Love comes in so many forms. Familial love, romantic love, love of pets, love of nature; and of course, friendship. In 1964 when I was in grade 4 at St Anthonys’ Catholic Primary School, I would walk the kilometre and a half to the house my parents and my brother and I shared with the owner, at number 3 Naroon Road.
There was a girl from grade 6 who always walked a few feet ahead of me. She was Italian and a year or so older than I was; with the shiniest, black bobbed hair I had ever seen. Clearly, her hair had been styled at the hairdressers and not cut by her mother like my hair was. A tall girl and a little on the heavy side, she had a beautiful smile with perfect teeth and those rosy cheeks you sometimes see on fresh faced people from the bush. Her eyes were dark brown and were sheltered with the most luxurious eyelashes. She was a picture of safety and warmth.
She stopped one day and waited for me to catch up and introduced herself as Daniela.
From then on, we kept each other company on the walk home. It was nice to have someone to walk the journey with and the walk got longer and longer as we dawdled and strolled home together. Daniela was a very funny girl. Laughter came easily to her. I can’t remember any of the conversations that we had, but I remember the feeling of those talks; and it seemed to always be hilarious! I remember the giggling that turned into belly-aching laughter. I remember standing on the corner of Fulham road, the street where Daniela lived; and me not wanting to go home; just laughing with delight at her laughter.
We became firm friends, and though I didn’t mix with her at school, I knew I had that lovely walk home to look forward to.
I wasn’t overly popular at school, possibly because things were very tough at home. My father was dying from a malignant melanoma and my mother was fearful and frustrated from living under someone else’s roof. We didn’t know what the future held for us and I guess it was a burden I carried with me. I was never a carefree child at school and was only picked to hold and turn the end of the skipping rope, never to enjoy the thrill of running and skipping with the queue of girls from my grade; but I had that lovely anticipation of walking home with Daniela, and it made me happy beyond belief. I knew I had a one true friend and I loved and adored her in that pure, innocent childlike way.
The walk along Wingrove Street brought me joy when little else did.
One afternoon, Daniela told me that her family were preparing to return to Italy, to the isle of Elba from where her parents had made the long journey to Australia to escape Mussolini’s fascist regime.
I was invited to her house for dinner.
My family had shared meals at my grandmother’s and we had the occasional counter lunch at the local pub and went to the occasional bar-b-que; but I had never been invited for dinner anywhere in my young life before. We didn’t even call our evening meal ‘dinner’, we called it ‘tea’!
When I asked my mother if I could go to Daniela’s house to have dinner the following Saturday, my mother said
‘No, they’re Italian and you won’t like the food… and they’re strangers’.
Happily, my wise father said ‘For heavens’ sake! Yes, of course she should go; I’ll take her around and meet the parents.’
So that was what happened. My big, tall, very handsome, sick father took my hand while I skipped/walked beside him, the two blocks to Daniela’s large Victorian house, with the grapevine growing over the carport. He stood out the front and spoke to Daniela’s father for a long while.
Of course, the significance of this was lost on me at the time, but my father had been in the Middle East during World War Two, fighting the Italians and Rommel’s German battalions. Maybe they were speaking about politics and the reasons Daniela’s family were returning to Elba.
Meanwhile, I walked into the kitchen and felt like I had arrived ‘home’. I was at a place of such familiarity; I instinctively knew the aromas and loved the exotic feelings it aroused in me, it was so strange, yet so intimately known to me.
I had also arrived with my manners and mother’s instructions in place.
‘Eat everything that’s put in front of you’ she said. ‘whether you like it or not’.
I ate the pasta with the little stringy, garlic infused periwinkles for first course, the grilled fish with insalata for main and thoroughly enjoyed toasting marshmallows in front of the fire after dinner. It seemed to me that this was the perfect way to eat; everyone helping themselves to the salad, already mixed up in a large bowl, rather than laid out on the plate; and the bread! Oh! What was a simple meal for them was an absolute feast for my naïve tastebuds.
Naturally, I was devastated that Daniela was leaving, but we would write to one another and be pen pals. We promised never to lose touch.
She left.
Within six months, my father was dead, and my mother had moved us into a little flat on a main road in Fairfield. The postcard I had received with Daniela’s address was lost in the move and I never heard from her again. I worried what she would think because I didn’t reply to her; but I never forgot the lovely girl whose smile and laughter brought me such great comfort and longing.
In 1974 I took my mother to Rome. We were only there for a short time, and I scoured the phone book for Daniela’s’ surname, but to no avail. My mother wondered why I was bothering.
The years passed as they do. I married the man of my dreams, had two children and a career.
I travelled to Italy a number of times in the course of my work and again, looked through all the telephone directories I could find; knowing of course that Daniela would probably be married, or for that matter could be living in any part of the world. I felt it was a lost cause but continued to look anyway.
Discussing Italy, I mentioned to an Italian-born work mate how I would love to track down my childhood friend, but knowing it was near impossible because of the name issue.
My work mate told me ‘Italian women don’t change their name when they marry.’
At home, the marvel of the internet was waiting. It was, after all, 2001. I began to search for the Elba phone directory again.
My husband said ‘Just type in her name, forget about the phonebooks’.
And so, I did.
And there she was.
Her address was a camping ground on the isle of Elba at a place called Marina di Campo. I got pen and paper and started to write; I couldn’t believe how simple it had been to find her and the anticipation I felt at being in touch with her! Would she remember? We were only children. Had I made the friendship greater than it actually was, because of my emotional needs at the time?
My husband again… checking his watch, ‘Why don’t you just call her; it’s early evening, the number is there… ring her now’.
A very tired woman answered the phone.
‘Buono notte,’
‘Ah, good evening, do you speak English?’ I was nervous but excited.
‘Si, I speak English, French, German; how can I help you?’ she sounded exhausted with no life in her voice.
‘I would like to speak with Daniela if possible’
‘Si, speaking, how can I help you?’ a big sigh followed.
‘Um, Daniela, did you ever live in Australia?’
‘Si…yes…I was born there in Australia’ her voice rising now, blooming with a warm curiosity.
‘Look, you probably won’t remember me, but I went to St Anthony’s and…’
‘Oh my god! Bernice! Is it you! I don’t believe it! Is it you?’ she was yelling down the phone now and I sank to the kitchen floor, a flood of tears spilling down my cheeks. My heart was pounding so strongly I thought it would burst.
A long conversation followed, and I reminded her of the meal we had shared, detail for detail; and the gratitude I felt. She couldn’t believe that I had remembered it all. She laughed her hearty laugh that was so beautiful but more mature now with a lovely depth, but just the same; I melted at the sound of it.
So memorable.
Just the same.
‘We will never lose touch again’ she softly promised.
I got off the phone and wrote a long email to her about my life and how important she had been to me in those childhood years.
Daniela sent me an email in return, telling me how difficult it had been on Elba when they first arrived; that there had been no running water, no flushing toilets. She told me that life had been hard, but she had built the business with her husband which was successful and that she had two children, a boy and a girl.
We will never lose touch again, she wrote.
I sent an email with a photo of her old, restored house in Fulham road and of course, a photo of me.
I told her about the primary school reunion, where our favourite nun, Sister Bernadette, told me she should not have become a nun, but should have married a farmer and had six children.
Daniela sent a digital generic card from the business, wishing me a happy Easter. I guessed Easter would be a hectic time for them.
Some time passed and I wrote again and received another digital card; another pretty scene of the beach at Marina di Campo. Things were clearly busy in Elba!
Before long, it was Christmas, and I wrote to say that I hoped to travel to see her the following year. I began to feel nervous, hoping I hadn’t written anything that could be misconstrued.
It was New Years’ Eve when I checked my email again and there was another digital Christmas card from Daniela’s business, wishing me a Buon Natale, but this time a letter was attached. Thank goodness.
‘Our mother died suddenly of a massive heart attack three weeks after you made contact with her.’
‘We didn’t know how to tell you.’
‘She was so happy that you had found her, it was the happiest she had been in a long time’.
I made the trip to Elba recently. I flew to Rome, got the train up the coast to Piombino where I caught the ferry across to Daniela’s island. It was November; late autumn with a cold wind blowing in across the sea and again it felt so familiar, it hurt; but it felt like coming home.
I had taken a stone from my front yard at the last minute and I left it in a street garden in Elba, and I brought one home. I didn’t see Daniela’s family; they were away on holiday while things were quiet.
A few months back, I did the Ancestry DNA. Italian is there funnily enough, on my mothers’ side, along with Norwegian, Irish, Scottish and French; but it is Italy that still calls me. I happened to speak with my cousin about our ancestry and the closeness I felt to all things Italian.
‘Me too’ she said…I’m following the matrilineal lineage…the Gasperino line.”
‘How wonderful!’ I exclaimed, thrilled that she shared my interest.
‘Yes, they were northern Italian’… ‘from a place in Tuscany’
‘Oh, my favourite spot’ says I. ‘Do you know the name of the town?’
‘It’s not a town actually, it’s an island not far off the coast of Piombino…it’s called Elba.’
Bernice Steinfort September 2019