Chapter 22
On Monday, my priority is to find some time to read Wilf’s final letter to Arnaldo. But it’s a big day for the builders: as they start demolishing the kitchen, the house fills with the sound of banging, thudding and crashing.
We set up a temporary kitchen in the big lounge on the first floor, where there was already a dining table.
Giuseppe plugs in the fridge and the little electric oven, next to a single-ring portable gas stove he lends us—all within easy reach of the bathroom in the cottage, which we designate as our washing-up station.
The plan is for us to eat breakfast at the dining table and prepare simple lunches we can eat outside, accessing the patio via the exterior door and a short flight of steps.
I’ve no idea what we’ll do in the evenings: we certainly can’t afford to eat out every night.
At least our first breakfast in the new setup goes well.
All three children drink some orange juice and afterwards, we go outside to throw the oranges over the hill.
Then Theo has to nip down to the village to send an important email, taking the kids with him and walking down the new footpath.
I think this could be my chance to read Wilf’s letter but am accosted by Giuseppe, who wants clarification on several details of the kitchen design.
Before I know it, Theo and the kids are back—but they scatter around the top two floors of the house, each doing their own thing.
Theo’s reading some documents, Archie’s playing with his action figures, and Callum’s doing the workout Dom devised for him, which is made up of strength-building exercises using the bench on the patio, big bottles of water for weights, and a portable pull-up bar that Dom set up in his bedroom doorframe.
I’ve no idea what Mabel’s doing. But I spot my chance to read the letter.
Just as I’m walking to the cottage through the temporary kitchen, I notice that the washing-up still hasn’t been done.
As I don’t want to disturb the quiet, I decide to do it quickly myself.
But when I load up the washing-up bowl and lug it through to the cottage bathroom, I find Mabel.
And I find out what she’s doing: she’s running my toothbrush around the rim of the toilet bowl.
I’m so shocked I almost drop the bowl of crockery. Then—weirdly—I find myself laughing.
Mabel looks up. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” I reply, gesturing to the washing-up bowl. “Didn’t you hear me?”
She looks down, unable to meet my eye. “No. There’s so much banging I can’t hear anything.”
I put down the washing-up and sigh. “Mabel, what’s the matter?”
As she struggles for words, I’m hit by a memory: I’m around her age, wiping a piece of toast I made for my stepmum on the kitchen floor.
Except on that occasion, I wasn’t caught.
But I felt so guilty, I quickly threw it away and made her another.
Seeing the shame on Mabel’s face takes me back to exactly how I felt on that day.
And I’m not sure how to respond. I can’t muster up any anger, but amusement—or even admiration—would be inappropriate.
“Actually, don’t answer that,” I interject. “Just go. Let me get on with this.”
She gingerly places the toothbrush on the windowsill and scurries out.
As I fill the sink with hot, soapy water, I can’t help but feel sorry for her.
Because I’m pretty sure I know what the matter is.
Theo told me while they were in the village, she received several messages from her mum.
Apparently Kate saw the pics Mabel posted on Instagram of the makeup job Gloria had done on her—and said she was finding it difficult being away from her while she’s having such fun.
Mabel must have felt guilty: that would explain why she’s pulling back and expressing her loyalty to her mum.
Once the sink’s full, I start washing the pots, rinsing off the suds in the bath, where I carefully stack them to dry.
Theo also told me that Mabel exchanged messages with her friend Sharita, who she’s sensed has been pulling away from her all summer.
Sharita said she’s been invited on holiday with Aurora and her family in the last week of August, news that must have hurt Mabel.
Possibly even more so after seeing me with my friends. Now she’s lashing out.
“What’s going on?” Theo’s standing in the doorway, thick lines on his forehead. “Mabel says she’s done something bad but won’t tell me what.”
As I scrub the cereal bowls, I fill him in.
Theo looks appalled. He wants to go and confront Mabel but I beg him not to. “She’ll only resent me. Just let her sit with it for a while and maybe chat to her later.”
Theo puffs out his cheeks. “Well, she owes you one bloody big apology.”
“I’m not going to argue with that.”
“She can also buy you a new toothbrush.” He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “I’m going to take her out for one now.”
While Theo takes Mabel to the shops—and Callum and Archie tag along—I close the door to the cottage and sit on the bed. Now, finally, is my chance to read Wilf’s third letter.
Carissimo Arnaldo,
I’m writing this in haste so forgive me, but I need to tell you what’s happened.
Last night, I went round to our Kathleen’s for baby Julie’s first birthday.
As it was Saturday, after tea everyone disappeared to the pub, but I stayed to help Kathleen clear up.
We were drinking stout and laughing and joking, and I don’t know why but I told her I’m queer and have fallen in love with you.
Happen the booze had loosened my tongue.
Happen I thought I was safe with my own sister, especially as we’ve always rubbed along so well.
I was wrong. She refused to talk about it and went ever so quiet for the rest of the night.
Not thoughtful quiet but angry quiet. I went home feeling sick with dread.
This morning, my brother-in-law Gerald turned up at the house and exploded.
He says I can’t go round to their place any more, that I can’t be trusted around kiddies.
It was terrible as I love those girls and would never do anything to harm them.
Gerald then went and told my mam and dad and they came to the house and went berserk.
Sorry, that means ‘mad’ where I’m from. Father was bawling and shouting, calling me a pervert and a freak of nature.
He said if that’s the way I want to live, then I’m no son of his.
He also said if being queer wasn’t bad enough, I’ve been carrying on with an Italian, after everything he went through in the war.
I wasn’t sure what to say, even though I’ve been thinking about this a lot and had already started composing the letter I was going to send.
I was just so shocked and felt so foul, all I could do was sit at the table skriking.
Sorry, there I go again. Skriking means ‘crying’.
Any road, Father didn’t take pity on me, not one bit.
Nor did Mam. She just stood there watching, her arms folded and her face like thunder.
To think she gave birth to me and nursed me.
How could she forget that? I feel abandoned and utterly wretched.
I won’t let my feelings get the better of me, though.
I need to pack a case and make arrangements to leave Manchester.
After work tomorrow, Father and Gerald have arranged to meet to decide what to do about me.
Apparently, they’re too angry to decide now and need time to calm down.
I’ve no idea whether they’ll go to the police, but if Gerald thinks I’m a danger to children I’m quite sure he’ll tell the school.
Either way, I’ll end up in prison. There’s a slight possibility Father will be too ashamed to let the secret out of the family, but I can’t take a chance. I’ve got one day to escape.
First thing tomorrow, I’ll go to the telephone box and tell school I’m poorly.
I’ll have to write a proper letter of resignation to the headmaster from Italy (and try not to feel guilty about giving him no notice).
After that, I’ll go to a travel agency to book my trains to Italy and my passage on the overnight ferry to France.
I’ll call into the Post Office to send this letter and I’ll also go to the bank to draw out my savings, although I’ve never been abroad so goodness knows where I go to change it into French and Italian currency.
Happen a clerk at the bank will tell me.
As for my little house, I’ve paid the rent until the end of the month so I’ll just do a flit.
Do you know what that means? It’s when you move out without telling anyone, usually if folk are coming after you for money.
If folk come after me, it won’t be for money.
Any road, I won’t let them find me. I’m going to London to stay in a hotel until I can catch my train to the continent.
As for what happens when I arrive in Italy, I like the sound of that house you’ve found in the hills, the one with the old castle.
It sounds like it’s surrounded by nature, which is marvellous.
It doesn’t bother me that it isn’t very modern and parts of it are dilapidated, although it does sound like it’s in a remote setting, so I hope you can hold on to your car.
Nor does it bother me that we won’t have any money to fix it up properly.
Once you’ve set up your own concern and I’ve found work as an English teacher, it’ll be different.
Please go ahead and buy it as soon as you can.
The last thing we want is for the owner to find out he’s selling to two queers and pull out.
You said the house isn’t far from Lucca, so I’ll go there, find a hotel, and write to you.
If my letter doesn’t arrive, or if someone in your family intercepts it, I have a back-up plan.
I found an old guidebook in the library and it mentioned a square called Piazza dell’Anfiteatro.
The square was a hundred years old when the book was written so I can only assume it’s still there, and still will be when I arrive.
Apparently, it’s used as a food market during the day so I’ll avoid that as it’ll be busy, but I’ll wait there every evening from 7 o’clock until you come and find me.
I know you won’t let me down, carissimo.
In case you’re wondering, I don’t regret anything.
I may be upset and blinking petrified, but I’m also sick of hiding and pretending, always trying to act like a proper man so nobody will spot the way I am.
It’s no way to live. At least what we’re doing is more honest, even if our families do hate us for it.
We don’t need them, any road. We’ll create a new family ourselves, just the two of us.
Oh, Arnaldo, I’m shaking like a leaf and goodness knows how I’m going to sleep, but I’m also excited that very soon we’ll be together once again.
Come Hell or high water, I’ll see you in Lucca!
Con tutto il mio cuore,
Wilf xx
As I put down the letter, this time I don’t feel upset. My heart is thumping against my ribcage and I’m burning with rage. How could Wilf’s parents—my great-grandparents—have treated him like that? How could Mum’s parents—my own grandparents—have been so cruel?
My granddad died a few years before I was born so I have no memories of him, but I do remember my grandma.
She died when I was eight or nine and before that, we spent a lot of time together.
Did she ever express disapproval if I behaved in a way that made her suspect I was gay?
Were there ever any judgmental looks or raised eyebrows? I can’t recall.
I fold the letter up again. I want to know what happened next but this is Wilf’s final letter. Obviously, he made it to Italy and the two of them made it to this house, so if Arnaldo didn’t receive the letter about where Wilf was staying, I can only assume they met on Piazza dell’Anfiteatro.
As I slide the letter back into the envelope, I feel a pulse of shame that I ever doubted Theo’s love for me.
Wilf and Arnaldo had a much tougher time than we have but Wilf never doubted Arnaldo’s feelings—all he ever asked for was confirmation of his commitment.
That was all it took for him to risk everything.
I open the second shoebox—the one that’s stuffed full of letters—but the envelopes of the first few are addressed to Arnaldo and the senders’ names and addresses are all Italian.
Even if I could read what’s in them, it wouldn’t be fair: they contain other people’s stories, possibly even their secrets.
I’m interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” comes a mumble, “Mabel.”
“Just a minute!” I quickly stuff the letters in their boxes and push them back under the bed. “Come in!”
Mabel enters, her head down so I can’t see her face, clutching a new toothbrush. “I just want to say I’m sorry. What I did was awful. I’ve thought about it and I’m devo.”
I let out a breath. “In that case, apology accepted.”
I’m not sure what else to say as I’m still immersed in Wilf’s story—and my heart is hammering. But I can tell Mabel’s sorry. When she raises her head, she looks thoroughly miserable.
“You know what, it was an old toothbrush,” I say, with forced jollity. “I needed a new one anyway.”
She shuffles up the stairs and hands it over.
“Thanks,” I say. And I give her a smile. I hope this isn’t going to set us back, just when I thought we were making progress.
I smooth out the bed sheets. “We all make mistakes, Mabel. Let’s just forget this ever happened. Tomorrow morning, let’s wake up and start again. How does that sound?”
She nods, meekly. “OK.”
I stand up, trying to put Wilf and his story out of my mind. “Come on, let’s go and see what the others are up to. It’s nearly five o’clock, so we should finally get a rest from all that banging.”