An hour later, the house is full of the sound of banging and crashing. The builders who went inside are on the top floor, ripping out the first bathroom.
One floor down, Theo and the kids join me to sort throughWilf’s stuff. We start in the smaller lounge, where I point out an almost threadbare rug, some rickety white chairs with worn-down cushions, and what seems to be a full-sized but purely decorative spinning wheel, which we pile up and haul outside, dumping it all behind the wall of the chapel.
I pause when I come to some framed watercolor paintings that are hanging on the walls. They’re landscapes, with several of mountains and seashores.
Callum recognizes one: “Isn’t that the view from in front of the house?”
“Oh yeah,” says Theo, stepping over a rolled-up tapestry to get a closer look. “Well spotted, Cal.”
“And this is the castle,” says Mabel, “looking up from the bottom of the hill.”
“So it is.” I peer into the corner and read the name W. TREADWELL. “It looks like my Uncle Wilf was a painter!”
We examine the remaining pictures and decide they must all be scenes from the local area. From upstairs comes the sound of something ceramic smashing on the floor.
“Was he famous?” asks Archie, his glasses already covered in dust.
“I don’t think so,” I answer.
“But his work’s good,” says Theo, lifting off Archie’s glasses and cleaning them on his shirt. “He’s got a confident stroke.”
I feel a grin spreading across my face: this is my first glimpse into Wilf’s character, his energy, his spirit.
“So what do we do with them?” asks Callum.
There can only be one answer. “We’re keeping them! Let’s stack them up against the wall and cover them with a blanket.”
Once we’ve finished clearing out the smaller lounge, we move on to the study. I start by examining Wilf’s shelves—and his rows and rows of books.
“He was also a big reader,” I announce.
I run my fingers over leather-bound classics by Dickens and Austen, plus yellowed paperbacks by the likes of E. M. Forster, Henry James and James Baldwin. And there are several titles I don’t recognize, such asThe Heart in Exile—billed as a “noirthriller”—by Rodney Garland. I decide not to throw any of his books away, telling myself it’ll be good to have a well-stocked library when we rent out the house.
“Theo, please could you bring up some of those crates from the wine store and box these up?” I say. “We’ll keep them in the garage till the builders have decorated.”
Theo sets off downstairs, with Archie skipping behind him.
At the end of the shelves stand two framed photos. They’re both of Wilf with the same man from the picture in the bedroom but from different periods. One looks like it was taken in the mid-1980s, as Wilf’s caramel hair is in a mullet and he’s wearing a pastel blue linen suit, a mint green T-shirt and white espadrilles, although the other man’s look hasn’t changed: he’s still dressed traditionally, in smart trousers and shoes, with a pale blue shirt and a navy jumper tied around his shoulders. In the second photo, the other man still hasn’t changed his style, although he looks significantly older, drawn and his clothes are hanging off him. Wilf, on the other hand, still has an eye on fashion, even though by this stage he must be around sixty and his hair graying: he has a very ’90s look, wearing baggy jeans, a white T-shirt and a check flannel overshirt.
“Is this your uncle?” asks Callum, nodding at the second photo.
“Yeah, that’s Wilf,” I answer.
“Nice drip,” says Callum.
“What does that mean?”
“His clothes are cool,” offers Mabel. “Who’s this other guy?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “He must be a friend.”
Callum frowns. “But why do they look so serious? It’s like they don’t like each other.”
“They’re probs just embarrassed,” suggests Mabel. “Maybe they hate having their picture taken, like me.”
Callum runs his hand over his fringe. “But why are there only photos with this one guy?”
“Were they boyfriends?” asks Mabel.
