‘It looks the same, nothing change!’ Nonno declares, setting his bags down in the hall after a quick tour of the house which of course hasn’t changed because it is a three-up two-down house, there isn’t any room for change. Then he notices the table.

After a while Mum and I stopped sitting at the big dining table together, it was too painful. We started eating in front of the TV, searching for something to watch that would fill the empty space. I was glad when Mum sold the table and replaced it with a small one. A table for two.

‘I like it! Piccolo, cosy!’ He is trying too hard.

Mum busies herself in the kitchen prepping vegetables, determined to cook a decent meal for the Antonio Carluccio of the family.

‘So, my Hope, come and sit and tell me things, piccolina. And you have turned into a woman since I last saw you. You remind me of your Nonna when I first met her, bellissima!’ Nonno pats the sofa and I sit down next to him. His skin is crinkled, like a peach left out in the sun too long but still sweet, and he smells reassuringly of tea-tree oil. It’s familiar and comforting. His whiskers are expertly clipped and still mostly black, but the hair on his head has thinned and lightened a little. I can see the delicate brown skin of his scalp in places. It makes him look vulnerable so I try not to notice.

‘What things do you want to know?’ I know there’ll be something particular that he wants to talk about, he’s that kind of man. I’ve always liked that about him.

‘What did you last see at the theatre?’ His eyes shine in anticipation. I inherited my love of the theatre and music from Nonno. The summer I turned ten we went on holiday to Tintagel together, the five of us. As we walked along the clifftops to the castle we came across a coachload of Italians heading down to Merlin’s Cave. Nonno led them down the cliff on to the sand.

‘What is he doing, stupid man! He kill himself!’ Nonna declared, with her hands over her heart as if it was beating too hard.

When he got to the bottom, he gathered the Italian tourists around him in a circle, and all at the same time they burst into song, Nonno leading them. The acoustics of the cave and the cliffs were nature’s amphitheatre and the sound was like nothing I’d ever heard. They sang in Italian, something from La Traviata, Dad said, the drinking song. People turned from the castle towards Merlin’s Cave. Tourists found somewhere to sit. No one moved until the last note had been sung and then applause came from everywhere, from up in the castle, on the cliff face and from down on the sand where families were collecting shells. All the Italians raised their hands and took a quick bow and that was it. Nonno shimmied up the steps like some mountain goat, took Nonna’s hand, kissed it and led her off into the castle.

Nonno packs his pipe with tobacco, content for me to return to his question when I’m ready. He moves at a different pace from Mum. I can hear her chopping, running the tap, opening and closing the oven – the heat escaping through the crack in the door that won’t seal properly.

‘Top Girls by Caryl Churchill,’ I reply.

‘Ah, I hear of her. Tell me, how did they tell the tale? Set? Lighting? Was there music? An orchestra?’ he encourages. ‘When did you see it?’

‘Just before … Dublin. Callie and Aisha’s duologue is from Top Girls, so Mr Davis thought it’d be useful to see it.’ I find it hard to say the word ‘Dublin’.

‘And since Dublin? You see anything else? I hear Theatre Severn has a good schedule this year.’ He says the word Dublin carefully.

‘I went with Callie to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time,’ I tell him, glad I have something to say.

‘Ah yes, I read the book a long time ago now. Your Nonna teased me because she said it was for children. I told Renata “the greatest stories are those for children” and she clicked her tongue at me, pfff. Stories are stories, if there’s a tale to tell and someone to listen it doesn’t matter if they are an old man with grey hairs or a child with gaps where their teeth should be,’ he says, involving Nonna in as many sentences as he can. I noticed Mum avoided this; if she could not mention my dad’s name then she felt as if she was winning at life. I couldn’t tell her but to me it felt more like losing. It was the thing we didn’t talk about, the name we couldn’t say without one of us ending up in tears. But Nonno says Nonna’s name all the time – Renata – bringing her to life as if she is in the room with us now, clicking her tongue. I can’t ever imagine clicking my tongue at anyone with such affection and real impatience all bundled up in one sound. It’s too personal.

‘Tell me more,’ he invites. So I do, I tell him all about Frantic Assembly and describe the way they made Christopher walk up walls, using the grid formation and graph-paper set design. I tell him everything I saw as I sat on the outside, looking in.

Nonno delays the big question until after our meal, waiting for Mum to go to bed so he can smoke his pipe in peace. Mum has already asked him not to smoke in the house. He’s opened the back door as a concession. Mum always went to bed early to read when Nonno and Nonna came to stay, unable to keep up with the rush of Italian. Once I reached a certain age – I think it was twelve – I was invited to join them while they sipped their grappa, a drink I never liked. It smells so deceptively delicious, like plums soaked in honey, but tastes like cough mixture, sour and sharp. Now Nonno and I sit together while he sips his grappa and smokes his pipe, and the elephant in the room grows and grows until I can almost hear it breathing and sense the swish of its trunk.

‘And so,’ Nonno invites.

‘I failed.’

‘Sì, this I know.’

‘So, I need a plan B,’ I carry on, almost relieved to be saying it, to be accepting it.

‘No, no need,’ he replies, puffing and blowing.

‘What do you mean?’ I sit forwards on my chair, ready to listen. I feel excited and relieved. Just by being here he’s making things happen.

‘I say no. You do not need Plan B. You have Plan A and so you stick to it,’ he says in short bursts, sitting back in his chair.

‘But, I can’t,’ I protest. ‘I didn’t get in.’

‘Sì, sì, yes, but you try again, piccolina, you don’t just stop.’ He sips his grappa.

As much as I love him, he really annoys me sometimes. He’s been in the house for a few hours and already he knows everything?

‘We try and try again. This is what they say, sì? It is in your blood.’ As if all I need to get into drama college is a blood test. If only – I’d gladly pay in blood.

‘But I’m not good enough. I would have got in if I was.’ I try to mirror his voice, the soft tones of knowledge and certainty, but it doesn’t quite happen for me.

‘You are more than good enough. I have seen and heard you, I have watched you grow. There are other doors to try if you are brave enough, sì? I know you can do this, piccolina.’

He nods his head in satisfaction. And I want to believe him. But how can I? I can’t tell him what happened in the audition because I’m ashamed. He thinks I’m in control but I’m not. He’s watching me, trying to read my face, and I’m so tired of hiding from everyone.

‘Come here, come to me.’ He puts his pipe down carefully on the table and holds out his arms. I walk over to him. He pulls me down onto his lap. I sit there like a giant doll, awkward and gangly, until he kisses me on the head so tenderly. He starts singing and at first I want to run away. I’m embarrassed, but he isn’t, not for a second. And I can’t break out of his hold, not without hurting him. He keeps on singing. I’ve no idea what about because it is in Italian, I can just about follow a conversation but singing what sounds like some old folk song in Italian is way out of my league. After a few minutes of holding my neck at an awkward angle, I find it easier to rest my head on his shoulder. He relaxes his arm a little and slows down his singing until it matches the steady rhythm of his heart and to that sound – the steadiest of sounds – I fall asleep.