Maeve Binchy - Evening Class

Part of Bill hoped that Lizzie would change her mind about the lessons. That would be a few pounds saved anyway. He was beginning to feel panicky about the amount of his salary that was promised in debts before he took home anything at all at the end of the month. His new jacket gave him pleasure, but not that much pleasure. Possibly it had been a foolish extravagance that he would live to regret.

'What a beautiful jacket, is it pure wool?' asked the woman at the desk. She was old of course, over fifty. But she had a nice smile and she felt the sleeve just above his wrist.

'Yes it is,' Bill said. 'Light wool, but apparently you pay for the cut. That's what I was told.'

'Of course you do. It's Italian isn't it?' Her voice was Irish but slightly accented, as if she had lived abroad. She seemed genuinely interested. Was she the teacher? Bill had been told that they were going to have a real Italian. Was this the first cut-back?

'Are you the teacher?' he asked. He hadn't parted with his money yet. Possibly this was not the week to hand over fees from Lizzie and himself. Suppose it was a cheapskate kind of thing. Wouldn't that have been typical? Just to throw his money away foolishly without checking.

'Yes indeed. I am Signora. I lived twenty-six years in Italy, in Sicilia. I still think in Italian and dream in it. I hope that I will be able to share all this with you and the others who come to the class.'

Now it was going to be harder still to back out. Bill wished he wasn't such a Mister Nice Guy. There were people in the bank who would know exactly how to get out of this situation. The sharks, he and Grania called them.

Thinking of Grania reminded him of her father. 'Do you have enough numbers to make the class workable?' he asked. Perhaps this could be his out. Maybe the class would never take place.

But Signora's face was alive with enthusiasm. ' Si si , we have been so fortunate. People from far and near have heard about it. How did you hear, Signer Burke?'

Tn the bank,' he said.

'The bank.' Signora's pleasure was so great he didn't want to puncture it. 'Imagine, they know of us in the bank.'

'Will I be able to learn bank terms, do you think?' He leaned across the table his eyes seeking reassurance in her face.

'What kind exactly?'

'You know, the words we use in banking…' But Bill was vague, he didn't know the terms he might use in banking in Italy one day.

'You can write them down for me and I could look them up for you,' Signora explained. 'But to be very truthful the course will not concentrate on banking terms. It will be more about the language and the feel of Italy. I want to make you love it and know it a little so that when you go there it will be like going home to a friend.'

'That will be great,' Bill said, and handed over the money for Lizzie and himself.

' Martedi ,' Signora said.

'I beg your pardon?'

' Martedi ., Tuesday. Now you know one word already.'

' Martedi ,' Bill said and walked to the bus stop. He felt that even more than his fine wool, well cut jacket, this was good money being thrown away.

'What will I wear for the evening class?' Lizzie asked him on Monday night. Only Lizzie would want to know that. Other people might want to know whether to bring notebooks or dictionaries or name badges.

'Something that won't distract everyone from their studies,' Bill suggested.

It was a pretty vain hope and a foolish suggestion. Lizzie's wardrobe did not include clothes that would not distract. Even now at the end of summer she would have a short skirt that would show her long tanned legs, she would have a tight top and a jacket loosely around her shoulders.

'But what exactly?'

He knew it wasn't a question of style. It was a matter of choosing a colour. 'I love the red,' he said.

Her eyes lit up. It was very easy to please Lizzie. 'I'll try it on now,' she said, and got her red skirt and red and white shirt. She looked marvellous, fresh and young, like an advertisement for shampoo with her golden hair.

'I could wear a red ribbon in my hair?' She seemed doubtful.

Bill felt a huge protective surge well up in him. Lizzie really did need him. Owlish and obsessed with paying debts as he was, she would be lost without him

'Tonight's the night,' he told Grania at work next day.

'You'll tell me honestly, won't you? You'll tell me what it's like.' Grania seemed very serious. She was wondering how it would go for her father, whether he might look good or just foolish.

Bill assured her he would tell the truth, but somehow he knew it was unlikely. Even if it was a disaster Bill would not feel able to blow the whistle. He would probably say that it was fine.

Bill did not recognise the dusty school annexe when they arrived. The place had been transformed. Huge posters festooned the walls, pictures of the Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum, images of the Mona Lisa and of Michelangelo's David, and mixed amongst them mighty vineyards and plates of Italian food. There was a table covered in red, white and green crepe paper which held paper plates covered with cling film.

They seemed to have real food in them, little pieces of salami and cheese. There were paper flowers too, each one with a big label giving its name. Carnations were garofani … Somebody had taken immense pains.

Bill hoped that it would all work out well. For the strange woman with the odd-coloured red and grey hair called simply Signora, for the kind, hovering man in the background who must be Grama's father, for all the people who sat awkwardly, and nervously around waiting for it to start. All of them with some hope or dream like his own. None of them, by the look of it, wanting to make a career in international banking.

Signora clapped her hands and introduced herself. ' Mi chiamo Signora. Come si chiamat' she asked the man who must be Crania's father.

' Mi chiamo Aidan ,' he said. And so on around the classroom.

Lizzie loved it. ' Mi chiamo Lizzie ,' she cried and everyone smiled admiringly as if she had achieved a great feat.

'Let's try to make our names more Italian. You could say: ' Mi chiamo Elizahetta .'

Lizzie loved that even more and could hardly be stopped from repeating it.

Then they all wrote Mi chiamo and their names on huge pieces of paper and pinned them on. And they learned how to ask each other how they were, what time it was, what day it was, what date, where they lived.

' Chi e?' pointing at Bill.

' Gttglielmo ,' the class all shouted back.

Soon they knew everyone's names in Italian and the class had visibly relaxed. Signora handed out pieces of paper. There were all the phrases they had been using, familiar to the sound, but they would never have been able to pronounce them had they seen them written first.

They went through them over and over, what day, what time, what is your name, and they answered them. People's faces were taking on a look of near smugness.

' Bene ,' said Signora. 'Now we have ten minutes more.' There was a gasp. The two hours could not truly be over. 'You have all worked so hard there is a little treat, but we have to pronounce the salami before we eat it, and the formaggio .'

Like children, the thirty adults fell on the sausage and cheese and pronounced the words.

' Giovedi ,' Signora was saying.

' Giovedi ,' they were all chorusing. Bill began to put the chairs away neatly by the wall in a stack. Signora seemed to look at Crania's father as if to know whether this was what was needed. He nodded quietly. Then the others helped. In minutes the classroom was tidy. The porter would have little to do in terms of clearing up.