Volume 2
Who Can Tell What The Future May Bring?
I think it would be an understatement of monumental proportions if I said that our first visit to Italy did not turn out as planned. It was a horrendous experience that could have put us off Italy for all time but, in truth, Joyce and I would return on many occasions to this absorbing country.
Several years after our first visit we returned as the guests of a business associate, and very good friend, on board his fine 120 tonne motor yacht, ‘Destiny’, fully crewed with its captain, engineer, deck hand and, best of all, a brilliant chef and an excellent and most attentive steward.
We cruised the Mediterranean and called in at various places on the French Riviera including Cannes, Monte Carlo, St. Tropez, before sailing on to Majorca calling in at Porto Pollenza and Palma.
These were indeed memorable times and I was very privileged thereafter to have at my disposal that fine yacht for a further four years of annual Mediterranean holidaying, during which Joyce and I had much pleasure in inviting, as our guests, some of our old sailing friends. We sailed on Destiny-in great luxury, extending our range to Italy as my love for that country and its people had also entered Joyce's soul. We docked in such exotic and interesting places as Portofino, San Stefano and Elba, and also sailed to the lovely island of Corsica. This was champagne living and somewhat different from hard sailing around the west coast of Scotland.
I can readily recall the last time we sailed on Destiny. Joyce and I had been staying overnight in the Mansion House in London as guests of Lord and Lady Mais, Raymond and Lorna. He was Lord Mayor of London and they were a lovely couple. We flew out early next morning from Heathrow to Rome, joined the yacht in Civitavecchio and spent a couple of days in Rome visiting the sites of the Coliseum, the Forum and the Vatican and making the time to go to an opera performance before continuing the cruise.
On another visit, (no boat involved), we spent time in Verona and Venice; again enjoying the cultural places and the pleasures of the table as well as trips on Lake Garda. Our latest visit to Italy included Florence where we went to the Accademia di Belle Arti to view paintings done by Giovanni Fattori, (one of my ancestors), as well as the original David. We also enjoyed trips to San Gimigniano, Pisa and Sienna and many lovely little villages around that area. Later we learned that Fattori's paintings were also to be seen in Modena, and in Livorno in the Fattori Museum there.
Who could tell what the future might bring. Certainly, setting out on that first visit to meet the ‘family’, Joyce and I did not envisage the years ahead; the annual Mediterranean holidays to Monte Carlo, across to Corsica and elsewhere. These were the luxurious years; the private jet, the box at Ascot, gala performances, film premiers and first nights.
But wait, that was years off and factually, a lifetime away, not even envisaged in my wildest imagination. So let me not run ahead. It was our very first time in Italy that I am recalling now, a visit that I had reason to remember and certainly cannot forget. So allow me to share with you my recollection of these events, from joyful beginning to its somewhat dreadful end.
It was agreed that on our arrival in Italy we would give ourselves one day to settle in then meet the head of the family to pay our respects. My first meeting with my uncle, Signor Paris Fattori, was quite an emotional affair, a meeting where I was immediately confronted with the importance of heritage in the Italian family psyche.
Although Clem and Bert were much older, more worldly and sophisticated than I, and while Paris' manners towards them where impeccable, as was his charm towards the ladies, I was taken off guard, and a little embarrassed, by the special consideration and honour shown to me as his nephew by direct descent. We met him at his house in Livorno and, sitting round his big marble table, we were gently quizzed as to what we wished to do whilst we were in his country. There were two points on which he was quite clear and were not open for discussion. One, we were required to be back in two days time to meet the family and two, he had appointed his grandson, Guiliano as our ‘protector’ during our stay.
Guiliano was called in and introduced to us. He was a tall young man and seemed happy to carry out his appointed duty. These were Paris’ instructions; the pretext being that it would help Guiliano improve his English, which although not good, was a hundred times better than my Italian.
Two days later we returned as instructed for the ‘family gathering’ and were surprised to find so many there. I could not be clear as to whether they had gathered to meet us, the ‘visitors’, to renew their own connections, or as a direct response to Paris' instructions.
There was a bewildering mixture, ranging from the very old to babies in arms. Paris, very much the Patriarch, seemed to hold all the strings. Other than that it was far from a male-dominated group, as the Italian men seemed proud to accept that their female counterparts were a feisty, fiery gender. What was clear was that it was an emotional, noisy, kissing and hugging collection of Latins, behaving in a way quite alien and bewildering to us ‘dour Scots’.
I remember one funny incident. The conversations were getting louder and louder. Excitement was rising and at its height when there was a short pause of sudden silence. Why? An attractive young girl entered the room and Joyce, following their procedure, jumped up to kiss and hug her, only to be told, “Signora, I am the maid and have come to ask the Padrone what wine he wishes served.” The embarrassed silence lasted only a few seconds then the noise and gesturing continued.
I remember little else of that gathering. There was a lot of excited talk and much hand waving. They did not seem to listen to each other; they did not have to. Body language was much more important than words, with declarations of lifelong loyalty, fraternity and respect, all sealed with lots of hugs and kisses.
Joyce, immediately renamed Goia, had a much better grasp of Italian, and for that matter the French language, than I but I had no trouble in making myself understood. I threw in a few elementary Latin phrases and mixed my English sentences with a few ahs and das like, ‘a bigga iceah da creama’, and I managed to communicate. Obviously they did not understand a word I was saying but they invariably knew what I was talking about by my gestures.
It was a tremendously happy and warm atmosphere and it was the first time I witnessed the different approach of the Italians and French peoples, regarding the use of their native languages. The French respect their language to the point of a reluctance to help if they feel it is being misused, whereas the Italians consider their vocabulary and beautiful language as only a bit-part in their communication.
They were all lovely, charming people. It seems quite funny now, after all that Italian family emotion and undying love, that it was Joyce, the in-law, who kept the connections alive over the next years.
As to Guiliano he took his duties as ‘protector’ seriously. On one occasion, in a jewellery shop in Florence, I was on the point of buying a present and asked the owner, “Quanta costa?” As I was handing over the asked-for lire Guiliano grabbed the money, gave me back about half, and gave the patron the remainder, saying loudly, “Multa costa! No touriste - Senor Fattori, Tuscany!” Before I could recover from my surprise the man nodded with a shrug, a slight nod and a smile and the deal was done. Guiliano seemed to warm to his task and with great gusto repeated his performance in several restaurants. When we asked for a table he would loudly proclaim, “Table for Signor Fattori's party, Tuscany - non touriste.” It seemed to work. We would have wine and fruit brought to the table, compliments of the management, and were treated with great respect.
We were halfway through the holiday and beginning to relax and enjoy it and then the fatal event happened. It was a particularly hot day and we decided after breakfast that we would have a lazy day off with an early lunch and a tranquil day on the beach. We had an excellent meal in the local trattoria and moved from there straight down to the lovely, white sands that were being bombarded by big seas. It was obvious there was a serious storm out in the Mediterranean as huge breakers were coming in with great force and red danger flags were posted along the shore. I am even now embarrassed to recall our foolishness. The heat was intense, and notwithstanding the warnings, there were one or two people in the sea. Stupidly the four men decided to risk it and have a quick dip. I was only a few yards into the water when I developed stomach cramp and simultaneously the undertow and backlash of a huge breaker pulled me at breakneck speed about 100 yards out to sea. There was nothing I could do. I was being tossed around like a cork, my lungs were taking in too much salt water and I resigned myself to the possibility of drowning.
One hears of people's fight for survival, their determination to live on against all odds. But I am mortified to say I had no such fighting spirit. I had given up. Reason told me I could do nothing - it was simple logic.
Nor was there any recollection of my life flashing before my eyes prior to drowning. In my case I can assure you there was nothing like that. I was angry with myself for being stupid enough to go swimming less than 30 minutes after a big meal. For some unfathomable reason I recorded then, and can repeat to this day, Spaghetti Bolognese followed by veal escalope followed by ice cream and finished with coffee.
Looking back, I have been amazed to recall how readily I accepted the situation. I had no control over events. I could not swim. The waves were so high I did not know which direction the shore was. There may be a psychological explanation, possibly a named syndrome, for my disassociation from my surroundings. In retrospect it all seemed quite irrational. While I was having an inner argument that the heavy meal would be the cause of my death I was simultaneously reasoning that I had compounded the problem because I knew the danger was not the waves battering the shore, but the undertow which would suck me back out again to sea. I reconciled myself to the cold fact that there was nothing I could do. Given the circumstances was that normal? Apparently there is a school of thought that would agree. No willpower, no tenacity, no determination, no point. Once the mind, (some say the spirit), decides that death is inevitable it closes down to make the end easier.
Evidently I was prepared to acknowledge what seemed to be an unavoidable conclusion. Until that is, a big incoming wave swept me towards the shore and I felt my toes touch sand. Then, heaven help me, all my desire and strength of mind to live was suddenly overwhelming.
Having been tossed around like some piece of flotsam, swept in and out at the sea’s will, luckily what little tide the Mediterranean had was in my favour and the sea did not really want me that day. Eventually I managed to stagger ashore, half drowned, just grateful to be alive.
On my hands and knees and gasping for breath I noticed to my left Guiliano had dragged a body ashore. It was Bert. What followed was confusion and misunderstanding. Unknown to me a doctor on holiday was immediately on the spot and declared that Bert had had a heart attack. Arriving slightly later on the scene I was unaware of this, thinking that Bert had just gone through the same experience as me and he must be rushed to hospital.
Taking command I recruited the help of a couple of young Italian bystanders who had only a little car to help get him to the nearest hospital. Bert who was over 6 feet tall and I, in wet swimming shorts, were bundled into the back of the small car and set off in search of a hospital. It was soon clear that the young men, whilst being helpful, were letting the enthusiasm of the emergency get the better of them. They rattled through the traffic at tremendous speed, the horn blasting and white handkerchiefs being waved from the open front windows, signifying EMERGENCY.
The journey seemed to go on for hours, up into the hillside and with Bert getting colder by the minute, as the car windows were down, by the time we eventually arrived, I was frozen stiff. It then became apparent we had been taken to, not a hospital, but some sort of medical monastery.
The misunderstanding continued, as I thought I was taking Bert to hospital for resuscitation or medical treatment. It took me well over an hour of cajoling and quizzing any passing monk as to his progress, before I realised they were not too happy with the fact that I had brought them a body. Finally I hunted down a young doctor, leastways he was wearing a white coat, and although his English was not very good but he conveyed to me, with a shrug of his shoulders, “The corpse? It was dead on arrival,” and proceeded to walk away.
I had to hang around for what seemed hours, shivering, wearing only in shorts and a towel round my shoulders, until the rest of my party tracked me down. I had to break the brutal news to them that Bert was dead. They were shocked by the finality of it all. Dorothy was devastated, but none were surprised. They were already conditioned and expected as much - it would have been a miracle otherwise. The truth was that I had rushed Bert's dead body off the beach and delivered it, not to a hospital, but to a monastery, albeit possibly associated with the Ancient Order of The Knights of the Hospitallers.
A day that started with so much promise had ended in tragedy. We involved our Embassy but, like the Italian officials, they seemed to be quite casual about the whole affair. I had memories of my father's recent and unusual sudden death in our own country. There was no question of a post-mortem there but I could have no such expectations here.
We could not get flights home. It was not easy in those days, and in any event, Dorothy wanted Bert buried in Italy.
The Italian family were shattered but Paris let it be known that our wishes were to be respected if we wanted it to be a private matter. However he made it clear that as the direct family male in the group, I would honour my duty to arrange and negotiate the funeral arrangements. The next few days were vague in my memory. I had to officially identify the body, organise a minister, (not so easy in a catholic country), and I had to discuss all sorts of details with an undertaker. Afterwards Paris said he was proud of me. I had given instructions clearly and in good Italian. For some time I believed him, but of course it was nonsense. I'm sure behind my back he was helping quietly and, with all due Italian respect, I do not want to recall much more of this sad saga. Suffice to say, Bert was not buried in the ground. Rather his heavy casket was entombed and sealed in the beautiful marble wall of Livorno Cemetery in Tuscany. The bill for the costs and expenses was requested but never presented.
I remember little else of that period other than the nightmare drive from London back home, much of it in fog. It would be a great understatement to say that it certainly was not a relaxing vacation but, to make matters worse, we returned home only to face a business crisis.
Two purchasers on one of my housing developments had defaulted in making stage payments and, as luck would have it, theirs were the two biggest contracts. It was clear that I had let my activities outrun my financial resources. In short, I had a major cash-flow problem and was forced to take up an offer of funding from a London investment trust that had been stalking my company for some time. They were prepared to make an immediate and sizable cash injection in return for a majority shareholding and, true to their words, this they did.
They were nice people and with the injection of the considerable increase in capital we carried out our plans to complete our fine office block, large joinery shop and concrete works, capable of producing at least 10 complete house units per week, with industrialised units and components for other contracts.
Our fleet of low-loader lorries were leaving our works fully loaded at the rate of ten per day. Everything was going well. We were on the road to success but, this was the mid-60s and the country was about to be hit with a severe financial downturn.
The recession was affecting the secondary banks in particular. Our major shareholder, our financial backer, was badly hurt by it all. As a consequence, they would first find it difficult to meet their commitments to us then, within a short time thereafter would go into liquidation, leaving us in a hopeless predicament. One of their major assets was their majority holding in our property and as such their receiver had no choice but to realise its open market value on behalf of the Trust's many creditors.
To cut a sad story short, it was the end of my golden dream - or so I thought. It was certainly a learning curve for me. I was young and would never again be as commercially naïve. Arguably my industrialised building system was still technically well ahead of its time as the many houses and buildings erected those many years ago can bear witness. Ironically the medical centre about two miles from where I am sitting now was erected nearly 50 years ago by my companies, using my Thornwall system, and is as functional and as smart as ever.
No it was not the end of a golden dream, it was the beginning of an era of golden achievements, and reality.
Posted August 2009 Who Can Tell What The Future May Bring?