Chapter 7
At eight o’clock the next morning, our neighbor Luisa comes striding down the path. She’s in her forties, with an athletic figure and brunette hair that’s swept back in a pixie cut.
“Buongiorno!” she calls out, giving me a brisk wave.
“Buongiorno!” I repeat, immediately regretting not finding the time to do any more of my Italian course.
Trailing Luisa is a group of seven or eight volunteers who’ll be working on the dig.
Once she’s given me a kiss on each cheek, she introduces them—but there are too many names for me to remember.
Except Vito: that’s the name of a man who’s a foot taller than anyone else and the head curator at the museum, although he only looks to be in his thirties.
Most of the others are past retirement age, although one woman is much younger and, I’m told, a student.
More importantly, it becomes obvious they’re all Italian.
I’m bombarded with a jumble of expressions but I assume they’re all friendly, as everyone’s smiling.
I feel another stab of guilt for not being able to communicate. Then I remember the word for welcome.
“Benvenuto!” I burst out in my best Italian accent.
“Benvenut-i!” Luisa corrects me, kindly. “It’s plural as you are welcoming lots of us.”
Shit, I can’t even get that right. “Benvenuti!” I repeat, grinning hysterically.
Everyone is dressed for work, wearing mainly multi-pocket cargo shorts, utilitarian tops with long sleeves, and sturdy, steel-capped walking boots, their heads covered with sunhats or bandanas.
I realize why they’ll only be digging between eight and one: after that it’ll be much too hot.
They’re also clutching hiking sticks, lugging heavy rucksacks, and pulling along trolleys of boxes packed with trowels, tape, notepads, water and snacks.
Just as I’m about to ask how they’re going to get everything up the hill, a severely dented, dusty van comes chugging round the corner.
It has an open back and sitting around the sides are six young men, all of whom are dressed in faded shorts and T-shirts, their exposed skin browned by the sun.
Strapped in the center is a portable toilet and behind the wheel is our head builder, Giuseppe.
“Will you excuse me for a minute?” I ask Luisa.
“Don’t worry about us,” she insists. “We can look after ourselves.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! We’ll speak later.” She chuckles. “We’ll be here all summer: soon you’ll be sick of us!”
I laugh and insist otherwise but I can’t help wondering if she may be right. Is it going to be too much having the dig take place at the same time as all the building work?
Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now.
I stride over to greet Giuseppe, who gives my hand a firm shake. He’s in his thirties, with a muscular physique, jet-black hair in a buzz cut, and a short beard.
“Good morning,” I say, not bothering to attempt any Italian.
“Good morning!” he replies in English.
He introduces me to his builders, listing their names and nationalities. They’re mainly from Eastern Europe, although there’s also a Tunisian and an Egyptian. But their names are unfamiliar and I only catch one of them—Arjan, who’s from Albania.
“What an international team,” I observe. “But how do you communicate if you all speak different languages?”
“In English!” says Giuseppe. “The international language!”
Thank fuck for that! is what I think. What I say is, “Brill!”
Then I ask, “So are you all set? What’s the plan?”
Giuseppe takes out a stack of notes and spreads them out on the bonnet of his truck.
“Today we split into three teams,” he explains. “One team starts making the road wider.” He points to the gravel driveway snaking around the bottom of the hill and up into the olive grove. “This is the most important job: after that, the trucks can come with our materials.”
I nod, briskly. “Fab.”
“The second team works on the roof,” he goes on. “As you do not have money to replace this, they see which tiles are broken and which tiles are missing. They fix everything.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“The third team works inside the house,” Giuseppe continues. “There is a lot to do here so we need to start. Today they destroy the first bathroom!”
“Fine by me,” I chirrup. “Destroy away!”
“And remember we switch off the water in half an hour,” Giuseppe says, one eyebrow raised. “That is still OK?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Wait a minute, is it?
As the men start unloading their tools, I glance back at the house. I wonder how Theo’s getting on rousing the kids and making sure they’ve all had a shower. I hope they slept well and won’t be as cranky as yesterday.
At least they each had a bed to themselves.
After the bust-up at the castle, I went to a hardware store to buy more mosquito nets, plus plug-in repellents and some citronella candles and spirals the assistant recommended.
I also picked up three fans that look like they belong in an office but should help with the heat.
And Theo insisted that all the kids went to bed early.
Theo and I also had an early night as our alarm was set for seven—although the cockerel woke me up again at six.
But I feel much better, at least physically.
And I haven’t got any new mosquito bites, which is a major result.
I wish the builders well and leave them to set up the portable toilet in the garage, where it’ll also be accessible for the diggers. Then I go back to the house to start preparing breakfast.
I’m being much less ambitious today, just laying out a buffet of cereals, toast and hard-boiled eggs. It goes against my instincts as someone who prides himself on being a good host but I have to remember this isn’t a normal holiday and it’s fine to serve a functional, no-frills breakfast.
Archie comes down the stairs first, clutching an action figure in each hand, his ginger hair sticking up not just at the kink but all over.
“Ciao!” he cheeps, grinning and revealing the cute gap between his front teeth. “Dad says that means hi!”
“It does,” I reply. “Ciao!”
Theo’s next, looking beleaguered, followed by a stony-faced Callum and Mabel. But the interesting thing is, once the kids step outside and catch sight of the builders in the driveway, their scowls disappear. A memory from my childhood flickers to life but I can’t quite grasp it.
Once we’ve all sat down and are eating, I outline the renovation project.
I explain that over the next six weeks, the builders will be changing the electrics in the house, damp-proofing the ground floor, replacing all the windows, and stripping out and refitting the kitchen and bathrooms. Once that’s done, they’ll re-plaster the walls—except for those that have been left with exposed stone—and give everything a fresh coat of paint.
There are other things I’d like to do but this is already pushing the limits of my budget.
“Before the builders can get going,” I tell everyone, “we need to clear out the house. And that’s where you come in.”
“What do you mean?” asks Callum, pulling at a piece of cereal that’s stuck in his brace.
“You’re going to help us,” says Theo.
Callum flicks the cereal onto the lawn.
“We’re throwing away most of my great-uncle’s stuff,” I explain. “And anything that’s broken or seen better days.”
“Which basically means the entire house,” murmurs Mabel.
“Not quite the entire house,” I chirp. “I want it to keep the look and feel of an old Tuscan farmhouse. But we will be throwing away lots. And what we can’t recycle or donate we’ll burn on a bonfire.”
“I love bonfires!” says Archie, biting into an egg.
“Me too.” I lean on the table. “So what do you say? Will you help us?”
“Yeah!” Archie whoops.
“Superb,” says Theo, smoothing down Archie’s hair. He turns to Callum and Mabel. “But we’re going to need you all to chip in and do your bit.”
“Dad, that’s slave labor!” Callum burbles.
Mabel pouts. “You can’t make us!”
But I notice that their protests are much quieter than usual and they glance over to check the builders can’t hear them.
“This is a working holiday,” Theo says, firmly. “We were always clear about that.”
Callum pushes his bowl away. “Well, I’m not working.”
Theo spreads jam on his toast. “Fine. You can do some schoolwork. As you’re going into GCSE year it’s probably a good idea to get a head start.”
“Dad, that’s not fair!”
But the builders are approaching and Callum and Mabel contort their faces into smiles.
“Hello!” the men chorus as they lumber past, tools slung over their shoulders and tucked under their arms.
“We are sorry we invade your house,” says one of them, a man with a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck.
“That’s OK,” I insist. “As soon as we’ve eaten this, we’ll start clearing everything out.”
“My children were just saying how much they’re looking forward to helping,” adds Theo. “Isn’t that right, gang?”
Archie warbles a loud yes. Callum and Mabel’s is much quieter—but it’s a yes all the same.
“Very good,” says the builder with the tattoo. “Very good children.”
And just like that, the matter’s settled.
If only the builders could come seven days a week.
An hour later, the house is full of the sound of banging and crashing. The builders who went inside are on the top floor, ripping out the first bathroom.
One floor down, Theo and the kids join me to sort through Wilf’s stuff.
We start in the smaller lounge, where I point out an almost threadbare rug, some rickety white chairs with worn-down cushions, and what seems to be a full-sized but purely decorative spinning wheel, which we pile up and haul outside, dumping it all behind the wall of the chapel.
I pause when I come to some framed watercolor paintings that are hanging on the walls. They’re landscapes, with several of mountains and seashores.
Callum recognizes one: “Isn’t that the view from in front of the house?”
“Oh yeah,” says Theo, stepping over a rolled-up tapestry to get a closer look. “Well spotted, Cal.”