‘They aren’t shutting you out, Fern. When they need you, or they have some real news, they’ll be in touch. Why are you torturing yourself like this?’

‘Because we should be united as a family and we aren’t.’ It’s a battle to restrain the terse edge to my voice because I know how I sound. Possessive, needy.

‘That’s nonsense,’ Nico says, forcefully. ‘It’s life and you can’t bind the people you love to you, as if they are too fragile to venture out into the world on their own. It’s wonderful to love someone without reservation, but you can’t lead their lives for them. All you can do is be a safety net. That’s the bond families enjoy and that’s special; the feeling that no matter what happens there’s always someone who cares enough to listen and help when you need it.’

I can see that he’s speaking from the heart.

‘You didn’t have that, did you? Well, not with your father.’

He shakes his head as he gently releases me. He turns, still talking as he begins to pack up for the night. ‘My mother was the rock in our family, but her life was hard. It’s a long and sorry story.’

‘Is it too painful to share?’ I ask, gently, and I can see from his stance a moment of hesitation.

‘Yes… No… I don’t know is the truth because I never have.’

After a few minutes spent tidying things away, we head towards the attic without saying another word. Nico has arranged two old armchairs, facing each other just three feet apart and positioned so that we can lie back and stare up at the heavens. It’s become a special place for us both.

Once we’re settled, I look at him, frowning, giving him time to think about where to start. He takes a few minutes to compose himself and when he begins speaking his eyes are directed upwards, so I lean back and do the same.

‘My father’s family were olive farmers, but his heart wasn’t in it when eventually he inherited the farm. He tried for a while because he knew they would have been bitterly disappointed in him, but in fairness it was a bad time, economically. I was a young boy and all I remember is that my parents rowed incessantly as his dependency on alcohol grew. By then he spent his days painting, veering from heights of great joy to the depths of despondency. My mother had no choice but to employ two local men, as my father lost interest in everything else around him. I spent my time avoiding him and trying to help out when I wasn’t at school.