Divas Don't Knit (32 page)

It’s Christmas morning and I’m sitting in the palatial dining room with the quadra thing ceiling, while the boys shoot Lego cannon balls at each other and I try to calm down; Mum made me one of her special triple espressos for breakfast, and my hands are still shaking, but it was either that or more bloody Earl Grey, and at least it woke me up. We’ve opened our presents, and Vin and Lulu have gone back to bed, much to Mum’s annoyance. Dad’s busy doing something to one of the doors in the hall involving a screwdriver and a plane, although why he has to do it now is anybody’s guess, while Mum’s banging saucepans around downstairs in the kitchen, because she hates cooking. We all offered to help, but she said she wants to do it by herself; only I think she meant with us as the admiring audience rather than just letting her get on with it.

It’s only half past ten and I’m already feeling like I’ve been up for hours; but supper last night was a real treat, even if it did mean we got home late. We went to a tiny restaurant in the nearby square, run by Gianni’s son Luca and his wife Gabriella, and it was packed with all their friends and family. We were so
hungry we practically inhaled our pasta before the traditional Christmas Eve main course arrived. Roasted eel wasn’t exactly what I was expecting, and judging from the look on Jack’s face neither was he, but Gabriella was sweet with him. She gave him a tiny forkful to try, and when he risked it and pronounced it delicious, he got a round of applause from everyone for being
bravissimo,
so Archie ate all his quite happily, too, which was another minor miracle. Maybe I could add a nice bit of roasted eel to the menu for the relentless round of weekday suppers when we get home; it would certainly make a change from fish fingers.

On the way back to the house we passed three men dressed as Father Christmas standing up in a gondola singing and waving at everyone, which the boys thought was thrilling, and made hanging up their stockings even more exciting than usual. In fact things got so exciting that Archie collapsed his camp bed and had to be retrieved in a highly agitated state, but they both finally conked out at around one, and then were awake again what seemed like minutes later, bouncing on my bed and yelling ‘He’s been! He’s been!’ and waving their stockings at me. The miniature cardboard kaleidoscopes went down well, and the clockwork monkeys that do somersaults, but I’m never letting Gran get them mini-trumpets and maracas again. Ever. Although they did mean everyone else was awake by the time we went downstairs for breakfast.

Archie’s already eaten his chocolate orange: I’ve always thought a satsuma at the bottom of your stocking is a bit of a swizz, so the chocolate orange has become something of a family tradition. Jack’s rationing himself to a couple of segments a day, like he always does, partly because he likes to make it last, but mainly because he knows it upsets Archie. I almost forgot them last year, and Nick had to rush out and get them on Christmas Eve, which he wasn’t very pleased about. It seems so much longer than just a year ago, and being in Venice
makes it seem even more distant, but I’m still bracing myself for a Daddy-would-have-liked-this moment.

I should probably be taking them upstairs to get dressed, but I can’t quite face the bathroom; there’s some kind of medieval boiler above the bath that you have to adjust with a spanner to get hot water. Dad explained it all to me yesterday, and if you turn the lever too far to the right it blows up, and if too far to the left it just goes out, and then blows up. So I’m thinking I might boil a kettle and we can all have a nice little wash instead.

Mum’s standing in the kitchen looking at a pile of potatoes.

‘I’m taking the boys up to get dressed, Mum. Can I boil a kettle for some water?’

‘Yes, but can you hurry up, please. I think I’ve got it all under control, but if you could peel these for me I could be peeling the carrots, and the
cavolfiore.’

‘The what?’

‘The cauliflower.’

I wish she’d stop speaking Italian; it’s getting quite annoying actually.

‘And you could do the
fagiolini
– just top and tail them, and while you’re doing that I’ll start on the table. I thought I’d do my special
crostini
to start with?’

‘Lovely.’

‘And I’ve made
zuppa inglese
for pudding. I thought the boys would like that and I got a marvellous recipe from Gabriella.’

‘That’s trifle, right? They’ll love that.’

She hands me the vegetable peeler.

‘It’s rather more sophisticated than trifle, darling. Could you do the carrots, too, while I pop up for a quick bath? And keep an eye on the capon, would you.’

‘Sure.’

Porca Madonna. So that’s me down for cooking Christmas lunch again then; what a surprise.

The boys sit at the kitchen table and build their pirate ships,
which were their main present from me, while I start on the potatoes. Vin and Lulu have got them some extra pirate kit, including a crocodile and a Playmobil dragon with chains round his legs, and Vin rather brilliantly organised their presents from Mum and Dad too, so they’ve got islands with sharks to add to the collection. They’re desperate to get the ships built so battle can commence.

Jack smiles at me. ‘I think I’ll have another piece of my chocolate orange in a minute.’

Archie sighs.

‘I’ll just do the veg for Granny and then we can go and get dressed. We could go for a walk later, if you like?’

‘She said we had to call her Mariella, Mum.’

‘I know, Jack. I keep forgetting. Sorry.’

Archie looks puzzled. ‘We don’t have to call Gran Mariella, too, do we, when we get home?’

‘No, darling.’

‘Good. Because I like calling her Gran. Will the ice-cream shops be open when we go out?’

‘I’m not sure, but we’re having a very big lunch, so you probably won’t have room.’

He looks at me like I’ve suddenly gone daft.

‘Can I go and wake Uncle Vin up now, so he can help us with our castles?’

‘That’s a good idea.’

You never know; maybe he’d like to peel some potatoes while he’s at it.

Lunch turns into a joint production between me and Vin, while Mum takes ages to get the table just how she wants it, which seems to involve trailing lots of ivy everywhere and stencilling stars on the table cloth, only she can’t find her special little brush, which she accuses Dad of stealing. After we’ve got past that mini-crisis Dad moves on to fixing a wobbly handle on a cabinet in the living room, and manages to superglue
his thumb to it in the process, so Lulu has to spend ages dabbing away with special solvent and trying not to laugh, while Mum wafts off somewhere in search of candles.

Vin opens a bottle of champagne, which improves things slightly, and we’re all in festive mood by the time we’re actually sitting at the table, especially since Vin’s brought a box of crackers with him. Mum’s not that keen on them since they clash with her colour scheme for the table, but everyone apart from her sits wearing their paper hats and swapping tragic jokes, while Dad hacks away at the capon with a carving knife he found at the back of the drawer. On balance I wish Vin hadn’t got crackers with whistles in them, but we’ll certainly be able to attract attention in an emergency, which might be useful when we’re out walking along beside the canals.

Mum gives me a rather narky look.

‘Where’s the blue jug with the bread sauce?’

‘What bread sauce?’

‘Honestly, do I have to do everything? There was a packet on the table, the one your father likes, I got Vincent to bring it over for me. What did you think it was for?’

‘I didn’t see a packet.’

Vin pours himself some more champagne.

‘That’s because I didn’t bring any, Mum. Sorry, I forgot.’

‘Honestly, Vincent, it’s your father’s favourite.’

‘Actually, dear, I’m not really that keen on bread sauce.’

‘Well, you might have said. I wish you wouldn’t keep changing your mind about things, Derek, it’s very annoying when you’re trying to cater for large numbers. I think I’ll have a little siesta after lunch, I’m completely exhausted. Why don’t you all go out for a lovely walk, and get some fresh air?’

‘Won’t everything be shut?’ Vin’s not looking very keen.

‘The hotels will be open, so you can have a coffee. Go over to San Marco. Derek, take them past the Accademia, it looks like a lovely day for a walk.’

I’d already decided a walk was probably a good idea, but now I’ve heard about the siesta plan I think it’s pretty vital. The boys aren’t terribly good at lying quietly in darkened rooms in the middle of the day, and if we stay here much longer there’s a strong chance I’ll be poking her with her special stencilling brush.

Lulu pours herself some water. ‘I’d love a walk.’

Archie’s waving his fork in the air and his paper hat has slipped down over his eyes. ‘Can we have ice cream when we go for our walk?’

‘Yes, love, I’m sure we can.’

It’s the day after Boxing Day and the shops are open again, thank Christ, because I’m in serious need of a little retail therapy, even if it’s only buying a few postcards and more ice cream. Mum wants to take us out on another leg of her My Favourite Paintings tour, which isn’t the sort of treat that will have the boys jumping up and down by the front door. And she’s got another bloody drinks party tonight, which I could do without: six people turned up in the evening on Christmas Day, and fifteen of the sods trooped round yesterday, including a man called Julian who thought I was a waitress and handed me his coat with a very snooty look on his face, and then asked me to get him a mineral water in the kind of voice you use when you’re speaking to someone who’s mentally defective. Mum was in her element holding forth in the living room while we all scuttled around with trays of drinks, and Lulu put the finishing touches to her mini tomato tartlets, which she’d spent most of the afternoon making. The boys coped fairly well with being shown off to guests and having their cheeks pinched repeatedly before being dismissed to lurk in the kitchen, but then Archie threw a major strop at bathtime, and I was already
on edge because of the bloody boiler so we ended up having a screaming match. So a nice relaxing day out without any History of Art lectures might be a Top Plan.

Vin wants to go to the fish market, and Dad tells us the flood alerts have been on the radio so we’d better wear our wellies, which worries Jack.

‘Does the water go right in the shops, Grandad?’

‘Yes, sometimes it does, but they have metal barriers they put over the doorways. You have to climb over them to get in, but don’t worry, today won’t be too bad. It’ll be tomorrow that you’ll really see it.’

Archie’s thrilled.

‘If the water comes in big, will we have to swim?’

Dad laughs. ‘It’s not usually that deep, but it might come over the top of your wellies.’

Lulu puts an arm round Jack. ‘They put tables out as walkways, don’t they?’

Dad nods and Archie grins. This gets better and better: water in the shops, and walking on tables. How perfect.

‘Quick, let’s go before the water goes.’

We set off for the Rialto in a little procession, with Vin leading the way, since he’s insisted on holding the map, while Lulu and I dawdle along behind, looking in shop windows. It’s a lovely sunny morning, and all the different colours of the buildings are beautiful; the pinks and oranges and all the pitted marble and the faded wooden doors. It’s so lovely you just want to sit somewhere and watch, and each time you think you’ve seen your favourite square, with the perfect mix of old buildings and churches and busy shops and cafés, you turn the corner and something even more lovely catches your eye.

We pass a wool shop with a window full of jumpers with pictures knitted on the front, so we go in and nod admiringly at the woman sitting knitting, and look at the huge range of different colours. I’m not that keen on complicated picture
knitting, it always seems a bit Val Doonican to me, but I’m definitely jealous of the colours, particularly the greens and yellows. I buy a jumper with Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
on the front to take to school for the knitting project, and we carry on walking until Lulu finds a lovely second-hand clothes shop full of flimsy blouses and lace. Lulu buys a pretty white cotton camisole, and I’m tempted by a cream shirt with lots of tiny pleats on the front, but the boys are starting to get bored and it’s very expensive, so I manage to resist.

The fish market’s amazing. The boys are particularly impressed with the huge swordfish lying on a slab of ice and looking like it’ll be swimming off at any moment. They want to buy one for supper, but I’m not sure Mum would be too pleased if we came home dragging a swordfish along behind us. The old men behind the stalls seem to spend most of their time talking to each other, while the younger ones do all the flirting and haggling, and the whole place is so lively and friendly you’d never get tired of it if you lived here; and you’d definitely eat more fish, especially with all the kissing and waving, which would improve our local Sainsbury’s no end. We walk past vegetable stalls piled high with beautiful arrangements of fruit, and an old woman in black gives Archie a clementine and kisses the top of his head.