Chapter 13
I’m on the top floor of the house, cleaning the third—entirely redundant—lounge.
Following Theo’s comment about families sharing rooms when they’re on holiday, I’ve had the idea of converting this into another bedroom—meaning the top floor will have one big bedroom, a double and a single leading off it, plus a shared bathroom—and we can advertise it as a family suite.
If it isn’t taken by a family, it could always be used by a group of friends: I’d be happy to stay somewhere like this with my sisters.
The space has the potential to be stunning, with walls of exposed stone and sturdy wooden beams holding up a vaulted, textured ceiling.
Plus, it’s the only room in the house to have a big window along the back wall, offering a view up into the mountains, rather than down over the valley.
Best of all, repurposing it won’t cost any more money than I already have in my budget—I’ll just switch from buying a sofa and armchairs to a bed and a wardrobe.
The only thing is, with most of Wilf’s old furniture stripped out, patches of thick grime have been exposed on the tiled floor.
So I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing it with hot, soapy water.
As it’s a Saturday and the builders aren’t working—and Theo has driven the kids into the village so they can use the Wi-Fi—I’ve taken off my T-shirt and put on my swimming trunks, sliders and a pair of banana-yellow washing-up gloves.
I’ve already got a pile of laundry and don’t want to add to it: this way I can jump in the shower when I’ve finished.
And I won’t need to wash my hair, as I’m wearing a shower cap to protect it. I’m aware I must look ridiculous.
I’m listening to one of Wilf’s opera albums, which is blasting up from the old record player on the floor below. It’s Puccini’s La Traviata—not my usual thing but I’m surprised to find it works well in this setting.
Wait a minute, never mind cleaning—while everyone’s out I can read Wilf’s letters. …
I drop the scourer into the bucket of water and snap off my washing-up gloves. I march downstairs to Callum’s bedroom and yank the boxes of letters out from under the wardrobe. I sit on the bed and open the first shoebox.
My heart rate quickens as I pull out just three letters. They’re all addressed to Arnaldo Silvestri at Azienda Silvestri, in a town called Prato. So Arnaldo must have worked for some kind of family business.
All three envelopes are postmarked with the year 1958. I look to see which has the earliest date.
As I pick it up and slide the letter out, my heart takes flight.
I tug in a breath and start reading.
Carissimo Arnaldo,
How was your journey home? I hope it wasn’t too gruelling.
I hope it was lifted by memories of our time together.
Even now, a week later, I can hardly believe we met. Everything that happened over those ten days was like a dream. So much of it took place in that one hotel room that it felt separated from life. It didn’t feel real.
However, it was real. When the memories come back to me, I thank the stars I had such good fortune.
Thank goodness I met you on your first night in Manchester and not at the end of your stay.
Thank goodness for the Union. Thank goodness there’s a hotel that accepts folk like us.
I’m not quite sure what to call us. ‘Homosexual’ sounds like something the doctor would say.
‘Queer’ is a wretched word. I can’t for the life of me think of any nice words. What do they call us in Italian?
I didn’t tell you this in Manchester but the first time I went in the Union, just to the pub downstairs, was on my birthday last year.
I’d had tea with my mam and dad and my sister called round with our Suzanne and baby Julie.
I blinking love those kiddies and Suzanne sat on my knee and helped me blow out the candles on a Victoria sponge Mam had made.
That’s a cake, in case you haven’t guessed.
Any road, it was a lovely evening but, strangely enough, I felt lonely.
I felt like the odd one out and started to fret that the older I got, the more this would be obvious.
The more folk would start to ask questions.
I suppose I was feeling sorry for myself.
Happen that’s why, rather than going home, I ended up walking into town.
I’d known about the Union for a while. I’d read about it in the Evening News, when the landlord was sent to prison for running a ‘disorderly house’.
Obviously, I was terrified by that but happen I was intrigued too because I held onto the information.
For some reason, the night of my birthday it popped back into my head and took hold of me. I was powerless to resist.
When I arrived outside, I was shaking like a leaf.
I had to pace up and down Canal Street, trying to pluck up the courage to go in.
Even though the windows were painted black, I was frightened someone would see me walking through the door.
Every time I approached it, a passer-by seemed to appear on Princess Street and gawp at me.
Actually, do you understand that word? It means ‘stare’.
I should say your English is marvellous, by the way.
I have a lot to thank that Irish nanny for!
Any road, when I finally made it inside, I found all sorts of folk.
There were doctors and builders and shop workers and solicitors, folk of all classes, colours and creeds.
The one thing they had in common was they were all men and they were all like us.
It was a real boon! Some of them were broken wristed but some were very masculine and you wouldn’t be able to tell they were that way at all.
I thought it was splendid. I didn’t feel lonely any more.
I realised I belonged to this wonderful freemasonry of homosexuals, this delightful coterie of queers.
After that first foray, I started going to the Union every Saturday.
If they asked, I told my mam and dad I was going for a pint with some of my school pals.
I did, now and again, but only early doors, just in case they bumped into any and asked questions.
Whenever I did, I’d have to stop myself looking at my watch. I couldn’t wait to get to the Union.
The only thing that spoiled it was that the atmosphere was always tinged with fear.
Whenever the door opened, everyone’s eyes would look up to see if it was the police.
A few of the fellas had been in the pub when it was raided.
The police arrested everyone they could get their hands on and went through their personal belongings.
One of the men they caught kept a diary and the police read it and found out the names of all the other fellas he’d been with and went after them.
Wretched things happened to those who were arrested.
If they weren’t put in prison, they were given electric shocks or injections of some chemical to stop them wanting to be with men (although apparently neither of those strategies works).
All the men were disowned by their families and lost their jobs.
Some of them carried on going to the Union, as they’d lost everything already.
Most of those who hadn’t started to use false names.
It’s blinking terrifying when you think about what can happen to men like us.
As a schoolteacher, there’s no question that if I were caught I’d be sacked.
Folk often say queers can’t be trusted around children, or that we want to corrupt them.
I know my mam and dad would never speak to me again.
I can’t help myself, though. It’s like I have no choice.
I did think about how much of this I should put down in a letter and I’ve probably been freer than I intended.
I’m going to take this to the Post Office as soon as I’ve finished.
When it reaches you, it’ll be in a foreign language, although you’ll have to hide it from your family if they also speak English.
Any road, I’m not sure why I’ve written so much about the Union.
I suppose it’s because I didn’t want to bring it up when we were together.
I didn’t want you to think I’d been going out looking for trade because I’m not like that.
I’ve certainly never gone looking for it in public toilets, like lots of the fellas I know.
Or cottages, as they call them. Each to their own but I wasn’t interested in nookie.
Sorry, sex. You already know that with you it was my first time.
That’s because I was looking for someone to love.
I know lots of folk think it’s daft or even disgusting for one man to say that about another, but I don’t care.
When I told you I loved you and you said you loved me back, it was the happiest moment of my life.
Just thinking about it makes me want to cry.
That brings me on to why I’m writing. You said we should both take some time to think about what we want, and consider the consequences.
I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot.
I haven’t thought about anything else, truth be told.
I imagine this won’t come as a surprise but I’ve decided I do want us to be together.
I’m ready, Arnaldo. I’ll give up everything and go anywhere in the world to be with you.
Just writing that and looking down at the words on the page gives me goose pimples.
Do you know what they are? It’s when your skin goes bumpy and the little hairs stand on end.
Although it’s terrifying, I also think it’s romantic.
Yes, I can see you rolling your eyes and teasing me, just like you did when you were here. I’m a romantic, Arnaldo!
Now that I think about it, it isn’t just romantic but it’s a blinking miracle you and I found one another.
We’re from different countries and speak different languages.
You’re from a posh family and I’m from a poor one.
You’re so much older than me, almost a whole generation.
It isn’t long since we were on opposite sides in the war.
These things would be serious obstacles for most folk, but I think the only thing that matters is love.
What do you think, Arnaldo? Do you still feel the same? Are you ready to give up everything to be with me?
Please know you are my one true love and always will be. I hope you still think of me as your tesoro.
I’m signing off with another Italian expression you taught me: con tutto il mio cuore,
Wilf xx
I look up from the letter, stunned. I sit in silence, the record having ended while I was reading.
It’s like Wilf’s come bursting into life, like I’m seeing him—and experiencing his story—in 3D, high definition, laser-sharp focus.
Even his handwriting—with its neat lines and curls but a hint of contained flamboyance—adds to the picture, as does the thick, ivory paper, black ink and old-fashioned fountain pen he used, the tools of a regular writer and someone who respected the act of writing.
I try to swallow but it’s difficult. Tears have welled in my eyes. I sniff them back and clear my throat.
It isn’t just Wilf’s story the letter has opened up: it’s like I’ve been offered entry into a whole other world, a forbidden world, a world I knew existed but would never have been able to imagine.
I wonder how many men lived like this. I wonder how many of them didn’t dare to keep letters or diaries.
I wonder how many of their stories have been lost forever.
At one point Wilf even mentioned my mum. Until now I couldn’t really see any connection between them. I couldn’t get my head around how Wilf fit into my family. But now I can see it very clearly.
It’s a lot to take in.
I carefully fold the letter up again, slide it back into its envelope and pick up the second.
Carissimo Arnaldo,
Thanks very much for your letter. I’m so happy—
I’m interrupted by the sound of voices.
Shit. It’s Theo and the kids.
I stuff the letter back in the envelope. I don’t want anyone to know about them—not yet, anyway. And I certainly don’t want the kids to see me dressed like this.
I pick up both boxes and dash through to the cottage, where I slide them under the bed, next to the stone inscribed with the names WILF + ARNALDO.
I quickly take off my shower cap and put on some clothes.