‘Well, you’re in the right place, Pierre,’ Lucy said warmly. ‘Now, talking ofstereotypes,can anyone tell me what is the British stereotype?’
She was surprised (and a little disappointed) to glimpse Elena tapping her watch. Where had the last two hours gone? Her mind was now buzzing with themes and topics for future lesson plans.
When everyone had left, and Elena and Lucy were collecting the cups and plates, Elena said, ‘I am very happy today went so well. Did you enjoy?’
‘I was terrified at first, but everyone was so interested and keen. I guess that’s the difference between teaching little ones and adults. No pulling of hair or tantrums to deal with – well, not today, at least.’ She chuckled. ‘I loved every single minute. There was a strong sense of camaraderie among the students.’
‘Molto brava, very good,’said Elena, giving her the thumbs-up. ‘They are all from different backgrounds, but there are no barriers here.’
‘I feel there’s something very special about the young man who spoke first,’ Lucy said. ‘Matteo is his name, I think.’
‘Sì, Matteo.’ Elena’s voice was full of warmth and compassion. ‘We are so proud of him. He had a very unhappy childhood. His father was in prison. His mother was an alcoholic. He started hanging out with a bad crowd. He was just sixteen when wefound him sleeping rough in the Piazza Garibaldi, near the railway station. My husband gave him a job and shelter at the factory.’ She sighed mournfully. ‘He was right about the boy, and I was wrong.’
With that, Elena began to hurriedly stack the dishes into the sink, sending the cutlery clattering onto the crockery.
She checked her watch. ‘Let’s have lunch. Then it will nearly be time to collect Stefano from Holiday Club. Tonight we eat Mediterranean sea bass and we drink local wine.Andiamo.’
‘Good night, Harry Potter.’ Lucy shut the book and ruffled Stefano’s mop of hair.
‘Buona notte,’ he replied with a gappy smile as he wriggled down the bed.
Lucy turned off the light, headed for the door and glanced back at him in the semi-darkness. Such an innocent wee soul.
Lucy had always assumed she would have children – lots of them. She remembered howling on the bathroom floor once, staring through her tears at a pregnancy stick, willing the second line to appear, while Stewart was on the other side of the door, pacing up and down, praying it wouldn’t. Now she wondered if it wasn’t all for the best that they hadn’t had a child. Could she have coped with the responsibility of being a single mum? Seeing Stefano curled up, thumb in his mouth, his breath audible and quick, though, she felt a rush of maternal longing, a desire to protect. But what hope was there of establishing a meaningful relationship before her biological clock ground to a halt? Perhaps motherhood wasn’t her destiny this time around. What was she to do? Spend the rest of her life mourning the fact she’d never have a child?What would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. No – she would learn to carve out a meaningful, childfree future for herself – starting now.
As she entered the kitchen, she could hear Elena singing quietly along to an Italian song on the radio.
‘Prego.’ She beckoned for Lucy to sit down and placed a dish of colourful and artfully arranged antipasti on the table. ‘Stefano is sleeping?’
Lucy nodded. ‘He wanted another chapter, but I cast my wizardly Sleep Spell on him.’ Picking up her knife and waving it in the air, she chanted, ‘Somnium, Stefanus!’
‘This, I must try,’ guffawed Elena, pouring them both a glass of wine.
‘It’s amazing the effect a wee bit of made-up Latin and a pretend wand can have. It worked wonders with my class of six- and seven-year-olds. Mmm. This wine is good.’ Lucy peered at the label. ‘Lac-ryma Christi del Vesuvio.’
‘This means “tears of Christ”,’ said Elena. ‘It’s a local wine, produced on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius.’
‘What’s the meaning behind the name?’
‘Allora, when Lucifer left heaven, he took a piece with him and dropped it at the foot of Vesuvius. Christ cried at the loss and his tears made the vines grow, which make the wine.’
‘What a beautiful story.’ Lucy couldn’t name one British wine, let alone recount the story of its origin.
‘Lucy, why you leave… whydidyou leave Scotland and your school?’
Although she knew it was all for the best, Lucy could feel tears threatening to well up at the painful memory.
‘Ah, it’s a long story.’ She swirled her wine around her glass. ‘Let’s just say that I needed a change of direction.’
‘And we are very happy the road led you here, to us.’ Elena raised her glass. ‘Salute!’
‘Cheers!’
‘Now, you must try some antipasti,’ said Elena. ‘The Fiori di Zucca Frittiare my favourite. This is fried courgette flowers stuffed with prosciutto and mozzarella.’
Lucy sank her teeth into the buttery blossom, cheese oozing onto her tongue, delicious flavours exploding into her mouth.
‘Mmm, mmm, mmm,’ she enthused, resisting the urge to gobble the lot.
