Today, I want to tell you about a woman. Someone, who if you didn’t know her and just passed her on the street, might seem unremarkable. Someone who didn’t court attention, or demand praise. An ordinary woman, who touched the lives of everyone she met.

Liliana Angelina Borg was born in Alexandria, Egypt 11th April 1936. There are already two strange stories from just the first part of that sentence. Whilst her mother – Margherita – was adamant that she wanted to call her new daughter Angelina. However, her husband’s sister was equally uncompromising on her choice of Liliana. This being the thirties – and also being a very traditional Italian family – the aunt was listened to and obeyed, being the matriarch of the family. Angelina became Liliana, but only on paper. Margherita continued to call her daughter Angelina, but never in certain peoples presence.

The second strange story of that name is the ‘Borg’ part. What was originally ‘Borge’ was changed by her father upon entering the country where Angelina was born and grew up. Her father was part of a large Italian contingent who emigrated to Egypt in the 1920s and 30s for work. More money, more opportunity. He came from Naples, which did not have those things. He wanted to try and fit in a little better – according to Angelina – and believed dropping the ‘e’ from his surname would help matters.

Angelina grew up in an affluent part of Alexandria. She went to a French speaking school, whilst also conversing in Arabic with the local population. At home, Italian was the language of choice, with her Italian parents and extended family creating a Little Italy within their part of Egypt. She remembers a relaxed environment as a child, with everything catered for. They had people who worked around the house (what we would probably call “servants” these days) and says her mother always tried to find jobs for those who needed them locally. Angelina’s father would often come home with new “pets”. One day he came home with a monkey, who quickly became a part of the family. As an only child, Angelina was always looking for new playmates, and the monkey was a perfect one. Until the day it bit her finger and was sent away. Apart from the monkey, there was dogs, cats, a pig (which was quickly barred by Angelina’s mother), and the tiger who really *did* come for tea. Angelina did not take to the small tiger cub at all, so he was also swiftly disappeared.

In the mid-fifties, Angelina was leaving school, planning for university maybe, when she met Salvatore at a local dance. Also a displaced Italian, they quickly fell in love and married in 1955. She was pregnant soon after, but at seven months went into labour. A daughter was born, but didn’t survive. Angelina never got to meet her – the baby was taken away by nurses as soon as she was delivered. She was awake all night, asking nurse after nurse to tell her how her baby was doing, whether she was well or not, but didn’t get a response other than “we’re taking good care of her”. The next morning, Salvatore arrived with Angelina’s mother, and his face told her all she needed to know.

By this point, the number of Italians living in Egypt was reducing dramatically. Following the second world war, many Italians were now returning to Italy, and Angelina’s father decided his family would be following. In 1957, only a few months after the death of Angelina’s first child, they relocated to Brindisi, Italy. They lived there for a few months, only for her father to decide England was a much better place to work and provide. Angelina and her husband would of course be joining them. By now, Angelina was pregnant again. In 1958, they moved to Liverpool, England – Angelina heavily pregnant – with Salvatore held at immigration. He was forced to wait to gain entry, leaving Angelina to give birth to her first son – Alan – in November 1958. Her parents where around at this time, but were struggling to take care of a daughter and grandson in a strange country. Of the four or five languages they already spoke, unfortunately English wasn’t one of them. Angelina’s father found work, but it was low paid, leaving little for Angelina. When Salvatore eventually arrived in England, Angelina was already seriously questioning the decision made by her father. She was used to affluence, to comfort and support. In this new country, little was on offer. Within a few months of Salvatore finally joining her and his first son, Angelina fell pregnant again. In July 1960, Peter joined the burgeoning family, with them all living under the same roof. In August 1961 Anthony arrived. By this point, relations between Angelina and Salvatore were at breaking point. His lack of English had not been a drawback in his relations with local women. They separated around this time.

Angelina was living with her parents, separated from her husband, with three sons under the age of four. She was still struggling with the language, but always wanted to pay her way. She worked odd hours in a local shop, getting by with the rudimentary English she was picking up every day.

In 1962, the only constant in her life died. Her mother had cancer, eventually succumbing whilst in a respite care home in Walton, Liverpool. She was 49. The day before she died, Angelina was talking to her about her sister, who was arriving from Italy in a few days time. Her mother told her she wasn’t going to make it that far. She turned out to be correct.

Angelina’s father moved on pretty quickly, moving a new woman into the family home within weeks. The new woman in his life was younger, wanted her own family, not the one she was inheriting. Angelina and her three boys had to move into there own home, and a few months later did so. Angelina and her father never really spoke again, although he was always around on the periphery. Life in the sixties and seventies was difficult to say the least for a single mother with three boys. Coupled with the fact that Angelina’s English was still burgeoning rather than fluent, she was wholly unaware of the help she may have been able to receive. She struggled every day to keep them fed and clothed, but she did so. She taught herself the language, using crosswords and dictionaries. Pronunciation was an issue – fifty years later she still pronounced Wednesday with the letter D – but she was determined. She worked as a nurse for a long time – once she’d mastered the language – believing that caring for others was one of the greatest things a person could do. She made sure her boys realised that family – the family that was left at that point being the four of them – was absolutely central to her life.

Those three boys went onto have children of their own. Angelina watched them leave, marry, divorce, become fathers, all the while being a constant presence in all of their lives. In total, those three boys provided twelve grandchildren (with one of those boys taking the Catholic method of birth control far too literally by being responsible for seven of them).

Later, she remarried. A younger man who – whilst no adulterer – treated her with little respect and never appreciated the woman he had married. In the 1990s, he was bounced out of her life, having upset her one too many times. At this time, Salvatore – her first husband – having gone onto have many other children himself, died at the age of 59. She said – a couple of weeks ago in fact – the only time she’d been happy in a relationship with a man was back in 1955, when they were falling in love and marrying. Salvatore had been in a relationship with a woman for a number of years, having four children who had become close to Angelina’s three boys. Those half-siblings had lost their mother only a few years previous and with the death of Salvatore, had no parents. Angelina was more than welcoming to them, becoming a surrogate mother to them all.

In her later years, Angelina became the matriarch of an ever growing family. She was the last link to the old country, singing songs in Italian, passing on recipes, but above all, giving love and devotion to every family member. She was always around to talk, telling stories about her youth, showering you with kisses and making sure you never went hungry. She gave us the proper ways of cooking bolognese, lasagne, polpette, cacciatore, braciole, amongst many others. Her house would always have full cupboards and a warm welcome. She lived for her family, always worrying about them, always prouder than anyone else could possibly be if they achieved even the smallest success. She detested swearing – family parties often punctuated with someone getting a dig from another family member for swearing in her vicinity – but when she knew it would make her family laugh, she’d proudly shout “TITS” as loud as she could. She was a truly independent woman, never asking or expecting anyone to help her. She wanted to do everything for herself. Never wanted to rely on anyone. Not again.

Last October, at the age of 77, Angelina  was diagnosed with cancer. She took it in her stride, telling everyone that she was ready to battle and that she wasn’t scared. A few weeks – and a whole bunch of tests later – she was told the diagnosis was wrong. Her original reaction to all was a smokescreen. She had been scared, frightened almost, but only told a select few people. The new diagnosis – one which didn’t come with a life sentence – was something to be celebrated.

She had a great Christmas, surrounded by family. On January 23rd, she went to the book launch of her oldest grandson, and couldn’t stop smiling. She enjoyed herself immensely, having her book signed and grabbing her grandsons cheek like she had done when he was smaller.

The next day, she woke to incredible pain in her back. She’d had pain before there – her doctor putting it down to osteoporosis – but this was excruciating. Not wanting to bother anyone with it, she  suffered through the pain throughout the weekend, until it became unbearable on the Monday. Her sons found out, and took her up to hospital. Doctors where concerned enough to keep her in, with test results giving troubling news. Eventually, the consultant who had diagnosed her with cancer originally came back on the scene. His original view was confirmed. She had numerous tumours, inoperable and untreatable. They couldn’t give her a time period of what she had left, but it wasn’t going to be long. She was released after a month, unable to move around much, needing more help than she ever wanted. Her family rallied around. Her dream trip back to Rome for a final time was sadly impossible, but she decided to have one last family party. Her birthday was coming, and the party was planned. She was becoming more immobile by the day, but was determined to make it there. She lived in a first floor flat, and had been housebound due to the stairs, but she made it. Surrounded by almost fifty family members, she ate Italian food, listened to Italian music, and laughed with those closest to her. Her life had been hard, harder than it ever needed to be, but in that last part of her life she could look around at what had come from that hardship. She could look at the faces of those she loved and see it returned. She could see what had become of all these people she’d had a hand in bringing to that place. Looking around that room, filled with those she loved and who loved her right back… that was all she had lived and strived for.

She asked for one song to be played for her family. This was, in her words, what she had always given to them.

In the early hours of May 7th – just as the sun was peeking its way through her bedroom window - having said her goodbyes, she passed away peacefully in her sleep.

She was my nan. My nonna, my nanny. But was so much more. Ten days before she died, I spent an afternoon talking to her about her last wishes. Those were covered within a half an hour, with the rest of the time spent just talking about her childhood, her love for her family, how proud she was of everyone, how her life had turned out so differently than she’d ever expected. Hours in her company drifted by in an instant. Her story of moving to a new country, of bringing up three boys on her own, of creating a family out of nothing, one which is closer than anyone outside of it could imagine… it’s inspiring to not only me, but countless others. She was the first person to tell me stories, something which quite plainly stuck.

In the week before she passed away, slowly deteriorating day on day, I was there at her home every day. Not only to support her, but because I felt guilty. I hadn’t been around as much as when I was younger. Her two great-grandchildren never really got the opportunity to know her as I had. I’d been too busy, too self-involved to visit her every week, every month. I told her this and she just shook her head. “You create your own family,” she said, “you have to put them first. I’m fine!”.

When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, whenever I told people – of which there were few – quite often I’d hear that she’d had a good innings, almost reaching the age of 80. That if they got to that age, they’d feel pretty okay about leaving. To be honest, I thought the same. Once in your seventies, everything is a bonus. My nan didn’t really feel that way. During that long conversation we had the week before she died, she told me why. She’d miss us all too much. She wasn’t religious, didn’t really believe, but that was her one worry. She would miss us. By the end, she just wanted to be pain-free and comfortable. She got her wish.

There is so much more to her story, so much that I can’t do justice. I can’t put into words how inspiring and loving she always was. How she made the lives of everyone she met instantly better. How influential she was to our family. It was everything. Every fibre of her being was geared to making sure her family were happy and content. Her main worry – right until the end – was not for herself or her own health and happiness. It was for those she loved. Always, everything for others.

I’ll miss her. I miss her already. The way she laughed with her whole body, the way she wrote the letter D, the way she always started a conversation by asking if you were hungry, the way she always had a puzzle book open near her, the way she always showed interest in anything you had to say, the way she had everything just so in her home. The little things that made it my nan’s house. The smells, the atmosphere.

The stories. Damn, I’ll miss the stories.

She lived for her family. Now she’s gone, there’s a massive hole in all our lives. She was the centre of everything. We all loved her. But we’ll get through it, because we have each other. We’ll get through it, because this woman did something that isn’t a simple thing to do. She created a family. A close family, who would do anything for each other.  We’ll go on because it’s what she would have wished for more than anything. We have to make her proud in everything we do. We will.

Ti amo nonna.