For a few flustered minutes he rambled in the same smooth Devon accent that used to echo in Vicky’s voice as he made them coffee, explaining his cabin was in the grounds of his daughter Mandy’s house and Mandy had ‘made a bob or two in property’. Finally, they were all seated in the airy living area with a view of the riotous flower beds through the French doors.

Then Harry fell silent, gazing expectantly at Zia. The moment to plunge into her bewildering past had plainly arrived.

The mug in her hand began to shake. Carefully, she placed it on the low table. ‘I’m here because I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks for me.’ A laugh emerged, breathy and tremulous as she looked at Harry. His kindly face alight, he sat forward in his chair as if vibrating with eagerness to hear more. She said, ‘I always thought my mum was Vicky Chalmers but now I believe there was another Victoria Chalmers known as Tori. Tori was my mother, not Vicky. Vicky was my grandmother.’

Harry nodded, light glancing off his specs.

Though she felt Ursula twitch beside her Zia carefully avoided too much of a reaction. But, oh, the relief Harry’s matter-of-fact acknowledgement brought. She could hardly believe she’d found this old family friend whose memory could illuminate her life like light flooding into a long-forgotten cave. She ventured, ‘And my father was Gerardo Costa from Montelibertà in Italy.’

Again, he nodded.

Her heart thudded with excitement. He knew, he knew the lot! Huskily she said, ‘You know Mum – Vicky – died when I was ten, don’t you? You were at the funeral.’

Every line of Harry’s face sagged. ‘Yes, my handsome,’ he said, voice sad despite the sweet Devonian endearment he used. ‘Poor little you, so bewildered and white. You broke my heart. You remembered me, though I hadn’t seen you for a couple of years. Vicky had kind of … fallen out of touch.’ Hand unsteady, he pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘We’d been friends for so long. We used to live together, for goodness sake! But, there, I said the wrong thing and …’ He made a helpless gesture.

It was Zia’s turn to nod along. ‘Was that “wrong thing” that Lucia Costa had come looking for me?’

His expression cleared. ‘You know ’bout that?’

‘Yes.’ Unwilling to say she now knew Lucia well for fear the conversation would go in too many directions at once, she drew in a breath and tried to order her questions. ‘When did you first know my mum? Vicky, I mean?’ she clarified, as he’d already confirmed knowing Tori to be her birth mother. ‘I don’t know much about her life between seventeen and thirty-five.’