‘Oh no! Not the war. Age. After the war we struggled on for a bit. Archie and I came down here to live when his father died. It was quite fun. The older chums had peeled off, died. Our contemporaries were fairly amusing. But it wasn’t the same. And then quite suddenly, almost before one was really aware of it, we were middle-aged: and then we were old. The ashes had started to fall. It was a very quiet volcano, but equally devastating.’

He looked across the turquoise water. ‘I really meant that all this, the pool, looked like Pompeii … not the villa.’

‘This wasn’t here in the early days … we used to bathe down at the flat rock.’ She stopped. He had turned and was looking at her steadily. ‘Where we “met”. The old picnic place. This is all post-war. We weren’t really very grand in those lovely years: our pleasures were much simpler. A hamper of delicious wine, a portable gramophone, “conversations” above all. Picnics in the hills. But now: well, all the real friends are dead, the contemporaries dreary, you saw most of them at the picnic. Dusty, ageing, rutted. Stuck. And “family”, my family, is deathly. And anyway they all prefer Cornwall or Scotland. Can you believe it?’

‘Hard to.’

He’s going to ask me why. I know that. This is his last chance. He’s trying to phrase the question. Hurry on, deflect him if you can. Mad to come down here. Mad. But I couldn’t not. Couldn’t not.

‘So now, you see, it’s Villa Pompeii. It all looks divine in the sun, so does the real place; lizards run about, the flowers and trees flourish again, the fountains run. But in the shadows, if you listen, you can hear the lurking sounds of weeping …’

He looked at her from lowered lids. ‘No laughter? Don’t you hear laughter as well?’

‘Not much. The laughter was so much earlier, the ash smothered it.’

‘But we’ve laughed?’ Almost a murmur.

‘Oh yes! Of course! That’s what’s been so marvellous, why I’ve been so happy again. And my beloved Minna was here as well, and she always makes me full of joy: we don’t see each other often, but she is always the same. The sort of American they used to be. Strong, brave, funny, alive, tough and principled. She hated the changes which came, so she just stayed where she was, in the forties. Deep Frozen. Very wise. She’s managed to avoid most of the distresses that way. “With Blondie and Dagwood in the White House, there’s no place for me in America,” she said. So she’ll stick it out in Tuscany. And I’ll stick it out here … with Archie entombed almost permanently in his Museum place, dear Bruna banging on about how she hates the Huns; she’s so boring about that. I can’t play Bridge so I’ll get on with weeding my onions, you see?’

‘Very suburban.’