Chapter 4 #4
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m sure the electrician will arrive at some point.’
‘Luca, give the lights a try,’ he says. Luca goes to the switch by the front door and presses it down with a clunk.
There’s a fraction of a second and then – the lights are on!
‘You did it!’
‘Fiddly things, these old fuse-boxes. Be good to get it replaced. But that should keep you going until you do.’ He tosses the screwdriver into his tool-bag. We have light, and the fridge comes on with a loud hum.
‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you!’
He’s smiling, pulling his torch off. ‘It’s no problem.’
I spin quickly round to see if Marco is still where he was with the lights out. He is.
‘Just glad I could help,’ says Giovanni. He closes his tool-bag and heads for the door, glancing around the shabby little house, the walls covered with black-and-white photographs, and cobwebs showing up even more now there’s light.
Suddenly Aimee tugs at Giovanni’s hand. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asks. ‘Mr Fluffy wants to know.’
My heart swells with pride at my daughter’s good manners, and I’m cross with myself for forgetting mine.
He looks down at her, pushes his dark curls off his face and smiles. ‘Some water would be lovely, please.’
‘Probably the saftest option,’ Luca jokes, his eyes roaming around the stacks of boxes and someone else’s belongings. He moves to the kitchen area, and pours a glass from the bottle we brought back from the shop and gives it to Giovanni.
He takes a big gulp of the water and nearly finishes it. Then he looks around. ‘You have a lot to do here.’
I try not to sigh or think of the mayor and his deadline. I lift my chin. ‘Yes. But it’ll be fine.’
He smiles, and I can’t help but smile back. I hold up both hands and look at Luca, ‘I know, I know.’
‘And, really, no problem about yesterday. It was my pleasure.’ He finishes the water, puts the glass on the table and turns to leave. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Ciao .’ He opens the front door, and the bright light from the sun streams in.
‘Just one thing, Giovanni,’ I call.
He holds up a hand up against the sun and turns back.
‘Why did you serve us yesterday?’
Luca frowns at me as if I’m embarrassing him.
‘If you’d waited long enough and not rushed off,’ Giovanni replies, ‘I could have told you.’
It’s my turn to frown. ‘Told me what?’
‘La Tavola, where I live. The house I rent. It’s not a restaurant, but it is a community kitchen.’
‘What’s that?’ asks Luca.
Giovanni explains patiently, ‘It’s somewhere people come for company, to help their community, and where we provide meals for some of the people who need it in the village.’
I jump in quickly. ‘I wasn’t looking for charity, honestly. I can pay.’
‘Really, no need to be so prickly. I was happy to help. You looked ready to drop!’
Luca frowns at me again, clearly to remind me of my manners.
‘Well, thank you, and it looks like you’re doing a good thing. Let me know if I can repay the favour some time, while we’re here, which won’t be for too long,’ I gabble.
‘Well, we could always do with a helping hand at La Tavola. As I said, we provide meals for those who need them, delivering on a Friday night, and on a Sunday we make dinner for anyone who wants to come, those without family, on their own. Or who need company.’
‘That sounds great!’ says Luca. ‘My dad was a chef! And Mum …’
‘Maybe you could help me some time,’ he says to Luca. ‘If your mum lets you.’
‘I’d love that! Mum?’
All my fears rush up to meet me, a tsunami of worries about us, a tiny family, the children, their future.
I suddenly feel hot. Really hot. ‘Well, we’re not sure how long we’ll be here.
I need to tidy this place and get it on the market.
’ I’m floundering, reaching for the back of a chair to lean on, hoping he can’t see my flushing cheeks, or the worry that’s etched on my face that Luca will start to love cooking, like his dad.
What if he wanted to go into that industry?
It destroyed us. The long hours, the stress, the pressure of rising costs, fewer people going out to eat …
Unexpected tears rush into my eyes. We lost everything.
And with the lights on and the shabbiness of the house laid bare, I brush away any traces of tears.
‘It’s good this place is going to get some attention,’ says Giovanni, looking around.
‘It’s rammed with stuff but surprisingly well kept, considering no one’s been living here for so long. Did you know the person who owned it?’
‘A little. She was well respected and much liked but she was the last of the line for a big family. Their Sunday lunches were legendary apparently, hence all the furniture. She had no siblings or cousins, so no one to leave it to when she was gone.’
I’m suddenly seeing not the mess or the dreams Marco had for this place, but someone’s home, their place of safety.
And now it’s mine too, safety for me and my family.
The door is open: Aimee spots the cat and skips off to stroke her on the step.
It makes me smile and I want to remind them that it’s okay to be happy. We don’t have to be sad all the time.
‘Are you from here?’ I ask Giovanni, even though I’m determined not to get involved in local life. We’re not staying. I don’t want the children to become too attached, then have to uproot them again.
He shakes his head. He looks through the arch, into the kitchen and out of the back door towards the gently rolling hills. ‘This village was just here when I needed it most,’ he says. ‘I was travelling through and … I got stuck here, I suppose.’ He gives a little laugh.
‘And La Tavola?’
‘I like to think I’m giving something back. And, as I said, I’m always looking for more volunteers,’ he says, with his lovely smile.
For a moment I see a face peering through the open front door. I squint, but it may be the bright sunlight playing tricks with my eyes, creating patterns and images, a bit like seeing Marco standing in this kitchen. I shake my head, focusing on the here and now and what I know to be certain.
‘Sorry, kitchens and I aren’t a good match. Besides, I’ll have my hands full here!’ I look around the room, taking in imperfections that were barely noticeable in the half-light but are now illuminated, showing the work that needs to be done. I wonder where I’m going to start.
‘Okay …’ Giovanni says. ‘If you need anything, you know where I am.’
I raise a grateful smile. I’m back in the here and now, not in some far-off place where Marco had made plans for our future, telling me about the house and the village as we cleared away in the restaurant kitchen after a busy dinner service.
‘You will love it, cara ,’ he would often say as we waited for the sale to be finalized.
I loved hearing about his plans, about a time when life would be easier and everything would work out perfectly.
‘I won’t be calling on you again,’ I tell him. ‘But thank you so much. I think I’ve used up all my helpful-neighbour tokens.’
He smiles at me, a small dimple in his left cheek. Even his eyes smile. ‘This village is keen to help each other, well, mostly … whether you want it or not,’ he says thoughtfully, then adds, ‘If only they would do it together.’
I have no idea what he’s talking about but follow him through the front door into the sunshine and thank him again.
‘Mum,’ Aimee says, ‘a lady came by and gave me this.’ Aimee is holding a dish wrapped in a tea-towel. It looks heavy and I take it from her. ‘She said to give it to my mamma . A welcome gift.’
‘What lady?’ I spin round, but no one’s there. I lift the dish to my nose and breathe in the warm, seasoned herby, tomatoey smell. ‘Did she say who she was?’
Giovanni is beside us, one hand across his body, the other to his chin.
‘She asked my name and how long I was staying.’
‘And what did you say?’ I’m concerned. Stranger danger, and all that.
‘That this was the house my dad bought. But I said I wasn’t allowed to tell strangers my name.’
Giovanni looks down at the tea-towel-covered dish.
‘What is this?’ I ask him.
‘As she says, a gift,’ he says, taking the corner of the tea-towel. ‘May I?’ He looks up at me with dancing, playful eyes.
‘But why? Who’s it from?’
He lifts the tea-towel, bends his head and breathes in. ‘Aaah, I would say that’s Teresa’s … definitely Teresa’s sauce.’
‘Teresa? But why?’
He straightens up, his T-shirt tight across his broad chest.
‘She’ll have brought it for you for dinner, lasagne, a welcome gift. We look out for our own here.’ He turns to leave.
‘Well, that’s very kind but …’ I’m not sure what to do with such a generous gift from a stranger.
‘I know – you’re fine.’ He raises a hand in the air, still smiling, his tool-bag in the other.
‘Yes.’ I bite my lip and wishing I was better at accepting help. ‘But it’s very kind of her.’
‘Kind, but also a way of finding out who you are and what you’re doing here.
’ He winks. The dog I saw at La Tavola yesterday has been lying patiently outside and now gets to his feet to join Giovanni.
‘The ladies round here don’t cook unless they have to, these days, which is why the community kitchen helps those who need it.
’ He looks at the dish. ‘This may be the first of many, I would assume … Like I say, you know where I am if you need me. Just call up to La Tavola.’ He sets off, walking up the cobbled street, the dog at his side, and I’m left standing, with the warm dish of lasagne, which smells amazing.
‘At least that’s dinner sorted,’ I say, as I head back inside and put it on the kitchen table. I imagine Marco leaning over it, breathing in deeply, just like Giovanni did, and nodding approvingly.
Suddenly, I have memories of the lasagnes we’d make for birthdays and on Sundays before we had the restaurant.
The early days when Marco was a chef on tour with different bands, not just in this country but abroad, catering for the musicians, world-class acts, and crew.
I was working in the city, a professional headhunter …
We met one night after he’d done a gig at the O2 in south-east London and I was having a late drink with friends after work.
We clicked straight away, and after we’d messaged for a while I broke off my engagement.
We met up as often as his work allowed it.
It was the most impetuous thing I had ever done and I felt awful about hurting my lovely fiancé.
Otherwise everything about it felt right.
When Marco came up with the idea of us putting down roots and opening a restaurant of our own, I jumped at it, first because I wanted to be with him and, second, it sounded like a wonderful adventure.
I loved hosting events, which was part of my job.
We headed west, to my home town of Cardiff, where things were cheaper than they were in London, and found a restaurant to call our own.
Marco knew I could make our customers feel looked after and also manage the staff.
He wanted to be liked, not to be the boss, and always referred the staff to me for anything official.
‘See my wife! She’s the boss!’ he would tell them, knowing we were equal partners.
We were happy with the way we’d fallen into our roles in the business.
He was creative, friendly and encouraging to the staff.
I generated the warm, welcoming atmosphere in the restaurant and kept a firm hand on the books.
But the business wasn’t a business without the two of us.
The harder it became to make ends meet, the harder it was to keep up the appearance of a smooth-running ship.
‘Mum?’ Luca says, interrupting my thoughts of the past. ‘What did Giovanni mean, “the first of many”?’
‘I’m not sure, Luca.’
Something tells me, though, that all is not as it seems in the sleepy little village.