I hadn’t expected Nonno to offer to take me to my optician’s appointment but he insisted. We catch the bus together and sit in comfortable silence on the uncomfortable seats. He’s brought his walking stick with him. He’d been in denial about needing it the last time I saw him. He’s dressed in a crisp, white, pressed linen shirt, which on anyone else would be creased by now, soft cream trousers and highly polished brown leather shoes which match his hat. He looks like a catalogue model with his dark skin and smiling brown eyes. I can see why Nonna put up with his cheek and teasing. He’s still a very handsome man – he reminds me of Dad. When we get off the bus he takes a moment or two to find his feet and then sets off at a brisk pace, as if to say, ‘I’ve still got it, try keeping up with me, young lady.’

Dad and I always went to the opticians together, since I was five, every check-up, every new pair of glasses, was him and me. Specs and Checks he called it and afterwards he’d take me to a café for an espresso and cake and we’d sit and write songs together in one of the little notebooks he used to buy me. I wonder if Nonno will try and do the same and if I’ll mind. Dad and I visited them all before deciding that The Bird’s Nest was our favourite. We used to give each coffee shop or café a mark out of ten for the cake, the coffee and the toilet facilities. Last year I wouldn’t even go to the opticians, I couldn’t bear it. Nonno hadn’t asked, he’d decided for the both of us. Not that he needs his eyes testing, he claims they’re still perfect.

‘Why don’t you wait out here and I’ll come and meet you once I’m done?’ I suggest.

He nods his head once, kisses me on both my cheeks and walks over to the newsagents. This is something I’m going to have to get used to doing on my own. Soon Nonno will be back in Italy. On my own is fine. I just can’t cope with someone being there for me one minute and not the next.

I check my phone as I wait for the optician to see me. Nothing. Absolutely nothing, apart from one from Callie with her holiday flight times and a link to the fancy villa she’s staying in. Her mum and dad seem to think it’ll be the last year she wants to go on holiday with them so they’re making a big deal of it. Months ago, she asked me to come with her. Looking at the photos she’s sent me of the villa I wish I’d said yes. Too late now.

*

‘How did it go?’ Nonno asks when I come out. He stands up from the bench and holds his arm out to me. I notice it is shaking a little and I realise that he needs to lean on me rather than the other way round.

‘Fine, no real change in my eyes so these are good for now.’ I reply, fiddling with my glasses. They always feel weird when I put them back on after an eye test.

‘Shall we walk along the river?’ Nonno takes his arm off mine to lean on his walking stick instead. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time your father ran away?’ I love the fact that he doesn’t talk about the weather, or what we’re having for tea, or anything else that holds no interest for me.

‘No!’ I say, surprised. I’ve heard most of Nonno’s stories about Dad, it’s one of the best things about talking to him, his endless stories reaching from Dad’s past to my present.

‘Well, he wasn’t a little boy, he was a bit older than you, in fact. He made mistakes in his exams, he didn’t want to stay at home with us, but he didn’t know what else to do. Your Nonna told him Get a job, work things out! They rowed, you can imagine? She told him, Fix it, Franco, as if it was that easy. Renata’s fire was not easy to put out once lit – a passionate heart for a passionate woman,’ he says softly, pausing to pick up a stick and throw it in the river and to catch his breath. We watch the ducks and swans examine the stick before moving away, disappointed.

‘I bet!’ I love hearing stories about Nonna’s famous temper, it makes me feel less lonely.

‘I left them to it, but called to my good friend, Luca, in Ireland and asked if Franco could come and stay with them in Dublin, just for a little while. Luca and I have been friends all our lives, he too has a granddaughter, Lucia. She’s an actress, you know, on the stage. Luca is so proud, so proud of her.’

He passes the information to me to see what I will do with it. But I don’t want it right now. I want Dad’s story. I want Dad. I’d known Dad had lived in Dublin for a year and that he’d met Mum there while she was on holiday, but I never really asked what he was doing in Ireland in the first place. I’d just presumed it was music and study. Or maybe he needed to travel, like Riley. ‘Your nonna was furious with me, she accused me of sending your papa away in disgrace. Ha! She would not listen to me. And of course, we all visit him, your Aunt Gianna too. We all stayed with Luca and his wife. I showed Renata that Franco was fine, that things work out, even if we don’t know how they will work out,’ Nonno continues, walking and talking.

‘And?’ I ask, wanting the next instalment.

‘He told us he wanted to re-sit his exams in Dublin, so your nonna, Auntie Gianna and I left him there. Then there were the auditions – lots of them – and then he met your mamma. The rest you know: he moved to Cardiff to be with her, they got married and then there was you, piccolina. But it wasn’t all smooth paths and plain sails, he made mistakes and he had to fix them.’ I see where he’s going. ‘He had to find a different path,’ he adds, in case I’ve missed the moral of this tale.

‘So you think I’ve messed up my exams like Dad did?’ I turn to face him.

‘No, I don’t say that. But I do say you can fix it. You might just need to take a different path to get there, like Robert Frost says – the one less travelled – and that might make all the difference? But perhaps you don’t want to hear this just now. I think maybe you don’t want to listen to an old man talking about the past and poetry.’ He smiles.

I’ve heard enough about Dad and how he fixed things.

‘What’s she been in?’ No need to explain who I’m talking about.

‘Lucia? Ah, I think she is in Stratford now, with the RSC.’ He waits.

‘The RSC?’ I check, even though I know he can only mean that one.

‘Yes, the Royal Shakespeare Company,’ he clarifies, smiling. He rolls the ‘r’ of Royal making it sound even grander. Was this whole conversation about Dad really a present, with this wrapped up in the middle of it?

‘Have you been to Stratford, Nonno?’

‘Not in a long time, not for too long.’ He sighs, and stops to get his breath back.

‘We could go, you and me? I mean, if you’d like to?’

I wonder if it’s possible just to make something happen by asking.

‘Ah, a day trip you mean? Bene!’ I didn’t mean just that. I don’t want a day of boating on the river Avon or a touristy trip to Shakespeare’s house. Stratford means something different to me.

‘What’s she in?’ I delay the big question I want to ask.

‘You’ll never guess! They are doing your Top Girls! A new all-female production – director, actors, set, lighting, sound, costume, all of it! And no one else has seen it yet but I hear tickets have already sold out,’ he adds with a flourish.

‘Could you … do you know her well enough to ask a favour?’ I force the words out. Even the word favour sounds too rude. Clumsy. But I push on all the same.

‘What is it that you need, piccolina? What is it that you want to ask?’ he prompts when I’m slow to respond.

‘Could I meet her? Or could I… maybe watch them rehearse? I wouldn’t get in the way or anything.’ He waves this away with his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter if that’s too much.’ He must think I’m using him to get what I want.

‘Of course I will ask!’ he declares. ‘I can only ask, sì?’ He smiles again.

‘They might not and that’s fine but…’ I don’t know how well he knows this girl and her family.

‘I will do the asking and then you will do the pushing open of the door, sì?’ He says the last bit so theatrically that the ducks scatter across the river. ‘And don’t worry about what to tell your mother. You leave your mamma to me,’ he adds.

‘Sì,’ I reply happily, even though there’s no need to reassure him, because I hadn’t even thought about Mum.

When we get home just before lunch, Mum is out. She’s left a note telling us she’s across the field walking Scout. Nonno quickly begins to make Sunday lunch. He puts music on – a bit of Carmen – singing, chopping, washing, preparing, in his element, which releases me from his company. In my room I switch my laptop on and google workshops at the RSC. I lose at least an hour before checking my email. Nothing. I wonder what I’ve done, what I’ve said that’s offended Riley. I type another one, just in case he hasn’t received any of the others, they might have gone in his spam box or something. I wonder if it is possible to make something happen just by asking.

I hear the backdoor slam shut and then Scout bark. I delete it. Then I type it again.

Maybe we could meet up?

And press send before I can change my mind.