Gli antipasti: offered on trays with the obligatory champagne. (Actually, Italian sparkling wine. Nonno now had a 10 pm liquor licence, though with the odd condition that he only serve Australian wine, a condition he did not observe.)

Capelle di funghi ai gamberetti

Carciofi con maionese all’Arancia

Crostine al dragoncello

You slaved for hours for all those tiny little shrimp-stuffed mushrooms, didn’t you, Ornella? Carlito laughed at you as he smoked in the kitchen doorway and you pinched and tucked this fiddly finger food and he called you la domestica. And did Mother and Papa ever thank you? No, not properly, never. Never! Mother picked up a piece of crostini, took a bite, and put it back on the tray.

I primi:

Polenta pasticciata con il gorgonzola

o

Passato di spinaci alle nocciole

You toasted the hazelnuts. You wound the spinach through the foodmill. Your mouth was taut and grim. Nonno was laughing and happy in the background. The kitchen was a place to sing, he said, and he sang, badly. You were grimacing, but you kept working.

I secondi:

Pollo al vin santo

o

Spezzatino ai piseli

This was Nonno’s area. You untied your apron. You smoked a cigarette in the courtyard with Carlito. Nonna found a splash of oil on your pink silk dress and yelled that you were stupid for wearing it in the kitchen. You’d wanted to wear dark blue silk, but Nonna said that was married women’s silk and not suitable.

I dolci:

Budino di albicocche al caramello

o

Crema al mascarpone

You made these the day before. Nonno sent you up to King and Godfree to get Vin Santo. The man at the till asked after Carlito and nodded and laughed when you said Carlito was ‘good as gold’. He made a doubtful shape with his mouth.

It was on the way home from the wedding that Nonno began feeling a strange burning sensation in his jaw and throat. Nonna said it was all that laughing and singing. But then it spread, there was a heaviness in his left arm, and he said he thought he’d drunk too much—his head was odd, he was dizzy. Nonna said he needed to watch it: he ate like he didn’t care about his waistline, and he drank like a fish. She’d been telling him for years to do more exercise, drink less alcohol. He didn’t reply. She put her hand on his forehead and it was cold and wet and his breath was coming in short little bursts. By the time they reached Thornbury, he was dead.

30 OCTOBER 1985

Dear Mr Ferrugia,