One Summer in Italy Read online

  ‘Keep in touch, Amy!’ Sofia half yelled … just as the line went dead in her ear. Stunned by the turn events had taken she stared at her phone, mind working furiously. Even if Amy’s flight had been called a good two hours prior to take-off, she wouldn’t have to switch her phone off yet. She was obviously in the grip of a tumult of emotions and being irrationally defiant to anyone and everyone and, whilst Sofia couldn’t entirely blame her, someone needed to keep a cool head to try and sort out as much of this mess as could be sorted.

  Levi needed to know what Amy was up to. Quickly, she opened her contacts list and selected Levi. She got the ringing tone and then voicemail. ‘Levi, it’s Sofia,’ she said. ‘Ring me as soon as you get this message. Amy’s found out her real dad’s connection to your dad’s garage and she’s on her way there.’

  Leaving the phone on the bench so she’d hear when he rang back, she hurried into her room, threw off her uniform suit, which felt as if it were choking her with its formal jacket and high collar, and wriggled into shorts and a top. She made herself coffee in the biggest mug she could find and went back into the garden, the heat hitting her as she stepped out of the comparative cool of her room.

  She glanced at the phone. Nothing.

  Crap. Probably Levi was hammering along on his motorbike and there would, obviously, be no chance of hearing the phone ring. Hoping she might get him when he was making a pit stop she rang at ten-minute intervals for the next two hours, pacing restlessly in and out of her room between times. Then she decided to try texting, as everyone saw texts as soon as they looked at their phones and it wouldn’t rely on catching him at just at the right moment in the same way that a call would.

  Sofia: Ring me as soon as you get this message. It’s really important.

  Then she texted Amy.

  Sofia: Travel safely. Keep in touch. Remember that I’m always on your side. xxx

  After she’d pressed send she hovered for ten minutes, just in case Amy had calmed down and rang back. Then she hovered for another ten minutes wondering whether she should ring Amy again – but would that be disrespectful of the boundary she’d drawn by saying she had to turn her phone off, even if Sofia knew she’d been telling porkies?

  Time dragged by. Sofia prowled restlessly, folding the clothes she’d left in the tumble dryer, making coffee and checking her phone was still showing a good signal and hadn’t somehow put itself on silent or ‘do not disturb’.

  By seven she knew she had to do something or burst. She tried three more times to ring Levi, leaving a couple more messages, as if he might unaccountably have not realised from her earlier messages and texts that something had occurred that warranted his attention.

  Eventually, driven by a gnawing emptiness and the knowledge that she’d hardly eaten today, she went up to Il Giardino, phone in the pocket of her cut-off denim shorts and ringer volume up full. Feeling the need for comfort food she chose from what she thought of as the tourists’ part of the menu – a bowl of chips and a couple of sachets of tomato ketchup with a mug of tea. Noemi, whose section she was in, served her amidst muttered questions about Amy. Benedetta had apparently told her that Amy was off on her travels and Noemi repeated several times that Amy hadn’t said a word about it the evening before.

  Sofia nodded and shook her head at the right points and added in a couple of shrugs to indicate that it was all a mystery to her too.

  Her phone didn’t ring.

  She left half the chips and ordered a beer.

  Her phone still didn’t ring.

  She tried Levi again then, in desperation, went into reception. Elise was on duty, whom Sofia only knew from handing over the front desk at the end of a shift. Despite knowing that she must be contravening at least two of Benedetta’s rules by being in the wrong clothes in the wrong place and logging on when she should be logged off, Sofia just smiled and said, ‘Need to check something.’ She went into the recent guest records on the computer and checked that Mr Levi Gunn’s mobile number in their records corresponded with the one in her phone. It did, of course. She’d known it would because hadn’t Levi messaged and called her from that number while he’d been here?

  But she was clutching at straws. That’s what people did when they didn’t know where to turn. They checked things they already knew to be correct and repeated fruitless tasks like ringing the same number over and over even when there was no reply.

  Just as she was about to turn away from the computer she noticed a red star next to Levi’s name to denote a ‘live’ note concerning this guest. She clicked through to the relevant entry and saw:

  Caricabatterie trovato nella stanza di questo ospite dopo il check-out e la partenza.

  She almost swore aloud, until she remembered herself. Telephone charger found in the room of this guest after check-out and departure. No wonder Levi wasn’t answering his phone. It was probably out of charge.

  Sofia shut down the record automatically and with a parting smile for Elise trailed back out to Il Giardino. She nearly ordered another beer but then, deciding she must keep a clear head, ordered espresso instead.

  Dusk was falling. Lights coming on. It was nearly eight-thirty.

  Amy should have reached England, presumably en route to this small town called Bettsbrough in Cambridgeshire, a neighbouring county to Bedfordshire, where Sofia had grown up.

  She knew Levi expected to take at least three days to travel home and had left that morning, Thursday. That meant he wouldn’t get back until Saturday at the earliest.

  To make sure that she hadn’t had a change of heart and stayed in Italy, gone home to Germany or hitched a ride to Timbuktu, Sofia rang Amy again, inexplicably reassured when the ringtone she heard was the good old British double ring. Amy didn’t pick up but Sofia felt she’d at least reached her destination country.

  Presumably Amy wouldn’t be able to raise anybody at the Gunn garage until it opened tomorrow, Friday. A cold feeling stole over Sofia. Where would Amy spend the night? Did she have enough money to stay in a hotel? Did she have her grandparents’ contact details if she found she needed someone to turn to in the UK? Kids often relied on the generation in between for details like that and she was pretty sure that in her present state of mind it would be a cold day in hell before Amy rang her mum or dad.

  Putting aside that worry for a moment she tried to envisage Amy approaching a member of Levi’s family and finding out the truth …

  She should have told her while she had her on the phone. This new conviction hit her like a bucket of iced water. OK, it wasn’t her secret, it wasn’t her business but, clearly, the chances of Amy discovering Levi’s identity from his family were now high, and it would be a much greater blow than if she heard the truth from someone who could explain Levi’s thinking behind withholding the truth, and highlight the purity of his intentions. Did Levi’s family even know that Amy existed? They might snub her or call her a liar. They might be angry with her.

  Where the hell would Amy go then?

  Amy needed a friend to turn to. Sofia jumped up, threw a twenty-euro note on the table and hurried across Il Giardino and the yard and down the steps to the staff accommodation.

  Fumbling as she unlocked her room, she fell in, yanked her cases from beneath the bed and began to fling in her possessions.

  Then she paused for thought. Idiot! What was she going to do? Sit in the garden and wait for a magic carpet to arrive? She raced back outside, dropped on the bench and took a calming breath while she got online and searched for the fastest way to get to England. In twenty minutes she’d booked the 23.09 train to Roma Termini. It got in too late for her to get the shuttle bus or train to Roma-Ciampino airport so she’d have to get a taxi. But that would allow her to be at the airport in bags of time to catch the 06.30 from Rome on Friday morning, landing at Stansted at 08.15. She got out her credit card and booked each ticket for the Italian leg of the journey.

  Trains ran directly between Stansted and Peterborough and she could buy that ticket a
t Stansted Airport. She was bound to be able to get local transport between Peterborough and Bettsbrough once on the ground.

  She went back indoors to finish her packing.

  On the way through the hotel, dragging her suitcases one at a time up the steps, she stopped at reception and scribbled a note for Benedetta.

  Sorry to leave you in the lurch, Benedetta, but I’m going to the UK and won’t be available for shifts.

  Best wishes, Sofia Bianchi.

  She even smiled, imagining vividly the expression on Benedetta’s face when she discovered that another silly English girl had done a runner.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Amy perched on a wall across the road from Gunn’s Motors, watching the comings and goings of the place, her heart crashing about her chest with the enormity of what she was here to do.

  It had been a drizzly Friday morning but now the sun was popping in and out of the clouds and Amy wished it would stay out all the time. British summertime didn’t seem very summery after Italy. She’d asked for an extra blanket at the Airbnb she stayed at last night and the lady who owned the house, Jean, had said, ‘Gosh, you must be a cold mortal.’ She was round and middle-aged and used words like ‘gosh’ and ‘crikey’ a lot. She reminded Amy of her grandmother in Hendon, comforting in a way as during the years Amy had lived in Germany, England had slowly slipped into unfamiliarity.

  The forecourt Amy was watching was curved to follow the line of the corner it stood on and had room for about ten cars with their prices on the windscreens. Behind them stood a few vehicles without prices. A man in navy blue overalls had come out, started one up and driven it inside the building. The car was now on a ramp in the air with the man working underneath it. He wasn’t her father. He only looked about ten years older than Amy herself.

  The two-storey building stood diagonally on the plot, the woodwork painted white and the windows made of that kind of crinkly glass you couldn’t see through properly. Apart from the entrance to the repair shop the building had another pair of doors and a few people had been and gone through them. A man with grey wavy hair and gold-framed glasses emerged with two of the callers as if chatting while he saw them out. He probably wasn’t her father. He was old. … ‘his dad had a garage …’ He could be her grandfather. Another man came out and handed the older man a cordless phone, said something with a grin and went back inside. He had dark blond hair. … ‘Your real dad. Turns out he even works at the garage.’

  He could be her father!

  After they went in, another figure emerged in navy blue mechanic’s overalls. He carried a bucket and began washing one of the cars that was for sale, a white one. He was only about Amy’s age. It made him seem approachable. Screwing up her courage, she crossed the road in what she hoped was the kind of saunter the confident girls at school had used. She wished she had gum to chew because they’d done a lot of that too.

  A chain was looped from post to post around the edges of the forecourt about a foot from the ground. Amy stopped just short of it and tossed back her hair.

  The boy in the overalls looked up. He carried on looking at her though his hand was still moving a soapy sponge in circles over the side of the car. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Amy pushed back her hair again. It kept blowing into her face in the wind. ‘Is the market down this road?’ She already knew it was. She’d walked through it to the bank ATM to withdraw cash from the English account she’d opened ready for uni. Her mum had put £200 in it and Amy had withdrawn fifty of that. Another £56 had already been showing as a withdrawal for the Airbnb so she’d gone inside the bank and talked to someone about how to move money from her euro account. She might go back and do that later, depending what happened at Gunn’s Motors.

  The boy nodded, his hand still busy with the sponge. ‘Yep. Straight down. You can’t see the stalls from here but they’re just round the corner. Don’t you live in Bettsbrough?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ She decided not to get into that. ‘You?’

  ‘Yep.’ He dipped his sponge in the bucket and moved a bit closer to wash the next bit. Then he picked up a hose and rinsed it all off.

  The conversation lagged and Amy realised she was in danger of standing there like a dork. Inspiration struck. ‘I’ve got family in Bettsbrough though and I was just wondering if Bullet still works here.’

  The boy looked up with a grin. ‘Don’t let him catch you calling him that. We’re all supposed to call him Bryan. Yes, it’s still his place.’

  Excitement and nerves made Amy’s voice shake. ‘And what about his son? I can’t remember his name.’

  Picking up the bucket and sponge again the boy moved closer to her to begin on the bonnet. ‘Tyrone works here too.’ He glanced across at the double doors. ‘I think they’re both in there. Just ask inside. Val’s probably on the front desk. She’s Bryan’s wife.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Amy’s voice was definitely shaking now. The boy looked at her with curiosity and opened his mouth as if to speak again but Amy cut him off with a quick ‘Bye!’ as she turned away.

  The journey along the pavement and in through the break in the chain fence to the double doors seemed endless. Amy’s legs felt three times their normal weight and the tremor in her voice had filtered into her entire body. The double doors finally loomed, then she was past them and into an open area painted white, with an L of grey seating on one side and a desk on the other. A lady sitting behind the desk gave Amy a smile as she looked up from her computer. ‘What can I do for you today?’ Her dark hair was threaded with grey and cut in a fringe that seemed to rest along the top of her glasses.

  Amy clenched her hands in her pockets as if holding onto something so she didn’t run away, trying to recall the anger and purpose that had fuelled her epic trip to Bettsbrough yesterday. She cleared her throat and spoke loudly so her voice wouldn’t shake. ‘Are Bryan and Tyrone Gunn here, please?’

  The lady’s eyebrows lifted. ‘They are. Did you want to see them?’ Curiosity was written all over her face.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The lady took her name and disappeared into some back area. After a minute of a muffled conversation she reappeared. ‘Would you like to come through, dear?’

  Amy had to force her heavy legs to transport her and her pounding heart around the desk, down a short corridor and into an office containing two untidy desks. The two men she’d caught sight of outside, the grey-haired one and the blond, occupied a desk each.

  The grey-haired man smiled comfortably. ‘Good morning. Amy, is it? I’m Bryan Gunn. Come and sit down and tell me what I can help you with.’ But once she’d halted Amy’s legs became so heavy they took root. She swivelled her head to look at the blond man, who was regarding her with a puzzled smile in his hazel eyes. He looked … he looked familiar. Was it possible for a child to recognise its father on some level, even if they’d never met?

  ‘Are you all right?’ she heard Bryan Gunn say, but Amy couldn’t stop staring at the blond man.

  ‘This is my son, Tyrone,’ Bryan added, sounding half-puzzled, half-amused at Amy’s dumb gawking.

  So it was him. Bullet Gunn’s son. Amy opened her mouth but no words came.

  ‘Hello, Amy,’ Tyrone said encouragingly.

  Amy suddenly wished she’d taken the chair when it was offered to her because her legs began to shake and tingle. She drew in an enormous breath and held it before letting it out as a teacher had once suggested she do at the start of an exam to calm her nerves. She swallowed hard. ‘I think you’re my dad,’ she blurted out.

  Tyrone’s eyebrows flew up. ‘What?’

  ‘I think you’re my dad,’ she repeated, her voice gaining strength now the point of no return had been reached. She turned to look at Bryan Gunn. ‘Which makes you my granddad.’

  The silence in the room could be felt. Tyrone’s face was a picture of shock and Amy’s mind began to leap crazily from conclusion to conclusion. He was going to say he didn’t want anything to do with her. He wa
s going to throw her out. Call her a liar.

  It was Bryan who spoke first, rising from his seat and coming around the desk to bring the chair he’d first offered her up close behind her knees. ‘Sit down, Amy,’ he said gently. ‘And tell us what makes you think Tyrone’s your dad.’

  Weakly, Amy sank onto the seat. Its covering was slightly itchy. She kept her eyes on Tyrone. ‘You came to our house in Germany a few weeks ago, didn’t you? You knew about me but you went off again without making any contact. So I decided to find you.’

  But even as she said the words, Tyrone was shaking his head. His cheeks had flushed. With relief? ‘That’s not me.’ His voice wasn’t as soft as his father’s, but it wasn’t unkind. ‘I haven’t been to Germany for years.’

  ‘He works here every day with me,’ Bryan chipped in. ‘It seems unlikely he made a dash to Germany and back in the last few weeks without me knowing.’

  Confusion made Amy’s head spin. Her throat felt coated in dust. ‘My mother’s name is Freya. Freya Williams she was.’

  Tyrone shrugged and shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m pretty sure I’ve never known a Freya Williams. What year were you born?’ When Amy told him he looked no wiser. ‘I would have been around twenty when you were conceived. I was at university then.’

  Amy wanted to put her head between her knees to stop it spinning. ‘I think it happened here, in Bettsbrough. My mum said the man was Bullet Gunn’s son from this garage—’

  Bryan and Tyrone both said, ‘Oh!’ at the same time. From the corridor came a fainter echo. After a moment, the lady from the front desk stepped into view. She’d obviously been hanging about in the corridor, listening. Now she was hanging onto the doorjamb as if she needed to.

  She stared at Amy. ‘We’ve got two sons,’ she quavered. ‘And the other one has been away all summer in Europe on his motorbike.’ She took a deep breath and exchanged glances with Bryan over Amy’s head. ‘But his name’s not Tyrone. It’s Levi.’