And now, again, in a good way, Mother was being different to how she was at home. At home, she was testy about food. She pushed things around her plate and chewed them too long. She didn’t like the ‘feeling’, she told Papa, of the food going into her, making her filled-up and sluggish. ‘I like to have space left over,’ she said. She could never be a true partner in Papa’s love affair with food, because while capable of sampling, she was not capable of savouring. So now it was strange to see her tucking in to the tortured grey meal Grandmother had prepared: the tired chicken; the floury potato; the overcooked peas and undercooked pumpkin. Everyone at the table made sounds of appreciation but even I, at not-quite three years old, had a palate that rejected this fare. I’d been reared on delectable morsels provided by my father, fresh fruit from Nonna’s garden, splendid leftovers from La Coccinella. Even Mother, otherwise out of tune with such things as complementary flavours, would pick figs from the fig tree in the back garden and serve them with cheese and walnuts on a plate after dinner.

I had never experienced a ‘Sunday roast’ before. I did not like it, but Mother’s niece Hannah kept plugging my mouth with meat every time I accidentally opened it.

‘Have you got all your teeth, O-yo?’ Hannah said, putting her finger in my mouth and rooting around. I wished Hannah would keep her finger in my mouth forever, but she whisked it away and wiped it on a napkin (we called them ‘serviettes’ at home, but Grandmother’s brow wrinkled when Mother used this word so I knew ‘serviette’ was not a wholesome word to use). Hannah plugged my mouth with food again. But this time it did not go down well. I spluttered. Aunt Tilde passed me a napkin but not in time and the lump of meat came out directly onto my plate. Mother glanced at it, and laughed and said, ‘He seems to struggle sometimes with the swallowing function. What do you think, Frank? You’re the amateur physician round here. Should I be worried?’

Uncle Frank put down his fork to exercise himself on the subject. ‘The infant swallowing function …’ he began, ‘or should I say the gag reflex …’ but Aunt Tilde nudged him in the ribs and he stopped. Gag reflexes, I understood, were like serviettes.

Mother had finished eating, and now she tipped her neck back, disposing of her wine, and got her cigarette case out.

Grandmother cleared her throat. ‘Veda,’ she said. ‘We don’t smoke at the table here. You know that.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mother breezily. ‘But I’m a married woman now, Mother.’ She clicked her lighter open and lit her cigarette. Grandmother said nothing but she and Jane looked at each other again.