Elena nodded, triumphantly holding up the bag containing the wriggly, unsuspecting eel. She then placed it by the sink, attracting quiet curiosity from Harry.
Alfonso’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he signalled to Matteo to pop open a bottle of prosecco. ‘Fantastico. Salute!’
Everyone raised their glasses. Lucy took a huge gulp, in trepidation of what was about to happen.
For once she hadn’t offered to help with the cooking, but focused her attention on Stefano and thepresepio. She could hear the chilling sound of a knife being sharpened just a few feet behind her. She swallowed hard and examined one of the figures. ‘Hmm. I didn’t know Lord Voldemort was at the birth of baby Jesus, Stefano.’
‘Finish your drink, Matteo, then I show you how we trim the head and tail…’
Lucy knocked back the rest of her prosecco, choking on the bubbles.
Elena patted her on the back. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine,’ Lucy squeaked, and headed for the door. ‘I think I left something in the car. Back in a minute.’
The December sea air hit against her face. She closed her eyes and drew a deep, calming breath. She wasn’t particularly fond of eels, but what was about to happen in there was tantamount to cold-blooded, premeditated murder. ‘When in Rome’ might now be her mantra, but at the risk of causing offence, she just couldn’t bring herself to—
All at once she was knocked sideways by Harry running full pelt towards the sea, a white carrier bag dangling from his mouth, with Stefano, Matteo, Elena, Valentina and Alfonso hot on his heels.
Cries of ‘Mamma mia!’‘Harry!’‘Fermi!’‘Stop!’echoed in the night air, becoming fainter and fainter, the nearer the shore they came.
Lucy joined the chase, calling, ‘Run, Harry!Ruun!’
By the time she caught up with everyone, a dripping wet Harry was tucked under Stefano’s arm, tail happily swishing back and forth, while the white bag bobbed on the ocean swell, the eel having found freedom at last. Even Disney couldn’t have written it better.
Now, woe betide anyone who comes between an Italian and his food, especially at Christmas time. Alfonso re-entered the kitchen, arms waving, a torrent of Italian expletives gushing from his mouth. Stefano smothered a nervous giggle. Then, in the next moment, tears of hysterical laughter were seeping down his grandfather’s ruddy cheeks.
‘Madonna mia,’ he wheezed, thumping the kitchen table so hard the dishes bounced. ‘I can’t believe that bloody dog… I was just gonna… next minute… likeuna commedia.’
Meanwhile Harry, head cocked to one side, eyebrow raised, gave him his best doleful look, guaranteed to melt the hardest of hearts. Mouth twitching, Alfonso returned his gaze. ‘Bad dog, Harry.’
As everyone returned to their cooking stations, Lucy stealthily patted Harry’s head and whispered in his ear, ‘Good dog, Harry.’
After all the mayhem of earlier, a dose of Midnight Mass Mindfulness was just what was needed to restore Lucy’s sense of peace and tranquillity.
Since arriving in Italy, Lucy had kept a diary. Whenever she read it, she wondered who this strong, courageous woman was; the one who was now teaching adults and baking for a living, had helped start up a business, who’d been instrumental in producing a documentary, and had discovered the power of meditation through a herd of buffalo.
She’d been dreading turning forty. Not now. No more focusingon what she hadn’t achieved or that time was running out. Now she was looking forward to the new year and celebrating whatever life had in store, grateful to be alive – and in this most beautiful of countries.
Entering the church was like walking into a Christmas card. She gasped in wonderment. The enormous tree almost touched the ceiling, its branches wired with actual candles, their warm honey glow reflected in the stained-glass windows.
Lucy found herself wondering how it was erected, who had been given the daunting task of lighting all those candles, and how on earth had they got all the way up there. Crane? Hoist? A smile hovered over her lips as an image of a posse of priests, strapped into harnesses, flying through the air, cassocks billowing, flashed across her mind.Seriously? How old are you, Lucy? Six?
‘Psst!’ She turned to see Elena beckoning her over. The church was packed to the brim, but then it always was, not just on Christmas Eve.
As Lucy wove her way through the crowd, an image of her village church back home popped into her head; the merry locals staggering to Midnight Mass after last orders at the pub, dour-faced Father Robertson giving the congregation his customary withering look as they filed past, as if counting heads. With a long-drawn sigh, he would deliver his festive sermon: ‘As I look at all of youze on yet another Christmas Eve, I ask masell, where in the name o’ God have youze bin all year? The church isnae just for Christmas – somewhere warm to hang oot after the pubs have shut…’
Some would hang their heads in shame, while others, shoulders shaking, would try, and fail, to suppress their giggles.
Meanwhile the organist, arms flailing, feet barely touching the pedals, would play as if riding a bucking bronco.
Here, accompanied by the enthusiastic congregation and celestial choir, Lucy dared to sing like no one was listening, buoyed by a feeling of intoxicating togetherness. This was the true meaning of Christmas; not tacky music, overcrowded shops, unwanted gifts and festive hangovers.
As she resumed her seat she noticed Dario, three rows in front, wedged between a silver-haired lady on the left, and unless she was very much mistaken, the woman she’d glimpsed from the bus window the other day.
‘Preghiamo.Let us pray…’
The bell was chiming one by the time they emerged onto the church steps.
