And even if I could rely on her for advice, it was hard to imagine anyone in the world had the solution to Sandro and his fear of water.

It didn’t help that the spare bedroom was lined with swimming cups, medals and photos of Massimo, hands raised in triumph, his dark hair hanging in wet curls.

Sandro, on the other hand, had a full blown tantrum every time I got his face wet in the bath as a baby. Massimo accused me of transmitting my own anxieties to him. ‘You make him like that, you’re always so stressed about everything’, convinced that without my negative vibes, Sandro would have been an Olympic swimming gold medallist in the making.

By the time Sandro was three, Massimo decided to take control of my stop-start attempts to teach him to swim.

‘He needs to learn before he loses his nerve all together.’ And as always Massimo was the man to ‘make it happen’. With a wave of his hand, all ‘experienced swimmer heading to the pool to show off family man credentials’, Massimo arranged lessons for Sandro every Saturday morning. The first time, I’d made the mistake of going to watch. Initially I’d felt a little burst of pride when I’d seen Massimo stroll out with our son, looking so handsome in his swim shorts, tanned and muscly, nothing like the other men splashing about in the adult pool with their paunches and tattoos. I’d watched the women in the toddler class adjust their swimming costumes and suck in their stomachs, brightening up at this novelty, a modern man joining their ranks. No doubt they were wondering which lucky wife was sipping lattes with her friends while her husband took charge of Freddy frog floats.

My pride turned to distress when Sandro started to scream as soon as he touched the water. Massimo did all the right things, tried to make a game of it, peek-a-booing and ‘Here comes the shipping’ for all he was worth. But as the other two-and three-year-olds kicked their feet, some of the braver ones even jumping off the side, the rigidity of Massimo’s smile increased in line with Sandro’s wailing.

Massimo kept scowling at me as though I was sending Sandro ‘squawk louder’ vibes. Eventually, to my relief, the swimming teacher suggested they try again next week and Massimo carried Sandro out, waving a laughing goodbye to all the mothers whose faces suffered the loss of animation I’d seen so many times before: Massimo frowning off back to the footbath deprived them of a focal point, leaving them bumbling about like earwigs plunged into the light after months under a flowerpot.

Massimo refused to concede defeat even though the mere suggestion of a towel being rolled into a bag was enough to have Sandro cling to my leg with, ‘No swim, Mummy, no swim, stay home, stay home.’ Nonetheless, Massimo remained relentless in his optimism that Sandro would soon be clutching a raft of Duckling Award certificates.

Three months in and an excruciating floating poo incident later, Massimo’s swimming pool bonhomie disappeared down the drain with all the verruca plasters and hair. In its place was blame that I’d spoiled the boy and it was up to me to sort him out. For the next few years, I mollified Massimo by Googling articles about Olympic swimmers who didn’t begin swimming until they started school. I’d made a huge deal about the British gold medal winner at the Rio Olympics who had been so scared of water he used to stand up in the bath. But as Massimo was so fond of telling me, the Farinellis weren’t lily-livered. They had grit, determination and probably world-dominance in their genes. When Francesca showed Massimo her latest trophy, he couldn’t quite manage a ‘well done’ without making some reference to how he thought Sandro was going to have a swimmer’s build, that when he was a bit older they’d make a formidable team.

And now Sandro was seven, Massimo’s patience had run out.

However, I still wasn’t ready for the traumatic palaver that defined every Thursday afternoon’s swimming lessons. I cajoled and dragged Sandro along, dread rising on his face the nearer we got to the leisure centre. If he managed to get into the water at all, he’d cling rigidly to the side, little rumbles of terror leaching out of his throat while the teacher shouted at him to ‘Kick, kick, kick’. More often than not, he wouldn’t get into the pool at all, just stand on the side, silent tears slipping down his face, while I watched helplessly from the balcony above. So many times I’d nearly raced down and called a halt to the whole bloody charade but I knew the relief would be short-lived if I did it without Massimo’s agreement.

So the next time Massimo was talking about our annual trip to Italy, I took the opportunity to suggest that we should perhaps abandon swimming lessons for the time being and try again in August, when we’d be on holiday in the sunshine and he might be motivated to learn so he could join in with Sam and Francesca.

The chatty ‘Maybe this year we could try and get tickets to the Palio?’ husband vanished instantly. He slammed his hand on the table. ‘Do you know how I learnt to swim? My dad pushed me in the deep end a few times. I soon learnt to keep my head above water so I didn’t drink half of the pool. And trust me, if Sandro doesn’t pull his finger out and start putting some effort in, I’ll be doing the same in Italy this summer.’

As always I’d made things worse by trying to help. Now, I not only had the insurmountable problem of persuading Sandro to continue his lessons but a deadline for success as well.

As a result, that Thursday when Maggie came walking up the road, Sandro was sitting on the kerb, his face buried in the swimming bag on his knee. ‘Please don’t make me go, please don’t make me go, please don’t make me go.’

I was kneeling next to him, drilling into every last resource to find the magic sentence to make Sandro summon up the courage to get into that hated pool. If I didn’t insist he went, Massimo would think up a horrendous reprisal that would make an afternoon at the leisure centre look like an outing to the funfair: ‘That boy’s got to learn to do as he’s told!’

Maggie wandered over. ‘Lara? Is everything okay?’

I dredged up a smile. ‘We’re fine, Sandro’s not very keen on going to the pool today. I think he’s a bit tired.’ I felt him waver between leaning into me for comfort and resisting in case I tricked him and hauled him to his feet.

Maggie crouched down to Sandro. ‘Hey you. Can you ride a bike?’

Sandro nodded.

‘Swimming is a bit like that. Before you get the hang of it, it feels like you’ll never ever get it. And then suddenly, wham! You just click and you’re off.’

Sandro’s head had gone down again. Something slumped inside me. Maggie was trying to be kind but my whole parenting life had been a long round of people who thought they had the answer, the wave of the wand to make Sandro into what we wanted. What Massimo wanted. Everyone had a simple solution to get him to toughen up, to be brave, to join in, to enjoy sport, to not be afraid of insects, of speaking up, of life. But what if that’s who he was? What if he never managed to be any of those things that society demanded he must be to gain approval?

I forced myself to smile at Maggie. I tried to push away the nagging doubt that I had made him like this, always seeing the pitfalls, the result of years of living with my dad’s well-intentioned warnings. I’d even lived at home while I’d studied for my accountancy degree, commuting to London, heeding my dad’s advice there was no point in running up a lifetime of debt to live in a hovel of a flat. ‘Besides, London’s not safe at night.’ Yet again I’d been the odd one out, leaving for my evening train just as the fun was starting.

As I started to haul Sandro to his feet, my mobile went. No doubt Massimo checking up to see that we’d gone to the leisure centre.

But it was the number for Dad’s nursing home. I jumped to my feet, my heart hammering. No Dad-related phone calls ever brought good news.

‘Mrs Farinelli? I’m calling because your dad’s had a fall and hurt his ankle. We’ve got the doctor in with him now. We’re not sure if he’s broken it, but he’s not very compliant and keeps asking for you.’

‘Oh God, oh God.’ I felt everything go loose in me, as though my second chances were running out. There was so much I needed to say to Dad, to articulate, before the ghost of what was left disappeared completely. I kept trying to pin down Massimo to a time to take me to see him, but he was always so busy. But I had to go now. My mind flitted between the practicalities and possibilities of only having ten pounds in my purse. I glanced at Maggie, who was still huddled up with Sandro. I’d have to ask her to lend me some money.

She looked up. ‘Is there a problem?’

I filled her in. ‘I’m going to have to get a bus over to Dad. Is there any chance you could look after Sandro for me for a couple of hours?’