Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  “The poor child won’t be able to understand a word.” To:

  “How can the children learn to speak Italian and English? It just isn’t fair to them.” Or more to the point:

  “What did you just say to them?”

  I tried to answer as best as I could and explained apologetically, that I could only speak English to Alex and Elisa. Another important factor was that I wanted my family in England to be able to converse with them. Their English roots wouldn’t lie dormant if I could help it. In fact, in next to no time, our children were bilingual talking in English to Mummy and Italiano a Papà.

  Like English children, they also had a routine and I put them to bed early in the evening. This didn’t go down well with visitors who chose to pop in after 8pm. Why put them to bed when they’re still wide awake? Children should go to sleep when they’re tired. How could the English be so strict? It just wasn’t right.

  *

  Local parks with a playground still had to make their debut in Piussogno and surrounding villages, as did pavements. When we went for a walk, invariably it was a case of dodging the traffic. I had to keep to the grass verge and ignore motorists who took great delight in overtaking pedestrians at the last minute.

  “Honestly, I never know whether I’m going to end up in Morbegno on the bonnet of a car, hanging onto the pushchair with one hand and holding on to Alex with the other. And why are cyclists such menaces? They always ride at least two abreast, if not more and although they dress like competitors in the Tour of Italy, their knowledge of the Highway-Code is sadly lacking.”

  “So, you went for a walk this afternoon,” Michele nodded in sympathy, acknowledging the fact that I was having one of my Baker Moments (after my maiden name) as I called those days when nostalgia enveloped me and I longed to be back in my old home town where the children could play in Poole Park or go for a ride on the model train with Mum and feed the ducks.

  3

  Smoke Signals

  Our life soon fell into a pattern: playing with the children, shopping, cooking, and cleaning. The disco, which Michele and his brother Pietro had opened at the end of 1977, continued to be a success and our weekends flew by in a flurry of colour and music. Another bonus was that with the Rendez Vous being next door, Michele didn’t have far to go to work and Alex often went with him. Michele’s father, Alberto, usually came down every day, puffing on his trademark non-filter cigarettes. One sunny afternoon, I walked down with the children and sat on some boulders nearby to watch as Michele stacked crates of bottles. Alberto arrived soon after and, wanting to speak to the children, put the half-smoked cigarette in the top pocket of his jacket. After a while, Alex started tugging at my sleeve:

  “Look, Mummy, Nonno’s smoking lots!”

  “Yes, darling, I know.” I continued amusing Elisa with her finger puppets.

  “Mummy, Nonno’s smoking lots and lots and lots and he hasn’t got a cigarette in his mouth!”

  I glanced towards Alberto and gasped. Smoke spiralled quietly out of his pocket into the air as he moved backwards and forwards lugging beer crates and somehow neither he nor Michele noticed the greyish puffs swirling above them. Jumping up, I sprinted to where the two men were working, shouting to Alberto to take out the offending cigarette butt before the jacket went up in flames. When he finally understood that it wasn’t a replay of an earlier moment when I’d tried to explain my encounter with a pair of psycho-turkeys in the village, he quickly extracted the cigarette and winking at me, calmly placed it once more between his lips, inhaling deeply.

  “Grazie,” he said, “di solito si spegne subito…chissà stavolta.” With a broad grin, he patted the smouldering hole in his jacket pocket and resumed his job in hand.

  I couldn’t help glaring at Michele as he took out a Marlboro and lit it. We’d had quite a few arguments over tobacco, especially after the birth of our two children but still he continued the habit I abhorred. It wasn’t only him, though. I got the impression that the majority of Italians smoked.

  “I’m sure they throw their dummies away and substitute them with cigarettes,” I’d told Mum one day when she was visiting. “If I’d saved a one thousand lira note every time someone offered me a cigarette, I’d have been a millionaire by now.”

  I truly hoped my children wouldn’t smoke when they were older.

  “If you want to kill yourself, okay,” I told Michele in a fit of anger one day, “but don’t make our children passive smokers. Think of them and their health.” He managed to look contrite for a while before lighting up again.

  Despite their father’s nicotine vice, Alex and Elisa grew into healthy Anglo-Italians that is until, my youngest, at 18 months old, developed a penchant for espressos and cigarettes.

  “Feffè,” Elisa would say, making a beeline for her father’s coffee cup, knowing that he would let her drink the last sweet drops. Then, if Michele left his cigarette in an ashtray, Elisa would break a toddler record to pick it up between two cherubic fingers and put it to her lips, inhaling just like her father. The first time she did it, we were convinced she’d end up at A&E and we’d end up in court but, thankfully, there were no side effects. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be an isolated case and we didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She even managed a few puffs on the pipe I’d given Michele for his birthday when he inadvertently left it on the coffee table. I could imagine my mum’s face when I gave her the latest update on her grandchildren:

  “Alex is fine but this week Elisa’s addicted to coffee and cigarettes and enjoys the odd pipe.”

  In the end, we decided to keep the ashtrays out of her reach and to pour milk into the coffee dregs. Whether the child psychology worked or she simply tired of the latest craze, we’ll never know – suffice to say that she gave up espressos and cigarettes before she was out of nappies.

  4

  Sausages and Baked Beans

  “You’ve got a letter.” Michele came into the kitchen to find me. “And it’s not from your mum.”

  “Really?” I had no idea who the sender could be.

  “Well?” Now it was Michele’s turn to be impatient.

  “It’s from a German lady in Morbegno inviting all foreigners in this area to meet up at Hotel Posta in Sondrio on 10th November. How did she know I’m English, living in Piussogno?”

  “Word gets around, you know.”

  The phrase: I heard it through the grapevine just had to have its origins in Italy.

  It was 1982, and apart from Kathy who worked in a travel agency in Morbegno, I hadn’t met any other English people. Michele was only too happy for me to go and as Kathy had also received a letter, we naturally opted to go together.

  That evening, thirty-five women turned up and between us there were fifteen nationalities. After a polite introduction to the foreigners present, Kathy and I gravitated towards the English. There were ten of us and as we chatted away about our new lives in the Valtellina, the succulent menu was ignored.

  “What do you miss most about home?” Although some of us had already been living here for several years, we still referred to England as home.

  “I really miss sausages and baked beans.”

  “Oh, I don’t. I miss Marmite and gravy and custard and…”

  “I could do with a boxful of Typhoo teabags and packets of self-raising flour. I always forget to add the yeast when I make a cake here. My dog is putting on weight – he’s probably the only one who’s happy with my attempts at cooking.”

  “Tell me about it! My mother-in-law is a great cook and I can’t even boil an egg.”

  I could definitely identify with Gill.

  “Yes, but there must be some things we don’t miss.”

  Silence. No-one could think of anything but before depression set in with a vengeance, waitresses appeared with plates of roast beef which, unfortunately, w
asn’t the same as our idea of how roast beef should be prepared.

  “Don’t tell me this is how Italians think we eat roast beef!” Lisa was shocked. “Someone should explain that we eat it cooked – not raw.” Everyone laughed.

  Despite our differences regarding food, we had a great time that evening and promised to stay in touch. The Foreigners’ Club proved to be a great success and a welcome outlet for sharing our ‘missing home’ grievances. Over the next few years, we met up on a regular basis, sharing our problems and coming home feeling much better. But, before we knew it, there were only four of us left. The rest of the English contingent, unable to adapt totally to the Italian way of life, had chosen to go back to England with or without their partners.

  When one of the English group decided to go home to Devon, she asked me if I’d like to have her pool table. She and her husband had run two bars but I’d never actually seen the games room and automatically imagined it to be for children.

  “Michele will have to come and fetch it with his lorry,” she told me.

  “How big is it?”

  “It’s a full size billiard table,” she explained, patiently.

  “How much are you selling it for?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

  “I’m giving it to you, otherwise it’ll be thrown away,” she smiled. “Oh and there’s a matching cabinet to store the cues and it has a score board, too. It’s all in pieces at the moment and will have to be put together.”

  The following weekend, Michele and I had quite a surprise when we came face to face with none other than a professional disassembled billiard table.

  “I’m sure it’s made of cherry wood,” Michele said, gliding his hand over the dark shiny surface.

  “Well, whatever it’s made of, I could never have got all this into our car,” I said as we loaded the large rectangular pieces onto the lorry. Having seen the exceptional condition it was in, Michele suggested a purchase price which was accepted appreciatively.

  We stored it in the upstairs floor where it lay for several years until the sound of rodents’ teeth during the early hours made us think that maybe it was time to call a technician to build it up again.

  5

  Only Italian, Please!

  When Alex celebrated his third birthday, we had to think about sending him to asilo, (pre-school) the following September, in Cercino, the village above Piussogno. This proved yet another bone of contention between Michele and myself because in Italy, children attending first, middle and senior schools have lessons lasting half a day, and come home for lunch, whereas the children of pre-school age go all day. It was a contradiction in terms. I had expected Alex to go for a few hours in the morning as they did in England. The idea that I had to take him to catch the school bus at 8.30am and to fetch him again at 4pm didn’t appeal to me.

  “We’re living in Italy,” Michele told me quite adamantly, “and you ‘ave to accept the Italian way of life.”

  “I may be living in Italy but I’m still very English,” I countered.

  I ignored comments from other mothers who assured me I’d enjoy having more time on my hands, meeting up for coffee with friends or going shopping. I wondered how they thought I would be socialising more when I still had a young daughter to look after. In the end, Michele and I came to an agreement: I would fetch Alex after lunch unless he asked me to stay all day.

  The asilo had also served as a first school in the past and now, as well as being a pre-school, it also doubled as the doctor’s surgery once a week. It was a large two-storey building on the outskirts of the village with a play area and lots of grass around it for the children to run about and shed any excess energy.

  “We’ve got to buy you two black overalls to wear on top of your clothes so that you won’t get too dirty, a pair of indoor shoes, a plastic cup for your toothbrush, a small hand towel, and a bib,” I told Alex, ticking off the items.

  “No bib!” Alex looked horrified at the idea. He didn’t use a bib anymore and refused to even consider taking one.

  “How about a serviette instead then?” He thought about it before nodding in agreement.

  With his bag ready, he started counting the days until school began and it was only then that he realised he was leaving his baby sister behind and his Mummy and Papà. As we walked down to catch the school bus, he blinked back tears, saying that the sun was in his eyes.

  “I’ll fetch you after lunch,” I promised him, as he climbed slowly into the pulmino. Going to fetch Alex meant I could see what the school was like inside and meet the two teachers. I wanted to see who the teachers were and which teaching techniques they used.

  Not surprisingly, the small population of Piussogno and Cercino meant the number of children at asilo was minimal and when I arrived, I found them outside in the garden. Alex didn’t even notice me as he played with his new friends.

  The two young teachers, both local girls, came to greet me.

  “Buongiorno! Venga a vedere la scuola.” This was their first job and their enthusiasm was touching. One of them gave me a quick look around the school and explained briefly the curriculum. Then they introduced me to the cook and showed me a group of tiny beds in an anti-room for the children to have a little rest if they were tired. Giorgia told me that some of the younger ones were used to having a nap after lunch and asked to lie down. They told me that Alex had been shy at first but soon joined in the games. He had eaten his lunch and had sat quietly for a story. Watching him playing happily, I wondered whether I would be doing the right thing by bringing him home instead of letting him stay all day. When he finally spotted me, he waved and grinned and said goodbye to the children and the teachers.

  As I had anticipated, Alex settled down with no problems. He loved it and after a few days, he asked me why he had to come home early.

  “Mummy, please let me stay. I want to sleep in one of the little beds like my friends.” Big brown eyes looked up at me, pleadingly and at that point, I decided to leave him until 4pm. Each day he’d come home with a picture he’d done or singing a song he’d learnt.

  Just before school closed for the Christmas holidays, they put on a Nativity Play in the afternoon and invited parents and relatives to watch. Alex had a small part which he took very seriously and needed no prompting. When it was over, they sat round and sang a carol. Refreshments were then offered before the surprise appearance of Father Christmas. Each year, one of the fathers offered to dress up as Babbo Natale for the Christmas Show, and the children looked in awe as he walked through the door carrying a huge sack of presents which we, the parents, had already wrapped up. It was a magical moment as he took out the gifts and called the children one at a time to receive them. Impatient little fingers opened the parcels immediately and there was great interest among the mothers to see what I had chosen for Alex. My Englishness was still very much a novelty in these mountain villages.

  Schools closed for a two-week break before school resumed after Alex’s first term at Asilo and I enjoyed having my son home with me. He tended to speak to me more in Italian, though which I resented. I was desperately afraid he’d stop speaking English altogether but I needn’t have worried. One day I made him cross, so with an arm around his sister’s shoulders, he said: “Come on, Ellie, let’s speak English so Mummy can’t understand what we’re saying!”

  In his frustration, he’d completely forgotten that I was English. I continued dusting with a smile. Elisa was his shadow. He was her hero and she was going to make the most of having him around before school opened again.

  *

  For the next three years, Alex set off happily each day to go to asilo. When Elisa joined him, two years later, he was in his last year and was preparing for first school. Her first day was definitely more animated than Alex’s. When she arrived, she decided that she didn’t really want to stay and wanted to go home to Mummy. Sh
e tried opening the door but wasn’t able to, so she did her best to climb up it, instead. Fortunately, the outburst didn’t last long and she was soon playing with Alex and the other children.

  There were only two occasions at asilo during his last year when Alex got off the school bus looking really miserable. Once because Silvia, a girl his age had been annoying him while he was trying to finish his drawing.

  “Go away!” he said in English. Silvia slowly pulled herself up to her full height, and after looking Alex squarely in the eyes, she ran to the teacher saying:

  “Alex just swore at me.”

  Although the teacher was shocked at this revelation, she still called Alex to her.

  “You know we don’t tolerate bad language here, don’t you? If Silvia was annoying you, there’s no need…”

  Fighting back angry tears, he interrupted her explaining what had happened.

  “But I didn’t say a naughty word. I just said ‘Go away’ – in English. I’m not allowed to swear anyway. Mummy says there are enough words in the dictionary without using bad ones.”

  Trying hard not to laugh, the teacher suggested he spoke Italian at school and English at home to avoid any further misunderstandings.

  “All right,” he sniffed, going back to finish his picture.

  So absorbed was he, that he didn’t realise anyone was watching him until he heard a voice.

  “What are you drawing?” Alex turned round to find Silvia leaning over his shoulder. He still felt cross with her for getting him into trouble, but he couldn’t keep a grudge for long and anyway, Silvia was his friend – most of the time.

  “It’s the beach in England where we go every summer. Do you like it? The sand really is this colour.”

  “Wow,” Silvia was impressed. “Hey, come and see Alex’s picture.” She beckoned to a few other children.

  “Is the sea really that blue?” asked one.