It is Friday June 12th 1987. Tom and Liz have finally escaped the city and are moving to a small country village of narrow lanes and mellow stone houses and cottages just like the one they have bought. Their happiness is muted: it’s also the day after the Tories were re-elected with a majority of one hundred and two. Worse than this, Margaret Thatcher is still Prime Minister.Continue reading
Buonconvento is a beautiful mediaeval small town in Tuscany. Its name means happy, lucky, place. There is a bridge over the river Arbia; this is where the Arbia and Ombrone converge. On the northern side of the bridge there is a bus stop where a woman patiently waits in the warm sunlight; she is happy. Shopping bags surround her feet and she carries a large bunch of dark blue lilies.
Two British tourists join her at the bus stop; to their delight she speaks excellent English. They introduce each other – she is Maria, they are Rich and Polly.
You look happy, Polly says.
Maria smiles. The sun is in the sky. The clouds float on the breeze. The rivers flow clear and are full of fishes. The cypress trees stand as erect sentinels over Tuscany. The air is soft. There is peace. I am happy.
You have a lot of shopping, Polly says. What’s in the bags?
Pane Toscano; I make my own, but here they have one that is even better than mine. Garlic, my crop failed this year, I don’t know why, so I buy to roast with red peppers from my cantina. Little Carciofi, done Roman style. Early lemons for a Crostata al Limone – with crema! The little new rhubarb for Panna Cotta al Rabarbaro con Rabarbaro Tostato – superb! But tonight we will eat Cavolo Nero and my own home grown dried white beans dressed with olio di Rosmarino – of my own making – washed down with the local Brunello.
Food makes you happy? Rich asks.
Of course, I am a woman of this land. But not just food …. There is also the final reckoning …. You have forgotten what day this is?
We’re on holiday and have lost track of time.
It’s April 17th .
Rich and Polly are perplexed.
Today they bury the Thatcher.
Thatcher’s funeral! Rich roars.
How could we forget that? Polly asks.
Polly takes Maria’s lilies and sets them down on the bags. Rich takes Maria and Polly by the arm and starts to sing, Ding dong! The witch is dead. As they sing they spin like Dervishes in a trance. Ding dong! The witch is dead. Spinning. Dizzy with delight. As Polly and Rich repeat the lines Maria joins in their singing. Passing cars toot their horns as the celebration continues by the side of the road. They stop, breathless.
Why did you hate Thatcher? Polly asks. She didn’t wreak her wrath on the Italian people.
Maria takes a breath. The rich may steal from the rich, but, when they steal the milk from the children, it is too far. Sono del diavolo, del male, Vanno all’inferno! Do you understand me?
I get the meaning, Polly says.
Enough is enough. La morte e la migliore! Death is best.
Their celebration is suddenly sad in this happy, lucky, place.
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