So close

Of course, the return of the Criscuolos didn't happen quite overnight. When I made the decision that the promise must be kept, I was only thirteen. A mere boy.

Nan and grampa had been going to Italian evening classes for years when I became aware of it. It never really struck me as strange although it might reasonably have done. As I recall nan got on better with the language than grampa did. Grampa cursed in Italian but that was the only Italian he ever spoke and I didn't realize that he was cursing in Italian until years later.

They used to go on Mediterranean cruises. I don't remember whether it was every year or every other year or what it was but I remember they went on them. One year the cruise stopped off in Amalfi and they went ashore. Nan told me when they came back. It must have been in the early '70s.

They sat down for a drink in the square. Nan said she asked about getting to Pontone (Ponton' it was always called in our house) but couldn't make herself understood; or at least that was her impression. She said though that, while they were sat drinking their cup of coffee, a lady saw grampa and motioned him to come with her - "Venga, venga", she said (Come, come). Nan said that grampa was afraid to go and shook his head.

I have no idea what to make of this story but I can imagine someone seeing him and seeing in him a local face.

Anyway, they had an hour or so in the square and headed back to the launch to get back on the ship. That was it. He was almost home. Within a few miles of his cousins up in the mountains. I have to say that I understand the fear; or at least I came to understand it many years later.

The promise

I'm convinced that grampa felt guilty for having renounced his roots because his message to me was that I should never forget that I was Italian - You are Italian and you should never forget it. I made him a promise - a hundred times - that I would keep the faith; that I would remember our roots; that I would undo what uncle Tony had done.

From the age of 13 I started to teach myself Italian. I bought Maria Valgimigli's book - Living Italian - and started teaching myself Italian. I bought myself 'Teach Yourself Italian' and continued the process. Until, when I was 18, I applied to the Polytechnic of Central London School of Languages to study Italian and I was accepted for the 'post-A-Level course'.

When I dropped out of my Italian and German course in 1981, I was fluent and what's more I sounded like an Italian - not like an Englishman speaking Italian. Between 1978 and 1981 I spoke more Italian than I did English.

The only thing on my mind was an old picture postcard of Amalfi - a gorgeous black and white picture - of a place that the family had called home.

By the time I'd reached the age of 16, I'd changed my name back to Criscuolo. When the next brother down was 18, I paid to have his name changed back and my dad did the same around about the same time.

And I'd started to plot the family tree. My search for my connection to Pontone di Scala had begun. Old family papers. Snippets from aunts and uncles. I was going to rebuild my roots. I was going to find out who I was ... where I belonged.

It was the return of the Criscuolos and this time it was the real thing.