Chapter 17 #2
Any road, after hearing what happened with your family I’ve decided I’m not going to tell mine, at least not until after I’ve left.
I know what they’ll say, Father in particular.
I hear exactly what he thinks about ‘queers’ every time there’s a story in the newspapers, such as when Lord Montagu or John Gielgud were arrested.
I’ve also heard his stories about some queer soldier he knew in the war, a man he called a ‘brown-hatter’ and he and the other soldiers tormented, even though they were supposed to be fighting on the same side.
My brother-in-law isn’t much better, truth be told.
He often talks about some fella at work he thinks is a ‘pansy’.
It’s as much as I can do to sit there and say nothing once the two of them get on the subject, especially if they’ve had a few pints.
Once I’ve arrived in Italy, I’ll write to my family explaining why I’ve gone.
I much prefer putting my thoughts on paper and find it easier to order them.
Whenever anyone in my family needs to write a letter, they ask me to do it.
Now they’ll be getting one from me. Just thinking of their faces when they read it sends a shiver down my spine, but I won’t let that stop me.
I’ve already started preparing for the trip.
I’ve been to the library to borrow some novels set in Italy so I can familiarise myself with the culture.
I think I told you I’m an avid reader, but what else would you expect from an English teacher?
I’ve taken out A Room with a View by E. M.
Forster and The Wings of the Dove by Henry James.
They’re both about posh folk, nobody like us.
Or nobody like me, I should say. Oddly enough, I’ve heard rumours that both of the authors are homosexual, although I don’t know how I could determine that for sure.
By the way, I’ve just finished reading a book called The Heart in Exile by an author called Rodney Garland.
One of my pals in the Union told me about it and passed his copy onto me.
Oh, Arnaldo, it’s a wonderful book! The lead character is actually homosexual, which shocked me at first as I’ve never seen that before, not in the pages of a book.
My heart was racing as I read it. Of course, he’s another posh fella and he does have odd ideas about working-class folk, although it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.
The main thing is he isn’t a villain, although he does suffer and has to live in exile, or should I say exiled from the emotions in his own heart.
I think that’s what the title means, or at least that’s what the English teacher in me thinks.
I believe the book has been popular, which gives me hope.
I need as much of that as I can get before you and I go into our own exile.
Although I’m committed to your plan, I don’t mind admitting that I’m also blinking terrified.
It’s an enormous undertaking for us both and we each stand to lose everything.
You’ll lose your home, your inheritance, your friends and your position in the family firm.
It sounds like you’ve already lost your family.
I’ll lose my home country, my position, and also my family and friends.
We won’t have any money but I’m not too fussed about that.
I grew up with very little and it’s only recently I’ve started to earn a decent wage.
I also lived through the war and rationing, so I know I’ll cope.
We’ll just have to be everything to one another.
I’m enclosing some photographs that I hope will tide you over until I arrive.
I know it’s reckless to be sending them in the post, but I trust you’ll forgive me.
I hope they bring back happy memories of the two of us sneaking into that booth in Central Station in the dead of night.
When I look back, I can hardly believe we did that, although I suppose it was much safer than taking a film to be developed in a shop.
A fella from the Union was arrested when he did that and you don’t want to know what happened to him.
Any road, thank goodness we did, as these may be the only photographs we ever have of the two of us together, that is unless we go into a booth again.
You may have forgotten about them because I kept the whole roll for myself and didn’t mention them again.
Sorry, but I just couldn’t bear to part with them.
I was frightened you’d arrive back in Italy and change your mind about wanting to be with me, and I’d have nothing to remember you by.
Better late than never, I’m enclosing your half of the strip. I hope it eases the pain of us being apart. Very soon we’ll be together once more.
You are my carissimo and I am so happy to be your tesoro,
Wilf xx
I put the letter down and find the top half of a strip of black-and-white photos in the bottom of the envelope.
Both photos show Wilf and Arnaldo embracing and in the second shot, Wilf’s kissing Arnaldo on the cheek.
He looks so young, far too young to have lived through some of the experiences he writes about.
Arnaldo is smiling in the first shot, laughing in the second, his face a picture of joy.
The photos are so different to the stiff, awkwardly posed ones we found in Wilf’s bedroom and the study.
There’s so much affection—so much love—between the two men.
And there’s another emotion in there, something like an extreme release.
I have to find the bottom half of the strip.
I slip out of the mosquito nets and go down to the study.
When I was clearing out the room, I came across a box of photos similar to the ones in frames.
Although they didn’t seem particularly interesting, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.
I pull out the box and begin thumbing through them.
There aren’t many photos, considering Wilf and Arnaldo were together for decades, and they’re all similar to the ones in frames: both men are holding back, suppressing their emotions, concealing their love for each other.
Underneath the pile is a faded brown envelope. I open it and pull out another heap of loose photos. But these are all in strips. They were all taken in photo booths.
Sitting on the top is the second half of the black-and-white photos taken in Manchester. I hold it up and see the sequence continues with a shot of Wilf and Arnaldo kissing on the lips. Then—in the final shot—they each turn to the camera and grin, their faces aglow.
Tears spring to my eyes. But this time I can’t hold them back.
Soon they’re streaming down my cheeks and falling onto my bare chest, as I look through decade after decade of photos, the fashions changing, Arnaldo’s hairline receding, Wilf’s forehead wrinkling, color eventually replacing black and white.
But one thing never changes—the joy on the men’s faces.
A handful of the photos are dated and I realize they were all taken on the same day—22 April.
So this must have become Wilf and Arnaldo’s annual tradition.
But the last of the photos is dated 22 April 1997, after which I can only assume Arnaldo died.
Surely by that stage they could have lived a little more freely?
Or did they get so used to hiding that they lost the ability to express their feelings in the open, in anything other than the strictest of secrecy, in anywhere other than a photo booth?
I wipe my tears on my bare arm, careful that they don’t fall onto the photos. I try to sniff them back but can’t stop the flow. I’m ripped through with grief, grief for the life Wilf and Arnaldo never had, for the love they had to keep buried.
I give myself over to full, body-racking sobs.
I’m going to have to put the photos away. And I’m going to need a break before reading the final letter.