“That does seem like the obvious thing,” I say. “But I assume not. It would have been very difficult to live as a gay couple in those days.” And surely someone from my family would have told me?
Theo comes back in holding several crates, and he and Archie start loading up the books. As the study’s only small, I take Callum and Mabel through to Wilf’s bedroom. Callum’s suitcase is lying open on a chair, his clothes hanging on the back of the door.
“Right, let’s make some room for your stuff,” I tell him. “There’s no point keeping any of Wilf’s clothes. Let’s bag them up and take them to the charity bins near the supermarket.”
I fetch a roll of black bin liners and fill them with Wilf’s old trousers, jeans, shoes, shirts and shorts—but I keep a belt for myself and a pair of light canvas espadrilles for Theo. Although it’s only mid-morning, it’s already getting hot and I have to switch on one of the fans. When the bags are full, I hand them over to Callum and Mabel and ask them to take them out and put them next to the car.
While they’re doing that, I bend down and look under the bed. There’s nothing there, except for a few clumps of dust and a daddy longlegs that disappears into a crack in the wall. Although under the wardrobe I do spot a couple of shoeboxes. I pull out the first, take the lid off and see that it contains a handful of letters—and next to it is another that’s stuffed full of them. I feel a rush of excitement. These are sure to provide an insight into Wilf’s story. They might even explain how he got here.
Hang on a minute, I can’t read them—it wouldn’t be fair to pry into someone else’s secrets. And I absolutely can’t let the kids read them. What if there are things in there Wilf wouldn’t want us to know?
I slide the boxes back and wedge them against the wall, so they aren’t visible at all.
Chapter 8
Once the builders have gone for the day, we walk through the olive grove and leave what I don’t think I’ll ever get used to calling my estate. We pass the Fiores’ house and wind down the hill, through more olive groves belonging to other people, until we get to the main road. It’s time to explore the village of Montemagno.
The first thing we see—directly opposite—is a women’s clothes shop, with some old mannequins in the window wearing comically cheap wigs and clothes that could best be described as frumpy.
“Nice drip,” I say to Callum and Mabel.
They both laugh and I want to jump up and punch the air.
I gesture to the right and lead everyone down the main road as it runs through the center of the village, in between houses that have been painted shades of butterscotch, Parmesan and honey. There’s a brick-fronted church and a war memorial standing on what seems to be a cross between a square and a car park, which—as far as I can decipher from the plaque—is named after a hero of the Italian Resistance. Continuing up the road—keeping to the side to avoid the occasional car and hordes of cyclists—we come to a cluster of cafés, each with its own terrace. These seem to be set up less for locals and more for cyclists: one of them has a repair shop tacked onto the side and they all sell gear and gadgets thatmake me realize just how big the sport is around here. At the village’s farthest limit, there’s a platform looking out over the valley, but it offers pretty much the same view as we have from the house. Even so, Archie insists on perusing the valley through the coin-operated binoculars.
Once his time is up, we meander back up the road to check out the two restaurants and Theo and I are delighted to discover that neither of them is expensive. That decides it: we’re eating out this evening. Theo has already said that if the kids can pick their own meals, there’s less potential for arguments. As one of the restaurants is closed on Mondays, the choice is made for us.
When we walk inside, we discover we’re the sole customers. But it’s only seven o’clock, which I imagine is early for Italians to eat their evening meal. One of the waitresses leads us through the terracotta-tiled reception, past a pizza oven and into the main dining room. This is dominated by several thick marble pillars, dotted with glass pendant lights with frilled edges, and the tables are surrounded by wicker-backed chairs, covered with plain white cloths, and decorated with matching napkins fanning out from the wineglasses. It’s homely and feels authentic and I catch the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen.
The waitress seats us at a table in front of a mural of a Tuscan landscape. “Allora, what you like to drink?” she asks.
I decide not to order any alcohol, fearful of attracting the kids’ disapproval, and opt for a fizzy water.
Once the waitress has gone, we pick up our menus.
“This is our first restaurant of the summer!” says Theo, putting on his tortoiseshell reading glasses. “Let’s enjoy it, gang!”
Archie whoops in excitement but Callum and Mabel don’t react.
“Now who knows what aninsalata tricoloreis?” Theo asks, peering over the top of his glasses.
Callum rolls his eyes. “It says here, Dad: it’s a salad with tomato, avocado and mozzarella.”
“Yeah but who knowswhyit’s called atricolore?” says Theo.
Mabel huffs. “Here we go again—it’s like being at school.”
“Because it’s green, white and red,” Theo explains, undeterred. “The colors of the Italian flag, which is called thetricolore.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “How can I have got to the age of forty-five without knowing that? I love aninsalata tricolore!”
Callum mimes a yawn. “Dad, that’s proper boring.”
Theo ignores him and changes tack. “Hey Ads, I wonder if your uncle ever ate in here.”
I put my menu down. “I didn’t think of that.”
Callum snaps his menu shut. “Adam, how come you don’t know anything about your own uncle?”
