Professor Joe Friggieri

My parents met during the War in a shelter in Balzan, after their family homes were razed to the ground, my father’s in Floriana, my mother’s in Vittoriosa. Then they rented a house in Lija, where my brothers, sister and I were born. In terms of character, my parents were poles apart. My father was a strict disciplinarian. He was always on the go, held strong views about everything, and was keen to start a heated discussion whenever the opportunity arose. He was very active in the community and kept a watchful eye on what was going on in the village. My mother, on the contrary, always kept a low profile. She was more of a thinker than a doer. She was extremely kind-hearted, had a fine sense of humour and a knack for pouring oil over troubled waters whenever things got out of hand. She was a very calm person, soft-spoken, tolerant, flexible, more inclined to follow an argument than take part in it. But she would always tell me which side she felt was right when the argument was over. She never had to do much at home, because nanna Ben, her mother, who lived with us, used to do all the housework – and the cooking. The happiest and most vivid memories of my mother go back to my childhood. The house where we lived was full of light, and she used to bless us before we went to school and greet us with a smile when we came back. I also remember how happy she was when she and my father came to visit us in Oxford, where I was studying. We took them round the Cotswolds in an old Mini, which I had bought second-hand for 300 sterling. She sat in front, while my father, Teresa and David sat at the back. It was rather uncomfortable, but she thoroughly enjoyed it and would have stayed longer if she could. My mother started suffering from osteoporosis when she was relatively young, and spent long hours sitting in an armchair in the balcony reading the newspaper, listening to the radio, and following what was going on in the street below. She never complained about her health problems and was always at peace with herself and with the world around her. In her last years she could not walk, but she would still make funny comments on my old coat when I went to see her at Saint Vincent de Paul’s. The first summer she was there I used to push her round in a wheelchair in the garden just before sunset. The place was full of oleander trees, and she used to comment on the way the birds and crickets would stop singing when they heard our voices. She used to tell me “Maybe they’re listening to what we are saying.” I included that thought in one of the short stories I wrote after she died.