First thing tomorrow, I’ll go to the telephone box and tell school I’m poorly. I’ll have to write a proper letter of resignation to the headmaster from Italy (and try not to feel guilty about giving him no notice). After that, I’ll go to a travel agency to book my trains to Italy and my passage on the overnight ferry to France. I’ll call into the Post Office to send this letter and I’ll also go to the bank to draw out my savings, although I’ve never been abroad so goodness knows where I go to change it into French and Italian currency. Happen a clerk at the bank will tell me. As for my little house, I’ve paid the rent until the end of the month so I’ll just do a flit. Do you know what that means? It’s when you move out without telling anyone, usually if folk are coming after you for money. If folk come after me, it won’t be for money. Any road, I won’t let them find me. I’m going to London to stay in a hotel until I can catch my train to the continent.
As for what happens when I arrive in Italy, I like the sound of that house you’ve found in the hills, the one with the old castle. It sounds like it’s surrounded by nature, which is marvellous. It doesn’t bother me that it isn’t very modern and parts of it are dilapidated, although it does sound like it’s in a remote setting, so I hope you can hold on to your car. Nor does it bother me that we won’t have any money to fix it up properly. Once you’ve set up your own concern and I’ve found work as an English teacher, it’ll be different. Please go ahead and buy it as soon as you can. The last thing we want is for the owner to find out he’s selling to two queers and pull out.
You said the house isn’t far from Lucca, so I’ll go there, find a hotel, and write to you. If my letter doesn’t arrive, or if someone in your family intercepts it, I have a back-up plan. I found an old guidebook in the library and it mentioned a square called Piazza dell’Anfiteatro. The square was a hundred years old when the book was writtenso I can only assume it’s still there, and still will be when I arrive. Apparently, it’s used as a food market during the day so I’ll avoid that as it’ll be busy, but I’ll wait there every evening from 7 o’clock until you come and find me. I know you won’t let me down, carissimo.
In case you’re wondering, I don’t regret anything. I may be upset and blinking petrified, but I’m also sick of hiding and pretending, always trying to act like a proper man so nobody will spot the way I am. It’s no way to live. At least what we’re doing is more honest, even if our families do hate us for it. We don’t need them, any road. We’ll create a new family ourselves, just the two of us.
Oh, Arnaldo, I’m shaking like a leaf and goodness knows how I’m going to sleep, but I’m also excited that very soon we’ll be together once again.
Come Hell or high water, I’ll see you in Lucca!
Con tutto il mio cuore,
Wilf xx
As I put down the letter, this time I don’t feel upset. My heart is thumping against my ribcage and I’m burning with rage. How could Wilf’s parents—my great-grandparents—have treated him like that? How could Mum’s parents—my own grandparents—have been so cruel?
My granddad died a few years before I was born so I have no memories of him, but I do remember my grandma. She died when I was eight or nine and before that, we spent a lot of time together. Did she ever express disapproval if I behaved in a way that made her suspect I was gay? Were there ever any judgmental looks or raised eyebrows? I can’t recall.
I fold the letter up again. I want to know what happened next but this is Wilf’s final letter. Obviously, he made it to Italy and the two of them made it to this house, so if Arnaldo didn’t receive the letter about where Wilf was staying, I can only assume they met on Piazza dell’Anfiteatro.
As I slide the letter back into the envelope, I feel a pulse of shame that I ever doubted Theo’s love for me. Wilf and Arnaldohad a much tougher time than we have but Wilf never doubted Arnaldo’s feelings—all he ever asked for was confirmation of his commitment. That was all it took for him to risk everything.
I open the second shoebox—the one that’s stuffed full of letters—but the envelopes of the first few are addressed to Arnaldo and the senders’ names and addresses are all Italian. Even if I could read what’s in them, it wouldn’t be fair: they contain other people’s stories, possibly even their secrets.
I’m interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” comes a mumble, “Mabel.”
“Just a minute!” I quickly stuff the letters in their boxes and push them back under the bed. “Come in!”
Mabel enters, her head down so I can’t see her face, clutching a new toothbrush. “I just want to say I’m sorry. What I did was awful. I’ve thought about it and I’m devo.”
I let out a breath. “In that case, apology accepted.”
I’m not sure what else to say as I’m still immersed in Wilf’s story—and my heart is hammering. But I can tell Mabel’s sorry. When she raises her head, she looks thoroughly miserable.
“You know what, it was an old toothbrush,” I say, with forced jollity. “I needed a new one anyway.”
She shuffles up the stairs and hands it over.
“Thanks,” I say. And I give her a smile. I hope this isn’t going to set us back, just when I thought we were making progress.
I smooth out the bed sheets. “We all make mistakes, Mabel. Let’s just forget this ever happened. Tomorrow morning, let’s wake up and start again. How does that sound?”
She nods, meekly. “OK.”
I stand up, trying to put Wilf and his story out of my mind. “Come on, let’s go and see what the others are up to. It’s nearly five o’clock, so we should finally get a rest from all that banging.”
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 anape, 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 thegenteel 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.
