‘Yes, he was,’ Rinaldo agreed. ‘And we must remember him like that.’

She looked at the chair by the great kitchen range, where Vincente had often sat.

‘He should be there,’ she said. ‘Telling funny stories, making silly jokes. Do you remember how terrible his jokes were?’

Rinaldo nodded. ‘And the worst puns I ever heard.’

Gino came in and gave Teresa a big, generous hug. He was a young man who hugged people easily, and it made him loved wherever he went. Now it was enough to start her crying again, and he held her patiently in his strong arms until she was ready to stop.

Rinaldo left them and went outside. When he’d gone Teresa muttered, ‘He’s lost so many of those he loved, and each time I’ve seen his face grow a little darker, a little more bleak.’

Gino nodded. He knew Teresa was talking about Rinaldo’s wife Maria, and their baby son, both dead in the second year of their marriage.

‘If they’d lived, the little boy would have been nearly ten by now,’ he reflected. ‘And they’d probably have had several more children. This house would have been full of kids. I’d have had nephews and nieces to teach mischief to, instead of-’

He looked up at the building that was much too large for the three people who shared it.

‘Now he only has you,’ Teresa agreed.

‘And you. And that daft mutt. Sometimes I think Brutus means more to him than any other creature, because he was Maria’s dog. Apart from that he loves the farm, and he’s possessive about it because he has so little else. I hope Signorina Dacre has a lot of nerve, because she’s going to need it.’

Rinaldo returned with the large indeterminate animal Gino had stigmatised as ‘that daft mutt’. Brutus had an air of amiability mixed with anarchy, plus huge feet. Ignoring Teresa’s look of disapproval he parked himself under the table, close to his master.