by Adele Parks
And I have great hopes for my relationship with Raffaella too. After all, I've never rowed with her. I've never even spoken to her. She can't dislike me. Roberto never expected the bad feelings to linger for so long. When we first married he used to insist that things would smooth over as soon as we had children; new babies are very bonding. So of course things never smoothed over. But we're going to mend bridges. I'm not daunted. I'm going on a charm offensive. Besides, I'm pretty sure that I will be presenting her with her first grandchild within the year and then everyone will be smiling.
My new-found confidence comes from another article I read on that website – the one with the curvy, smiley lady sitting in the forest. It said that the natural approach to fertility is and has always been enormously successful. And that's largely because fertility is multi-factorial, meaning that there are many, many elements that can be at the root of fertility problems.
The article went on to say that a study conducted by the University of Surrey showed that couples with a previous history of fertility problems who made changes in their lifestyle, paid attention to their diet and took nutritional supplements had an 80 per cent success rate. Given that the success rate for assisted conception is around 20 per cent, that's a cheering statistic. Obviously it's worth considering.
Duh. Why didn't I think of it before? We've been careful about our diet and I've taken the (endless) relevant supplements but we've never addressed the other bit; the big bit – a change in lifestyle. Everyone knows sun is good for growing things. Why not for growing babies? As soon as I read the article I knew that moving to Italy was exactly what Roberto and I needed. We don't get enough sun here in London. Even over the last couple of years, when we've had global-warming-enhanced summers, I still can't claim to have developed an actual tan.
Our flat boasts a London backyard but only the very cockiest estate agent would have the balls to describe it as a garden. When I sunbathe there I am less than a foot away from our Sky dish and three foot from the neighbour's Sky dish. There's a telephone pylon practically sitting on my lap. There's no grass, just a few dried-up plants in cracked pots. The only greenery is the mould climbing up and out of the rubbish bin. It's not a place conducive to long spells of sunbathing.
Many of the articles I've read on fertility suggest that fresh air (the old-fashioned stuff) – for about six hours a day – might help in some way, so I try to get fresh air as often as I can. We eat outside whenever it's not snowing or raining. This can also be attributed to the fact that we haven't space for a dining table inside our flat and as Roberto is Italian he really cannot bring himself to eat his supper from a tray in front of the TV. We do have a small but unbelievably heavy, square wooden garden table and four clunky chairs. The set was once 'the thing' from Habitat and cost a couple of weeks' wages. But now it's impossible to have a meal without getting a splinter; apparently we should have rubbed teak oil or something into the wood every six weeks or so. We should dump the table, it's useless. Maybe it's a good thing we don't have a child. It would probably die through lack of regular varnishing and a waterproof covering in the winter.
There are parks in London; beautiful ones. But the vast majority of the seven million Londoners have equal or less personal space than us, and so on hot days London parks are reminiscent of very industrious ant colonies. Except none of the ants are working together; instead they are all prepared to go to war for an extra inch of space for their picnic rug.
My conclusion is that London equals no sun, no fresh air and no space. Add to that poor wages, long working hours and hectic commutes and it's little wonder I haven't conceived. I push to the back of my mind the fact that wherever I turn in London I bump into a pregnant woman, proving that, whatever stresses there may be involved in living in a vast Mediapolis, it clearly doesn't annihilate everyone's fertility.
'Won't you miss your flat?' asks Alison.
'We're not selling, just letting it out.'
But no, I won't miss it. We've lived in the flat for six years – that amounts to seventy-two opportunities to have a family and I've botched every one of them. The place is crammed with the ghosts of what might have been. Besides, in Chiswick the GapKids is almost next door to the smart convenience store which is open twenty-four hours a day. So at midnight, when I am obsessing about my lack of children and desperately need to be in possession of chocolate or alcopops, I make a mad dash for the store and am brought face to face with cutesy displays of dinky socks and T-shirts with charming motifs. It's a form of torture. I've often thought of writing to the council to try to get Gap's lease revoked. I could use my mental stability for grounds of objection or something. Couldn't they relocate to the other end of the high street, at least until I conceive?
'So you are sure you're ready to leave London?' Alison probes. 'The nightlife, the fab restaurants, the shops?'
'I'll miss you, but London is so busy and crazy. I no longer belong here.'
The only people who belong less than I do are mothers with kids and pushchairs. I see them struggle up and down the stairs at Tube stations. I've heard the impatient tuts as a mother pulls out her breast in a smart restaurant and starts feeding her hungry baby. The skinny people aren't grateful for the hush; they are offended by the most natural thing in the world. London is an accepting melting-pot, rightly tolerant of any religion, race or sexual proclivity but intolerant of motherhood. Perhaps my body can sense the city's reluctance to embrace.
I take a deep breath and grin broadly. None of this is going to be a problem any more. Everyone knows that Italians love kids. There will be an abundance of wide open spaces, fresh air and sun. I'll probably be pregnant before we get through passport control.
9
I5 January
Veganze is an ancient centre of grape cultivation in the province of Vicenza, in the Veneto. I am a bit confused as to exactly what that means geographically; a village inside a county, inside a region – I guess. I'm finding Italian geography a bit tricky, what with its numerous provinces and regions and names of cities that are inconveniently similar to names of other towns that just happen to be right next door. However, I have repeated the phrase, 'Veganze is an ancient centre of grape cultivation in the province of Vicenza, in the Veneto' often enough in the past few weeks to at least give the impression of authority and knowledge.
Throughout the crazily busy last few weeks, while I've been packing, sorting and discarding my worldly belongings, cleaning, advertising and renting our flat, browsing and buying a new wardrobe, and planning, catering and throwing a tremendous leaving party, I have found a little bit of time to read up on Veganze.
I don't want to appear totally ignorant on arrival.
I have bought several huge fat guidebooks about Italy. But I was disappointed to discover only one of them mentions Veganze, which suggests Roberto's home town is more of a home village. None of the designer brands have flagship stores or even factory outlets in Veganze. Then again I ought to be thankful there are no galleries or museums. It saves me the effort of feigning interest in them.
The guidebook informs me that the finest wines of the area have been sent to the market in Veganze for centuries, to be shipped from there to many parts of the country. In the second half of the nineteenth century, the vineyards of the region were practically destroyed by phylloxera (I'm not exactly sure what that is but it sounds awful – definitely worse than a heavy cold). Apparently, phylloxera made its first appearance in Italy precisely at Veganze. I hope it is long gone and I hope it's a disease that's restricted to grapes and not something that can in any way effect fertility in people. I make a mental note to look up phylloxera next time I'm on the web. They must at least have an internet cafe in Veganze.
I continue reading and discover that when the vineyards were replanted, the Pinot Bianco and Nero, Cabernet Franc and Cabernet Sauvignon varieties were introduced. And that step provided local growers great and immediate satisfaction. I imagine the local growers rolling around drunk and I smile
to myself.
'What is our business?' I ask, turning to Roberto. 'Pinot Bianco, Pinot Nero, Cabernet Franc or Cabernet Sauvignon?'
Roberto is listening to his iPod and totally engrossed in the lyrics of some Arctic Monkeys track. Song lyrics mystify him. For years he thought Oasis were singing about being chained to a mirror and roller blades rather than razor blades, in 'What's the Story Morning Glory'. I thought his mistake was cute and never had the heart to correct him. When he answered a pub quiz question incorrectly as a result, he was furious with me. We've both been so frantic preparing for this short flight (which is also the longest journey of my life), we've barely had a chance to talk about the actual logistics of how we'll live our lives once we reach Veganze. I want to ask a few questions before we touch down.
Roberto accepts water from the air steward and then removes his headphones. I repeat the question. This time I don't have to look at the guidebook as I've already memorized the names of the wines.
'We see them all.'
'Really! My God, our business must be enormous.' I like saying 'our business' – although technically I have no equity in the vineyard, I am family and therefore, as it's a family business, I feel entitled to describe it this way.
'No, quite small really,' says Roberto.
I'm confused; how can a small vineyard grow enough grapes to produce four different types of wine? I'm no expert but don't all those wines require various grapes which presumably require different types of soil? Isn't that the idea; chalky, peaty or er ... muddy soils all produce different types of grape?
'So what grape, exactly, do we grow?' I ask.
It is Roberto's turn to look confused. 'Grape? We don't grow any grapes.'
'We buy them? I can't see how this works at all. I mean don't we need enormous amounts to produce all those wines?'
'Sorry?' Roberto is staring at me as he does when I try to explain the plot of EastEnders— or the point of EastEnders, come to that. He thinks I should invest thirty minutes, four times a week, in real people rather than watching soaps.
'Look, just start from the beginning and talk me right through the process. I clearly have no idea how vineyards operate or how wine is produced.'
'Vineyard? We don't own a vineyard.' Roberto looks shocked.
'We run one, though?' I ask uncertainly. I think I already know the answer. 'No.'
'But you said your family were in the wine business.'
'We have a bar. My mamma runs a bar. We own that.'
I flop back against my headrest and try to digest this information. A bar. A bar! I've worked in countless bars in London. The work is hard, smelly and relentless. I thought I'd left all that behind me.
'When we met you said your family were in the wine trade.'
'They are.'
'And I assumed you meant they had a vineyard. You didn't correct me.'
'Probably not then, I was trying to impress you.' Roberto leans towards me and kisses the end of my nose; he grins at me as though I am the most amusing creature on earth. I don't feel amusing, I feel stupid.
'But I bought a long white linen gypsy dress,' I stutter. I don't add that I spent a bomb on it. 'It's not suitable for bar work.'
'Or indeed vineyard work, I imagine,' he says pleasantly. 'I said that you would work in the bar. You agreed.'
Yes, I did, didn't I? I am furious with myself for not taking a greater interest and probing further into the exact nature of Roberto's family business. On the couple of occasions that Paolina has visited us I have heard them talk about customers, suppliers, rent. I thought he meant rich American tourists buying cases of European wine to lay down, not backpackers who were thirsty to neck a bottle of beer. It's not always easy to keep track of their conversations; they mostly talk in Italian when they are together, even if I am there.
Roberto sees that I am crestfallen. 'Don't look so sad. You will be amazing in the bar. All your experience will be invaluable. We will work side by side. It will be a great challenge. Lots of work but lots of fun.'
Roberto quickly kisses me with affection, shakes his head and then starts to chuckle to himself. I can't see what's so funny.
10
Italy smells just as I remembered it: delicious. Even in the airport there is a vivid aroma of strong coffee sweetened to treacle. Beautiful, slight women glide past me, leaving behind the scent of clean hair, clean bodies, clean clothes and the latest designer perfume. The young men also smell delicious and I swivel my head to follow their scent, which twice almost causes me to trip up over someone's suitcase.
One or two of the older men smell of bitter, stale sweat, which practically makes my eyes water, I'd forgotten that.
I fight my way through the cigarette fog, which is strange to me now that smoking is prohibited in Britain's public places. I'm normally apathetic about anything political but I did sign a petition to get smoking banned. The smoke crackles in my throat, no matter how much water I drink. I want to like everything but the smoke is annoying.
Roberto has hired a car. We plan to buy one as soon as we can, although I'm nervous about driving on the right-hand side of the road. By the time we drive from Verona to Veganze I'm nervous about driving at all. I'd forgotten how fast and aggressively everyone drives here. Every car wears a bang or a scratch almost like a badge of honour. I wonder if Roberto took out the extra insurance to waive the excess. Plus, the roads are pockmarked with potholes so I'm sure we are going to burst a tyre. Still, I admire the Italians who are having too good a time to waste it digging up roads. In Britain I sometimes think we do little else other than dig up roads. With relief I note that some things have changed. Everyone now, very sensibly, wears a helmet while driving a scooter or motorbike. I approve. I remember when I visited as a teenager no one would risk messing up their haircut by wearing a helmet, so a sickening number of floral tributes and elaborate shrines littered the roadside.
I make an effort to turn my thoughts away from such grimness and concentrate instead on the scenes that are flashing past outside.
'The countryside looks glorious, hey?' asks Roberto with a wide and relaxed beam. I haven't seen him smile in such an open way for a long time, so I nod enthusiastically. It's a lot colder than I expected. I'm already regretting my ruthless pruning of my winter wardrobe and my insistence that I'd only need a light mac. Secretly I'm longing for my thick winter coat, which I left behind with Alison. I daren't grumble to Roberto because he said I was being stupid giving all my winter clothes to friends and the charity shop. He kept telling me that it was just as cold in north Italy in the winter as it was in the UK. I'd sort of thought that he must be mistaken or joking. After all, Italy is hot, isn't it? OK, not all year round, like in Africa, but I was certainly expecting it to be a few degrees warmer than Blighty. My memories of the place are all bathed in orange sunlight.
Right now there's snow on the mountains and the fields are waterlogged. But the light in Italy is always beautiful. The pale winter sun valiantly shines, offering if not warmth then at least a beautiful pink hue. I watch as the sun begins to set behind the mountains and amber rays gently slip and seep on to the fields as they have done for thousands and thousands of years. Somehow everything seems older in Italy, which is ridiculous. I'm aware that the sun has set on land masses that are recognized as Britain for the same length of time as the sun has set on Italy; however, there is something at once timeless and dignified about the air here.
We arrive at Veganze at about seven. It's pitch black but with the help of street- and head-lights I stare at the streets that now belong to me. Roberto excitedly gives me a running commentary on the places of interest.
Veganze's central focus, somewhat atypically, is a T-junction rather than a square, although it's still referred to as a piazza.'
I want to show my enthusiasm but most of the buildings are functional rather than beautiful. I fall with relief on the only exception. 'That's impressive.' I point to a grand, creamy-custard-coloured church that is flanked by an enormous
tower.
'The tower is over a hundred metres high and over a century old,' says Roberto proudly.
I nod, silently committing the facts to memory. I can already imagine giving my parents this guided tour when they come to visit me. I'd like to impress them with a bit of local knowledge.
The streets are cobbled, and while they're nominally pedestrianized I watch cars drive and park right outside the bars where people are taking drinks and eating cakes. I mildly resent the cars as they somewhat break the idyll, but no one else seems put out. The shops are just closing. Owners rattle large bundles of keys while customers wave their goodbyes and then scuttle home to the warmth. I quickly total up the facilities the town offers. There's a chemist, a shop that sells all manner of plastic (toys, deckchairs, buckets and mops), a shirt shop, a bakery, a hairdresser's. Hmm, I was hoping for more. There are also three banks and at least four bars.
'Which is our bar?' I ask Roberto.
