Chapter 2
It’s the day after my work leaving do but I’m not remotely hungover.
We just went to a few bars around the corner from the office in Spinningfields.
And there were several people leaving, two of them because of ill health, so the evening fell a bit flat.
I ended up slipping away after a few hours, which suited me fine.
Although I’ve been in that job for more than ten years, as soon as I made the decision to leave, in my head I moved on.
I started looking forward to the future—and the next chapter of my life in Montemagno.
This time next week we’ll be on the plane.
As I’ve listed my house on Airbnb and rented it out for pretty much the whole summer, I’m going from room to room packing up everything personal.
My Auntie Julie’s going to manage the lettings for me and has said I can leave a few boxes of belongings in her garage.
So I’m taking down framed photos, clearing the bathroom of toiletries, and wrapping up breakable vases and ornaments.
I don’t really like the idea of strangers staying in my home but will have to get over it: if I’m paying two sets of bills for six weeks I’ll need the extra income.
Since Easter I’ve been back to Italy twice, once with Theo during half-term, and once on my own in June.
When my codice fiscale finally came through, I set up a bank account, with the help of Signor Mancini.
Then we had to attach a value to the estate, work out the duty and complete a tax return.
Only once this was done could he arrange for the deeds to the castello to be transferred into my name.
And I could start filling out—with the help of my translation app—several online forms to set up accounts for the utilities, plus the Italian equivalent of council tax.
Signor Mancini also introduced me to the Italian couple who live in the property closest to ours—Stefano and Luisa Fiore.
They’re the couple who found Wilfred dead in his bed, but I decided against bringing that up at our first meeting.
Stefano’s a farmer and Luisa a history teacher in the high school in the closest town of Camaiore—and, thankfully, she speaks excellent English.
Not that we had much time to speak at all as they were on their way out when we called.
Although we did have just enough time to learn that Stefano used to maintain the vineyard and olive grove for my uncle—keeping seventy-five percent of the harvest for himself and giving twenty-five percent to Wilfred—an arrangement I was happy to renew.
And for Luisa to explain that she runs the local history society, following this up with a request to do a dig of the castle—something she’s been trying to set up for years.
I pointed out that the deeds to the property state the castle is protected by all kinds of regulations, but Luisa reassured me she’d be working with the staff from the local museum, who know all about this kind of thing.
I gave my permission and they’ve set up a dig for the summer: as she’s a teacher, our dates coincide perfectly.
Other than that, Theo and I bought three new beds from a branch of IKEA near Pisa Airport.
We also met with several builders and gathered their suggestions and quotes for the renovations.
In the end, we hired a man called Giuseppe.
Giving him the edge was the fact he’s married to a British woman and so he speaks good English.
But I’ve told him we don’t want him to start until we’re actually staying in the house, just in case anything goes wrong.
In the meantime, I’ve doubled my efforts to learn Italian—although I keep getting distracted so haven’t made much progress. But everyone tells me the easiest way to learn is through immersion in everyday life so I expect that’ll become my plan.
I’ve also researched the lettings market in Tuscany and it’s more lucrative than I expected.
Even without a pool, if the property is rented out for the full season I should be able to stay off work.
If not, I’ll have to pick up some contracts as a freelancer or find a part-time job.
But I want to give myself the best chance of avoiding that—and that’s one of the reasons I’m putting the house in Manchester on Airbnb.
I take down a photo of me and my best gay friends—who I call my sisters—on a wild singles’ holiday to Gran Canaria. There’s a selfie I took of me and Theo on Canal Street a month after we met, on the night he asked me to be his boyfriend. Then there’s my favorite photo of my mum.
It was taken the summer before she died, when she and Dad took me on holiday to Newquay.
I remember we’d just eaten our tea in the caravan when Mum insisted we all go outside to watch the sunset.
Dad said she looked beautiful in the soft light and went back in to find his camera.
In the photo she’s smiling, relaxed and tanned, holding a glass of gin and tonic, sitting at a table on which stands her usual jar of Nivea hand cream and packet of Silk Cut cigarettes, around her neck the silver S she wore for her name, Suzanne—an S she’d often run up and down the chain as she was talking.
Mum’s hair was naturally fair but she dyed it butter-blond and had just had it permed, which was the height of fashion in the late ’80s.
She was beautiful. I’m sure everyone thinks their mum’s beautiful but I know mine was because everyone said it—not just Dad but shop assistants, bus drivers and strangers who’d stop her on the street.
She loved the attention but would giggle and pretend to be embarrassed, then catch my eye and give me a wink.
I wrap the photo in old newspaper and slot it into the box. I’ve got lots to do. There’s no time to be sentimental.
That evening, I take the boxes to Auntie Julie’s. As an only child, I don’t have much family and after Mum died, Auntie Julie brought me up. All these years later, we’re still close.
Although they got on well, Mum and her only sister were very different.
If Mum was known as a beauty—with an enviably slim figure—Julie was often called “big-boned” or people would comment on her “lovely personality.” Unlike Mum, Julie didn’t dye her hair, which I always thought was the same shade of brown as the sugar we used in baking.
And while Mum liked nothing more than getting dressed up to go out, Julie preferred to stay in wearing her slippers and an apron.
She’s always been happiest in the kitchen—and inspired my passion for cooking and baking.
When I arrive at the house, Julie’s partner Jason is just leaving.
He works nights as a security guard in the Trafford Centre, even though he’s a talented carpenter and is always building things in the garage.
But he also has a stutter and is shy around people he doesn’t know—and this has held him back.
As a tall, well-built Black man, he’s always managed to find work in security, which I worry could be a sign of racial stereotyping but he insists doesn’t bother him.
And, as he often points out, working in the Trafford Centre introduced him to Julie.
She works in the shopping mall’s HR department—which is another area in which she’s influenced me.
On Jason’s first day—just over twenty years ago—he had to report to her to fill in some forms, something that made him nervous.
But Julie immediately put him at ease, so much so that shortly afterwards he asked her out for a drink.
Possibly because of his stutter, Jason had never married or had children.
I wonder if Julie never married because she had to look after me.
I give Jason a hug and together we load the boxes into the garage.
Once he’s left for work, Julie puts the kettle on and makes us both a mug of tea, which we take through to the lounge.
It’s a cozy room, with lots of scatter cushions—all in Julie’s favorite pink—plus several well-tended houseplants and a vase of magenta roses.
As this is the house where I moved to live just before my twelfth birthday, it still feels like home.
“So are you all set, chuck?” Julie asks, as she makes herself comfortable in her favorite armchair.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I sit on the sofa opposite. “This thing with the kids has thrown a spanner in the works but I’m still excited about it.”
“Good.” She blows on her tea. “You know, I still can’t get over it. It still doesn’t feel real.”
“You’re telling me. A few months ago, I didn’t even know where Wilfred lived and now I’m moving into his house.”
Julie arches an eyebrow. “Wilf, I think they called him. I’ve just remembered. Or at least my mum and dad did. On the rare occasions they mentioned him.”
“That’s interesting.” I stand up and walk over to the windowsill, where I pick up a photo of Julie’s parents—my grandparents. I peer closer and examine the face of my grandma—Wilf’s sister—to see if she looks like him. I think there may be a resemblance.
“So do you still have no idea why they fell out?” I ask, sitting down again and pulling some of the cushions out from behind me.
Julie lifts a hand to tidy her hair, which is shorter than it used to be and much lighter.
“I’m afraid not. I was four years younger than your mum, remember.
Nobody told me anything: they treated me like a kid who needed protecting.
That is, until I started working things out for myself. …” A shadow scudders across her face.
“What are you talking about? Working out what for yourself?”
She has a sip of tea. “Nothing. I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about Wilf. I always just assumed he got some Italian girl in the family way.”
“But the lawyer in Italy said he had no kids.”
Julie puts her head to one side. “Then maybe he just ran off with one. This was only a few years after the war, remember. And my granddad—his dad—wouldn’t have liked him seeing anyone from Italy. He fought the Italians and for a long time was a prisoner of war.”
“Oh yeah, I didn’t make that connection.” I have a gulp of tea. “The only thing is, the lawyer said Wilf wasn’t married. So if he did run off with an Italian girl, it can’t have lasted. In those days wouldn’t they have got married?”
“Not if she was married in the first place.”
I turn my mug between my hands. “I didn’t think of that.”
Julie sits back and puts her feet up on the pouffe. “I remember once, when we were kids, your mum mentioned Wilf to our granddad. He went berserk and clipped her round the ear. Afterwards, Grandma took us to one side and said he didn’t want to talk about Wilf as he found it too upsetting.”
I frown. “So whatever happened, it must have been bad.”
“Especially as beforehand Wilf was a bit of a golden boy. He was the first in our family to go to university and was an English teacher.” Julie takes a swig of tea and sets her mug on a pink coaster.
“That must have been a big deal for someone from our background. We lived in a council house, remember. My grandma and granddad—Wilf’s mum and dad—left school at fourteen and worked in the mill. ”
Now I’m even more intrigued. “So were you never tempted to look him up on social media?” I’m not sure why I’m asking that question—I’ve already looked him up several times and found nothing. I just told myself that he was eighty-nine when he died so it was hardly surprising.
Julie screws up her nose. “I’m sorry to say that by the time social media was a thing I hardly thought about him.”
“It’s just such a mystery.”
“I know, chuck.” Julie folds her arms under her ample bust. “But you’ve got a good chance of solving it. You’ve just inherited his house—and presumably all his stuff.”
I remember the wardrobes and drawers in Wilf’s bedroom stuffed full of old clothes, his study stuffed full of bills and bank statements, and the wine store stuffed full of everything but wine. “Honestly, there’s loads of it,” I say. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Well, maybe you should forget about Wilf and just enjoy what you’ve got,” says Julie. “Maybe it’s better not to dwell on the past. What good can it do? Start afresh. A big old house like that is going to be full of ghosts. Sweep them out and make it your own.”