Any road, when I finally made it inside, I found all sorts of folk. There were doctors and builders and shop workers and solicitors, folk of all classes, colours and creeds. The one thing they had in common was they were all men and they were all like us. It was a real boon! Some of them werebroken wristed but some were very masculine and you wouldn’t be able to tell they were that way at all. I thought it was splendid. I didn’t feel lonely any more. I realised I belonged to this wonderful freemasonry of homosexuals, this delightful coterie of queers.
After that first foray, I started going to the Union every Saturday. If they asked, I told my mam and dad I was going for a pint with some of my school pals. I did, now and again, but only early doors, just in case they bumped into any and asked questions. Whenever I did, I’d have to stop myself looking at my watch. I couldn’t wait to get to the Union.
The only thing that spoiled it was that the atmosphere was always tinged with fear. Whenever the door opened, everyone’s eyes would look up to see if it was the police. A few of the fellas had been in the pub when it was raided. The police arrested everyone they could get their hands on and went through their personal belongings. One of the men they caught kept a diary and the police read it and found out the names of all the other fellas he’d been with and went after them. Wretched things happened to those who were arrested. If they weren’t put in prison, they were given electric shocks or injections of some chemical to stop them wanting to be with men (although apparently neither of those strategies works). All the men were disowned by their families and lost their jobs. Some of them carried on going to the Union, as they’d lost everything already. Most of those who hadn’t started to use false names.
It’s blinking terrifying when you think about what can happen to men like us. As a schoolteacher, there’s no question that if I were caught I’d be sacked. Folk often say queers can’t be trusted around children, or that we want to corrupt them. I know my mam and dad would never speak to me again. I can’t help myself, though. It’s like I have no choice.
I did think about how much of this I should put down in a letter and I’ve probably been freer than I intended. I’m going to take this to the Post Office as soon as I’ve finished. When it reaches you, it’ll be in a foreign language, althoughyou’ll have to hide it from your family if they also speak English.
Any road, I’m not sure why I’ve written so much about the Union. I suppose it’s because I didn’t want to bring it up when we were together. I didn’t want you to think I’d been going out looking for trade because I’m not like that. I’ve certainly never gone looking for it in public toilets, like lots of the fellas I know. Or cottages, as they call them. Each to their own but I wasn’t interested in nookie. Sorry, sex. You already know that with you it was my first time. That’s because I was looking for someone to love. I know lots of folk think it’s daft or even disgusting for one man to say that about another, but I don’t care. When I told you I loved you and you said you loved me back, it was the happiest moment of my life. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry.
That brings me on to why I’m writing. You said we should both take some time to think about what we want, and consider the consequences. I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot. I haven’t thought about anything else, truth be told. I imagine this won’t come as a surprise but I’ve decided I do want us to be together. I’m ready, Arnaldo. I’ll give up everything and go anywhere in the world to be with you.
Just writing that and looking down at the words on the page gives me goose pimples. Do you know what they are? It’s when your skin goes bumpy and the little hairs stand on end. Although it’s terrifying, I also think it’s romantic. Yes, I can see you rolling your eyes and teasing me, just like you did when you were here. I’m a romantic, Arnaldo!
Now that I think about it, it isn’t just romantic but it’s a blinking miracle you and I found one another. We’re from different countries and speak different languages. You’re from a posh family and I’m from a poor one. You’re so much older than me, almost a whole generation. It isn’t long since we were on opposite sides in the war. These things would be serious obstacles for most folk, but I think the only thing that matters is love.
What do you think, Arnaldo? Do you still feel the same? Are you ready to give up everything to be with me?
Please know you are my one true love and always will be. I hope you still think of me as your tesoro.
I’m signing off with another Italian expression you taught me: con tutto il mio cuore,
Wilf xx
I look up from the letter, stunned. I sit in silence, the record having ended while I was reading.
It’s like Wilf’s come bursting into life, like I’m seeing him—and experiencing his story—in 3D, high definition, laser-sharp focus. Even his handwriting—with its neat lines and curls but a hint of contained flamboyance—adds to the picture, as does the thick, ivory paper, black ink and old-fashioned fountain pen he used, the tools of a regular writer and someone who respected the act of writing.
I try to swallow but it’s difficult. Tears have welled in my eyes. I sniff them back and clear my throat.
It isn’t just Wilf’s story the letter has opened up: it’s like I’ve been offered entry into a whole other world, a forbidden world, a world I knew existed but would never have been able to imagine. I wonder how many men lived like this. I wonder how many of them didn’t dare to keep letters or diaries. I wonder how many of their stories have been lost forever.
At one point Wilf even mentioned my mum. Until now I couldn’t really see any connection between them. I couldn’t get my head around how Wilf fit into my family. But now I can see it very clearly.
It’s a lot to take in.
I carefully fold the letter up again, slide it back into its envelope and pick up the second.
Carissimo Arnaldo,
Thanks very much for your letter. I’m so happy—
I’m interrupted by the sound of voices.
Shit. It’s Theo and the kids.
I stuff the letter back in the envelope. I don’t want anyone to know about them—not yet, anyway. And I certainly don’t want the kids to see me dressed like this.
I pick up both boxes and dash through to the cottage, where I slide them under the bed, next to the stone inscribed with the names WILF+ ARNALDO.
I quickly take off my shower cap and put on some clothes.
Chapter 14
On Sunday, I know the five of us are going to be together all day. As I’m not going to get the chance to read the letters, I try not to think about them. We’ve decided to go on a day trip to the nearby seaside resort of Viareggio. But things don’t go according to plan.
Theo had wanted to leave the house after an early breakfast so we could find a parking space close to the front and a spot on the public beach. But Callum refused to get out of bed till nearly eleven, which he insisted was early for a Sunday. And then Mabel announced that she’s on her period and couldn’t possibly do beachwear. Theo looked almost as embarrassed as I was by this—and only marginally less out of his depth. It struck me that it must be hard for Mabel being the only girl, something I hadn’t considered before. We agreed to abandon the beach.
