Chickens Eat Pasta Read online

  Chickens Eat Pasta

  Escape to Umbria

  Clare Pedrick

  Copyright © 2015 Clare Pedrick

  Original artwork by Colleen MacMahon

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

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  Matador®

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  ISBN 978 1784629 991

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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  To Max, Juliana and Georgie

  This is where it all began

  Contents

  Cover

  The Author

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  The Author

  Clare Pedrick is a British journalist. She studied Italian at Cambridge University before becoming a reporter. This book describes how, as a young woman, she bought an old ruin in Umbria. She went on to work as Rome correspondent for the Washington Post and as European Editor of an international features agency. She still lives in Italy with her husband, whom she met in the village where she bought her house. The couple have three children.

  Prologue

  People often ask me what made me do what I did. I reply that life is not always a case of making conscious choices. If I have learned one thing, it is that following your instincts often leads to happiness, even if it doesn’t mean taking the easiest path you could have chosen.

  Chapter One

  The dripping was becoming louder, settling into a relentless rhythm. It had started as a barely audible whisper in the treetops outside the kitchen window, flung open to let the newly washed floor dry. The drops fell more heavily now, thudding overhead on the terracotta roof tiles. A small puddle had formed quickly on the dark red floor, spreading from one rectangle to another as the wind drove the rain in through the open space. The window banged shut abruptly and blew open again violently as the summer storm ripped through the mountains. I let go of my grip on the mop to secure the fragile window frame with its ancient wooden latch. Now I’d have to start all over again. There wasn’t much time. Angela and Ercolino would be here soon to drive me to the station.

  Suddenly, the tears that had been welling up deep inside me all morning brimmed over and began coursing down my cheeks. I crouched down on the still wet floor. How could it all have gone so wrong?

  *

  It was strange really, how rain could make such a difference. Outside, a thick white mist was rising rapidly, shrouding the tree-lined mountain and swiftly wiping out the almost cloudless sky that had cast shafts of light through the window just a few minutes earlier. Of course, it had been raining that day this whole business had started. That was fairly normal for November in England, but this time it had poured ceaselessly, for days on end, casting me further and further into a trough of despair and loneliness.

  *

  Until I saw the advertisement, as I thumbed through the soggy pages of the hefty newspaper that I had bought to while away yet another miserable Sunday morning on my own. That had changed everything. Or so it had seemed. But then, maybe I had been asking for trouble. There were plenty of people who were sure it could only end badly. As my sensible aunt Vi had said when I told her what I’d done.

  “How can you buy a house just because you’ve watched a video?”

  ***

  The chicken was teasing out something long and slippery in its beak. It swallowed it in a few short movements and bent its scrawny neck to peck up another strand from a small pile on the ground. Nearby, an old woman with a stooping gait watched for a few minutes before moving off to empty her plastic bucket in front of several other chickens emerging from the lower part of an old stone house. She murmured something barely audible as she bent down to poke a bony finger at the thighs of the two larger birds. The sound quality of the video was poor and the image flickered and jolted every now and then.

  “She’s checking to see which one to have for Sunday lunch,” whispered the Englishman, moving closer to the television screen where the video was playing.

  “That’s spaghetti she’s giving them. Chickens eat pasta in this part of Italy.”

  The camera zoomed in on the plumpest chicken pecking at what would be its last meal, and a very small cup of coffee appeared on the side table next to me.

  “Have an espresso,” said my host, busying himself to make some space. “I bought the machine the last time I was over there. The secret is in packing the coffee really tight before you put it to heat, but I think I’ve got the hang of it now.” He turned to move a pile of papers off a chair so that he too could take a seat.

  “Sorry about the mess by the way, but you caught me a bit off guard.”

  Tearing my eyes away from the screen for a moment, where shaky images of cobbled streets and pretty stone arches continued to float by, I surveyed what must be the sitting room of the small terraced house in Hove where I had rung the bell half an hour earlier. The walk from my own house had taken less than ten minutes, through the rain-soaked streets of Brighton, as it struggled to come to life on a dismal autumn morning. It was a Monday, and instead of heading to the offices of the newspaper where I was a reporter, I had turned my steps in the direction of the address that I had underlined heavily in red felt tip when I had first read the advert in the Sunday paper the day before.

  “House for sale in hidden Umbria. Steve Parr & Associates.”

  Turning first to the overseas property section had long been a habit as I went through the weekend section of the national papers, but this time was different. The address on the advert was just a few streets away. Maybe it was a sign? In any case, I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with right now, and no real ties here anymore.

  It had been my turn to work the Saturday night shift at the newspaper, so Monday was a free day. That was the rule in the newsroom, a way of compensating journalists for long Saturday evenings that invariably involved covering drunken brawls between skinheads and rockers.

  *

  It wasn’t clear who his associates were, but Steve Parr showed no sign of being fazed by the unannounced visit as he led the way into the room he had rigged up as his office. On the wall was a framed relief map of central Italy, with a range of jagged points in one corner, giving way to gentler slopes and a few spots of blue which must be lakes.

  “I’ve only really just started this business,” he said with an apologetic air, searching under a pile of magazines for the video cassette. “It’s such a spectacularly beautiful place, so close to Rome in some wa
ys, and yet so very different and completely unspoilt. It’s like turning back the clock at least fifty years.”

  Three cups of espresso later, I emerged into the sodden street. Trying to dodge the puddles, I crossed the road and headed along the seafront towards home. The waves were crashing violently against the pebble beach. That was bound to be the front page for this evening’s edition: Storms Batter Sussex Coast! It was the autumn version of that other headline that came round with the first few rays of sunshine every summer: Sussex Sizzles into the Seventies!

  The summer seemed such a long time ago now, and all the misery it had brought with it. The rows, the break-up, the last minute cancellation of the holiday in Greece. Here I was, 26-years-old, alone and numb with boredom at the prospect of a future which until recently had seemed to be just what I wanted. At least there would be no problem getting time off. The news editor could hardly complain if I took a few days’ leave after working for months without a break.

  *

  The next step would be to book a flight, and armed with some numbers of bucket shops in London, handed to me by Steve Parr as he showed me to the door, I pulled off my dripping coat and ran down the stairs into the basement kitchen of my house to get the phone. I glanced out of the rain-spattered window, trying not to notice the long green streak of mildew which was working its way down the whitewashed outside wall that led up to the small rear garden. It was impossible to miss the damp stains that were creeping up the walls inside the kitchen. The pretty little Regency house that had seemed so captivating when Rob and I had first looked round it three years ago was beginning to show signs of neglect. A loud telephone ring interrupted my thoughts. Damn. Who could that be?

  “Oh there you are at last. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning.” It was Vi, my maiden aunt. She was a matron at a hospital in Somerset and took her role very seriously as the last remaining senior member of the family, though tact was never her strong point. Nor was brevity for that matter. I braced myself.

  “I wanted to tell you that I’m thinking of you on this very sad day. Can you hear me?” she boomed. I held the receiver a bit further away from my ear. Vi’s family nickname was Foghorn.

  “It doesn’t seem possible that your father died a year ago today. And so soon after your poor mother.” She paused to draw breath. “It must be especially hard now that you don’t have a man any more. We all thought you’d be all right when you two were together. But now I worry about you. Your brothers are worried about you too. You’re young and pretty, I’m sure you’ll find someone else.”

  It was another five minutes before she hung up, making me promise that I would eat properly and ring her if I needed anything. Somehow, there hadn’t been time to tell her that I was on my way to Italy, perhaps to buy a house in a village where chicken ate spaghetti.

  *

  The best way was to get a train from Rome, said Steve – we were on first name terms now and had spoken several times by phone since that first meeting. I should stay in a town called Terni, where his Italian business partner would pick me up from my hotel on Thursday morning. It had taken less than twenty four hours to make up my mind, and book a flight, leaving on Wednesday.

  The next day and a half passed in a whirlwind, as I ventured out in the still sheeting rain to get some Italian lire from the bank. The teller passed me a thick wad of well worn notes in exchange for my small pile of crisp ones, the total amounting to a sum with a bewildering array of noughts. I stopped at a bookshop to buy a map of Italy and a bottle of Chianti from the delicatessen. Later that evening, glass in hand, it occurred to me that although I had a degree in Italian from one of Britain’s best universities, I didn’t have a clear idea of where Umbria was.

  *

  The hours dragged slowly next day. I was covering the inquest of a middle-aged man who had fallen to his death below Beachy Head further along the Sussex coast several weeks earlier. A police officer gave evidence from the family that the man had been a keen bird watcher.

  “So it is possible,” said the coroner, without much conviction in his voice, “that the deceased lost his footing while pursuing an unusual bird to get a closer look, and tragically slipped and fell over the cliff. The court returns an open verdict and our condolences go to his wife and two children.”

  At least they would get some money from the life insurance. I hastily wrote up the story and phoned it over to the newsdesk, mentally making a checklist of what I should pack as I spelt out the name of the dead man to the copytaker, a garrulous woman called Sylvia, who had bleached blonde hair and took a keen interest in the personal lives of all the journalists. The copytakers’ room was right next to the newsroom, and when Sylvia wasn’t taking down stories over her headphones, she would sit chatting to her colleagues about the reporters on the other side of the glass.

  “I hear you’re off to Italy dear,” she said as I signed off my inquest piece. “Do you good, if you ask me. You’ve been looking really peaky lately, if you don’t mind me saying. I suppose you’re missing your boyfriend.”

  *

  Less than twenty four hours later, after a flight sitting next to a friendly young Italian couple, the rail journey from Rome to Terni gave a taste of what was in store. The train rattled along and the wide open spaces turned into rolling hills and dramatic valleys, dotted with pale-coloured stone villages and olive groves that tumbled down the slopes.

  “Birra, aranciata, coca-cola, panini,” chanted a gawky looking teenage boy. He lugged a plastic bucket full of cans up and down the corridor. Everyone in the carriage seemed intent on eating or drinking something, and the boy was doing a brisk trade. A few seats away from me, a couple of smartly dressed businessmen were earnestly engaged in a discussion that appeared to revolve around recipes for risotto.

  “The trick is to keep stirring it all the while. I read my sales reports while I’m doing it,” said the older of the two, leaning forward over his leather briefcase.

  “You should try adding a small lump of butter at the end, just before you serve it. It makes all the flavours blend together,” said the other, standing up and smoothing down a smart tobacco coloured linen suit. “I think we must be here.”

  The sound of brakes and a loud hissing interrupted the eavesdropping session, and a man in a neat blue uniform appeared on the platform, hurriedly donning a peaked red cap and waving a red flag.

  “Terni, stazione di Terni,” boomed a crackly voice over the tannoy.

  *

  Terni was certainly not the prettiest place. The first glimpse on emerging from the station showed it to be disappointingly modern, the forecourt dominated by a large geometric steel sculpture. Several wide avenues branched out from the piazza, filled with people walking purposefully, or cycling in and out of the busy traffic.

  “Taxi Signorina?”

  “Er, no grazie. Il mio albergo e’ qui vicino,” I said haltingly. It was the longest sentence I had uttered since setting foot in Italy and it was reassuring to see how effortlessly it tripped off the tongue. Carla would be proud of me. It was partly down to her that I was here at all, and she had often been in my thoughts over the past few days, a vision in her glamorous clothes, with the intoxicating perfume she always wore and that fascinating gold watch which was part of a bracelet and which she played with constantly as she waved her hands around. Carla was the wonderfully exotic creature who had first introduced me to Italian when I was still a 16-year-old schoolgirl. In our rather drab convent school, where the nuns wore floor-length black habits and a perpetual scowl on their faces, this flamboyant Italian teacher had been like a breath of fresh air. Her greatest wish, as she told our small sixth-form class almost every lesson, was that we would go and live in Italy and marry an Italian.

  “Italian men make such wonderful husbands,” she would whisper, breaking off from the Pirandello play she had been reading out loud. There was a touch of regret in her voice. For as all the girls knew, Carla had married an Englishman.

  “W
ell I might manage the first request, but I’m afraid definitely not the second one Carla,” I muttered to myself. I picked up my bag and walked towards the curiously named Hotel de Paris, whose sign was visible further up the longest avenue.

  The hotel looked as if it might have been built in the 1950s, possibly in rather a hurry, with a flat façade and surly grey paint. Inside, the theme was a faint orange colour, with wooden furniture. There was no restaurant service, except for breakfast, I was told. The receptionist handed me a heavy key attached to a red silk sash. But there was a very good trattoria just around the corner in Piazza Tacito.

  *

  The agent who came to collect me from my hotel the next morning was a large well-coiffed lady called Mirella. She had a gravelly voice, the result, it seemed likely, of the number of cigarettes she clearly smoked. She had an unlit one in her hand, using it as a prop as she outlined the day’s programme. My guide did her best to speak to me in English, though you could tell it didn’t come easily.

  “If you will rejoin the car er, it will be possible for me to accompany you to check the er, establishments in which you are, er, interested,” she said, leading me outside. I reassured her that I spoke Italian. A look of relief mixed with disappointment registered on her face. She had clearly been practising for this moment. Mirella pointed towards a white Fiat Uno and opened the passenger door to remove what looked like a pile of children’s’ dirty football kit on the seat. She threw it into the back.

  “Prego!” said Mirella. The car moved forward, into the busy stream of traffic.

  “Do you care if I smoke?” She reached over onto the dashboard to find a lighter, encased in an embossed leather holder.