Pedrick - Chickens eat pasta: escape to Umbria

The dripping was becoming louder, settling into a relentless rhythm. It had started as a barely audible whisper in the treetops outside the kitchen window, flung open to let the newly washed floor dry. The drops fell more heavily now, thudding overhead on the terracotta roof tiles. A small puddle had formed quickly on the dark red floor, spreading from one rectangle to another as the wind drove the rain in through the open space. The window banged shut abruptly and blew open again violently as the summer storm ripped through the mountains. I let go of my grip on the mop to secure the fragile window frame with its ancient wooden latch. Now Id have to start all over again. There wasnt much time. Angela and Ercolino would be here soon to drive me to the station.

Suddenly, the tears that had been welling up deep inside me all morning brimmed over and began coursing down my cheeks. I crouched down on the still wet floor. How could it all have gone so wrong?

*

It was strange really, how rain could make such a difference. Outside, a thick white mist was rising rapidly, shrouding the tree-lined mountain and swiftly wiping out the almost cloudless sky that had cast shafts of light through the window just a few minutes earlier. Of course, it had been raining that day this whole business had started. That was fairly normal for November in England, but this time it had poured ceaselessly, for days on end, casting me further and further into a trough of despair and loneliness.

*

Until I saw the advertisement, as I thumbed through the soggy pages of the hefty newspaper that I had bought to while away yet another miserable Sunday morning on my own. That had changed everything. Or so it had seemed. But then, maybe I had been asking for trouble. There were plenty of people who were sure it could only end badly. As my sensible aunt Vi had said when I told her what Id done.

How can you buy a house just because youve watched a video?

***

The chicken was teasing out something long and slippery in its beak. It swallowed it in a few short movements and bent its scrawny neck to peck up another strand from a small pile on the ground. Nearby, an old woman with a stooping gait watched for a few minutes before moving off to empty her plastic bucket in front of several other chickens emerging from the lower part of an old stone house. She murmured something barely audible as she bent down to poke a bony finger at the thighs of the two larger birds. The sound quality of the video was poor and the image flickered and jolted every now and then.

Shes checking to see which one to have for Sunday lunch, whispered the Englishman, moving closer to the television screen where the video was playing.

Thats spaghetti shes giving them. Chickens eat pasta in this part of Italy.

The camera zoomed in on the plumpest chicken pecking at what would be its last meal, and a very small cup of coffee appeared on the side table next to me.

Have an espresso, said my host, busying himself to make some space. I bought the machine the last time I was over there. The secret is in packing the coffee really tight before you put it to heat, but I think Ive got the hang of it now. He turned to move a pile of papers off a chair so that he too could take a seat.

Sorry about the mess by the way, but you caught me a bit off guard.

Tearing my eyes away from the screen for a moment, where shaky images of cobbled streets and pretty stone arches continued to float by, I surveyed what must be the sitting room of the small terraced house in Hove where I had rung the bell half an hour earlier. The walk from my own house had taken less than ten minutes, through the rain-soaked streets of Brighton, as it struggled to come to life on a dismal autumn morning. It was a Monday, and instead of heading to the offices of the newspaper where I was a reporter, I had turned my steps in the direction of the address that I had underlined heavily in red felt tip when I had first read the advert in the Sunday paper the day before.

House for sale in hidden Umbria. Steve Parr & Associates.

Turning first to the overseas property section had long been a habit as I went through the weekend section of the national papers, but this time was different. The address on the advert was just a few streets away. Maybe it was a sign? In any case, I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with right now, and no real ties here anymore.

It had been my turn to work the Saturday night shift at the newspaper, so Monday was a free day. That was the rule in the newsroom, a way of compensating journalists for long Saturday evenings that invariably involved covering drunken brawls between skinheads and rockers.

*

It wasnt clear who his associates were, but Steve Parr showed no sign of being fazed by the unannounced visit as he led the way into the room he had rigged up as his office. On the wall was a framed relief map of central Italy, with a range of jagged points in one corner, giving way to gentler slopes and a few spots of blue which must be lakes.

Ive only really just started this business, he said with an apologetic air, searching under a pile of magazines for the video cassette. Its such a spectacularly beautiful place, so close to Rome in some ways, and yet so very different and completely unspoilt. Its like turning back the clock at least fifty years.

Three cups of espresso later, I emerged into the sodden street. Trying to dodge the puddles, I crossed the road and headed along the seafront towards home. The waves were crashing violently against the pebble beach. That was bound to be the front page for this evenings edition: