The piazza was deserted at this time of the afternoon, the sun beating down on the cobblestones and reflecting off the faded yellow stucco of the municipal buildings. The sycamore trees looked dusty and drooped in the heat. I went up the steps and into the church. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air, and dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that came in through high, narrow windows. Around the walls were old paintings and statues of saints. I recoiled as I came upon an altar and beneath it a glass-fronted case containing a skeleton clothed in bishop’s robes and with a crown on its skull. Was this a local saint? As one raised with only the minimum of Anglican exposure, I always found Catholic churches to be frightening places—one step away from black magic. When a priest appeared from behind the high altar, I made a hasty exit.

I followed the one road up from the piazza. There were a few more shops and a jumble of houses clinging to one another against the hillside. Here and there an alley led off, some of them so small that I could stretch out my arms and touch both sides. Shutters were closed against the afternoon heat. Some houses had wooden balconies decorated with more geraniums. Others had big clay pots and jars like the one outside Paola’s house, all with flowers and herbs spilling over the sides. An occasional cat basked in the sun. Other than that the street was deserted. From inside the houses came the sounds of pots and pans clanging as the evening meal was being prepared, babies crying, a radio blaring out a plaintive song.

Ahead of me I could see sky and greenery as the houses came to an end. I turned into the last alleyway on the right and found myself staring at Sofia’s house. It was bigger than the houses around it and painted yellow, its paint faded and peeling. Two storeys high with a balcony at the front, it must have had a fine view over the surrounding countryside at the back. I wondered who lived in it now, but it had a deserted feel to it. No geraniums, no window boxes. A sad house, I felt, and turned away.

As I came to the highest point of San Salvatore, the road abruptly ended in a little park with a couple of large old trees and benches beneath them. An elderly couple sat on one of the benches in the shade. She was dressed head to toe in black like the other old woman on the train. He was rather smart in a starched white shirt, and he had a big nicotine-stained moustache. I was touched to see that they were holding hands. They looked at me with interest. I nodded and said, “Buongiorno.”

“Buonasera,” they replied, a gentle rebuke that the day had now officially passed into evening.

I continued to where a wall ran around the parapet, and next to the wall a big cross had been erected. I read the inscription: “To Our Brave Sons Lost in the War of 1939–45.” Beyond was a glorious view: range after range of forested hills, some crowned with villages such as this one. Directly below the wall the land plunged away into a deep valley where I could see a road. But there was no way down from the village to join it. Clearly this was a place built for defence in the old days!

I stood there taking photos of the view. When I looked back the old couple had gone, making me wonder if I had only imagined them. In truth this whole town had a tinge of unreality for me, like being in a beautiful but unsettling dream. Was it only yesterday that I had been in rainy London? Was it only a year ago that I had moved in with Adrian? And my father had let me know in no uncertain terms how much he disapproved . . . And then . . . I closed my eyes as if trying to shut out the painful memories. How much can happen in so short a time, I thought. How quickly life can change. Well, maybe it was time that it changed again. I was in a beautiful place, staying with a kind woman, and I was going to enjoy myself, whatever the outcome was.

Having made that decision, I started to walk back through the town. In just half an hour or so, things had changed. The world was coming to life. Small boys were playing football in the street while a little girl sat on a step watching them. The greengrocer was carrying in crates of vegetables, ready to shut up shop for the night. A group of women stood talking together, waving their hands expressively as only Italians do. From open front doors came enticing aromas and the sounds of radios or televisions playing. And when I arrived back in the piazza, it was now bathed in deep shadow and pleasantly cool. I saw that the men had returned to their table outside the trattoria and were arguing so loudly and violently that I was afraid a fight might break out at any moment.

I shrank back into the shadows of the side street, not wanting them to know I was there at such a crucial time. Then one of them threw up his hands in a gesture of futility, another laughed, and the moment was diffused. Wine was poured from a carafe on the table, and it appeared that everyone was contented again. All the way through the town I had rehearsed my lines for my upcoming speech. I had actually written some of them on the train, to be memorised in case my fledgling Italian deserted me in a moment of stress.

It took me a few seconds of deep breathing to pluck up the courage to walk across the piazza to them. They looked up at the sound of my approaching footsteps.

“Ah, the signorina,” one said. “Did you find Paola? Do you stay in her animal house?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “It’s very nice and she is kind.”

“Paola is a good woman,” one of the men agreed. “She will feed you well. You need feeding up. No flesh on your bones.”

I didn’t quite understand this but saw them examining me critically. Not plump enough to be an Italian girl.

“I have come to find out about my father,” I said. “He was a British airman. His plane crashed near this town in the war, but he survived. I wondered if any of you knew about him or met him.”