Looking into Elena’s tired, sunken eyes, he cleared his throat.
‘Allora,I want you to promise to hear me out before you start coming up with excuses.’
Elena regarded him with suspicion.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘It’s about the school…’
‘Dario, my mind is made up, we have to close…’
He fixed her with his best withering glare.
Elena raised her hands. ‘Sorry, sorry. Go on.’
‘Allora,I called the British Council who directed me to a teaching website.’
‘You know I tried this, Dario. None of the supply teachers worked out, and now the budget won’t stretch to another salary.’
‘It’s a Teach English Abroad organisation, based in the UK, for native—’
Elena wrinkled her nose.
‘—for native speakers who are paid minimum wage in exchange for bed and board and the opportunity to learn about a different culture, learn another language.’
‘What? You mean, a stranger living in our home? No way.’
‘Of course it’s up to you, but I am worried about you. Look in the mirror. Your clothes are hanging off you, you have dark circles under your eyes and a permanent frown, you don’t see your friends.’
Elena remained silent, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry.
‘I tell you this because I care. You are like family to me. Apart from keeping the school open, it would be good for you to have another grown-up around – female company to share conversation, a glass of wine, to laugh with.’
Dario took out his phone.
‘Of course it’s up to you, Elena. But if I know my friend Giancarlo, he would want this for you – and for the school. I guarantee it.’
Her phone pinged. ‘I just sent you the link to the website,’ Dario said. ‘Promise me you’ll at least think about it.’
Elena squeezed his hand, summoning a faint smile. ‘I promise.Allora,I have something for you. Wait here.’
As she passed by Stefano’s room, her heart swelled.
The Harry Potter night light cast a warm glow over the framed photograph of the three of them on a rowing boat in the Blue Grotto of Capri, taken on Giancarlo’s last birthday.
Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times,
if one only remembers to turn on the light.
She picked up Mr Potato Head from the floor and placed him on the bookshelf.
Kissing Stefano softly on the forehead, she made her way along the corridor, holding an old photo of two teenage lads in boiler suits, oil-streaked arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning proudly in front of a row of classic motorbikes.
‘Giancarlo would want you to have this…’
Her voice trailed off. Dario was sprawled out on the sofa, snoring quietly. She gently removed the empty wine glass from his grip, took the throw from the back of the armchair, tucked it around him, switched off the lamp, and closed the door quietly behind her.
