Page 8 of Sunrise over Strawberry Hill Farm

‘I look forward to a glass of Rossi wine made from grapes warmed by the Italian sun,’ said Grams, with a smile. ‘I remember drinking it with your grandparents when my late husband and I used to visit. We sat out on the terrace, overlooking that tremendous setting over the hills.’

Nico nodded, still trying to keep his emotions at bay. ‘And the hot sun was perfect for the vines,’ he told her.

‘Your English is much better than I was expecting,’ said Grams, with a nod of approval. ‘But, then again, I seem to remember that you went to school in England. Is that right?’

‘My father believed that the best schools were to be found here,’ Nico told her. ‘So I got packed off each term to boarding school and then headed home to Italy for holidays.’

On the all-too-frequent occasions when his father’s money had run out, Nico would end up back at the local school in his home town before being shipped off to the boarding school when the funds were replenished. At the time, he had been teased for his Italian accent at the boarding school, whereas the local kids in his home town teased him for the English ways he had picked up. It meant that he was now bilingual but with no real friends to rely on.

It had been a displaced childhood, confusing for a young boy to be sent so far from home, barely knowing the language. As the years went by, however, he discovered that he loved the English sense of humour and now he could talk and think in both languages.

‘Shame I never got to meet you before now as we haven’t visited for over thirty years. Life goes so quickly sometimes,’ she added with a soft sigh. ‘Of course, I know all about your famous father. How is he?’

Nico nodded, faking good humour. Everyone knew Paolo Rossi and the scandals that followed him wherever he went. ‘Same as ever,’ Nico told her. ‘Still living the high life back in Italy.’

Still being as distant a father as ever, he reminded himself. The only contact had been an angry voicemail shouting for the return of his beloved Ferrari. Selling the family estate hadn’t bothered Paolo one bit. Only the loss of his wretched supercar had caused him any grief.

‘What fun,’ said Grams, with a chuckle. ‘I wish we lived as full a life as you Rossi men seem to do over in Italy.’

‘We have a full life here,’ said Flora suddenly.

‘Of course we do,’ replied Grams with a frown at her granddaughter.

The outburst died as quickly as it had arrived.

Nico glanced at her briefly before putting his head down and clearing his plate as an awkward silence ensued.

‘That was amazing,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You need a good breakfast to set you up for a busy day when you’re a farmer,’ Grams told him.

Busy day? Nico hesitated to ask the question he had been wondering about ever since arriving. ‘And, er, how is Strawberry Hill Farm doing these days?’ he asked.

He caught the brief glance between Flora and Grams and wondered whether he had guessed correctly that there was a problem there.

‘Perhaps not as well as when your grandfather was here,’ said Grams briskly. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’d like to stretch your legs and look around the place. Flora will give you the tour whilst I tidy up in here.’

Flora looked as if she wanted to do anything other than be in Nico’s company for a minute longer, but she abruptly stood up anyway.

He also stood and followed her out of the kitchen.

‘Do you have wellington boots?’ she asked him, as she pulled on her own boots. ‘It’s still quite muddy everywhere.’

‘In my car,’ he replied, heading over to unpack them and his coat.

In fact, he had brought nearly all of his clothes with him – a reminder his worldly possessions were in a storage unit back in Italy. He’d never been interested in material things, unlike his father. And it wasn’t as if the Ferrari was big on boot space to start with. But he had everything he needed in the car.

He pulled on his wellington boots and realised Flora was staring into the back of the car with a curious look on her face.

‘That’s a lot of stuff considering you didn’t know how long you were staying,’ she told him.

Nico straightened up and gave her a broad grin. ‘I always pack as much as I can. Never know what each day holds for me, from a black-tie ball to a hot date.’

‘Don’t think you’ll be in danger of too many black-tie balls around here,’ she told him before turning away.

‘What about hot dates?’ he asked, but she had already turned the corner of the farmhouse and had disappeared.

She was upset about him being there, that much she hadn’t bothered to hide. But there was something else there. A stress, some tension perhaps? Could it be that Strawberry Hill Farm was in trouble?