Cuckoo joined her, put her arm round the bony shoulders, hugged her. ‘I’ve never been very far behind you, have I? It’s absolutely “deevy” having you back again … the years fade away. Golly! How we’ve laughed … a Scotch sur les jolies roches. Have you been down at the pool?’

‘Watching your “pretties”, the dolphins. They really are divine … and she’s wild! That hair, that voice. They’re coming up in a moment.’

Cuckoo raised her glass. ‘He’s not bad either, is he? Quite dishy.’

‘Terrific! And you picked him up just like that! Trust you! The only thing I ever picked up when I fell down was myself.’ She settled comfortably in the corner of a deep settee, patted a place beside her. ‘Come sit here, you look quite weary. Far too many of us, I didn’t know you had a full house … I feel so mean.’

‘Well don’t,’ said Cuckoo sitting beside her and putting her feet up on the low malachite table. ‘I’m happy as could be. I love too many people, always have … but wasn’t I lucky? About him? Being fished out by a “scrumptious”! I mean, he could so easily have been old and fat, or one of those bulgy Dutch tourists who gobble at one all the time.. I’d rather have drowned really. He gave me the most terrific belt across the face … did I tell you?’

‘Good grief! Why?’

‘Well … I was sort of snorting and choking, you know, swallowed water … so on. Very messy.’

‘You must have been terrified.’

Cuckoo laughed gently. ‘Not half as terrified as I am of meeting your odd nephew, Count Grottorosso, tomorrow. Ashen with terror I am. Ashen. He sounds too frightening for words … do admit?’

‘Not frightening. Baroque, I’d say.’

‘Well, that’s bad enough, I’m really not awfully good at baroque. I like nice simple lines. All that sparkle and glitter and wedding-cakery business is fearfully exhausting.’

Minerva lit a cigarette, snapped her lighter shut, squinted at it. ‘Yeah. Baroque. Brave and baroque. Very male, lots of macho, a man’s-man, and of course a genius; anyway I think so. Nothing weak. Do you know, at age fifteen he had seven notches cut into the stock of his rifle? He’s a deadly shot.’

‘Friends of the family?’

‘No, American GIs. Verona, June 1945. He was part of a happy band of faithful Fascist kids who swore to defend the patrie … until Benito got strung up at the gas-station and then they just swapped hats and joined the Commies. He was the best little sniper in the group. Swears he had a round dozen but only got around to marking up the first seven. He was still in short pants.’

Cuckoo worriedly adjusted her velvet bow. ‘He sounds hellish. I’m absolutely terrified! How can you possibly like him? Your own soldiers, really Minna.’