‘The shop… my customers…’ Domenico’s voice was agitated. ‘What will happen to my shop? What about Mirtillo?’
Stella took a breath. She couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t bring Papà back but she could do something for his little brother. It was one small sacrifice she could make, one small way to try and put things right.
‘I’ll look after the shop for a few days, and Mirtillo, of course. Just leave me the keys,’ she said.
12
Amy walked slowly along the Corso Dante Alighieri. If she stopped to study every plaque fixed to the famousmurettoit would take her half the day. She concentrated on picking out a few, finding an autograph left by Max Bygraves, her grandma’s favourite entertainer, and a simple line drawing by Jean Cocteau. Confraternities, rotary clubs and musical organisations had all left their mark since 1953 when Ernest Hemingway and the Caffè Roma’s owner had snuck out after dark to fix the first decorative tile. But she was all too aware that the modern tourist attraction hadn’t existed when Grandpa was a boy. The feeling she should be doing something else nagged at her.
She let out a sigh. Alassio was a charming town but she’d found nothing of Grandpa here, the only connection the seafront and tiny chapel depicted in the black and white postcard he’d left her, a reminder of the stories he planned to tell.
Her phone buzzed. She snatched it up.
‘Jack? You’re actually calling me! What is it?’
‘That’s a nice greeting.’ She could hear the laugh in her brother’s voice.
‘It’s not that! You send messages and memes but you never make an actual call.’
‘I thought you’d like to hear a friendly voice.’
‘Yes, I would. What are you up to?’ She stopped walking, resting an elbow on the wall.
‘Not a lot, drinking beer, dodging man-eating crocodiles.’
‘Crocodiles?’ Amy winced.
‘I quite fancy a pet one,’ Jack joked. She hoped. ‘How’s Alassio?’
‘Beautiful.’ She looked over at the bronze sculpture of the two lovers atop themuretto. ‘Relaxing. Perfect.’
‘And how are things really?’
‘It’s also… Oh, I don’t know.’ Amy paused.
‘Sad?’
‘Yeah, I can’t help wondering what I’m doing here. Grandpa didn’t set foot in Italy after 1938.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe he was there during the war.’
‘He can’t have been. He was captured in Libya. You’ve got his old medal. I know there was some story about him escaping but he’d damaged his leg. The army would never have sent him back out to fight in the Italy campaign.’
‘But what about the necklace with the Italian lira and the other postcard of the little village?’
‘He could have picked them up anywhere.’
‘Hang on a minute, Amy.’ Jack broke off. She could hear voices and laughter in the background. ‘Sorry about that! I met a bunch of guys earlier. They’re all about to go off to the Irish bar.’
‘You go, join them, have a good time.’
‘Good to speak to you, sis.’
‘You too,’ Amy said. But Jack had already gone.
The rest of the day stretched ahead of her. Perhaps she’d stop at the café across the road. Gino from the tennis club had recommended it and she could see there was one spare table outside.
She crossed the road, heading for the table, but it seemed that someone else had just the same idea. She was a stride too late. A tut of exasperation escaped before she could stop herself. It turned into a gasp of surprise. The man who’d beaten her to it was Gino and it was obvious from his startled response that until that moment he hadn’t noticed her.
