Lucia arrived when I was barely six.
I wasn't especially happy: I had just begun school, where other children made fun of me because of my reading glasses and shyness; my mother had just come home and taken me from Grandmamma's house, where I had lived very happily; my old nanny had gone away.
No, I wasn't happy at all.
I hadn't been overly fond of the old nanny, but then I hardly spent time with her at all...
She was there to look after my clothes, my meals and my hygiene; everything else was Grandmamma's grounds. I spent my days following Grandmamma everywhere, and she would talk to me as an adult, read for me, create stories for me, teach me things.

And now, suddenly, I was alone in a strange home with a stranger, because mother had resumed her teaching as soon as she had come back and was away for what to my six years old self seemed most of the time.
Moreover, I was alone with a stranger who insisted on calling me "Darling" and "Duckie" and evidently was under strict orders not to let me call Grandmamma.
I firmly decided to dislike her, and I think a lesser woman would have given me up after the first week: I could be the most discouraging, cold, unpleasant little girl, when I felt so disposed.
Luckily for me, Lucia just as firmly decided not to dislike me, in spite of all.
She was always cheerful, she chatted on through my long silences, she brought me to visit old ladies who had ducklings in their backyards and she told me of the day when she and other people from the village had clustered around the gate to get a glimpse of my parents' marriage party.
It was not long before I capitulated.
I remained shy and somewhat retiring, but I stopped trying to make myself generally disagreeable.
When I outgrew the need for a nanny, Lucia kept coming to the house to do the ironing and still does. She is always chatty, always full of stories and advice, and brings plum-cakes for my mother and flowers for the house. She has a pride in our house, and every year, around Christmas, she comes on a special tour to see my decorations. Then, I discovered, she spreads word around: last year, when I went to the village haberdashery to purchase ribbons, the lady at the counter asked me whether I was going to make a new garland for the outer door... I was rather put out to find that how much she knew about my decorations: it turned out that Lucia regularly goes there to boast of the "nice Christmas things" her child makes.
Nothing will ever change that: at my not so young age, I am still Lucia's child. Now and then she comes up and demurely informs me that from that moment on she is going to call me "Miss", and every time I have to laugh or talk her out of it.
Nevertheless, I still am her child.
Whenever I happen to be home alone, she arrives bringing soups, fresh vegetables from her garden, pies and cakes, just in case I should forget to eat...
And she keeps looking doubtful when I assure her that I eat regular meals and am not at all afraid of being alone at night.
"You are a grown-up, now..." she sighs then "I really should call you Miss!"

Learn more about this author, Chiara Prezzavento.
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