Summer holidays. As Dickens might have said could be the best of times or the worst of times.

It's the end of July and we're taking a well deserved trip to York for two weeks. I have served my proper duty time with my mother-in-law, and now I get to share some memories with my own side of the family.

Harry is still not in the best of health and he's the first port of call on our British excursions. He lives in a small bungalow, with an enormous garden, surrounded on all sides by pristine gnomes. Mum gives us a key to let ourselves in and we find him in his bedroom. He looks withered and washed-out, as if a giant has picked him up and wrung him dry. Poor man. We comfort him as much as we can by playing dominoes on a large tea tray that balances across his lap on the bed. Jack gets a laugh out of him by telling him anecdotes he's picked up from the locals back in the café. I force a happy smile to remain plastered across my face throughout the visit. However, I'm certain he can see the truth in my eyes. The pain etched in his face is obvious.

We leave him dozing, head resting against my Gran's hand embroidered cushions. Guiltily escaping the effort of staying postive.The light of the afternoon from the open bedroom window, filtered through the dark curtains as they rustle gently with the breeze. I keep my head down for the walk home. Unwilling to join in any frivolities the beautiful day can offer. It doesn't seem right.

Mum says he hasn't got long left.

The next stop is a trip to Knaresborough. This small, quaint and quintessentially English town is a quick bus ride from York and surprisingly the kid's don't mind the short journey even after suffering a long delay the day before on both sides of the flight.

We have arranged to be met at the bus stop in the high street by my little cousin Dave. As we pull up to the stop, outside a small supermarket towards the top end of the town, the only people waiting there consist of two elderly ladies. They are dressed up in headscarves and macintoshes against the windy day, gossiping next to a tall, smart young man in jeans with a long white shirt left untucked but ironed immaculately. No sign of a spotty, teenaged rapper in sight.

Jumping off the bus, Charlie stumbles and is immediately grabbed by the steadying hand of the young man.

"You must be Charlie," the good looking man says, eyeing the rest of our party as we come off the bus.

Recognition hits me. "I can't believe my eyes! Oh my God. Is that really you Dave?"

Slightly embarrassed, the twenty-eight-year-old replies.

"Well, yes, I think I've probably changed a bit in fourteen years - isn't it now? You know, since your dad....."

"Yes, fourteen or fifteen. I suppose it must be. Wow. Good job growing up Dave."

We all laugh, Jack clasps my cousin's hand in a strong handshake. Then we make our way across the buses' pull in area and into a narrow cobbled street, framed by large pub windows and shop fronts varying from antiques and art galleries to local greengrocer's and baker's.

It's good to be back here. The familliar shops, smells and sound of the language. I hadn't realised how much I missed it until now.

Passing through the market square, Dave points up at the paintings that characterise the town of famous historical characters hanging out of false windows on the upper floors of the old buildings. The memory of the first time I found them staring over me floods back for a second. I was so young, so carefree but so discontent.

"How long have you lived here Dave?" I ask as I take my time to capture the images on my phone camera, Charlie tugging at my jacket and pointing at the bakeries. "Yes Charlie, just one minute..."

Smiling at a couple of young ladies with an air of interest while they giggle past us, he answers distractedly. "Oh, about six years now, can't you tell the change in my accent?"

"No, I can't tell the change in yours ..." Jack joins in, "But I can hear Jill's old 'Yarkshiere' creeping back again."

"Ha, ha. Yes, Charlie, okay, let's get you something to eat. Simon, do you want to come too?" Family logistics always take precedence when it comes to normal human interactions. It's become so second nature now that I sometimes fail to remember how it affects other people.

I take the kids to buy sausage rolls, cornish pasties and cakes to their heart's content, leaving the men to glance around at the medieval houses, chatting away about football scores and suspected team corruption.

After refuelling the children's energy, Dave takes us to see the remains of the castle. Following faithfully behind our architect cousin, crossing through the winding streets and out into a large car park in front of the entrance.

The wind has picked up as we pass through the stone archway in the castle's outer walls. It's a small, enclosed ruin, the remaining tower a beacon of light for Charlie's princess-powered imagination. The smell of vanilla from the town bakery is wafting over us as we walk across the well-kept bowling green and get to the highlight of the tour. The view.

Dave and Simon go straight to a man who is showing his pet ravens off at the foot of the tower. While we three, Jack, Charlie and I go to stand behind the flint and stone wall, leaning on the top and taking in the scene, all the time Charlie and I fighting a losing battle with the wind and our hair. I sneak a glance at my daughter's face. Her delight glows along with her rosy cheeks. I know how she's feeling. I used to be so inspired here too.

Looking out we can see the river Nidd, sparkling and dark as it stretches from around the left of the bottom of the castle mount, and off in front of us, passing under a tall brick railway bridge. The river bank is edged by trees to the left and a collection of chocolate box cottages to the right far below us.

The wind is chasing the clouds across the sky, keeping them from blocking the summer blue.

Charlie and Jack start to play I spy and I glance over to Simon and Dave, wondering what it is they are so deep in conversation about.

"Mamma, mamma, I want to see the tower! Come with me?"

I'm led away by my five-year-old daughter, her blonde curls whipping around her face as she skips with delight.

The wind is something you definitely get used to not having around in northern Italy and it's not one of the aspects of English life that I have ever missed. Although on days such as this it adds to the overall ambience of wonder and mystery.

I lift my chin as I'm dragged past the two cousins and I throw a questioning look at Dave. He nods at me and reassures me.

"It's alright Jilly. You lot go on ahead, I'm going to take Simon for a ride on the boats down on the river."

"If you're sure Dave?" One glance at my son and I can tell that he's much happier in his cousin's company than mine. It stings a little, but it is only right I guess.

"Yeah, no problem. We'll meet you later at the bus stop, say about five thirty?"

********

On the following Sunday, Dave joins the family again, this time in York, for Mum and Gran's habitual Sunday lunch.

"Any chance of a free meal and you can count me in." This is his way of saying thank you for the invite as we sit down at the dining table.

The discussion ranges from Italian recipes to Harry the aviator's failing health.

"Are they taking him into the hospital again?" I ask Mum.

She sighs as she passes the plate of roast chicken over for me to serve the children.

"No, it's too late for that, they've allocated a nurse and the necessary equipment for him at home, so he can spend his last days at the bungalow. It's kinder that way."

Gran motions for Jack to pass her the gravy boat, she speaks in a whisper. "He hasn't got long now, you were very fortunate to catch him on a good day, Jilly. It's all downhill from here. With any luck it'll happen quickly, just like my Bertie." It amazes me the ease with which she can talk about such things. Whenever I'm asked about my father I still clamp up in my throat and fight back tears. Will there come a time when I can handle it so gracefully? My admiration for this eccentric old lady has gone up another level.

After lunch, Gran entertains the kids by teaching them how to play a card game called cheat, while Jack plays the dutiful son-in-law and sorts out Mum's computer problems. The sound of the kid's laughter and squeals of false indignation follow Dave and I as we go out to sit in the garden, making the most of the hot summers day, for once without the blustering wind.

Birds are whistling to each other from the tree tops of every separate garden, the sound of lawnmowers doing their job from more distant residences.

Dave sits down on the back door step and lights up a cigarette.

"Do you want one?"

"No thanks." I begin to pick at some of the dead, dry leaves on the hedge, enjoying the serenity of the moment. "Did you have a good time with Simon the other day?"

"Ah, yes, Simon." Dave absently flicks the ash and brushes back his floppy long brown fringe to push it into place behind his ear again. "He's an interesting little man."

I smile to myself, "That's one way to describe him. Does he seem happy to you?"

"Well, does he seem happy to you?" My cousin counteracts.

"I think so. Much happier than a couple of months ago that's for sure. Did he mention anything to you about what's been going on?"

Exhaling a large cloud of smoke, Dave contemplates his response for a while before answering. Another lawnmower, closer this time, starts up its motor in competition with his voice.

"Yeah, it did crop up. We had a bit of a heart to heart in the rowing boat. He didn't tell you anything?"

I pull out one of the garden chairs and sit facing him, my legs pulled up with my feet balancing on the edge of the seat, as I wrap my arms around my knees.

"He didn't say much, only that you had been through something similar when you were younger."

Dave stubbs out his cigarette, half smoked on the garden path. He gives me a wry smile and blows the ash away from the path and onto the grass.

"You could say that. It's not something that I spurt out to everyone I meet, but I get the feeling that he's in a good place with his therapy. He's not in any danger of doing anything like that again. I recognise where he is."

"Thanks Dave." The words can't convey the weight that's lifted from my heart.

*********

Harry the aviator passed away two days later. The funeral is held on the Friday before we leave for Italy. The morning is as grey and damp as our emotions and we gather together in the crematorium to say our goodbyes.

The room is filled with Harry's numerous family members and it's standing room only for friends and acquaintances at the back, behind the rows of chairs. Flowers have been placed in tall, white vases around the dark coffin and rain starts to drum against the windows as the service begins. Tapping like fingernails asking to be let in.

We begin with a hymn, sang heartily by some and mouthed soundlessly by the others having a hard time controlling their emotions.

The female vicar gives a well used but effective sermon, speaking steadily over the sniffles, nose blowing and babies crying from their irritation of being held in one place for too long.

The rain begins to lash against the windows as the coffin slowly moves through the hole in the wall into the crematorium. The ceiling lights flicker on as the dark clouds take over the sky.

From the back of the room an old friend calls out.

"Goodbye Harry. I'll see you again."

Until this point I have been as unmoved as I felt at my own father's funeral. However, the catch in the old man's voice tears at me and I dissolve, my face buried in multiple tissues.

Jack is standing next to me, Mum sitting further to the front in amongst the family members. Gran has kept the kids with her at home, no doubt teaching them more raucous card games. Thankfully.

I glimpse at Jack on my left, wiping away energetically at my leaking face. He starts singing along with the guests in the final hymn. His beautiful, full low voice calms my turbid soul. Pausing to look up at the wild storm that's raging outside, he catches me watching him.

Putting his arm around me, he brings me closer and hugs me while burying his face into my hair.

The room of friends and family say their farewells each in one way or another, joined together for a few minutes in time to acknowledge that they have shared some part of one person's life and to mark the passing of physicality into memory.