The Tuscan Child(29)

“Oh, studying to be a lawyer.” They looked at each other and nodded, impressed.

Paola sniffed and realised she had left what she had been cooking on the stove. “Un momento,” she said and rushed back to it, giving it a hearty stir.

“What are you cooking?” I asked. “It smells wonderful.”

She turned back to me, shrugging modestly. “It is nothing special. Just a simple lunch that we Tuscans like to eat. We call it pappa al pomodoro. You are welcome to join us. There is plenty.”

“I would love to, if you are sure it’s all right.”

“Of course.” She turned back to her daughter. “Put the baby down for her sleep, Angelina, and give this another stir while I show the young English lady to her room. I am sure she would like to wash before her meal.”

Angelina got up and placed the tiny bundle in a cradle by the wall. The baby let out a complaining wail.

“Let her cry,” Paola said. “It is good for the lungs.” She turned back to me. “Come. I will show you.”

I picked up the bag I had put down on the floor and followed her out of the back door. Bruno the dog trotted beside me, having decided if his mistress liked me then I must be all right. A flagstone path led down the hill through a garden that was a riot of flowers and vegetables. Roses grew between beanpoles and tomatoes. There were bushes of lavender and rosemary that smelled heavenly as I brushed against them. Amid the plants were various ancient fruit trees, cherries and apricots looking almost ready to pick and apples still small green buds. The path ended in an old stone outbuilding with bars at the window. Not exactly prepossessing. Paola went around to the side, took a large key, and opened the door.

“Pass, please,” she said, standing back for me to go in first. The room was simple in the extreme: an iron bedstead, a white chest of drawers, a row of hooks on the wall for clothes, and a little table under the window. The floor was made of the same red tiles as the kitchen and passage. There were fresh white net curtains at the window, and the bed was made up with white linens topped with a homemade quilt.

“Va bene?” she asked. “It’s all right?”

“Si.” I nodded enthusiastically. “And to wash?”

“Ah,” she said, and opened an ancient door into a tiny bathroom. “You have your own water. It’s from the well outside, so it’s not a good idea to drink this. But there is a heater for the shower. See, it turns on like this. One must make sure the handle is lifted so.” And she demonstrated. “Be careful. It can make the water very hot.”

I noted the rather alarming-looking contraption on the wall and decided to heed the warning. The bathroom had a sink, a toilet, and a very small shower. But again it was spotlessly clean. If cows had once been housed here, there was no lingering odour. In fact, the bathroom window was open and the scent of honeysuckle wafted in from the ancient wall outside. I felt instantly that this was a place where I could feel at home.

“Thank you. It’s good,” I said. “How much money will it cost?”

She named a price. I did a rapid calculation from thousands of lira into pounds and pence. It was very reasonable.

“And you will eat breakfast with us in the big house,” she said. “Also if you want to have an evening meal with us, then it will just be a little more. You tell me in the morning, and I will make something special for our dinner.”

“Thank you. I would certainly like to join you for dinner if that is all right.” Suddenly I felt rather overwhelmed, as if this kindness was all too much after several months of feeling so alone.

“So I will leave you to settle in,” she said. “And I will prepare the meal. Come up when you are ready.”

She left the door open, letting in a scented breeze. I was tempted to try out the scary-looking shower after my night on the train, but I didn’t want to keep Paola waiting too long. I unpacked a few items, washed my face and hands, put on a fresh blouse, and brushed my hair. Then I closed the door and went back up the path. The table was now laid with brightly painted ceramic dishes and bowls. In the middle was a big platter with tomatoes, a slab of white cheese, a couple of sticks of salami, a bowl of olives, and a big loaf of crusty bread. Paola motioned for me to sit, then served me a bowl of the soup. It was almost too thick to be called a soup, and it smelled of garlic and herbs that I didn’t recognise. I took a tentative sip and felt the explosion of taste in my mouth. How could anyone take simple tomatoes and onions and make them taste like this?

“It is delicious,” I said, hoping that “delizioso” was a word. “Very good.”

Paola hovered behind me, then pulled out a chair at the head of the table. Angelina came to join us. She had picked up the baby again, and to my shock she opened her blouse and put the baby to a large round breast before picking up her own spoon.

“So everybody gets to eat,” Paola said with satisfaction.

“How do you make this soup?” I asked.

She laughed. “So simple. It is what we call part of our cucina povera—simple food for the peasants. And a good way to use up yesterday’s stale bread. It is simply stale bread soaked in broth, and then we cook the garlic, tomatoes, some carrot, and celery and add these to it, then serve with olive oil. That’s all.”

I ate until I had scraped my bowl clean with today’s still-warm bread. Paola picked up a jug and asked if she could pour into my glass. I nodded agreement and was startled to find it was red wine she was pouring, not water as I had expected.