A Funeral in Fiesole by Rosanne Dingli Page B

printed with the order of readings and music, and I did read Ombra mai fu , but no one said it would be played by Lori. Beautifully done, I did concede, and very appropriate. A difficult piece to play unaccompanied, but she is a talented girl. Handel is always fitting, in a way.
    I closed the card – stiff, and the colour of clotted cream – and folded it, and was startled to find on the front an oval portrait of Mama in black and white, which Nigel must have found in some old album. In remembrance of Nina Larkin . It appeared to have been taken when Papa was still alive, and showed her young and healthy, with eyes almost squeezed shut and untidy hair which meant she was out in her beloved garden. Not one I would have chosen if he’d asked, but I supposed it was quite a suitable choice in the end. I stared and stared at it, and remembered the way she would stamp her feet on those mats before tracking soil onto the tiles in the lower room overlooking the hills at the back. How she would laugh at her own badly-pronounced Italian. How she would gather us together in the kitchen and dole out little errands and tasks, which had to be completed before we could all sit down to some board game or other, or before she would drive us all to the communal swimming pool at Sesto Fiorentino.
    My shoes hurt, and I wished I had worn something warmer. I wished for thick socks. I wished for a companion I could exchange glances with. Someone to hold my hand. There was no one in the world who could take the role. Unaccompanied, I felt like a maiden aunt, a spinster, despite having emerged – quite in one piece, I suppose – from a long marriage. I was uncomfortable and longed to return home. For the first time in my life … no, it could not have been the first time; I yearned for a daughter. She would have led me home. I swallowed hard.
    Where was home? I was suddenly drifting and had no anchor, no home port. No real mooring. If my home in Melbourne had any meaning left, it was the location from where John had left. Had left me. I was starting to form the unfortunate decision to sell, despite all the thought and love I had poured into the place. Ah – the gorgeous garden, the absolutely perfect rooms. They would now serve only to mock what it was all about. Comfort without warmth, with no sympathy, would be the only thing they would provide.
    Did I only think such thoughts because I was so far away? I needed a home rather badly now, and my old room up in the Fiesole house would have to serve. Nigel would have to ‘turn up the heating a notch’, however, or I would die of cold and damp.
    One of the final clauses in the will left us all perplexed. We were all urged to pay special visits to Matilde, on separate days, in order not to tire her out. Why Mama made it so plain in the will was understandable to a point, but mystifying in another way, since it was inevitable we would visit the old woman who was such a faithful old nurse, cook, maid, nanny and everything else to us in our childhood, for the last time. She and Mama had a special friendship and understanding. Of course we would all go. She did not have to bid us to do so in such a formal, legal way. The notary peered over his glasses at us, one by one, giving Brod’s name three firm syllables, Brod-er-rick , and nodding when he saw agreement in all our eyes.
    What he might not have been prepared for was our gasp when the details of who was to get what were read. I was left stunned, stunned, but rather satisfied. I had never expected such an outcome, and of course deciding whether it was equitable was not an issue, because it was clear Mama had calculated the values of properties very, very carefully. Recently, too. We all gave each other silent stares when the notary read the date of the will. It was barely five months before she died. He explained how he had made his way to the hospice and ascertained and confirmed she was of sound mind and good intent – as signified by two