Zia thought wistfully of tall, bony Gran with salt and pepper hair drawn neatly back and Pap’s blue eyes and shock of silver hair. ‘When I first went to live with them Pap showed me how to make a sort of whistle from cow parsley stems. It made a rude noise and he said it was called a keck-fart but not to say so in front of Gran. Then she saw it and said, “Has Pap made you a keck-fart?” It was the only thing that made me laugh that summer.’ She touched the folders, dry and smooth, filling the room with a comforting smell of old paper. ‘I probably kept way too much of their stuff.’

Ursula slid her tattooed arm – she had one inked and one clean – around Zia’s shoulders. ‘But you loved them.’

Zia nodded jerkily. ‘Gran and Pap gave up their life in Spain when Mum fell off that ladder and got her head injury.’ Zia remembered the clatter and the shriek of pain. Mum staggering to her feet inexplicably angry and disorientated, then violently sick. In quick succession had come the neighbours, the ambulance, and the end of Vicky Chalmer’s life and Zia’s childhood as she knew it.

Ursula planted a consoling, lipstick-scented kiss on her cheek. ‘If you find your daddy you might find a whole other family just waiting to welcome you.’

‘Living relatives might be nice but you know that’s not why I’m interested in finding out who he is.’ Zia stared at the mountain of old paperwork as if it might magically form itself into the key to her life.

Ursula sighed. ‘I know. You’re after an Italian passport, Zia-Lucia Costa Chalmers. Jeez, we might even find out why you have that mouthful of a name.’

Zia managed a smile. ‘You know the story Gran told me – my dad was from Italy and a lady called Lucia Costa had once been kind to my mother. When I began to learn Italian and pointed out that Zia means “aunt” she just shrugged.’ She sighed. ‘When I asked other questions, she said she only wanted to concentrate on the happy memories. I didn’t persist in case it made her sad. Mum was thirty-five when I was born and by the time they took me on Gran was seventy-five and Pap seventy-seven.’ Zia climbed to her feet, rubbing stiff knees. ‘Ouch. Let’s take this lot through to the dining table.’