One thing that seems to perplex them, however, is that I tend not to ask many questions. “You’re very social and you’re definitely not shy!” Whether it’s a trait I picked up in my formative years or something more innate, I can’t be sure. It’s not that I don’t care or that I’m not interested—I am—it’s just that I don’t like to meddle in other people’s affairs. My inquisitive nature only really found its outlet with Maureen in those early years in England and once she was gone I simply followed instructions and focused on being a good girl—anything not to upset the fragile equilibrium at home.
My mother ensured I looked nothing short of flawless, in my pigtails, ankle socks, and the ubiquitous Start-rite shoes (worn by virtually all British schoolchildren), at all times. I was happiest among my classmates at Hurst Lodge, where I instantly took to the camaraderie of an all-girl environment. My best friend was Belinda Elworthy, and as was the norm with British schoolchildren, most of us had a nickname, so we were known affectionately as “Pee and Bee.” We had so much fun together.
Back home and with no one to confide in anymore, it was a different story. In spite of my mother wishing that my father might visit more often, he still only came once a month, so the intervening weeks ticked slowly by. The house she’d found was lovely in the summer but cold and dark in the winter, so rooms were closed off and curtains drawn.
At least in Hendon, we’d had neighbors, and even though she never spoke to them, the idea of having someone nearby was comforting somehow. In Berkshire we lived in an area where houses were hidden behind gates and out of view. When we looked out of the window all we saw were trees and the occasional muntjac deer skipping across the lawn. Apart from one family that lived farther along the lane, we never became friends with anyone, and besides, my mother was never at ease engaging with anyone in English.
With a father who wasn’t present and a mother who struggled to be, I often felt like little more than an appendage. Mamma went through the motions with me in the same way as with her dog, Giada. When I needed to be fed, she prepared my meals. When it was time for me to clean up, she drew me a bath. Then she’d plop me in front of the television until it was time for bed. She’d done her duty and that’s where it ended.
I quickly learned to occupy myself in a way that bred lifelong self-sufficiency. Alone on weekends, I’d lose hours in the pages of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe or Peter Pan—both stories that offered their characters escape into places of fantastical adventures. I played with my Barbie dolls or chatted with imaginary friends. It never occurred to me to ask for a pet of my own to play with. In fact, I never really asked for anything at all.
My mother filled her days with the teachings of Sari Nandi, whom she still visited in North London once a week. For hours on end, she’d lie on her bed practicing her pranayama breathing as part of her preparation for Transcendental Meditation, which had a calming effect for a while and became her only real source of contentment. I didn’t appreciate it at the time but she was trying desperately to keep from slipping back into a black hole. While it may have been a form of escapism, she was just doing the best she could with the means at her disposal.
Whenever she was in her room meditating, I knew not to disturb her. On rainy weekends the water drummed on the roof and against the windows, keeping me from the garden I loved. As soon as the sun broke through the clouds I’d rush out to frolic with Brian’s children or invite Bee over to the house. She and I played happily for hours, dressing up in my mother’s old clothes while making up stories and characters to turn into little plays.
I was also thrilled to go to Bee’s house, where her ever-cheerful mother, Liz, treated me like another daughter. I never once met Bee’s father, whose absence I never questioned, such was the noisy, chaotic, and fun atmosphere of Rose Cottage. Bee was naughty, as were her sister and brother—the first boy to make my heart pound. Between us, we wreaked havoc, playing our silly little games and running wild. We left everything in a mess but at least it felt like a real home. At my house, there was an altogether different mood. There was hardly anything that didn’t make my mother anxious, and she often developed obsessions. When she worried I was too skinny, she began to ply me with food from morning until night and fed me some sort of stimulant syrup to boost my appetite. Whenever she thought I looked pale, she’d pinch my cheeks to bring back some color. If my hair looked lackluster, she’d curl it so I looked more presentable. It seemed imperative that I was well turned out at all times.
Bee thought I was the “luckiest girl alive,” with no siblings competing for attention and a big house all to myself. What I longed for more than a nice room, a smart dress, or pretty hair, though, was a kind word. Having come to know Liz, I longed for a mother like she, someone who’d take more of an interest in me and not just find fault where there wasn’t any. After they became friends, I hoped that some of Liz’s carefree nature might rub off on my mother but sadly it didn’t. When Mamma was my age she’d been smothered with love by my grandmother, who’d led her to believe she was the center of her universe. For some reason I have never understood, she seemed incapable of doing the same for me.
In fact, I can recall only a handful of occasions when we did anything fun. One Sunday morning when I was about eight years old sticks in my memory. It was raining and cold outside and until we lit a fire, Mamma’s bedroom was the only warm room in the house. With nothing else to do, she invited me to climb into bed in my pajamas and watch TV. Bored by the limited choice of programs, she said, “Let me show you some yoga.”
She began with the lotus position as she explained how to twist my leg until my foot rested inside my knee. Then she showed me the tree pose. I was good at that, balancing on one leg a few minutes at a time. “Look, Mamma!” I cried. She was impressed.
“Well done, Patrizina!” she said, calling me by the nickname she used only when feeling especially pleased with me. “You’re so flexible, you’re like a rubber band!”
Thrilled that I had her undivided attention, I carried on trying out all the poses she showed me. I mastered them all, right up to the shoulder stand, as I tried to balance on my head and raise my legs to the ceiling. Losing balance, I toppled backward onto the carpet, taking my mother down with me. The two of us lay there, hands on our tummies, laughing out loud with tears streaming down our faces—a rare moment of silliness in our otherwise spiritless existence.
The rest of the time we lived for the days my father was home, when life seemed so much more vibrant. Our big old house was often silent and gloomy and he represented a welcome burst of sunshine. Rooms were reopened, curtains were pulled back, and flowers appeared. As soon as I heard the crunch of tires on the driveway, I’d rush out the front door ahead of my mother. Grinning, his eyes sparkling, he was never the kind of father to scoop me up or swing me around but he would pat me affectionately on the head or peck me on both cheeks.
Then he’d embrace my mother. No sooner had he stepped through the door than she’d start complaining. “Aldo, I cannot cope with her…,” or, “Look at her school report. What are we going to do?” Never did she say anything positive or show him one of the drawings I had done at school. She made me feel like an instant disappointment when all I wanted was to be special in his eyes. Papà didn’t heed her comments much, telling me with an understanding smile, “We’ll talk later, Patricia.”
Then I’d be banished upstairs. “Vai in camera tua!” (Go to your room!) my mother would chide as she led my father into the kitchen and promised to call me when lunch was ready. I couldn’t help but resent her possessiveness. I also had things I wanted to tell him. There were plays I’d been cast in at school, books I’d read, and dances I’d learned. I longed to boast about the time Mamma had the flu and I virtually ran the household, answering the telephone in my most grown-up voice and signing for deliveries. I even made her a breakfast tray, which I carefully carried up to her room. “I boiled two eggs, toasted two slices of bread, and made tea,” I told him. “She
congratulated me on remembering everything—even the honey for her tea.”
My dream was for us to be a regular family for a few days. I wanted to create happy little bubbles of perfect times, even if I knew it could never be like that.
After weeks of seclusion, though, she was hungry for adult conversation. Knowing he was mentally preparing to leave from the moment he arrived, she’d compile lists and bombard him with a litany of problems as he sat quietly in abeyance. For her, each of his compressed visits represented her only chance to vent. And vent she did, which usually led to a row and then reconciliation all in the space of forty-eight hours. There was also lots of drama. “It was too much for me to handle,” she admitted later. “It was mad chemistry, everything all at once. I’d have to be lover, mother, friend, listener, and cook all in the space of a few days. I was like his Florence Nightingale. There was no time to just enjoy one another. For much of the time he was with us, it was a sense of duty.”
Eager to share what she’d learned from her guru, she quoted ad nauseam from her growing selection of books on mind, body, and soul. Papà had always encouraged her spiritual pursuits but one day he’d heard enough. “Bruna, Bruna, please stop preaching at me,” he implored. “We have such little time together. You don’t know as much as you think. I don’t need to read your books. I experience real life every day.” Softening, he added, “Thank you, but I have all that I need to know in my head.”
For such an impatient man, I thought he responded to her needs with surprising forbearance. Mostly, he’d nod and listen and tell her with a smile how adorable she was. Speaking to her in Italian, he’d call her by her nicknames and tell her how meravigliosa she was for coping so well on her own. “Brava, Bruna!” Once he’d heard all her news, my father would fill her in on the latest developments in his world, careful not to divulge anything that might upset her. As he decompressed from his high-octane life, he’d gradually open up to her in a way he couldn’t with anyone else. She became his confidante as he shared his anxieties about the family infighting or talked about the challenges he faced.
Most of all, though, he just loved to sit at the kitchen table and have Mamma spoil him. If he had a cold or a cough, she’d rustle up a few of her concoctions and lay her “healing hands” on his aching joints. He liked nothing more than to watch her prepare dinner. My mother was a wonderful cook who could make something out of virtually nothing, filling the house with the most delicious aromas. I don’t think she was ever happier than when she was standing in her apron in front of the stove, stirring and tasting. One of Papà’s most anticipated meals was coniglio alla cacciatora, a “hunter-style” stew made with rabbits from the garden, prepared with tomatoes, onions, peppers, wine, and herbs. Dragging his bread across the plate to savor every last bit of sauce—the final act of any home-cooked meal, known as scarpetta—he’d chatter and laugh as she fussed around him and ladled in some more.
Nowhere else in the world would a woman make him feel so nurtured. She was his safe harbor, offering the one place he could go to recharge. In the summertime, he and Mamma would swing back and forth on the dondolo seat on the terrace, taking in the sun and giggling conspiratorially. She teased him about his distinctive Tuscan dialect, famous for dropping the hard “c” and replacing it with a softer “h.”
“Aldo,” she’d say playfully, “vuoi la Hoha Hola con la hannuccia horta e holorata?” (Do you want a Coca-Cola with a short and colored straw?)
He, in turn, would mimic her Roman accent with its double consonants and truncated words, poking fun at the north-south divide that runs deep in Italy to this day.
Once he relaxed with her, so he began to relax with me. On Sunday mornings he’d take me to church and afterward we’d stop at a little bakery to buy cakes. Back home he’d sit by the fire puffing on his pipe while he watched John Wayne westerns. He never saw the whole movie, though, recumbent on the sofa and dozing off. I didn’t mind. I was happy to be at his side just staring into his face. For me, these were moments that were as precious as they were rare.
That feeling of closeness ended as soon as he left. The days immediately after were always the darkest, as we knew it would be at least another month before he’d return. Mamma would disappear to her room like—in her words—“a cloistered nun” while I went to my dolls’ house and walked the father figure back down the path. No matter how hard I tried to maintain the lighthearted atmosphere, I could never fill the vacuum.
Without his affection, my mother withered like an untended plant. When I went back to school the house would feel so silent that she could hear her own breathing. Like me, she lived for his visits. Like me, all she had to feed on were memories. “I’ll be back soon,” he’d cry with a cheery wave each time he drove away. Deep down I knew that he would and that he loved me, come what may.
My mother didn’t seem quite so reassured and retreated further into the recesses of her mind, and soon he began to worry for her sanity once more. After one weekend home when she seemed especially lost, he came up with a solution. “If Patricia were to become a full-time boarder, then you’d be free to travel with me.” She jumped at the chance—as did I.
Although I’d never asked to be a boarder and the decision was made in order to please my mother, from my perspective upgrading my day-girl status was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Eager to fit in, I immediately found kindred spirits. I loved my new regimen and the special feeling that came with being a boarder, playing pranks and whispering late into the night.
From that day on, the only time I went home was when my parents returned from their travels. I once went a whole term without seeing them, and although I missed our weekends together I had a life of my own and was as happy as a peach. My time at Hurst Lodge represents the best years of my childhood, and surrounded by all my friends, I wanted to stay there forever.
First events are important milestones in any child’s life—the first smile, the first tooth, the first step. In normal families, parents joyfully relish these moments and proudly tell all their friends.
Once I became a mother I wanted to be able to talk to my daughters about my own childhood development but it must have been Maureen who witnessed all my “firsts,” because getting anything out of my mother from those early years wasn’t easy.
“How old was I when I first started talking?” I’d ask.
“I don’t remember. One, I suppose.”
“And what were my first words?”
“Oh, I don’t know….”
Something we do both remember, however, is my First Communion. Soon after my ninth birthday we flew to Rome especially for the event. Looking back, receiving the sacrament from the very church that would have denounced my birth seems rather ironic, but in my long white dress laced with daisies—my mother’s favorite flower—and matching gloves, I felt like a princess. After the church service my father organized a luncheon for family and guests who’d come to witness my special day. Among them was my aunt Gabriella, whom I’d met on several occasions over the years. She and Mamma had become much closer since growing apart after my grandmother had died. Zia Gabriella was fun and lively, always giggling, and a stark contrast to her sister. Holding court with my first-ever glass of champagne, I was surrounded by people who seemed genuinely interested in me.
Another unforgettable first was the day I visited Gucci on Via Condotti with my mother for our very own after-hours shopping spree on that same trip to Italy. Up until then, I had only an inkling of what my father did for a living and where he went each time he left us. At school, I had come to understand that the funny Italian surname I carried—which some of the girls at school mockingly mispronounced as “Goo-ky” or “Goo-sie”—actually represented something not so “goofy” after all. I never appreciated the scale of my father’s enterprise, though, until the day he arranged for a few trusted employees to stay behind as he walked us through the store where my mother had once worked.
The fact that everyone was so def
erent gave me a fleeting feeling of excitement, but I sensed Mamma wasn’t comfortable being back there, no doubt thinking about all the idle gossip as we meandered through the store. I, on the other hand, felt right at home, especially when my father told me I could pick out a few things. “Why don’t you try on some shoes?”
I was boggled by choice until the manager showed me some soft white moccasins that I instantly fell in love with. They were my first pair of Gucci shoes, which I wore until they no longer fit me. Papà, laughing at me in his indigo suit with a spotted pocket square, was elegance personified. He had never looked more at home to me than in that store.
Without a doubt, the happiest “first” in my life was the time he took me on a trip to Switzerland. Mamma stayed behind, so it was just the two of us who went to visit my uncle Rodolfo at his chalet in the Swiss village of Suvretta, near St. Moritz. It wasn’t a vacation exactly, as there was business my father had to attend to, but I didn’t care. I was just looking forward to spending time with him.
“Fai la brava, Patrizina—behave yourself!” my mother told me before we set off. As if I would do anything else. Even when I was at such a tender age, people always commented on how I carried myself and how mature I was. Admittedly, the prospect of going on a long trip with Papà on my own was thrilling enough, but knowing that he had things on his mind, my mother thought it best to caution me for his sake. I didn’t have a clue that he was battling with relatives desperate to assert their authority over the business. Or that his hopes of floating Gucci on the Italian stock exchange had been dashed by his brothers, who were concerned that he was moving too fast. My father had aspirations of appointing his sons as directors to reward them for their hard work over the years but Rodolfo and Vasco were opposed to that idea, too, on grounds of nepotism. It was also unfair to their own children, they maintained, regardless of the fact that they were too young to be considered for such a promotion. After years of working toward what he considered a common purpose, it must have been hard for my father to be burdened by his family in this way.
In the Name of Gucci Page 13
