Page 11 of Sunrise over Strawberry Hill Farm

Nico glanced across the table at Flora, who looked like she’d rather eat one of her wellington boots than have dinner with him, but she said nothing and looked down at her phone once more.

Perhaps he had come on a little strong earlier and would make an effort to apologise once more to her later. He was Italian and she was very pretty, but he wasn’t his father. Or at least he hoped he wasn’t.

Most women he had met in Italy adored the fact that he was the son of a famous footballer and he had even followed his father’s playboy roots when the money had been flowing. The only excuse that he could tell himself all these years on was that it had been a failed attempt to gain his father’s approval.

The one woman he had fallen hard for was Maria. It was only too late that he had realised that it was his famous father whom she was more interested in. Finding Maria in bed with his father had been a hard lesson taught. She had sold the story on both of them and Nico had endured the realisation that everyone was probably laughing at them both. Paolo didn’t care, but Nico did. So he had kept his head down and worked the land and in his grandfather’s workshop and didn’t trust any stranger from that moment on.

Thankfully, he had no expectations that Flora was interested in him at all. She was quiet over the delicious dinner as he began to find out about the farm and its history. The Barton family had apparently lived at Strawberry Hill Farm all their lives, inheriting the farm from Grams’ father-in-law.

After dinner, they moved to the lounge, a comfortable room full of battered but soft sofas and a large oak coffee table in front of a roaring fire. The night air was cool that evening and so the warmth from the fire was welcome.

On the coffee table, Grams pointed to a photo album. ‘I got that out when you were resting,’ she told him, as they sat down together on the sofa.

Flora sat down on a mismatched armchair next to them to take a look as well.

‘Thought you’d like to see your grandfather back in the day,’ said Grams with a smile as she handed him the album.

Nico took a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable grief to overwhelm him. But that was offset by the black-and-white photographs he found on the first page. The page had faded writing declaring it to be the summer of 1961. Everyone in the photographs was smiling and looking relaxed in the sunshine and he couldn’t help but be charmed, instead of feeling upset.

‘There’s Lorenzo,’ said Grams, pointing to a man at the end of a group of about half a dozen people.

Nico peered at the photograph more closely and was pleased to realise that it was a younger version of his grandfather.

‘He’s with my future husband Bill, Flora’s grandad,’ carried on Grams. ‘As well as some other travellers that had turned up to help pick the strawberries that summer.’

Nico looked at his grandfather’s face once more. ‘I never knew why he came over here,’ he said, wishing the years could fade away and that he had the time to ask the questions that he had never thought to pose. ‘He spent nearly all his time at the vineyard.’

Grams looked at him. ‘Apparently, he had fallen out with your great-grandfather. According to Lorenzo, he was a bully and struck him frequently.’

Nico was shocked. ‘I never knew that,’ he said.

Grams nodded. ‘I think he had finally discovered his inner strength and had escaped out of there early in the spring when the snows melted. So he got on his motorbike and toured around Europe for a while, earning money wherever he could. He came to us in early July and ended up staying for the rest of the summer.’

‘A motorbike?’ Nico was stunned. ‘I had no idea he ever owned one.’

Grams chuckled. ‘It was a real old ropey thing,’ she said, laughing in memory. ‘Smoky and stuttering. It gave up on him as soon as he arrived. He had to hitchhike all the way home to Italy come the autumn!’ She frowned. ‘I think it’s still here on the farm somewhere.’

She looked at her granddaughter, who was looking equally surprised.

‘Is that where that came from?’ said Flora. ‘I always wondered about that. Yes, it’s still in the old stables.’

Nico was amazed. ‘I’d love to see it.’

Grams nodded. ‘We’ll go and have a look at it tomorrow.’ She smiled. ‘Your grandfather was charming, oh-so Italian, of course. I’d never seen anything like it, especially here in sleepy Cranfield! Anyway, once the summer had ended, he headed home to make up with his father and then he restarted his work and life on the vineyard. Apparently, his absence had caused a shift in the relationship and he and your great-grandfather began to find some peace. And, of course, he met his darling Sofia soon afterwards. We came across to the wedding a year later, six months after they came here to celebrate ours. Do you know, it was my first ever trip abroad? And what a magnificent place it was. Your home is truly beautiful.’

Nico’s smile caught in his throat at the thought of his beloved home. He could smell the hot dusty air as it swept over the rows of vines. The feel of the hot summer sun as he sat on the large patio, watching the sun turn orange and then a deep red as it sank below the hills in the far distance. The creak of the floorboards inside. The sound of the laughter as his grandmother and grandfather chatted with their friends. For a second, he could barely breathe from the loss, the thought that he would never again see and feel those reminders of his family.

Grams carried on her story and Nico tried to concentrate on the present once more. ‘We exchanged frequent letters in those days and tried to visit each other once a year. Later on, as our families grew, other priorities took over. But we continued to write letters, which were full of news about you when you came along. Such a blessing for them.’

Nico looked down at the photographs once more and somehow it made his grandmother and grandfather feel closer to him once more.

He felt it was the right time to follow his grandfather’s wishes and hand over the small package that he had brought with him.

‘And now I have something to give you,’ he said, placing the soft parcel in Grams’s hands. ‘Nonno requested that this was to be left to you. And as it is so very precious, I wanted to deliver it myself.’

Grams looked a little nervous as she unwrapped the tissue paper before taking a shocked breath when she discovered the material inside. ‘Oh!’ she said, with a little cry. ‘It’s my shawl.’

Flora leaned forward to view the white silk embroidered with tiny flowers. ‘Is it for a wedding?’