Page 33 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

‘Please call me Lucy. Nice to meet you, Signor Moretti,’ she panted as she crouched down to put her sandals back on.

‘Please. My name is Alfonso.’

‘Piacere,Alfonso.’ She followed him along the cracked path to the large steel and glass building, bearing the Italian flag and the name Mozzarella Morettiin wrought-iron lettering. He held open the door and ushered her past the reception desk, to the staffroom, marked RISERVATO AL PERSONALE.

‘Per favore.’ Alfonso indicated a corner vanity unit and a row of crisp, snowy white coats, hung neatly on stainless-steel hooks.

After cleaning herself up, Lucy swapped her linen jacket for a medium-sized white coat. Fastening the top button, she turned and glimpsed her reflection. A small, self-satisfied grin creased her face. All she needed now was a stethoscope…

‘Doctor Anderson? Calling Doctor Anderson! Please make your way to the Emergency Room. Doctor Anderson…’

‘Lucy? Lucy?’

Startled from her reverie, she found Alfonso holding out a pair of waterproof, disposable overshoes and a blue mesh hairnet. She put them on, her grin disintegrating as the sexy doctor morphed into the dinner lady from her old primary school.

‘Bellissima!’ Alfonso opened the heavy metal door to the cavernous factory floor, a cheeky smile playing over his lips.

The cream tiles glistened in the pale sunlight, streaming through the transom windows. A team of mozzarella makers, like lab technicians, kneaded vast blobs of silky cheese in stainless-steel tubs to the melodic strains of some well-known opera filtering quietly through the speakers.

‘First, the milk arrive at dawn from my cousin’s buffalo farm,’ said Alfonso in his treacle-thick accent.

‘Ah. Not cow’s milk?’ Lucy asked, trying to sound knowledgeable.

Alfonso shook his head. ‘Mozzarella Moretti is always made with buffalo milk. Is more creamy and give the mozzarella more taste. Happy buffalo make good milk, and good milk make good mozzarella.’

An image of laughing buffalo flashed across Lucy’s brain. She smiled inwardly.

‘The buffalo, they enjoy classical music, massage and fresh herbs,’ he continued.

Lucy wondered if she had misheard; mindful buffalo chilling out to Mozart was too far-fetched, even for her vivid imagination.

Careful not to slide on the damp floor, Lucy followed him to a large steel tray filled with what resembled blocks of white polystyrene, which a group of cheesemakers was shredding into small pieces.

‘We start with thecagliata.’

Lucy’s brow furrowed. ‘Ca-gl-iata.’

‘This mean…’ Alfonso paused. ‘Eh, how you saycagliatain English?’

‘Curd,’ cried another cheesemaker, who was tossing the jagged pieces into a large, wooden vat of steaming water.

‘The wood, it help the curd to cook,’ said Alfonso, ‘and it give the cheesemolto sapore…much…’

‘Flavour?’ ventured Lucy.

‘Sì! Flavourrr,’ trilled Alfonso. ‘Then we drain it, add boiling water and salt, and the magic begin.’ He led her to another workstation where four cheesemakers with muscular, hairy forearms were kneading, pulling, stretching and folding the curd, which now resembled a giant piece of chewing gum. As one pair pulled, the other two pushed, then re-formed the stringy cheese, like a carefully choreographed dance.

As if reading her mind, Alfonso held up his red, calloused hands.

‘You can tell a goodmastro casaro– cheesemaker – by the hands.’

‘No gloves?’

Alfonso smiled, shook his head and waggled his wrist.

‘Never. The touch, the feel is everything. And no machines. Everything made with the hands. This is the recipe handed from my grandfather to my father, to me, and from me to…’ His voice fell away, his face etched with both pain and pride.

Without thinking, Lucy touched his sleeve lightly, her hearthurting for this proud father and for the terrible loss he had suffered. She wondered how a parent could return to living after having had their child snatched away from them; particularly in such tragic and unexpected circumstances.

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