Chapter 23
Theo has decided to buy a barbecue. He says he feels bad that I do all the cooking, and he may be lousy in the kitchen but at least he can make up for it by doing his bit on an outdoor grill.
Now that our kitchen is out of action, this is an obvious solution to the problem of what to do for our evening meals.
So we round up the kids and drive to the retail park, where we buy the cheapest model available, then go on to the supermarket to stock up on meat.
As it’s a sweltering day and the kids behave well, we call into Camaiore on the way back to treat ourselves to an ice cream.
It’s five o’clock but there aren’t many people around.
We stroll down the main street that runs through the old town, skirting churches, cafés and shops, many with their original—now antique—fittings, many with window displays of sun-bleached stock that doesn’t look far off antique status itself.
We pass a woman pushing her disabled son in his wheelchair, two priests chatting on a stone bench, and an elderly woman gliding along on a mobility scooter.
A farm laborer passes us, at the wheel of a Vespa scooter that has been adapted into a little three-wheeler van, a vehicle I remember Stefano telling us is called an ape, or “bee” in Italian.
But that’s about it. It’s clear Camaiore is a sleepy rural town, far away from the urban bustle of Lucca, the seaside cheer of Viareggio, or the genteel sophistication of Pietrasanta.
It’s also clear that it doesn’t attract any tourists—other than us.
I imagine we must stand out like a cluster of peacocks in a flock of pigeons.
Theo, Callum and Mabel have hair that’s now almost Prosecco blond, and Archie’s red flame draws attention like a lightning rod.
To make matters worse, Callum’s wearing an England football shirt.
I start to feel self-conscious. And I’m not the only one.
Mabel pulls down the sides of her straw hat, while Callum does the same with his bucket hat. Archie transfers Thor into his left hand and grabs onto mine with his right.
We spot a fridge full of ice cream in the window of a scruffy old café.
We join the line at the serving hatch, overlooked by a trio of aging Italian men huddled around a table.
They’re drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, empty packets and glasses strewn between them.
One of them has ruddy, vein-threaded cheeks, another a burgundy, bulbous nose, the third a belly that looks like a balloon resting between legs he’s spreading widely.
As this man scratches his crotch and sneers at us, my heart slams into my throat.
The other day, the kids came to Camaiore just with Theo.
Whenever I’ve come—usually to pick up bread from the bakery—I’ve been on my own.
This time, however, Theo and I are wearing our matching Panama hats, almost advertising our status as a gay couple—a gay couple with some kind of family.
And it’s not one it looks like these men accept.
“Right, what does everyone fancy?” I chirp, when we reach the front of the line.
To my surprise, each of the kids asks for an Italian flavor. Callum goes for stracciatella, Mabel frutti di bosco and Archie panna cotta.
“Superb choices, gang!” says Theo.
One of the old men mutters something to his friends. Suddenly, I wish I could speak Italian. His friends respond with disdainful laughter, one of them veering into a hacking, smoker’s cough. Actually, I’m glad I don’t speak Italian.
Archie gets his ice cream first and goes to sit down at the only other available table, directly next to the men. A nervous-looking Callum and Mabel follow.
Theo and I pay the bill and take our ice creams. While I have my usual pistacchio, this time partnered with nocciola—or hazelnut—Theo has his usual bacio, with a second scoop of fior di latte.
We sit down and tuck in. Theo asks if he can have a taste of mine and, with one eye on the old Italian men—and a determination not to hide—I scoop some up and feed it to him.
He misses the spoon and it hits the side of his mouth.
We both giggle and I give him a slap on the shoulder.
“Maniaci!” snarls the man with red cheeks.
“Degenerati!” hisses the one with the purple nose.
“Depravati!” growls the one with the belly.
I don’t need to consult my translation app to know they’re insulting us for being queer. It’s like I’ve been slapped across the face. Theo looks equally startled and tries to break out of it by coughing into his fist.
Thankfully, Archie is too absorbed in his ice cream to have heard anything. Callum and Mabel, on the other hand, did.
“Dad,” asks Mabel, “did they just say something homophobic?”
Callum’s forehead is rutted. “You’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?”
Theo sighs and leans towards them. “What can I say? We don’t even speak Italian.”
I let out a short breath. “Look, let’s just not rise to it.”
“Exactly,” says Theo. “It’s not as if we care what they think.”
“Let’s just sit here, hold our heads up high, and enjoy our ice creams.”
We try, but it’s difficult to avoid the men’s staring. And none of us is enjoying our ice cream, except Archie.
A tear rolls down Mabel’s face. “Please can we go,” she says, wiping it away with the back of her hand.
“Yeah, I’ve had enough,” says Callum, pushing his ice cream into the center of the table.
“This nocciola’s rank,” I say, trying to inject some humor.
“Come on,” says Theo, pushing back his chair. “Let’s go back and set up that barbecue.”
While Theo assembles the barbecue, I sit on the patio, looking out over the valley.
Above my head, the vines that twist in and out of the pergola are hanging with bunches of increasingly plump grapes.
And breaking through the usual sounds of crickets and birds is the familiar twit-twoo of the owl that we still haven’t seen.
But this evening I don’t give it a second thought. Because in my head I’m replaying the old men’s insults. And I’m blazing with rage. How dare they? How dare they think we’re bad people, just because our love is different to theirs?
A lizard slithers over the rocks bordering the lawn and comes to a stop by my feet. I’m amazed at how perfectly still it holds itself. As I’m wondering if it’s one of those that lives in the larder, another insult crashes into my head—it’s Wilf’s dad calling him a freak of nature.
I shift in my seat and the lizard slithers off across the patio and up the wall of the house.
The atmosphere is sullen. Mabel is sitting at the opposite end of the table, her earphones in, listening to Harry Styles. Archie is inside, in the smaller first-floor lounge, playing with his wrestlers.
Callum appears in the doorframe. “Need any help, Dad?”
I’m about to raise an eyebrow but stop myself.
“Thanks, Cal, but I’ve just finished,” says Theo. “Although I’m glad you’re joining us. I think we could do with a group chat.”
Callum tugs on his fringe and takes a seat between Mabel and me. Theo signals for Mabel to take out her earphones. She doesn’t object.
“Now, I don’t want you two to be upset by what happened earlier,” Theo begins, sitting down opposite them.
“Dad, it was awful,” whimpers Mabel.
“Yeah, but you need to know the world’s a much better place than it used to be for people like Adam and me—or at least it is in Europe. You do still come up against these attitudes and you do still find pockets of intolerance. But we need to make sure they don’t upset us.”
Callum curls his hands into fists. “But Dad, how can you just accept it?”
I’m interested to see that he looks genuinely outraged.
Theo leans forward. “I don’t accept it, Cal. But sometimes the best way to fight these attitudes is to show the bigots we’re better than them.”
“Also, those men were pretty old,” I offer. “I expect their attitudes are dying out.”
An orange, black and white butterfly lands on a trunk of vine and basks in the glow of the evening sun.
Mabel turns towards me. “What do you think it was like for your uncle, when he went into town with his boyfriend?”
Again, I’m about to raise an eyebrow: until now the kids haven’t shown much interest in Wilf’s story. But I stop myself. Part of me would like to show them Wilf’s letters and photos—or at least the stone—but that doesn’t feel right. Besides, I still haven’t shown Theo.
“I don’t know, but I imagine it was very hard for him,” I answer. “We’re seeing his friend Angelika tomorrow, so we’ll be able to ask her.”
The butterfly flutters away.
“But even when Adam and I were growing up it was hard,” points out Theo. “Have you heard about something called Section Twenty-Eight?”
Callum and Mabel look at each other and shake their heads.
“It was a law brought in by Margaret Thatcher’s government in the 1980s,” Theo explains. “It made it illegal for anyone employed by local councils—including teachers—to say anything positive about gay people.”
“Why?” asks Callum.
“Because they thought this would corrupt children and ‘turn them’ gay. Basically, the government thought being gay was so awful that people had to be protected from it. But Section Twenty-Eight meant there was nobody to defend children who were actually gay and being bullied for it. And it made life very difficult for gay teachers. If they were open about who they were, they could lose their jobs.”
Callum picks at his brace. “Is that why you didn’t tell anyone?”
A little frown appears between Theo’s eyebrows. “It’s one of the reasons, yeah. When I first became aware of my feelings, I tried to bury them. Because everyone would think I was a terrible person, but also because I wouldn’t be allowed to have the career I wanted.”
I’ve never heard Theo talk about this before but it makes perfect sense.
Mabel cocks her head. “That’s so wrong.”
“It’s fucked up,” Callum agrees.
Theo nods. I notice he doesn’t tell Callum off for swearing.
“But the point I want to make is,” he goes on, “that law doesn’t exist anymore. There are still laws like it in places like Russia, but not in our country. And not in Italy, either.”
“But there are still horrible old men,” comments Mabel.
“Yeah, but they’re in the minority,” insists Theo, weaving his fingers together. “Look at all the other people we’ve met in Italy. All the other people we’ve seen when we’ve been out and about. They haven’t said a word.”
“No,” concedes Mabel. “But what happens the next time we go into Camaiore?”
“We make sure we’re feeling strong,” I answer. “We don’t hold back from being ourselves and we don’t let horrible old men stop us from doing what we want.”
“And we stick together,” Theo chips in. He opens his mouth again—possibly to add “as a family”—but stops himself. “What do you say?”
“Alright,” responds Mabel.
Callum extends his arm and sweeps a leaf off the table. “OK.”
“Superb,” says Theo. “Now, I’m going to fire up that barbie. Who fancies a burger?”
Theo and I climb up to the castle and sit on the stone wall to watch the sunset.
After dinner, Callum and Mabel offered to clear up and put Archie to bed, an offer I immediately accepted. After the day I’d had, I really wanted a quiet moment with Theo. I really wanted to bring him up here.
Theo takes hold of my hand. “Ads, I know what happened today was bloody unpleasant. But at least it’s made the kids think. And it does seem to have softened them a little.”
I nod. “Let’s hope it’s a sign of things to come.”
I inch closer, so our arms are touching and we’re leaning onto each other, as we delight in the sun’s colors.
“Just think about all the people who used to live in this castle,” I say. “Do you think any of them were like us? Do you think any of them were men who fell in love with men?”
“There must have been some.” Theo gives my hand a squeeze. “Although I can’t imagine what it was like for them—living in terror of being found out.”
“I wonder what would have happened if they were caught,” I say. “According to Luisa, they used to burn gay men at the stake in Italy. But I don’t know when that started or stopped.”
Theo tugs in a breath. “Me neither. I know they were executed in England but I think that was by hanging.”
I shake my head. “How could anyone possibly fall in love knowing that’s what would happen to them? How could anyone be proud of who they were?”
“I expect they weren’t,” reflects Theo. “And I expect lots of them fought their feelings. But we’ll never know, as it had to be so secret. And now all those secrets are buried. All those secrets from all those men stretching back all through time.” He pats the wall.
I rest my free hand on the stone. “Well, they’re not all buried.”
“What do you mean?”
I swivel to face him. “Theo, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He turns to look at me. “I’m glad you’ve said that, because there’s something I need to tell you, too.”