Page 27 of Sunrise By the Sea

On the other hand, she would almost certainly be home.

‘Well, I did tell you.’

Being told off by her grandmother wasn’t much of an improvement on being alone – but it was a bit.

‘I know. But I just . . . I just couldn’t in the end.’

Her grandmother sniffed.

‘Next you’ll be telling me you didn’t go to mass on Sunday.’

Marisa slid past that one as quickly as she could.

‘So now I live next to an angry giant who hates me,’ she said.

‘Is he married?’

‘Nonna! Seriously, aren’t you listening?’

‘I’m just saying. Who else are you meeting?’

‘Okay, thanks, Nonna.’

‘Your mother agrees with me. Says you’re having a big sulk at the world.’

‘You’ve been discussing me?’

‘Of course,’ said hernonnaserenely. ‘What else do you think happens to me that I have to talk about? Also, we are both worried about whether you’re eating.’

‘Of course I’m eating.’

‘Well, I can see you’reeating. Are you eatingwell?’

Marisa had hoped it didn’t show, but obviously it did. Everything seemed so much effort, and cooking had fallen by the wayside.

‘I’m fine, Nonna.’

‘Good. Go talk to your neighbour. He is musician! Oh, I love music. I think you are very lucky.’

‘This isn’t . . . It’s not the kind of stuff you like.’

Nonna had started singing to herself.

‘Not like that.’

‘Ask him if he knows “Voglio Te”.’

‘He doesn’t,’ said Marisa shortly. ‘He knows “Bang Smash Piss Off Marisa”.’

But despite the fractious conversation, Marisa still felt a little better when she finally fell asleep.

Also, something rather odd happened. Hernonnaforgot to hang up the Skype. She just wandered off. When Marisa woke up the next morning, she found they were still connected; she could see the kitchen, with the hot morning sunlight pouring in from the back door, and hernonnalistening to the radio as she put coffee on the stove.

‘Nonna?’

But the old woman didn’t hear her, just carried on. Marisa found she didn’t mind at all; having the computer connected to Italy was somehow rather nice, like she could just glance through a window and find her there. Even when she finally got Nonna’s attention, she simply shrugged and smiled and said, well, that was nice but she had to get on with her day and took her little checkered shopping trolley and headed out to the market, as Marisa threw some bread in the toaster.

And over the days, they both pretended that it was nothing, really, that the Skype was left on, and that they could swap the odd word here and there when Marisa wasn’t working, about what Father Giacamo had been saying or what the fishmonger had tried to pass off at the market and how she had told him a thing or two, and Marisa would tell her some old stories from the registrar’s, and they would talk about her grandfather and gradually, as the days went by, they fell into an odd sort of pattern – at least, after the microwave lasagne fight, that neither of them referred to again.

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