Carry on Palazzo!

It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I packed my bags for the Boy Child’s first trip to The Fatherland.  Papà A and I may not be your average couple but there are certain traditions that must nevertheless be upheld, including, of course, meeting the in-laws.

I’ve met Papà A’s mother, F, many times over the years. Luckily, we have a certain amount in common- namely a liking for drowning our sorrows in booze, reminiscing about the good old days and the oeuvre of various 1970s chansonnistes. And because I’m not really her daughter-in-law, there’s none of that inconvenient Freudian jealousy about having sex with her son.

So it wasn’t her that was occupying my mind. It was meeting the rest of the extended family. Papà A’s father had 8 siblings, all of whom still live in the family palazzo, which F refers to as ‘The Concentration Camp.’ Ever since A stood up last December at the end of Christmas dinner to announce the imminent arrival of the Boy Child, the family has been desperate to meet the Englishwoman who has stolen his heart, their appetite whetted by the fact that he has never been known to bring a girl home.

On our arrival at F’s other house, where Papà A was brought up, she immediately whisks us into the bar for a military briefing, this being the room deemed most appropriate as it has high ceilings and is therefore suitable for chain-smoking in the presence of babies.  Over gin and tonics for the boys and for F, a mini-can of Heineken, her beverage of choice, she instructs us on how to behave the next day, when we are expected at Aunt I.’s drawing room for coffee.

Apart from F, Papà A’s sister and a trusted cousin, no-one in the family is aware of The Situation, as F likes to call it. She herself made A agree years ago not to come out in Italy until she is no longer alive.  The strategy she has adopted is not to tell any outright lies, but to let us meet, and for them to draw their own conclusions. I am referred to as The Mother of Papà A.’s Child. There is the added complication of T’s presence but we agree that everyone will be so dazzled by the beauty of the Boy Child that they probably won’t notice that he’s there. F’s only other stipulation is that I shouldn’t be seen to breastfeed in the presence of Aunt I., in order not to offend her delicate sensibilities.

‘Of course, the last time she visited us here, the Princess of xxx saw fit to feed her child, and if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for anyone. Still, I think it would be best if you did it elsewhere. We shall have a special sign, so I know when to escort you out.’

I agree, having no desire to whip out my bosoms in front of the whole extended family. It’s bad enough deciding what to wear. My post-partum physique not being quite what I’d like it to be, my wardrobe currently consists of washed out maternity clothes that don’t quite fit, bagging in various places and covered in patches of baby sick. I know this won’t do. I need something demure enough to please the elder aunts but not so much that I look like a frumpy mummy to the younger cousins. And it has to allow me to breastfeed. I bet the Princess of xxx didn’t suffer from this kind of fashion dilemma. She was probably back in her Prada the week after giving birth. Cursing my stumpy peasant ancestors, I decide on a plainish but suitable frock, which is a bit tight, but ok if I cover it with a flowing cardigan.

The next morning the Boy Child, after a strategic feed and change is presented to his grandmother while she has her morning coffee in bed.  After a stern word from Papà A, she has made the concession of not smoking while she holds him. This is a good thing, as the baby, after less than 24 hours in Italy, is beginning to small of fags. Duly presented, he behaves angelically, beaming up at F and thus ensuring that his university education will be paid for.

After lunch in town, during which Papà A, T and I down several glasses of prosecco for Dutch courage, we proceed in stately fashion to Aunt I.’s apartment. This being a special occasion, she has opened the front stairs. As we walk up the enormous stone staircase, looking up at the frescoes on the vaulted ceiling, I experience a moment of mild panic but it’s too late to turn back and so I dutifully follow F to the top where we are met by the lady herself - beautifully coiffed and dressed, jewels discreetly glittering on her elegant fingers.  Aunt I. has the manners and demeanour of another age.  She leads me over polished parquet floors to a salon where, perched on a set of Louis Quinze chairs, is the rest of the family, all agog to meet the latest addition to the family – and of course, me.

I hand over the Boy Child to a posse of aunts and sit straight-backed on a chair next to Aunt I., where we begin to politely converse. She leads the conversation, and I follow, answering questions about whether I come to Italy often, smiling modestly when she compliments me on my Italian, and listening intently to a long, drawn-out story about the Second World War.

‘I’m 86, you know,’ she says, ‘now, do you come to Italy often?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘with Papà A, and now with our baby.’

‘Baby?’ she says vaguely.

It is at this point that the extent of her Alzheimers becomes evident. As we sit, having the same conversation over and over again, I feel a growing sense of sadness at the demise of this tiny, beautiful woman who was clearly once a great hostess.

The next time she asks about the baby, her daughters interrupt.

‘You know who this is, Mum, it’s Papà A’s. Now don’t monopolise Lady V. We need to get to know her too.’

There follows a rapid interrogation. I smile nicely and answer, and smile again, while Papà A lurks behind the sofa. I begin to sweat a little under the rapid–fire questions of the aunts, whose curiosity knows no bounds. They look at us expectantly, as if they are waiting for us to verify our union by shagging on the coffee table like performing seals.

To divert attention, I make the special sign to F, who nods to Papà A. We escape, through a series of shadowy, silent rooms, to the sanctuary of the kitchen where I kick off my shoes and feed the Boy Child.

Papà A grins. ‘Top marks, Lady V. You’re doing marvellously.’

Resisting the temptation to stay in the kitchen and agreeing that we need to rescue T, who is also perched on a chair, ignored by everyone, we return to the drawing room, where another discussion is underway about whether or not to invite another aunt, whom no-one likes, because she’s an enormous gossip, but who lives in another wing, and should really, for form’s sake be included. Papà A decides to put his foot down.

‘This is my child, and I’ll decide whom he should meet.’

The aunts tell him not to be ridiculous and telephone her immediately.

‘What’s her name?’  I ask Papà A.

‘We call her Popeye,’ he whispers. ‘Look at her mouth when she gets here.’

Popeye arrives 5 minutes later, eager for the latest information. Her mouth is drawn to the side, in a little pout of suspicion. The name is cruel but hilariously accurate.

More polite conversation ensues, coffee cups are drained, the little lacquer bowl of chocolates passed around again. I look at the walls, from which the faces of ancestors stare down from paintings, as if they, too, are assessing me and the Boy Child. After a while, F stands up and announces that we are leaving. The aunts rise in unison, and we spend the next half an hour saying our goodbyes.

As we descend the staircase, I look back at Aunt I. She waves vaguely, then turns.

‘Who’s that baby?’ I hear her ask again.