Chapter 7 #2
“And this is the castle,” says Mabel, “looking up from the bottom of the hill.”
“So it is.” I peer into the corner and read the name W. TREADWELL. “It looks like my Uncle Wilf was a painter!”
We examine the remaining pictures and decide they must all be scenes from the local area. From upstairs comes the sound of something ceramic smashing on the floor.
“Was he famous?” asks Archie, his glasses already covered in dust.
“I don’t think so,” I answer.
“But his work’s good,” says Theo, lifting off Archie’s glasses and cleaning them on his shirt. “He’s got a confident stroke.”
I feel a grin spreading across my face: this is my first glimpse into Wilf’s character, his energy, his spirit.
“So what do we do with them?” asks Callum.
There can only be one answer. “We’re keeping them! Let’s stack them up against the wall and cover them with a blanket.”
Once we’ve finished clearing out the smaller lounge, we move on to the study. I start by examining Wilf’s shelves—and his rows and rows of books.
“He was also a big reader,” I announce.
I run my fingers over leather-bound classics by Dickens and Austen, plus yellowed paperbacks by the likes of E.
M. Forster, Henry James and James Baldwin.
And there are several titles I don’t recognize, such as The Heart in Exile—billed as a “noir thriller”—by Rodney Garland.
I decide not to throw any of his books away, telling myself it’ll be good to have a well-stocked library when we rent out the house.
“Theo, please could you bring up some of those crates from the wine store and box these up?” I say. “We’ll keep them in the garage till the builders have decorated.”
Theo sets off downstairs, with Archie skipping behind him.
At the end of the shelves stand two framed photos.
They’re both of Wilf with the same man from the picture in the bedroom but from different periods.
One looks like it was taken in the mid-1980s, as Wilf’s caramel hair is in a mullet and he’s wearing a pastel blue linen suit, a mint green T-shirt and white espadrilles, although the other man’s look hasn’t changed: he’s still dressed traditionally, in smart trousers and shoes, with a pale blue shirt and a navy jumper tied around his shoulders.
In the second photo, the other man still hasn’t changed his style, although he looks significantly older, drawn and his clothes are hanging off him.
Wilf, on the other hand, still has an eye on fashion, even though by this stage he must be around sixty and his hair graying: he has a very ’90s look, wearing baggy jeans, a white T-shirt and a check flannel overshirt.
“Is this your uncle?” asks Callum, nodding at the second photo.
“Yeah, that’s Wilf,” I answer.
“Nice drip,” says Callum.
“What does that mean?”
“His clothes are cool,” offers Mabel. “Who’s this other guy?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “He must be a friend.”
Callum frowns. “But why do they look so serious? It’s like they don’t like each other.”
“They’re probs just embarrassed,” suggests Mabel. “Maybe they hate having their picture taken, like me.”
Callum runs his hand over his fringe. “But why are there only photos with this one guy?”
“Were they boyfriends?” asks Mabel.
“That does seem like the obvious thing,” I say. “But I assume not. It would have been very difficult to live as a gay couple in those days.” And surely someone from my family would have told me?
Theo comes back in holding several crates, and he and Archie start loading up the books. As the study’s only small, I take Callum and Mabel through to Wilf’s bedroom. Callum’s suitcase is lying open on a chair, his clothes hanging on the back of the door.
“Right, let’s make some room for your stuff,” I tell him. “There’s no point keeping any of Wilf’s clothes. Let’s bag them up and take them to the charity bins near the supermarket.”
I fetch a roll of black bin liners and fill them with Wilf’s old trousers, jeans, shoes, shirts and shorts—but I keep a belt for myself and a pair of light canvas espadrilles for Theo.
Although it’s only mid-morning, it’s already getting hot and I have to switch on one of the fans.
When the bags are full, I hand them over to Callum and Mabel and ask them to take them out and put them next to the car.
While they’re doing that, I bend down and look under the bed.
There’s nothing there, except for a few clumps of dust and a daddy longlegs that disappears into a crack in the wall.
Although under the wardrobe I do spot a couple of shoeboxes.
I pull out the first, take the lid off and see that it contains a handful of letters—and next to it is another that’s stuffed full of them.
I feel a rush of excitement. These are sure to provide an insight into Wilf’s story.
They might even explain how he got here.
Hang on a minute, I can’t read them—it wouldn’t be fair to pry into someone else’s secrets. And I absolutely can’t let the kids read them. What if there are things in there Wilf wouldn’t want us to know?
I slide the boxes back and wedge them against the wall, so they aren’t visible at all.