Lucia pulled a tissue from her shorts pocket and blew her nose. ‘Tori was not at all the same.’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘What happened to her? We never knew. She left here a lovely girl, though a sad one, and returned scarcely able to talk sense.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘An angel must have watched over her when she drove all the way from England in that state.’

Alcohol or not, Zia found herself trembling. ‘You think I’m Tori’s daughter. But I always thought I was Vicky’s.’

Lucia and Durante exchanged shocked looks. Lucia lifted bewildered hands. ‘Tori had a daughter called Zia-Lucia who would be your age. Tori’s mother was called Vicky.’

Slowly, Zia put down her glass and rose, persuading her trembling legs to take her to fetch the blue and white bag she’d discarded by the door earlier. Then she dropped back down onto the sofa, unzipped the bag and fumbled her way into the inner pocket. Drawing out four stiff, formal pieces of paper she positioned them on the table so Lucia, Durante and Piero could read them. She touched the first pair. ‘These are the birth and death certificates of Victoria Chalmers, who I knew as my mother, Vicky. She died when I was ten.’ She moved on to the second set, the parchment-like paper cool beneath her fingers. ‘This person was also called Victoria Chalmers. She died a few weeks after I was born and I’ve only just discovered she existed. Vicky and Tori are both short names for Victoria.’

Lucia’s chin wobbled. ‘I went to Tori’s home in England. A man, Harry, he told me Tori had died but I didn’t want to believe him. It was a very, very difficult time. There were secrets …’ She hesitated.

Zia replied bitterly. ‘I seem to be at the centre of all these secrets but I don’t know any of them.’

Lucia closed her eyes once more. Tears eased from beneath the lids and tracked down her cheeks like streaks of silver in the late, slanting light.

Durante took her hand. ‘Penso che dovresti spiegare.’ I think you should explain.

At length, Lucia opened her eyes and began to speak. ‘“Zia Lucia” is what my nieces and nephews call me. Aunt Lucia. When Tori first knew Gerardo she spoke so little Italian she didn’t realise “zia” means “aunt” so she thought my name was Zia-Lucia with a hyphen. When I explained, she laughed a lot.’ Lucia smiled reminiscently, the apples of her cheeks lifting. ‘She always called me Zia Lucia, like Gerardo and the others. And she named the baby Zia-Lucia after me but also because she liked the sound.’