Chapter 8
Amy stepped out of the train station, struck at once by the aura of tranquillity.
Alassio bore no resemblance to Rome, the only Italian city she’d previously visited, where the ghosts of ancient civilisation, the tourists of the world, the power of the Catholic church and the glamour of Italian high society clashed in an intoxicating mix.
Here, fine buildings and tall palm trees created a feeling of elegance; not a scrap of litter swirled along the well-kept street.
She could almost imagine Grandpa Lance, who never considered himself dressed without a shirt and tie, walking along this same pavement.
She took another swig from her trusty water bottle.
It was daft to feel so nervous. Her brother Jack would be in Central America by now, probably dangling from a high wire somewhere.
She was only a two-hour flight from home, negotiating a wheelie case down a pedestrianised road past handbag shops, art galleries and houses of yellow and terracotta.
The concierge at Amy’s small hotel was welcoming, allowing her to stow her case until she could officially check in.
She walked back into the sunshine, her red suede bag dangling from her shoulder, clutching her new fold-out city map.
The hotel’s location was marked by a big green arrow but she was at a loss as to where to begin.
She’d been nursing some fanciful idea that once she arrived in Alassio, Grandpa Lance’s spirit would somehow guide her.
Had she expected him to float past on a fluffy cloud, pointing the way with his walking stick?
She’d be waiting a long time for that; the sky was an unbroken blue, vivid as a kingfisher.
She unfolded the map: the famous muretto with its hundreds of ceramic tiles; the oratorio of Santa Caterina d’Alessandria; the sixteenth-century watchtower: where would young Lance have spent his time?
She decided to start with the sea. The beach at Alassio was known to be the best in the region, more than two miles of golden sand.
Grandpa must have walked there a hundred times and with the curve of the coast as her guide she couldn’t get lost. She headed for the front.
The walk along the promenade didn’t disappoint, the sea a vibrant turquoise, the water so clear she could see through to the rocks below.
But after a while her view was blocked, obscured by the bars and changing facilities of the rival beach clubs whose hundreds of colourful umbrellas and loungers were arrayed along the shore with military precision.
She passed a set of ride-on animals: a dolphin, an orange fish, an unlikely bear.
A small boy with a huge grin grasped the neck of a big blue whale.
The animals looked like a long-loved fixture but they certainly weren’t pre-war.
She tried to imagine Grandpa as a skinny boy in knee-length shorts and a Fair Isle tank top with some 1930s toy – a spinning hoop perhaps – walking along this same seafront holding his mother’s hand.
If only she could feel him here, it might help her cope with her loss.
But at least in Italy she wasn’t surrounded by well-meaning people telling her Grandpa had had a good innings, that instead of feeling bereft she should be moving on with her life, as if grief had an in-built expiry date she’d failed to observe.
Of course, nobody actually said that out loud, but the unspoken words hovered behind their nervous smiles and hasty changes of subject.
Amy kept on walking, the sun warming her bare shoulders. The beach clubs petered out as she approached the outer reaches of the town. Beyond the high wall to her left she glimpsed the top floors of elegant villas, soaring palm trees, a cascade of purple bougainvillea spilling over a wall.
The road widened; holidaying couples wobbled along the adjacent cycle path.
Ahead of her stood the little seafarers’ chapel her mum had recognised on the memory box postcard.
The old stone structure sat on a high platform overlooking the sea covered by a shady roof positioned to take in the views from each of its open sides.
Below the promontory the cliff fell away.
A group of teenage boys sprawled across the rocks, their smooth torsos brown as conkers.
There weren’t many steps but Amy felt each one, the back of her newly purchased leather sandals rubbing against her heels.
Thumping beats from some portable sound system accompanied her as she climbed.
As she took the final step, a swift flitted inches from her ear, causing her to stumble and almost face plant the floor.
Another swift flew above her head through one open side of the chapel and out the other, launching itself into the blue.
Another came, then another, perhaps a dozen flitting past, screeching.
Nothing like the silence she’d expected.
But when she looked out over the sea to the tiny snail-shaped island of Gallinara she felt strangely calm.
The board she’d seen near the entrance told her the chapel had been there since 1929.
‘Did you ever come here, Grandpa?’ Amy said.
But no answer came. Just the pounding boom, boom, bass from the boys down on the rocks.