Page 79 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

‘Time for a quick espresso?’

He sighed. ‘I wish, but no time today, Elena.’

‘I’ll see you in class on Thursday?’ Lucy asked.

‘But of course. I don’t see the hour.’

‘Sorry, Giuseppe. You don’t…?’

A faint smile fluttered across Elena’s lips. ‘Non vedo l’ora.Giuseppe means he’s looking forward to it very much. Right?’

‘Essato,’said Giuseppe, tipping the brim of his cap and heading for the door. ‘Is what I say.Ciao.’

‘Ciao,Giuseppe.’ Elena lowered her glasses onto her nose and picked up the parcel. ‘Strange. I didn’t order anything. What can this be?’

Lucy smiled in secret anticipation.

Elena cut through the brown tape and lifted the flaps of the box, her face starry with expectation. The crisp white tissue paper rustled as she removed the contents. She gasped. Tears sprang to her eyes as she held up one of the hand-embroidered tablecloths, bearing the nameGiancarlo’s.in green and red stitching. ‘Who…? How…?’

Lucy took the card from the box and handed it to Elena with a triumphant smile.

‘My mum belongs to a club called the SWI, the Scottish Women’s Institute. I was economical with the truth about what actually happened, to save my mother jumping on the next plane, but she knew enough to rally the troops and make these tablecloths and matching napkins for the teashop.’

Elena ran her trembling finger over the lettering. ‘I cannot tell you how much this mean to me, to my family.’

‘I know they can never replace Nonna’s, but they were made with love and kindness by a group of Scottish women, many of whom are grandmothers themselves.’

Elena covered her mouth, eyes spilling over with tears. ‘Grazie, grazie,’ she whispered, her voice catching in her throat, her face full of joy and hope.

Like many Caledonian kids, Lucy had had Scottish country dancing forced upon her at school. She had painful memories of being hurled around like a sack of tatties by pubescent boys with clammy hands.

But with adulthood came an appreciation; as a primary school teacher, she had ensured the focus was on friendship and having fun, not necessarily getting the steps right.

She hoped this philosophy would translate to her adult students and that they would learn Burns Night was a traditional and fun celebration dating back centuries, and had no connection whatsoever to the injuries you get from fire and heat, as many of them had first assumed.

She scanned the sea of unimpressed faces huddled together against the blustery wind.

Ceilidhs require a large, obstacle-free space for dancers to gallop up and down and spin around in without colliding into each other, but with mozzarella production in full swing, the factory wasn’t available during the week, so Lucy prayed to the god of sunshine – but he obviously hadn’t heard her, or wasn’t listening.

‘It’s not about fancy footwork,’ Lucy panted, a small bead of sweat dripping from her brow. ‘Ceilidhs are all about feeling good and keeping fit.’ She gave a half-laugh. ‘But as you can see, I’m a wee bit out of practice.’

All at once her enthusiasm had started to crumble, along with her dignity. How ridiculous she must have looked just now, huffingand puffing and whooping like a crazy gibbon, demonstrating ‘The Gay Gordons’ with the Invisible Man.

Flicking aside a tendril of damp hair, she ploughed on. ‘Right, I want you to choose a partner and stand side by side in a big circle, facing anti-clockwise. Gents on the left, ladies on the—’ Several hands went up. ‘Aah, I see.’ Lucy cleared her throat. ‘Well, it disnae matter,’ she continued, slipping into cheery Scottish brogue. ‘Some ladies will just have to play the part of the man.’

‘Che palle?’

‘Cazzo!’

‘Cavolo!’

‘Boh?’

‘Dio santo!’

‘Che cosa?’

Lucy might not yet have mastered the art ofparolacce– swear words – but when it came to fluency of the hand gesture, she was an expert, so no translation was required. She got the message loud and clear.