Mamma Mia... That's Life! Read online

  Mamma Mia... That’s Life!

  Valerie Barona

  Copyright © 2016 Valerie Barona

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  ISBN 978 1785894 404

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  1

  Villa Barona

  Four years had passed since I boarded the plane at Gatwick Airport in July, 1977 with my fiancé to start a new life in his mountain village in northern Italy. After the initial shock of finding myself in a time warp where the middle-aged women scrubbed their clothes clean in a stone washing trough in the village square, and the old men still used a horse and cart to transport hay and logs from one place to another, I had to decide as to whether I could adapt to the ways of Piussogno.

  Michele’s decision to build a disco with his brother had prompted varying reactions from the locals but as they watched it materialise and some even ventured inside, they had to admit that it could do no harm. The ‘Rendez Vous’ was a family concern with relatives giving a hand. In fact, its popularity grew fast and furiously, especially as it was assigned a prize for being the very first disco in the Valtellina. Michele and Pietro had to go to Milan to collect it – fame, indeed.

  Our wedding sealed the approval of the villagers and if they didn’t agree with us moving out of the paternal home in preference for renting our own flat, the birth of our son, Alex restored our status.

  Although our contract to stay in the Gusmeroli’s flat was for two years, we were still living there three years later. I enjoyed Nanda’s company and I knew I’d miss her two children popping up for merenda in the afternoon but now I longed for a place of our own. I was pregnant again and although sometimes tempted to return to Poole with Michele and Alex, after much deliberation and soul searching, I decided to make my home in Italy.

  “I’ve just ‘eard the piece of land by the side of the disco is up for sale,” Michele told me. “It’s a bit expensive but the Rendez Vous is doing well at the moment and we could afford it.”

  “Then buy it!” Impulsive as ever, I would have written a cheque for the land there and then.

  Michele asked his friend who designed the disco to design our house and he referred us to his architect colleagues who, in turn, drew up the plans. Sitting in front of a desk in their office, they asked me how many square metres I wanted the rooms to be. How did I know?

  “I want a reasonably small house: lounge, kitchen, bathroom, three bedrooms, with an en suite bathroom in the master bedroom and everything on one floor,” I specified in my best Italian. I assumed that was explicit enough – it wasn’t.

  On our second visit, they showed me plans which looked so complicated that I understood less than before.

  “Look, it’s pointless talking to me about square metres because I don’t know how big a room of 80 square metres is – I just want a house that’s built on one floor.” Michele detected the rising frustration in my voice and came to the rescue by asking them to build a model for me. That way I could see for myself the numerous sloping roofs and balconies which they claimed would make it unique. Obviously, they had not done business with an English female before who put practicality before design and who was also pregnant. In their opinion, my querulous behaviour was obviously attributed to my hormones running wild. However, when they presented me with the model, which Michele naturally had to pay for, I must confess that the modern design of the miniature house looked good and I gave the go-ahead.

  Michele called the same builders who had built the disco and building began in April 1981. They finished it in July, just before the birth of Elisa and once again, we gave the villagers something to talk about. Every day I’d walk down with Alex to see the progress of the building work, stopping to speak to the locals on the way. Each one tried to glean a bit more information as to how the house would look when it was finished.

  “How many rooms will there be?”

  “Are you building it the English way?”

  “Will you have tiles or carpet?” they asked in dialect.

  I tried to answer as best I could – even though at times I was more concerned about the impending birth than the completion of our house which, in actual fact, resembled a villa more than an ordinary house. As the building progressed I began to panic. It didn’t appear to be that small to me. Thank goodness I’d stressed the fact that I wanted a small house and not a big one. I’d have ended up with a hotel.

  Built on slightly raised land, it stood out as a lone piece of futuristic architecture compared to the more usual square two-storey houses in the area. The high sloping roofs, giving intriguing angles, sheltered a number of balconies to the side and front of the house which offered breath-taking views of the majestic mountains encircling the valley with small villages snuggling between them. A shallow stream trickled lazily along the side of the house and lush woods stretched up as far as the eye could see behind it. Unfortunately, due to my pregnancy, I somehow didn’t appreciate the idyllic setting of our first house together. I had other more urgent maternal priorities to think about. Michele, however, became more and more excited as he watched the progress and spent most of his time on the building site, helping out when he could. My father-in-law, Alberto sauntered down daily, puffing away on his non-filter cigarettes and nodded appraisingly at the latest developments.

  I had specified, repeatedly, that I wanted everything on one floor but what I hadn’t bargained for was a basement and a mansarda or attic, as well. To the builders and architects it was a bonus, to me it meant more cleaning. Three months later, Mum’s arrival coincided with the builders putting the traditional branch in the chimney to show that they had finished their job and expected us to invite them for a celebratory meal. Michele and his brother, Pietro chose a restaurant by the lake. My mother-in-law, Carla, father-in-law, Alberto and sister-in-law, Mara joined us, too. Mum hardly had time to unpack before we were out again. Alex came with us, because in Italy, children are always included in such festivities. Everyone loved hearing him speak two languages and tongues would stop when Alex wanted to say something in English to his grandmother or me.

  “Nanna, did you know that I’ve got a new toy car?” and as Mum answered someone asked what he had said.

  “Ho chiesto alla Nonna se sa che ho una macchina nuova per giocare,” said Alex, totally unfazed by his ability to speak English and Italian.

  He took great delight in explaining the names of the various cold meats to his English grandmother, served as antipasto. Occasionally he’d glance at Papà for reassurance
and Michele would smile proudly saying: “Sì, sì, è giusto.” As if our son would get it wrong.

  Mum still couldn’t get used to how big the portions were. She had tried all the cold meats with accompanying pickles and had eaten her plate of pasta and was suitably full up. When the meat and vegetables were served she hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. After travelling all day, the thought of another course was almost too much for her. Alex loved meat and couldn’t wait for his turn. As the waitress gave him a slice of roast beef and a piece of chicken, his smile widened and his fork hovered.

  “Grazie!” he managed to say before devouring a generous helping of beef.

  “We’ve got ice cream next, Nanna!” he added, excitedly, in between mouthfuls. Mum positively groaned.

  “All I want is a cup of coffee and my bed,” she whispered to me.

  I knew just how she felt. When I first arrived in Italy, I remember being absolutely amazed at the amount of food Italians could consume for lunch and dinner. It wasn’t that I’d been brought up on portion control but no way could my stomach cope with such large amounts of food. Another important factor I learnt was that you could never consider going to an Italian restaurant for a quick meal. There is a ritual about taking your time and enjoying the food and company; you could sit at a table for three to four hours without realising. Tonight, though with fatigue setting in, both Mum and I couldn’t wait to leave.

  *

  Having decided on tiles for the floors of the entire house and not parquet or carpet, we had to choose the type of tile which was suitable for our villa. We wanted a warm coloured tile because winters here can be long and very cold.

  We then had to choose a kitchen and a bathroom. I took Mum with me to the Furniture shop in the village to look at kitchens. Just for a change, the one that caught my eye was the most expensive kitchen on display – the rich chestnut coloured wooden cabinets captured my imagination and I could quite happily envisage myself cooking for the family – and, I must add that nearly forty years later it’s still as good as new and I love it. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about cooking – I’m still waiting for my enthusiasm regarding culinary matters to materialise.

  Next on the agenda were bathrooms and Michele and I went to showrooms to look at them together. We both liked one in a chocolate shade – coloured bathrooms being fashionable at the time – however, since then, my tastes have altered considerably and I’d change it tomorrow if I could. The bathroom had also been the cause of a domestic. I’d specifically asked for a large room because with two small children, I wanted enough space to move around but, I was told we only needed a small one because we’d only use it one at a time. Somehow, I found it difficult to imagine my two year old going in to wash on his own and likewise my four month old baby. As if that wasn’t enough, I couldn’t even have the toilet roll holder where I wanted it because it didn’t look right.

  “Ma, sta meglio qua,” the plumber, the tiler and company told me.

  The fact that it involved swivelling around on the toilet seat to reach it just didn’t come into it. Bellezza took priority over praticità. I fumed silently. My bathroom ended up smaller so that the master bedroom would be bigger. The fact that I didn’t want a bigger bedroom wasn’t even taken into consideration. Somehow my en suite bathroom didn’t happen, either and both children had larger bedrooms than I considered necessary. The kitchen, on the other hand, remained a large room because I insisted on using it for meals, too. It had French windows which opened out on to the lawn in the back garden.

  “I shall probably be spending nearly 50% of the day here in the kitchen, and I intend furnishing it exactly as I want to.” I decided to speak my mind for once, before any forthcoming suggestions from various quarters over-ruled me.

  The front door opened into a lounge with a small wall separating it from the corridor. Here, there was another dining area for guests then two steps led down to a smaller lounge where a fireplace had pride of place in the centre. I had been swayed in the end, by the romantic notion of cold, winter evenings curled up in front of a roaring fire. I had conveniently forgotten about the hard slog of chopping tree trunks into logs, stacking them ready for the winter and then carrying them up each day to light the fire. Not to mention the daily chore of cleaning the fireplace and sweeping out the ashes. I should have insisted on central heating only.

  2

  It’s A Girl!

  Our daughter, Elisa arrived on Friday, 24th July 1981 and coincided with the completion of Villa Barona, as I nicknamed our house. The previous consultant on the maternity ward had retired and his predecessor was not exactly the most sympathetic of people. He had a knack of reducing new mums to tears and his feral manner didn’t endear him to the nursing staff. He marched down the corridor more like a general than a doctor and I could imagine him inspecting troops, instead of examining emotional females. Not surprisingly, I couldn’t wait to go home.

  During my week in hospital, Alex had become the talk of the village. At the tender age of twenty-eight months, he had made a name for himself as a simultaneous interpreter. He and Mum went to Giovanna’s to do the shopping every morning. Mum would tell him what she needed to buy and he immediately translated into Italian. Within a few days, the shop was packed when they went – being English, Mum kept to a routine and always walked down at the same time – so word soon got around and they had an audience. I could imagine the scene, Mum with her list saying to Alex, who obviously felt very important and indispensable:

  “Darling, we need some ham and some bacon.” And Alex:

  “Vogliamo un etto di prosciutto e uno di pancetta, per favore.”

  “Then some milk and butter.”

  “Poi, il latte e il burro, grazie.”

  Mum told me later how all conversation stopped when Giovanna served them. The villagers had never heard a child so young speaking two foreign languages. Alex also had to translate questions that the villagers wanted to ask Mum and, of course, the answers. He took everything in his stride, although becoming an older brother was a different matter altogether. According to him, the baby cried a lot and when she wasn’t screeching, she was eating. On one of our first walks, Alex quite happily agreed to swap Elisa for a packet of sweets.

  “Ciao, Alex,” said a lady coming out of the bar. “Me la dai la tua sorellina? In cambio, io ti darò delle caramelle.”

  “Sì, sì!” And without hesitating, he took the woman’s hand to lead her back inside before she changed her mind.

  The main topic of conversation was how clever we’d been to have a boy and a girl which left me somewhat mystified. My own thoughts on the matter were how lucky we were to have two healthy children, never mind the gender. I was even more perplexed when several people said that I was fortunate to have a girl because I’d have help when I was older. I hadn’t realised that the object of parenthood was to guarantee home-help in later years. No way would I want my children to look after me when I was no longer self-sufficient.

  We spent the following weeks organising Elisa’s christening and choosing Godparents. We ordered a cake and enough rolls, cold meats and cheese in case guests decided to stay for the evening – which of course they did. Elisa wore the same christening gown as Alex and Don Giulio conducted the service in his usual affable way. The party afterwards was a success but then, when has an Italian party not been one? Italians certainly know how to have a good time.

  The next date on the calendar was Mum’s flight home and this time I found it exceptionally hard to say goodbye. However, with two small children to look after and Villa Barona near completion, there was no time for fretting.

  We moved into our new home on 6th November 1981, ignoring the lingering smell of fresh paint and new wood. The whitewashed walls and large windows made the rooms bright and cosy. We’d spent a lot of time and energy furnishing it but it had been worth it. Sleep eluded me on the first n
ight as a myriad of noises swept through the house. Outside, the stream bubbled over stones on its way to the river Adda, dogs barked, foxes screeched, while indoors, the pipes and radiators hissed and gurgled. As I wrestled with my insomnia, Michele, Alex and Elisa slept peacefully. Surprisingly enough, I couldn’t appreciate the dawn bird song the following morning.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t an isolated case and several more sleepless nights followed.

  “Why can’t I sleep?” I whinged to Michele over breakfast.

  “Try ‘aving a nap with the children in the afternoon,” he volunteered.

  “There’s housework to do while the children have a nap,” I sighed.

  Michele decided it was probably to his advantage not to continue the conversation, realising that perhaps I still had to come to terms with a new baby and a new house, and my decision to live in Piussogno.

  Being the first grandchildren in Michele’s family, it was only normal for them to dote on Alex and Elisa, expecting to see them on a daily basis. Advice on how I should bring them up bounced off my ears and I smiled and thanked them, wondering for the umpteenth time whether I had made the right choice in making Piussogno my home. Since having children, I missed my own family more and to compensate for their absence I became a very English mum to Alex and Elisa which was difficult, living in a small Italian village.

  “I’m going to speak English to our children,” I told Michele when I fell pregnant with Alex. I’d already decided that the baby wouldn’t be an only child, too.

  “Yes, okay,” Michele answered. “No problem.”

  But he was wrong: the language proved to be a problem. I didn’t want to seem impolite in the presence of other people but from day one I spoke English to the children. It came naturally to me to speak in my mother tongue and I found it totally impossible to switch to Italian. This obviously caused a number of varied reactions from: