She had agreed on the spur of the moment but, as the time approached she began to have doubts. She had heard enough dark hints from the other shop girls about the fact that men were only ever after ‘one thing’, and she wondered if there would be a price to pay for her ice cream. In the event, it was one of the most enjoyable afternoons she had ever spent. Armando’s uncle’s shop had a counter on the ground floor where people could buy ice cream to take away, and upstairs there were tables and chairs for those who wanted to eat on the premises. This room was crowded the whole time with friends and relations who came and went amid a babble of talk and laughter in a mix of Italian and English. Much of it was incomprehensible to May and it worried her to begin with that some of the conversations seemed to be violently argumentative, but Armando assured her that they were simply animated discussions between good friends.

He introduced her to cousins and aunts, who greeted her charmingly and then reverted to their native Italian; but she didn’t mind. It was the lack of restraint, the bubbling animation of everyone around her that she found delightful. It was very different from any other gathering she had been in and she wondered why. She thought that it might be because these people were their own masters. Some were skilled tradesmen, others owned small shops or other businesses, but they worked for themselves and had no need to worry that if they overstepped some barely defined mark or showed a lack of respect for authority they might find themselves out of a job. It was an attitude of mind very different from the way she had been brought up and she found it invigorating.

And then, of course, there was the ice cream itself. She tried chocolate and strawberry and pistachio and could have had more but her stomach rebelled. Until then she had thought chocolate cake was the most delicious thing in the world; now she decided that chocolate ice cream was even better.

There was only one incident that made her feel uneasy. Towards the end of the afternoon a large woman in a black dress came in and Armando introduced her as his mother. She was perfectly affable and showed a keen interest in May’s work, but her enquiries into her background were a little too pointed and there was something in her expression as she looked from her to Armando that made her uncomfortable. Walking home she said to Armando, ‘I’m afraid your mother doesn’t approve of me.’

He laughed. ‘Take no notice of her. Italian mamas are like lionesses with cubs, ready to pounce on anyone who might lure them away from the den.’

‘Is that what she thinks I am doing?’