’s okay because this isn’t real. I’m not really standing in an olive grove on a misty November morning with the man of my dreams telling me he loves me. And like all good dreams, I know you have to wake up.
‘But you can’t. Stop messing with me. What about Rosa?’ I turn to look, cringeing with embarrassment. ‘Her parents,’ I say in what I hope is a whisper. Rosa’s parents are there, picking and chatting as if nothing is happening.
‘I’ve told you, Rosa and I have known each other since school.’
‘Exactly, you’re childhood sweethearts. I can’t come in between that!’
‘Rosa doesn’t want to marry me and I don’t want to marry her. She has eyes for someone else. As do I.’ He takes hold of my elbows and draws me closer. ‘My mother had high hopes for Rosa and me, but it just made both of us unhappy. It was easier when I was away. In life, I have learned, you have to follow your heart, whatever strange places it may lead.’ He laughs, lifting me up on to my tiptoes, and kisses me all over again, just as I’ve been hoping he’d do ever since that first kiss after the olive tasting. It’s delicious, but I am very aware that I have been out here all night and need a shower and to clean my teeth. I pull away, knowing that, just like in a dream, once you die and go to heaven, you wake up. He looks at me. He’s still here.
‘It’s not a dream, then?’ I mumble.
‘It’s not a dream. I want you, Ruthie Collins, you mad Englishwoman!’
And the pickers all clap and chant, ‘Bacio! Bacio! Bacio!’
‘They want us to kiss again.’ He smiles and moves his lips to mine and runs his finger down my cheek, and I shiver with delicious excitement. I stop him, though, not because I don’t want him to – my lips are positively aching to feel his again – but because I have to know.
‘Your mother?’
‘My mother just needs time . . . and her family around her.’
‘She wants me gone, Marco. She will never let you be with me. She’ll never accept me.’
‘I have left my job. I plan to return here, to run the estate. We’re all agreed.’ He nods at his family. ‘She will be happy. But I want to make you happy too.’
‘So you’re going to do it. You’re going to run the Bellanuovo estate again! That’s fantastico!’ I say, and he laughs.
‘We have to try.’ He gestures to his cousins and the fields beyond. ‘You’re right. It was never about the house. It was about the family name. We needed to be the Bellanuovo family again. You made us realise that this place is part of all our childhoods.’ He looks out over the grove full of family, friends and neighbours, and I know I could never take this away from him.
‘Now, let’s get your olives to harvest. Or would you rather rest?’ He suddenly looks concerned. Right now, I would love to go to bed, I realise, though not to sleep. But that’s not for now. That’s for later, and the prospect thrills me. I will enjoy every moment of the waiting, and even more so finally going to bed tonight. A knowing smile passes between us as he strokes my cheek again, and all my aches and pains seem to disappear.
‘No way! I have an appointment at the press.’ And I have never felt more awake and alive.
‘Who’s that with Nonna?’ I ask Lou. Nonna is chatting and giggling with a short, dark-haired man. Lou laughs.
‘That’s my dad!’
‘What?’
‘Remember I told you how we were thinking of going to live in Wales, helping him with the business so he could start to take things easier? Well, he decided that life was too short. What was the point of us going over there when he could come out here and help us do up the trullo? And see more of Giac! So he’s selling up, the house and the business, and is coming out to join us.’
‘Lou, that’s fantastic!’ I nearly knock her out with my olive stick as I try and hug her. Tears well up in her eyes.
‘I know. It’s brilliant. We’re going to restore the trullo just like you’ve done here. It’s you that convinced us we should do it.’
‘What? Because all holidaymakers want is old falling-down properties?’
‘Something like that!’ she laughs. ‘We’re going to do agriturismo. B and B to you and me. Dad’s going to help Antonio and put some money from the sale of his business into it. He wants to see his grandchildren grow up.’
‘Hang on, did you say grandchildren?’ I look down at her belly and she squeals in delight and nods her head and hugs me so tightly I think I might fall over. And I hug her back, truly delighted for them.
We pick all morning, and then the olives that are ready are loaded into Luigi’s trailer on the back of the tractor. The fruit and veg man from the market has brought his Ape van, and Sophia takes some too, in the back of her Fiat 500.
Cars, mopeds and vans are reversed and there is a lot of wheel-spinning. By the looks of it, a convoy is ready to set off to the frantoio. It’s very different from the funeral cortège that left Anna-Maria’s house when I first arrived. There is smiling, shouting and the beeping of horns.
‘Ready?’ Marco asks me.
‘I’ll get my car,’ I say, then realise it’s totally boxed in by the wall.
‘
No, you get to ride with the olives,’ Marco says. He climbs on to the crossbar between the tractor and the trailer and holds out his hand. He pulls me up and shows me where to stand, then puts his arms around me and holds me tightly to him.
‘Pronto?’ He looks around.
‘Pronto!’ we all shout back. ‘Ready!’
The tractor lurches forward and I cling tightly to the trailer and to Marco. There is a cacophony of horns again, and I feel my heart bursting with pride and happiness as we travel down the drive.
There is a dip in my delight as we pass Anna-Maria’s villa. She is standing on the front steps, under the red and white awning, wiping her hands with a tea towel. She doesn’t smile. I find myself pulling away from Marco and dropping my eyes. Nonna passes us on the back of a Vespa and shouts excitedly to her. Like I say, Anna-Maria is never going to accept me into her family, that much is clear.
We wind our way down the lane and take a right-hand turn off the main road towards the press. Then we bump and sway along the tight and tiny lane through fields of Bellanuovo olives. Very soon all this land will be one again and the walls will be knocked down. The olives tumble and fall in the trailer, like excited schoolchildren on a day trip.
I look at my watch. We’re only just going to make it, but we’ve got the wind behind us and the gods on our side.
Just then the tractor comes to a sudden halt, catapulting us forward so that I nearly end up head first in the olives with my feet waggling out. Marco catches me and I regain my balance.
Luigi is jumping out of the cab and shouting. I turn to see him waving his arms, waddling very quickly on his short legs towards the flock of sheep that have wandered into the road. Young Luigi jumps out of the car behind and waves his big worker’s hands too, and between them father and son move the sheep into a field by the side of the road. They pat each other on the back and the tractor starts up again.
Almost immediately the convoy is stopped in its tracks by a little car coming in the other direction.
‘UK car! Holidaymaker!’ Marco shouts, and rolls his eyes playfully. I strain around the cab of the tractor as Luigi shouts that the car will have to reverse up. All I can see is a large map being wrestled with in the front seat. It reminds me briefly of home – Ed always liked a map – and for a moment I wonder if they’re viewers looking for the masseria. I feel a stab of regret go right through me.
‘We’re not going to make it,’ I shout over the tractor noise. Just then the whole convoy begins to beep its horns. My heart starts to swell again as I look round from the tractor to the line of cars and bikes behind us. Nonna is even shaking her fist. With squealing accelerator the car starts to reverse from side to side up the lane, bouncing off walls and hedgerows. Again I’m reminded of Ed; he was a terrible driver. But Ed is a very long way away, and I’m beginning to believe that finally that part of my life is over and done with.
The convey lurches off again, quickly getting up a head of steam. Luigi barely slows down as we approach the olive press. It’s nearly lunchtime and I just hope the gates are still open. They are! Luigi gives us a quick glance as he takes the corner at speed, the wheels of the trailer lifting. Marco and I shout, ‘Whoa!’ and cling on to each other for dear life, because that’s how I feel about him, like he’s now my life here in Puglia.
We hurtle down the long drive towards the big metal sheds at the end, where Rosa is standing, just pulling the door to on the press.
‘She’s closing for lunch! I’ve missed my spot!’ I wail in horror.
She stands up straight when she sees us approaching and folds her arms. The cars and mopeds all screech to a halt and the occupants jump out, apart from Nonna, who has to be lifted off the back of the Vespa and nearly topples Lou’s dad over in the process.
They are surrounding Rosa now, arms waving, trying to persuade her to reopen. But she shakes her head, shrugs and explains that they know the rules. They must be there on time or the slot goes. Her staff have gone for lunch.
‘She doesn’t have another slot for three days,’ I wail. ‘The olives will be ruined! Too acidic. I won’t be able to sell it as top-quality oil, and I’ll have to reimburse all the customers who have paid me!’
Marco turns and raises an eyebrow, and nods his head, impressed. And much as I would like to enjoy the moment, I can’t help but feel despair. All my hard work, and theirs – I look around – for nothing! Even Rosa’s father is trying to get her to bend the rules, but they just start arguing about who is in charge now.
Marco jumps down from the tractor. If she says yes to him, I will be thrilled but my heart will break at the same time. I’ll know for sure that she’s in love with him and there’s no way I can step in there. There’s lots of hand movements and talking . . . and then she shakes her head. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Then Young Luigi emerges from the back of the crowd, and everyone stops shouting and arguing. He slips his hat off and holds it in front of his chest. He blushes under that deep olive skin and then lifts his big eyes to Rosa, who looks like the Angel Gabriel himself has come to talk to her. Her face is lit up, glowing, waiting on his words.
‘Signorina Rosa,’ he stutters quietly, ‘this woman has worked so hard to pick the olives. If you turn her away, they will die. She has done it out of love. Sometimes love can be a painful thing.’ He’s looking right at her now and she is searching his eyes. ‘She hasn’t always found the right path, the right words or the right way, but she has kept the love in her heart,’ and I’m beginning to think it isn’t me he’s talking about any more. I look up at Marco, who smiles back knowingly. ‘Just like I have kept love in my heart. If you understand any of what I’m saying, please reopen the press.’
Rosa speaks with difficulty. ‘My machine operator has gone into town for lunch,’ she says.
‘I will help, we all can.’ Young Luigi gestures to the crowd, who cheer, and he shyly tilts his head once more. ‘You just have to say the word.’ He looks back at her, and they’re definitely not talking about the olives now.
Beaming, Rosa grapples with the keys and swings back the huge concertina doors. The gathered crowd cheer some more and surge forward, grabbing grey crates to unload the olives into, whilst others go straight to the weighing scales and the machine powers up. Now I just need to know I have enough olives to make my own pressing. I hold my breath.
When the scales tip round, Rosa lifts a hand. Yes! That means I get my own pressing! Young Luigi dives straight in to grab a couple of crates, exchanging smiles and looks with Rosa on the way. Marco’s arm slides around my shoulders and he kisses the top of my head. I think I’ve joined Rosa in believing the Angel Gabriel has visited.
Everyone surges from the weighing scales towards the big machine, tipping the olives from the crates into the steel collecting bin, which is like a huge hungry mouth. I pour my crate in and they cheer and clap again, then the machine starts. As a group, we follow the olives on their journey. Young Luigi is standing side by side with Rosa and her father, who is obviously impressed by his enthusiasm for the machines. From the washer, the olives travel up a spiral tube. The group chat amongst themselves, about this year’s harvest and the quality of the oil. There is an air of expectation as the olives go on to be ground into paste and then the oil is separated from the water. Finally, there is a shout. A large metal canister appears from somewhere, and from the little pipe at the end of the long room full of blue and silver machinery, deep green olive oil starts to trickle out. More cheers and I’m nudged and pushed forward.
‘There it is! Your oil,’ Marco whispers in my ear.
‘Bellanuovo oil,’ I correct him with a smile.
Someone holds the canister under the flow and starts to fill it. Then Marco is handed something by Rosa. He leans forward, then turns back to me with a small white paper cup.
‘Taste it,’ he says, holding the cup to m
y lips. Our eyes lock again, like magnets drawn back to each other. I put my hand to the cup and his doesn’t leave it. An electric shock ricochets through my body. The rim touches my mouth, and it’s like Marco is putting his own lips to mine. As he tilts the cup, the thick, syrupy oil reaches my lips. I hold his gaze; the butterflies do the haka in my stomach and a fire is blazing down below.
I let the thick liquid touch the tip of my tongue first, then slowly seep into the sides and back of my mouth. It’s peppery and fruity, then it slides warmingly down my throat and I close my eyes. There is a hush in the room. At last I open my eyes, smile and raise my little cup like an Olympic champion.
Everyone claps, and then the shouts of ‘Bacio, bacio!’ start up again. Marco and I both laugh and blush, then to the delight of our audience he kisses me gently on my fruit-flavoured lips, before pulling away and licking his own.
But still the clapping goes on, and we turn to see Rosa and Young Luigi kissing deeply and fully, like they’ve waited a lifetime to do it. I can’t help but get caught up in the feeling of love and happiness and join in the applause.
‘Here we believe that good things take time. Like our food, slow-cooking is the special ingredient that makes an amazing recipe. All good things take time to grow.’ Marco looks from the oil pouring out of the pipe back to me. Prosecco appears from somewhere and is poured. The glasses fizz up and mine fizzes over. Everyone is toasting the harvest, my harvest. Glasses are chinked and good health and thanks. I am giddy with relief, happiness and something that feels a lot like falling in love. Perhaps it’s something else I haven’t felt before too: a feeling of belonging.
Travelling back to the masseria, the neighbours peel off one by one, returning home as the late-afternoon sun begins to dip in the sky. They all promise to be back in the morning to pick the last of the olives and finish the harvest.
Luigi has a smile like the Cheshire cat when he drops us off at the masseria. Young Luigi has stayed on at the press to help Rosa out with a machine that needs stripping down.
