No Simple Remedy

Photo by George White on Unsplash

It took an hour for him to find the right turn-off, and from there we traveled through tree-lined roads and sleepy hilltop towns that crept over low rolling hills studded with vineyards and olive trees. Mother kept the window rolled down, chain-smoking her cigarettes and not saying another word. Whenever Uncle Charlie took a wrong turn, or missed a road and was forced to turn around—or pull over to look at the map again—I’d see Mother heave her shoulders and settle further down into her seat.

“We just have to find the church, that’s all. Once we find the church, we’re pretty well there. Here, you look for it,” he said, giving Mother the map and pointing in the general area.

“What church?” Mother said, looking down at the map and sounding tired. “There must be a thousand churches here. It’s Italy, for Christ’s sake.”

“San Biagio,” Uncle Charlie said, trying to sound Italian, and failing.

“And you expect me to know the name of every church we pass along the way, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

“Then what?”

“The church is on the road leading to the town. You just have to tell me when you see a church coming up anywhere on the road. This one,” and he pointed to it on the map. “That’s what they told me.”
“Who told you that?”

“Back at the Agency.”

“I suppose you also told them that I wanted to die in Florence, as well? You’ve told everyone else that story. So how come we’re not going to Florence? How far is Florence from Monte-whatever-it-is?”

“Pulciano—Montepulciano,” he said. “Do you want to try and say it?”

“No, I don’t want to try and say it.”

“You should try and say it. Richard, do you know where we’re going?”

“Tuscany,” my brother said, without looking up from his book.

“Tuscany? Did you hear that? We’re in Tuscany, Richard. Tuscany is like Kent. Florence? It’s in Tuscany. Sienna? That’s in Tuscany, too. Do you see where I’m going with this? Barbara?”

“I don’t care where we’re going,” my sister snapped. “My life’s pretty well over, isn’t it? I don’t speak Italian, and I don’t have any friends, here. I might as well be an exile.”

“You’ll make friends,” Uncle Charlie said.

“I don’t speak Italian, Charlie. I can’t learn Italian. It’s not a language you can learn overnight”

“Oh, nonsense, of course you can learn it.”

“Not in a bloody week!”

“Mind what you say, Barbara,” Mother was quick to tell her.

“Who says you have to learn it in a week?”

“Someone’s going to have to get food!”

“Oh dear, I never thought of that,” Mother said.

We’d set out for Tuscany toward the middle of June. School had been let out for the year and there was a sense of freedom that came with it; just like there was a freedom of spirit knowing we were moving to Italy. I was never a popular child at school, and had few friends to show for it. Small for my age—diminutive my sister liked to say—I was bullied and teased for being the smart one in class. I’d learned to read before I started school, and had a head for numbers; a fatal combination for any child.

My sister had always been the pretty one. She was four years older than me and on the edge of graduating from childhood to womanhood. With that would come her life-long devotion to boys—Italian, French, English—it didn’t matter which; she’d grow up to marry three times. As the eldest child though, it fell to her to watch over our mother as her cancer worsened—a task that was more than just a simple chore, and something that would affect her like a life sentence.

Richard, on the other hand, was two years older than me. He was a natural on the rugby pitch, and enjoyed football as much as he did reading, and writing. He was always either reading a book, or writing in his journal, which he said he was leaving to posterity, much the same as other famous diarists.

“You mean like Anne Frank?” I asked.

“Not quite,” he said. “We’re not locked up in an attic, are we?”

No, we aren’t, I thought. And thank God!

Squeezed in between him and my sister, I thought I could understand what it was like, though. But Richard had always been the big brother, being taller, stronger, and more athletic. He watched out for me as much as he could; much the same way as he looked out for our sister. He was always getting into fist-fights at school with boys older than himself because he didn’t want them talking to Barbara.

In the meantime, we’d been travelling north along the della Montagna, through countryside that was flush with colours of green and gold; through vast landholdings of farmland, small villages and towns with exotic sounding names, like Casa del Corto, and Contignano. There were stretches of woodland that opened up on the top of rolling hills where valleys spread out below and one could almost imagine ancient Roman legions on the march.

The Church of San Biagio stood out like a beacon as we made our way up the narrow road.

“Can we stop and look inside?” I asked.

“We’ll come back later and take a look, okay Kiddo? Maybe after we get settled? We still have to wait for the luggage,” Uncle Charlie reminded me.

“And who’s taking care of that?” Mother asked.

“I made the arrangements once I found out we weren’t going to Florence.”

“Isn’t that something you have to do in advance?”

“I did. Once I found out we weren’t going to Florence,” he smiled.

“And when did you find that out?”

“The moment the agent phoned me with the address.”

“When?” she asked again, and I looked up to see Uncle Charlie turn his head and look at her, smiling again.

“Last month.”

“You’ve known for a month that we weren’t going to be living in Florence, and you’re just telling me now?”

“There was nothing else we could afford, Daph,” he explained. “Besides, Monte’s closer to Siena than Florence is. It made sense.”

“What do you mean it was all we could afford? What can’t we afford—besides a house in Florence? And what do you mean it made sense? ”

“I got us a five bedroom furnished apartment overlooking the valley,” Uncle Charlie said, his smile looking forced.

“Is that supposed to be a sales pitch?”

“What’d I tell you? Everything’ll work out, I said. I even made inquiries about a housekeeper,” he added, slowing down to make a sharp left down a steep lane. He stopped and pulled up on the handbrake.

“A housekeeper? What makes you think we need a housekeeper? Is she going to be living with us as well?”

“Why would she be living with us?” Uncle Charlie asked, shutting the engine down and turning to look at her. He picked up her hand, holding it before he kissed it. She smiled and tried to pull her hand away but he wouldn’t let it go; so she let him kiss her hand again and tried not to smile.

“Does she know the situation?” Mother asked.

“I told them the circumstances,” he said, looking up at her.

“Them? How many of them are there?”

“I went through an agency. They gave me a local woman’s name.”

“An agency?” Mother said, pulling her hand out of his and straightening her dress as she turned away from him.

“What? They came through on the apartment, didn’t they? Give them a chance. Besides, she comes recommended.”

“Oh? By whom?”

“By everyone!”

“That’s quite a ringing endorsement, is it?”

“It’s more of an endorsement than anything the NHS had to offer.”

“What? Affordable in-house care? Is that what you mean?”

“But have you seen what it’s doing to this family?”

What I’d failed to understand about our move to Italy was that Uncle Charlie had taken a new job; that was the reason we were there. While he’d said he wanted to make a home for us in Florence, for whatever Romantic notion he may have had—whether it was for Mother, or some mysterious question that’d been haunting him since the War—Montepulciano was closer to where he needed to be. He’d taken a teaching position at the University in Siena.

Uncle Charlie was an engineer by training, and while he’d put his education on hold with the outbreak of the Second World War, he was able to continue his education after, in England, through correspondence. It would be another year before he’d earned any sort of degree, but by then, Mother was already a national sensation—a star of both stage and screen—and he put his career on hold again, so that he might help with hers.

Montepulciano was an old walled town sitting on a long, narrow spine of rock, the east face a steep tree-lined climb, while the western slope was just that, a gradual slope that looked out over the valley and vineyards below. We followed the via di San Biagio through a gauntlet of trees, feeling the cool air washing through the open windows of the Fiat. The sun came through the trees, dappling the road with shadows like a broken film on a projector. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking of building a walled city high up on a hilltop, but I knew it was built a long time ago because of the moss on the stones.

And then we crested the hill and approached the Piazza San Francesco.

It looked old—the buildings, the streets—everything about the town was narrow and cobblestoned, or maybe they were paving stones, I don’t know. It looked like something that came out of an adventure novel. All the buildings were a dull sandy colour that made them look tired—like old people waiting for the bus—except for the signs we couldn’t read, hanging from fancy wrought-iron angles. The doors and shutters flashed in brilliant colours where the sun splashed up against them as we drove past. I could see open air markets in the narrow, twisting streets, and restaurants with tables and chairs lined up against the walls, on other streets. Most of the roads were too narrow for traffic, or too congested with people to drive through, and as we rounded the gentle turn that took us along the via Piana, I could see the whole valley below, to my left.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Mother asked, sounding tired.

“As much as anyone here,” Uncle Charlie said, concentrating on the road and taking the map from Mother’s lap when he got a chance. “Don’t worry, I drew the way on the map, remember? We just have to follow this road—”

“I can see that, but I’d hesitate to call this a road,” Mother pointed out.

“Street, then,” Uncle Charlie said, looking along a narrow lane and stopping for a moment before looking up and reading the sign. He looked down at the map again.

“It’s not even wide enough for a cart,” Barbara said.

“Which was wide enough when they built it a thousand years ago. That’s why they make these cars so small,” Uncle Charlie said, and smiled into the rear view mirror.

“Is it really a thousand years old?” I asked.

“At least that, Kiddo,” he said, looking at me in the mirror.

He looked at Mother again and smiled. “It’s should be up ahead, on the left.”

All I could see were stairs leading up from the narrow street and into the town above. Uncle Charlie stopped and looked at the address on the side of the building. He made a sharp turn and shut the motor off; we all craned our necks to look up the hill.

Three flights of stairs.

I could see someone standing on the balcony, looking out over the valley like a tourist. He had a glass in one hand, and a cigar in the other. The wind came up from the valley and blew his thin hair out of place. He brushed a meaty hand though it and turned away.

“Hey, it’s Roger! Charlie!” I said, pointing up at the balcony. “Roger’s here.”

“You didn’t tell me Roger was going to be here,” Mother said.

“He wanted to surprise you.”

“Not being in Florence wasn’t enough?”

“Hey, Sport,” Uncle Charlie said, turning around and giving my brother the keys. “Your mother’s medication? Do me a favour and get it out of the boot. I’ll help her up the stairs. Barbara, can you and Dennis manage the two suitcases?”

“He’s not going to be any help,” my sister said, barking out a quick laugh. “He’s too short. He won’t even be able to lift one off the ground.”

“You’re right. Sport? How about you let Dennis take your mother’s bag up, then you can grab the other suitcase with your sister?”

My sister opened the door and all but fell out of the Fiat. She screamed, but put her hand out and was able to stop herself from falling too hard.

“Do be careful, Barbara! All we need now is to have to take you to the hospital. Does this town even have a doctor?” Mother asked.

Richard opened the door on his side and was quick to make his way to the boot with the keys. He didn’t know which key it was, having mixed them all up, and pushed me aside when I pointed it out to him.

“I know which one it is,” he lied.

In the meantime, Uncle Charlie came around to the back of the Fiat on his way to help Mother out of the car. He took the keys from Richard and slid the proper key into the lock, pulling out the small bag of Mother’s medicine and giving it to me. He pulled the two suitcases out and put them on the ground, slamming the boot closed and putting the keys in his pocket.

“You two sort it out,” he said, and went to open Mother’s door.