Tuscany

(Love, a lot)

Stefan gets out of the familiar white van and takes Shannon’s right hand, holds his upper arm affectionately then pulls him into an embrace. Seconds could have passed, but it’s been six weeks, and feels like months. We’re back where we started.

The road into the Tuscan hills is familiar, and our journey to the farm is filled with conversation. Shannon sits in the front this time, he and Stefan are old friends with matching smiles, both faces weathered by outdoor lives. In the back seat I can watch them unnoticed. They’re both precious to me, and I wonder if what I feel for Stefan is love, and if it is, what kind.

The van bumps along the dirt road leading to the house. It’s like coming home.

‘There’s Amalie,’ Riley says. She’s steadier on her feet than when we last saw her. One small arm is raised in greeting, and she’s bobbing up and down. Ulrike and Simona are there too, Marta is on the swing – they’re all waiting for us.

A group of Germans have rented both apartments for a few weeks. Simona and Amalie have moved into the woodhouse, so we’re given the room above the toolshed. It’s tiny, much smaller than the woodhouse, but in my homecoming mood I see no discomforts, though I do note the deadly staircase – more of a ladder, really. I suggest to Shannon an alternative night-time toilet arrangement consisting of a bucket and excellent aim. Finding enough floor space for the bucket isn’t easy, but we squeeze it in between the head of Riley’s mattress and the foot of ours.

The boys are disappointed that we’re not in the apartment. I point out that our toolshed offers the perfect conditions for night-time storytelling, and Aidan’s grumbling stops. Small things make him happy, it’s a gift. Riley’s mood is harder to shift: he’s quiet and hiding his face.

‘What is it, sweetheart?’ I ask. He’s reluctant to say, so I suggest Shannon and Aidan go up to the kitchen and put the kettle on for afternoon tea. ‘I’m sure I could smell apple cake when we got out of the van.’

Aidan is down the ladder before I’ve finished the sentence.

‘Is there something bothering you?’ I ask Riley, when we’re alone.

‘I just wish we were in the apartment,’ Riley says in a low, defeated voice.

‘We all do, darling, but it isn’t available. The people staying in the apartments are paying guests, so even Simona and Amalie can’t live in them at the moment.’ Riley is staring at his hands; he still hasn’t met my eyes. ‘What is it you miss so much about the apartment?’

‘The toilet.’ He’s so quiet I can barely hear him.

‘The toilet? But we’re not as far from the toilet here as we were at the woodhouse, and at night you have your very own ensuite.’ I flourish my hand toward the bucket, but it fails to amuse.

‘But I can’t use it properly.’

‘The bucket? All you have to do is aim.’

‘No, the other toilet, the one in the ground. It’s too wide for me and I sometimes fall in.’

Oh. The things they keep to themselves. The other toilet, the one we’ve been told to use, has two porcelain footrests either side of a hole in the ground. The width between them is perfect for an adult but, I realise now, too far apart for a small nine-year-old boy. The daily fear of falling in your own shit – we had no idea.

‘That, my love, is easily solved. I’ll have a very quiet word with Ulrike, and I’m sure she’ll let you use the toilet inside the house whenever you want. Would you prefer that?’

Riley looks at me now and nods. I wrap myself around him, happy to cocoon him forever, but a craving for apple cake cuts our hug short and we join the others in the kitchen.

We fall into the routines of the farm as if we’ve only been away for a day or two, though there are some changes. The lingering chill of winter has gone, and the summer heat has covered the elderberry in clusters of white flowers, and the raspberry canes in fruit. Herbs fill the garden beds we rescued last time we were here, and the hothouse has been abandoned for the open field. There is so much to do, and we’re eager to help.

Honey has been a priority in recent weeks. Acacia blossoms have been transformed into gold by Stefan’s bees, and the whole family has spent twelve hours a day separating it from the debris of the hives. We’ve arrived just in time to pour the clean honey into jars. When we tire of that, there is plenty to do in the fields; they have been neglected during the honey harvest and there are all manner of things to plant, prune and pick.

The last wwoofer planted tomato seedlings, which are now searching for something to climb. And we’re given the job of building the frames. Stefan stands with us at the head of the first two rows.

‘He did not really understand how to keep them straight,’ Stefan is saying. ‘He has not grown anything before and he pulled much out that should have stayed in, and put much in that will not grow well, but he was a good wwoofer.’ Stefan is smiling, humoured by the wonky rows.

‘What made him a good wwoofer?’ I ask.

‘He cared about what he was doing; he tried. He is not used to this life, but he wanted to learn.’ Stefan turns to me and chuckles. ‘He is now living nearby with other young people, in a communal house, and is showing them how to grow food. It won’t matter if the rows are not straight.’

‘But it must be more work for you, to have wwoofers who don’t know a tomato from a weed?’ I suddenly remember all the perfectly productive raspberry canes I snipped off last time I was here and wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

‘Yes, it is more work.’ He looks to Shannon and pats him on the shoulder, ‘It is not usual to have someone like Shannon. But everyone brings something with them when they come, and if they leave with some knowledge of growing food, this is good, and maybe better than perfect rows of tomatoes.’

Stefan is confident we can do this job without him. Shannon is confident we can do this job without him. I am confident I can follow Shannon’s instructions. But Stefan wants things done differently to Lauren – instead of a single row of vertical frames, he uses a traditional A-frame construction between two rows.

Shannon and I work beside each other, forcing long, thin chestnut branches into the dry soil and tying them in pairs near the top. We discuss the merits of both types of frame. I think the A-frame is easier to construct and looks better, but Shannon suspects it might encourage disease as the plants touch at the top and airflow around them is reduced. He decides Lauren’s vertical frames are probably more productive, though concedes that they’re a bit more work to build. We clearly have different priorities.

The boys find us when they want us. We haven’t seen them for hours, but I feel none of the angst I did at Pirapora. When we left them after breakfast they were planning to head down to the river with Marta.

‘It’s still really cold in the water, but there are heaps of tadpoles. Ulrike gave us a bucket and we’ve been collecting them.’ Aidan is animated, bare feet, bare chest. ‘Will you come down?’

‘How about we all go down for a swim after lunch,’ Shannon suggests.

‘When is lunch? I’m hungry,’ Riley says.

I look at my watch, it’s one o’clock. ‘It might be an hour away, shall I get you a snack?’

I think back to our first visit – the long, famished hours waiting to be fed, our shyness and reluctance to intrude or be a burden. We’ve learnt a lot since then. Not only how to fit in with this family and its rhythms, but how to assert our own. We’ve gained a confidence that I didn’t realise we lacked until we came to Italy. Our lives back home are so independent that we floundered when we came here – we didn’t know how to be ourselves in another family’s home. Now, we move comfortably around the farm and the family. We help ourselves when we’re hungry or when a cup of tea is required; we find out what needs to be done and we weave time around it in a way that works for everyone. I find I’m not planning ahead as much, so the anxiety of not getting things done has disappeared.

Lunch is as we remember it, though the heat of summer has moved it out of the kitchen and into the shade of the cherry tree. Marta and Aidan eat quickly so they can test their limits on the swing. Riley hovers around Amalie, scooping her up every time she ventures in the path of the human pendulum. When Simona takes Amalie to the woodhouse for a nap and Ulrike retreats inside the house for her repose, we suggest that Marta join us down at the river for a swim.

‘Bracing’ is one word for it, though ‘freezing’ might be more accurate. The river has lost its urgency in the dry of summer, but not its bite. Marta is braver than the rest of us and has submerged herself in the deep pool that catches the water coming down from the mountain. I’m determined to get my hair wet, but it leaves me gasping and I scramble to a large flat rock to recline and recover. The boys have sacrificed all feeling in their legs to wade through the water catching fat tadpoles in their hands and storing them in a bucket for indefinite observation. It becomes a game that we all play, seeing how many of the slippery wrigglers we can keep hold of in the cupped traps of our hands.

Shannon goes to find Stefan at the old mill, leaving us to frolic. When I join them half an hour later, they’re discussing Shannon’s next job.

The mill was decommissioned years ago and the reservoir that fed the water-wheel was turned into a swimming pool, but it’s been losing water. A small stone wall needs to be built at the point where river water was once channelled into the reservoir. It’s a big job, but Shannon has built stone walls before. He and Stefan are working out the best approach, and they take it in turns to talk, nodding and laughing in unison. If you didn’t know who was host and who was wwoofer, you wouldn’t easily work it out.

~

Before dinner, the boys and I wander down the path past the honey room, past our Turkish toilet, past the herb garden and along the top of the vegetable field where the frames we constructed are braced for the weight of hundreds of tomatoes. At the end of the path is a field of raspberries.

Every day we collect kilos of berries. We eat as much as we like and still fill our baskets to overflowing. This is what it would feel like to win a golden ticket and find yourself in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. This is what the River Cottage and Gourmet Farmer have promised. But now I know how much work makes it real.

Ulrike and I got to know each other amongst these raspberry canes. The hours we spent shuffling along the aisles between the rows were back-breaking and left me with a rash on both arms from the fine hairs on the plants, but the company made up for it. It’s been the greatest pleasure to return and see the fruits of all that labour.

This evening Ulrike joins us amongst the raspberries, and we pick up where we left off, talking about children, our gentle men, and wwoofing on another farm.

‘We never really became friends,’ I say when the subject turns to Lauren. ‘I think she saw us as a source of labour but nothing more, so it was difficult to settle in.’

‘People want different things from this experience,’ Ulrike says. ‘Sometimes they want too much.’

I hope she’s talking about Lauren, but suspect she’s talking about me.

When our baskets are full we carry them up to the kitchen. Ulrike puts half of them in a large pot, adds sugar and lights the stove. The rest go in bags to be frozen. This has happened every day since we arrived, and jars of jam are piling up on shelves in the cellar. There might be a hundred by the time the vines stop producing.

At breakfast this morning, Stefan told me they’ll only last a few months.

‘Surely longer than that,’ I’d said. Then I watched him use a dessert spoon to dollop the crimson jam on his porridge. The boys took note, and by the end of breakfast a whole jar was empty.

~

I think we might be working more than we did the first time we were here, but it feels easier. It’s late morning. The boys and Marta have just delivered three baskets of raspberries to the kitchen where I’m preparing bread, and Ulrike is scrubbing potatoes for lunch – we’re working like an extended family, and I’m conscious of how true it is that many hands make light work.

The children help themselves to thick slices of apple cake, straight from the baking tray, then find the Monopoly board and head outside. I follow with tins of wet dough – like the children, it needs time in the sun to grow. When I’ve placed the last tin on the table I pause to listen to Marta translating a Chance card for Aidan. They’re comfortable and settled, so I decide to visit Shannon down at the old mill pool.

The weather is hot, but the woods are perpetually cool. The contrast raises goosebumps on my skin and I hug myself to clear them. Branches from mature chestnut trees reach over the path like protective arms in an enchanted forest. It’s all I can do to stop myself skipping, and then I realise there’s no reason not to, so I skip.

The wall is well underway. Shannon’s been at it all morning.

‘Feel like a break?’ I say.

He unfurls and leans back as far as he can, holding his fists into the small of his back.

‘I’ve brought cake.’ I have him now. He loves the ritual of a tea break after hours of hard work. This is what we are both good at – him, the hard work; me, the distraction.

‘Your timing is perfect. I’m starving.’

I feel I’ve done a good thing, bringing this man sustenance.

‘My legs need a stretch. Why don’t we walk to the old pig house?’ he says.

‘What girl could refuse such an offer?’

The pig house has recently had a stone and terracotta floor laid and will soon be another option for accommodation. We step over the threshold into its cool interior – such a relief from the heat outside.

There’s nowhere to sit, so Shannon rests against a wall and finishes his cake. I lean my arms on the wide sill of a small window and look out at the woods that would claim this small building if it was ignored for more than a few months. The thought amuses me.

‘What are you smiling about?’ Shannon is whispering into my neck. His arms have wrapped around me and his fingers have tucked themselves between mine.

‘I’m imagining all those rows of carrots at Pirapora.’

‘What about them?’

‘They’d be smothered in weeds by now.’

‘Probably.’

‘I wonder how we’ll go with just the two of us?’

‘Mm.’

He isn’t listening, why would he be? This is the first time we’ve been out of earshot of the boys for weeks. I turn around and his lips catch mine. There’s nothing to lie on, so we stay standing up. We improvise.

~

‘You are a baker now, when you leave you must take some pasta madre.’

Ulrike is offering me her mother dough, the bread starter she’s been nurturing for years. To me, this pasta madre is a part of her – part of this place and way of life. I interpret her gift as a vote of confidence, and suddenly I realise how much I’ve wanted a sign that I might have what it takes to live this good life. It’s the night before we leave again and I’m emotional. When I finally get a hold of myself, my thoughts have come full circle – Ulrike would never presume to judge my worthiness, for a good life or anything else. She’s offering me something she’s noticed gives me pleasure. She is kind. Why should I seek more than that from anyone?

When Shannon comes into the kitchen Ulrike and I are trying to figure out the best way to package the pasta madre so it survives the trip home.

‘You won’t be able to get it through Australian quarantine, even if it does survive until then.’ Shannon is ever practical.

‘Maybe you can send it by post,’ Ulrike suggests. She doesn’t understand why Australian quarantine would have a problem with her gift, and I’m so taken with the idea of baking Ulrike’s bread in my kitchen that I let her convince me it will be okay.

We decide the only way to preserve the starter will be to dry it. I can then reconstitute it when I get home, feed it with fresh rye flour and water for a few days until it is active again. Ulrike goes to the fridge and gets out the raw dough left over from the loaves I made the other day. She scoops out half.

‘Will you have enough left for your own bread?’ I ask.

‘It does not need much. And I think you will need a little more because of the drying.’

She spreads it thin on a sheet of foil, and I take it out to sit in the hot afternoon sun.

~

Long trestle tables fill the community hall in the nearby village of Faltona. It’s the annual pizza-fest, and it coincides with our last night at Il Mulino. Almost every seat is taken, and we’re ushered out onto the balcony by a young woman in a bright orange T-shirt – the uniform for the army of pizza bearers bringing cheers from lucky tables receiving food.

The menu is a long list of pizzas. We tick our favourites and line up to pay the cashier. I can see Stefan in the kitchen behind the counter. He’s pushing a pizza into a brick oven with a long-handled oven peel. It slides off without incident and he reaches for another. Eight people are at various stations: an old man is shredding mozzarella in what looks like a meat mincer, one woman is forming balls of dough and another is putting them through a roller to create the round pizza bases. She passes them to the central table where five people are turning our pizza dreams into reality. Stefan is the last port of call.

When he pulls out a cooked pizza, cheese still bubbling, the base slightly charred around the edges, I catch his eye. As always, he smiles gently and tilts his head. As always, I blush.

All the people from this village and its surrounds must have turned up tonight. Everyone knows everyone and we, with our awkward Italian, are curiosities. It’s easy to long for this kind of community, but it’s also easy to romanticise it. Half the young people have come home for the weekend from the cities where they work or study. Most of them won’t return to live here. The revelry and good cheer tonight is as much about seeing family and old friends as it is about the food.

By the time we’ve eaten every last delicious crumb of our pizzas, the hall is almost empty. I watch as Stefan farewells the few who’ve stayed behind to clean up. Each time, he smiles and tilts his head, and I see my affection for him in their eyes. When his white van disappears down the hill, I feel as if I’ve been left alone at the dance.

The four of us squeeze into the car of a friend and drive the dark roads back to the farm. When we’re dropped off we stand in the dark, invisible and watching. The kitchen light is on and we can see Stefan and Ulrike moving around the table. Ulrike has laid it with bread, and Stefan is taking raspberry jam from the fridge. They sit down with Marta for a midnight snack. This time alone would be rare.

‘Why don’t we leave them to it?’ I say to Shannon.

‘Good idea.’ He finds my hand and we start down the path to the toolshed. Then Riley calls out in a panic.

‘Dad! Mum!’

We turn around to look into the darkness.

‘What is it, Riley?’ Shannon asks.

‘Stefan’s van. It’s flooding!’

Riley points behind him. The white van is spectral in the moonlight, but we can’t see anything amiss. Aidan is the first to get to it, and the grin on his face communicates a mishap of entertaining proportions for a twelve-year-old boy.

When I reach the van my hand automatically covers my mouth. ‘Oh my god,’ I say into it. ‘Quick, Riley. Run and tell Stefan.’

Riley races towards the lighted kitchen, and I wish that we were able to deal with this disaster ourselves. Shannon goes to the van doors and pulls them open. Water gushes out.

It’s Aidan who discovers the source of the calamity. ‘There’s a hose filling up one of the drums in the back.’

Shannon traces its serpentine tail to a tap. When the water is turned off we see the neck of the hose sag, and the curtain of water that’s been falling from the drum and filling the van stills.

We follow Riley into the kitchen. Stefan’s holding a slice of rye bread thickly spread with jam. He’s finishing a mouthful before responding to Riley’s alarming message.

‘No matter,’ he says, gently shaking his head. Riley looks at us dumbfounded, afraid he’s been misunderstood and appealing to one of us to reinforce the bad news.

‘The whole van is flooded, Stefan. I’m not sure what the damage is,’ says Shannon.

‘Has the hose been shut?’ He asks, raising the bread and jam to his mouth and making no move to push his chair out and run to the scene of destruction.

‘Yes, I turned it off.’

‘Then it is done. I will look at it in the morning.’ He motions for us to sit. Neither Marta nor Ulrike seem concerned about the van, or our intrusion, so we join them.

I lean into Shannon. ‘The Zen of Stefan,’ I whisper. He smiles in agreement.

~

As a farewell gift, Ulrike presents us with one precious jar of jam and six jars of honey. Unable to say no – because we’re polite or greedy, it’s hard to decide – we wrap them in clothes. We’re thinking of the week ahead, to be spent in an apartment in Lucca. We’re looking forward to raspberry jam on toast and porridge, and honey by the spoonful.

‘Next time you come, you are our guests. No work.’ Stefan’s smile is broad now, like the open door of their lighted kitchen. It’s our second farewell, and maybe, because of that, it feels less painful. We came back once, why wouldn’t we come back again?

The whole family is there to see us off. We hold each other with affection. Simona and I write down email addresses – we want her to visit us in Australia. Marta could come in a few years, and Amalie when she’s older: we’re full of the possibilities. But I’ve travelled enough to know that these plans often fade, that the intimacy of travel is fragile. Right now, the thought of losing these relationships to time seems impossible.

We get into the van. It’s damp, but otherwise unharmed. Stefan drives us all the way to Arezzo on the pretext of having to check hives somewhere in the vicinity. Maybe he does, or maybe it’s just a convenience that allows for his kindness. It gives us another hour together.

When the van drives away from the station we watch it until it rounds a corner and is gone. Shannon turns to me and pulls something from behind his back.

‘I found this when I was helping Stefan clean out the van.’

It’s my hat, miraculously dry thanks to its hiding place high amongst the piled-up hives. I hold it to my nose. It smells of honey, of Il Mulino, and of Stefan. Each of us takes our memories and unlikely fancies to platform four, and we wait for the train to Lucca.