Page 62 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

He shrugged. ‘You are on holiday?’

‘No. I’m teaching English here.’

He disappeared to the counter, returning with a flyer that readConcerto di Natale.

‘Christmas concert?’ Lucy’s eyes widened at the images of mysterious Herculaneum by night, its frescoes and mosaics projected onto its ancient walls. ‘This looks magical.’

He nodded. ‘Next month my friends and I from theconservatorio,we will sing some festive songs, some classical, some popular. To welcome the Advent. We sing by candlelight. Is for charity. Come if you wish. You will enjoy.’

Lucy’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re a singer?’

With that, he burst into a spine-tingling rendition of ‘Nessun Dorma’…

‘Eh, Nico!’ boomed a voice from behind the beaded curtain. ‘Show some respect. Remember what day it is.’

Nico rolled his eyes. ‘Sì, Nonno!Scusi.’

Opening the door with a flourish, he gave a little bow. ‘First, you enjoy Herculaneum in the daytime.’

Lucy held up the guidebook. ‘I intend to.Ciao.’

She hesitated, rootling in her bag again. Taking out a handful of euros, she dropped them onto Nico’s silver tray. ‘E un caffè sospeso, per favore.’

He clicked his heels and bowed again.

A little smile crept across Lucy’s mouth as she continued onher way. Only in Italy. Only in Italy could she have been serenaded over her morning coffee by a future Pavarotti.

‘Fiori per i morti, fiori per i morti…’A bird-like lady, all in black with cheeks like faded rose leaves, was perched on a stool, selling bunches of chrysanthemums. Lucy placed a ten euro note into her fingerless-gloved hand. The old woman offered her change. Lucy shook her head. The woman flashed a toothless grin. ‘Che Dio la benedica.May God bless you.’

The low winter sun beamed directly upon the great monumental arch, illuminating the carved Roman letters, spelling outHERCVLANEUM.

A pair of geese honked overhead, as if inviting her in. Lucy followed the path down to the ticket office, where her eyes were treated to a sweeping overview of the whole site, which lay below ground level.

The soundscape was quickly changing from thunderous main road to peaceful quietude, interspersed with lively birdsong and low, sombre conversation from multinational tourists.

Waiting in line to buy her ticket, Lucy noticed a poster advertising theConcerto di Natale. A sudden idea popped into her head. Should she? Maybe not. Why not? It was a kind, friendly gesture, that was all. But what if…? Why, oh why, did she always overthink things? What was the worst that could happen? Where was her carpe diem spirit?

‘Prego?’

‘One ticket for Herculaneum,per favore.’

‘Thirteen euros, please.’

Lucy paused. ‘And… and two tickets for theConcerto di Natale.’

Far from being a pile of dusty, crumbling ruins, Herculaneum felt alive. She could imagine the townsfolk scurrying through these streets, buying and selling their wares and popping into taverns.Furnished villas and apartments, their shutters wide open, welcomed in the new day, their roofs, balconies, mosaic floors and colourful decor intact. Lucy half expected their inhabitants to walk through the door at any moment, after a meeting at the forum, a visit to the market, or a workout at the gym – yes, there was a gym.

Her gaze landed on a family dining table; no dinner that night. Her heart lurched at the sight of an empty wooden cradle that rocked, and a carbonised loaf of bread, put in the oven two thousand years ago and never eaten.

Lucy tipped the dust and sand from her trainers and headed down to the boathouses. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of around three hundred skeletons huddled together, mainly women and children, apparently, who had fled there for safety – or so they thought.

Hot tears flooded her eyes unexpectedly. These weren’t just a pile of ancient bones; these had been living, breathing people, with hopes and dreams; a child staring into his mother’s eyes, a boy clutching his pet dog. Their lives had stretched before them until…

Lucy untied the string around the chrysanthemums and laid a flower at the entrance of each of the twelve boathouses. The poem her granny had taught her as a child had never rung more true than in that moment.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;