Amy turned her head towards the sun-glittered sea. She had no desire to be pawed in a public place but it might be quite nice to think that one day someone might look at her the way the two lovebirds gazed at each other. She’d had a handful of short-term relationships and her share of dates, a few of them set up by friends, but she always felt she was playing a game where she didn’t know the rules, or where the rules were arbitrarily changed from day to day. And although she found things to talk about with her boyfriends, the silences in between were never the truly comfortable ones like the ones between her and Grandpa Lance working on their pots in Mum’s garden shed. He had been the one who really got her, who never made her feel like she was saying or wearing or doing the wrong thing. He never nagged her to be more adventurous or to come up with some impressive plan for the rest of her life.
The waitress placed a great glass bowl of salad before her.
‘That’s a pretty necklace you are wearing, isn’t that an old Italian coin?’ she said.
‘Yes, my grandpa left it to me.’
‘Beautiful. But I would not wear it until you can get a new chain. That leather looks quite worn through. You do not want to lose it.’
Amy’s hand went to the thin thong. She could feel the worn patch and despite the oil she’d rubbed in, the leather was terribly dry.
‘Oh, it must be my fault, tying and untying it the way I have. I had better not wear it again until I can string it on something else.’ She undid the necklace and slipped it into the inside pocket of her bag. The waitress was right; she couldn’t risk losing the precious coin.
Amy picked up a forkful of lettuce. Rabbit food, Grandpa would have said. She wondered when she’d ever stop hearing his voice. She forced herself to sip some water, tried to compose herself. She’d never swallow her food with a lump in her throat like this. She dug into her salad. Thecuori di buetomatoes burst with sweetness; tangy taggiasca olives nestled amongst salty anchovies, peeled cucumber and slices of red onion. The sound of laughter made her turn her head: a group of children playing on the beach. The sand was golden, the sea sparkling like a million crystals had fallen from the cloudless sky. She shouldn’t be sitting feeling sorry for herself on a perfect day like this. She ordered a coffee and unfolded her map, searching for inspiration, checking each numbered place of interest against the photos and descriptions. Her finger hovered over the Hanbury Tennis Club. Tennis was something Lance had loved. He’d taught Amy to play when she was no more than four or five, replacing the net she couldn’t see over with a length of Mum’s washing line. She’d run backwards and forwards, swiping her little racket through the air until she was almost dizzy whilst he stood still, rocking from foot to foot, his thin, veiny arm wielding his old-fashioned wooden racket with deadly precision. She had her destination. She threw back her espresso and called for the bill.
Amy set off back along the seafront. Instinctively her hand went to her chest. She’d only been wearing Grandpa’s necklace for a couple of weeks but it already felt strange that it wasn’t dangling there.
* * *
A lipstick-red George VI post box stood at the entrance to the tennis club. Amy couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculously English touch. Behind the high wire fencing, two women in traditional white skirts were engaged in a spirited rally, their bright yellow ball bouncing off the clay surface. The other courts were unoccupied, most members probably having the sense to keep out of the mid-afternoon sun.
Amy crept a little closer, conscious of the private property sign she’d ignored. Surely no one would care if she stood and watched. No one except the man striding towards her with a not terribly friendly look on his face. His salt and pepper hair told her he must be at least sixty. He was probably in charge of the club, come to send her on her way. It was only as he drew nearer that she realised he wasn’t frowning, just squinting into the sun.
The man said something in Italian. She responded with what she hoped was a harmless shrug and friendly smile.
‘Can I help you?’ He switched smoothly to English.
‘I was just looking.’
‘Looking? Looking to join? Looking for a person?’
‘For a person… except he’s… umm… not here.’
He raised his eyebrows. No wonder.
‘My grandpa…’
‘Ah! He used to play here?’ His green eyes softened.
‘I don’t know if he did but he lived in Alassio when he was a child and he liked tennis.’
‘And that is why you are here? To see where your nonno played? Would you like to see around? Why not? I am not so busy. We can go into the Club House. There are some interesting old photographs on display and of course a wonderful view over the courts from the veranda.’
‘That’s so kind! If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’ She had to stop herself hugging him.
He led her along by the courts and into the yellow-ochre Club House. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight that greeted her: cane tables and chairs, an elegant grandfather clock, vintage posters and old wooden tennis rackets mounted on the walls – the place was straight out of Agatha Christie. But she didn’t get much chance to look around before the man led her onto the covered veranda.
‘I come out here whenever I can. This is the most perfect place to sit, whether there is a game taking place or not,’ he said.
‘I can see that.’ Below them, a second couple had just started warming up.
‘You can imagine your nonno playing tennis on these courts?’
‘Yes, and sitting up here with a gin and tonic.’ But the Lance she could see was at least eighty years old, wearing a shirt and tie and a woolly waistcoat despite the heat, ice cubes clinking in his cut-glass tumbler. Maybe she lacked imagination, but it was hard to picture him aged eight or ten, slurping on a can of bitter orangechinotto.
She put her hand to her breastbone, her fingers seeking the lira coin nestled beneath her top before remembering it wasn’t there. Italy hadn’t brought her any closer to Lance. He was gone for good. Her favourite person in the world. Why had she thought coming here would make her feel any better? But she couldn’t dissolve into tears in front of this stranger. She looked beyond the courts to the dark green hills.
‘Thank you so much for showing me around.’
