Chapter 26
After yesterday’s visit to Angelika, I came back to the house thinking about Mum.
I was desperate to speak to Auntie Julie and messaged to ask if she was free, but she and Jason are on holiday in Spain till Saturday.
I’ve no idea how she’ll respond to Angelika’s suggestion that Mum and Wilf had been in contact—or if she’s been hiding something from me—but don’t want to push it while she’s away. We’ve arranged to speak on Saturday.
In the meantime, I’ve decided to focus on Wilf and his story.
After last night’s barbecue, I updated Theo on what Angelika had told me.
Again, he was moved and riveted and asked a lot of new questions I’m going to put to Angelika the next time I see her.
But I didn’t tell Theo what Angelika said about Mum—not until I’ve ascertained if it’s true.
To take my mind off her, I organized a game of cards, but it descended into squabbles when Archie got overexcited and couldn’t stop looking at Callum and Mabel’s cards—only for them to accuse him of cheating.
In the end, we had to abandon the game. I went to bed to start reading The Heart in Exile, willing Mum out of my head.
Despite my efforts, when I woke up this morning, she was the first thing I thought about.
I quickly forced myself to switch my focus back onto Wilf—and Arnaldo.
I’ve decided to frame all forty strips of passport photos, splitting them into two lots so they’re not too big.
As I pedal away on the exercise bike—listening to La bohème—I consider where to hang them.
The best option is probably on the gable wall in the big lounge, the most communal room apart from the kitchen.
When I’ve finished my workout, I run the idea past Theo and he approves.
After breakfast—and all five of us have thrown the oranges over the hill—I drive into Pietrasanta to drop the photos off at a place I found online. I’m told my order will be ready at the end of the day.
By the time I get back to the house, once again I’m thinking about Mum. Thankfully, Luisa is on her way down from the castle. She’s wearing rubber gloves and holding a square of fabric, on which sits what looks like a piece of shattered pottery.
“We’ve just made our first discovery!” she announces, her eyes wide.
“Fab!” I jog over to her. “What is it?”
She gently takes hold of it and lifts it up. “It’s a fragment of what was probably a ceramic basin. Look at the glazing.” She points out some black-and-blue stripes. “I’m pretty sure the black is manganese and the blue is cobalt. Which means it’s probably from North Africa.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “North Africa?”
She wraps up the pottery in the cloth. “I can’t be sure. I need to take it to the museum so Vito can have a look. He’s the expert.”
“Well, whatever he says, it’s very exciting. And congratulations.”
She smiles. “Thanks. I’m excited, too!”
I wish her luck and turn to walk over to the house but immediately collide with a cement mixer.
“Fuck!”
As I rub my shin, I become aware of piles of sawdust, planks of wood, and stray stones strewn everywhere—as well as the usual covering of dust. This place is a tip.
There’s a bag of plaster that has a hole in it and is spilling out over the patio and, worst of all, a battery-powered drill has been left standing on a wall. If Archie picked that up …
And he would pick it up …
I quickly grab hold of it, making a mental note not to get angry at the builders.
It can’t help that all the furniture, rugs, cushions and coffee-table books that we stripped out of the house are still piled up behind the chapel—together with that awful spinning wheel.
If I’m going to tell Giuseppe he and his men need to be tidier and store their tools away, first I need to create some space.
“Theo, kids!” I shout. “It’s time to light that bonfire!”
That should keep my mind off Mum.
When I get back from Pietrasanta, I peel the bubble wrap off the frames and the photos look wonderful.
Each frame has two lines of ten strips, one above the other, starting with the original black-and-white photos that have been pieced back together.
Viewed side by side, they form a document of Wilf and Arnaldo’s relationship.
From year to year, cuddle to cuddle, kiss to kiss.
Theo and I prop them up against the sofa and sit on the fireplace to admire them.
I feel a lump in my throat. “Oh, Theo, isn’t it sad?”
“Is it?” he says. “I think it’s quite joyful. The two of us are sitting in what used to be their home, basking in their love for each other.”
I let out a breath. “I didn’t think of it like that. But maybe Angelika was right: maybe that was the point.”
Theo rises to his feet. “Come on, let’s get them up on the wall.”
He goes downstairs to fetch tools and a tape measure and, when he comes back, we set about hanging them.
I’m glad Theo’s good at DIY as I’ve always been clueless—much to my dad’s disappointment.
As an adult, whenever I’ve put up pictures, I’ve made so many mistakes and miscalculations that when I’ve taken them down, I’ve exposed walls that look like someone’s blasted them with a machine gun.
I wonder if Wilf or Arnaldo was good at DIY, if they both were, or if they worked best by combining their skills.
I suddenly feel privileged to have been given this window into their lives.
Tears are building in my eyes. “Oh Theo, it’s all a bit overwhelming. To have this link to the past—and everything they went through to be together.”
“I know,” says Theo, “I know.” He puts his arms around me and gives me a hug. He smells of smoke from the bonfire but I don’t mind. As I hug him tighter, my tears fall onto his shoulders. Soon, I’m sobbing.
“Are you OK?” comes a voice from behind us.
We turn around to see Mabel, flanked by her brothers, standing in the doorway.
“What’s the matter?” asks Callum.
“Nothing,” I say, stepping back from Theo and wiping away my tears. “We’re just looking at these photos of Wilf and Arnaldo. What do you think?”
The kids step forward to take a closer look.
“They’re alright,” says Callum. But I suspect he likes them more than he’s letting on.
“They’re the only photos they had of them as a couple,” I comment.
“Why?” asks Archie.
“Well, in those days you couldn’t take photos on phones,” Theo explains. “You had to have a camera and a roll of film that you’d take into a special shop to get developed. And if anyone saw photos of two men kissing, they could report you to the police and get you into trouble.”
The kids look surprised.
“That’s why Wilf and Arnaldo didn’t really stand near each other in the photos you’ve seen around the house,” I add. “But we found these, which they took in photo booths, where nobody could see them.”
Callum nods, taking it in. “In that case, they’re not just alright—I’d say they’re pretty sick.”
Theo cuffs him on the shoulder and I feel the lump in my throat melting.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Theo says. “To have them here with us, like this?”
Mabel agrees. “Yeah, it is.”
And the five of us stand in silence, admiring the photos.
Later that evening—after Theo’s cooked us yet another barbecue—we play a game of cards, and this time the kids manage not to fall out. In between rounds, Mabel picks up her phone. “You know, we’ve not taken many photos on this holiday,” she points out.
“You’re right,” I say, not wanting to remind her that it’s only because she and Callum moaned every time I suggested it.
“Why don’t I take one of you and Dad?” she offers.
Theo puts down the cards he was shuffling and stands up. “That’s a superb idea.”
“Go on,” says Mabel, “stand in front of the house.”
I pick up a napkin and blot my face—cursing my greasy skin—and Theo and I take up our positions in front of the big turquoise doors. He wraps an arm around my shoulders.
Mabel takes several pictures. “I think you’ll like them,” she pronounces.
“Let’s have a look,” says Callum, taking the phone and swiping through. “Yeah, they’re not bad.”
“High praise indeed,” teases Theo. “Now, what would you say about taking one of the five of us? Can we do a selfie?”
There’s a pause. I can’t work out if Callum and Mabel are resisting. But eventually they skulk towards us, pretending to be taking part under duress. Archie, on the other hand, doesn’t pretend at all. He springs out of his seat, skips over to take up position, and immediately starts striking poses.
Theo whips out his phone but can’t work out how to take the picture without casting a shadow over our faces.
“Dad, you’re so crap!” says Callum, miming exasperation.
He lifts out his own phone and directs us to shuffle around so there are no shadows. “That’s better.”
But he and Mabel aren’t smiling.
“Everybody say formaggio!” chirps Theo.
“Dad!” Callum and Mabel elbow and slap him.
“Everybody say parmigiano!” I can’t resist adding.
“Adam!” groan Callum and Mabel.
But I smile—we all do.
And Callum takes our photo.
Just as I’m about to ask if I can have a look at them, he shuts down his phone and slots it into his pocket. “Right,” he says, briskly, “shall we play another round?”