I wrap the photo in old newspaper and slot it into the box. I’ve got lots to do. There’s no time to be sentimental.
That evening, I take the boxes to Auntie Julie’s. As an only child, I don’t have much family and after Mum died, Auntie Julie brought me up. All these years later, we’re still close.
Although they got on well, Mum and her only sister were very different. If Mum was known as a beauty—with an enviably slimfigure—Julie was often called “big-boned” or people would comment on her “lovely personality.” Unlike Mum, Julie didn’t dye her hair, which I always thought was the same shade of brown as the sugar we used in baking. And while Mum liked nothing more than getting dressed up to go out, Julie preferred to stay in wearing her slippers and an apron. She’s always been happiest in the kitchen—and inspired my passion for cooking and baking.
When I arrive at the house, Julie’s partner Jason is just leaving. He works nights as a security guard in the Trafford Centre, even though he’s a talented carpenter and is always building things in the garage. But he also has a stutter and is shy around people he doesn’t know—and this has held him back. As a tall, well-built Black man, he’s always managed to find work in security, which I worry could be a sign of racial stereotyping but he insists doesn’t bother him. And, as he often points out, working in the Trafford Centre introduced him to Julie. She works in the shopping mall’s HR department—which is another area in which she’s influenced me. On Jason’s first day—just over twenty years ago—he had to report to her to fill in some forms, something that made him nervous. But Julie immediately put him at ease, so much so that shortly afterwards he asked her out for a drink. Possibly because of his stutter, Jason had never married or had children. I wonder if Julie never married because she had to look after me.
I give Jason a hug and together we load the boxes into the garage. Once he’s left for work, Julie puts the kettle on and makes us both a mug of tea, which we take through to the lounge. It’s a cozy room, with lots of scatter cushions—all in Julie’s favorite pink—plus several well-tended houseplants and a vase of magenta roses. As this is the house where I moved to live just before my twelfth birthday, it still feels like home.
“So are you all set, chuck?” Julie asks, as she makes herself comfortable in her favorite armchair.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I sit on the sofa opposite. “This thing with the kids has thrown a spanner in the works but I’m still excited about it.”
“Good.” She blows on her tea. “You know, I still can’t get over it. It still doesn’t feel real.”
“You’re telling me. A few months ago, I didn’t even know where Wilfred lived and now I’m moving into his house.”
Julie arches an eyebrow. “Wilf, I think they called him. I’ve just remembered. Or at least my mum and dad did. On the rare occasions they mentioned him.”
“That’s interesting.” I stand up and walk over to the windowsill, where I pick up a photo of Julie’s parents—my grandparents. I peer closer and examine the face of my grandma—Wilf’s sister—to see if she looks like him. I think there may be a resemblance.
“So do you still have no idea why they fell out?” I ask, sitting down again and pulling some of the cushions out from behind me.
Julie lifts a hand to tidy her hair, which is shorter than it used to be and much lighter. “I’m afraid not. I was four years younger than your mum, remember. Nobody told me anything: they treated me like a kid who needed protecting. That is, until I started working things out for myself. …” A shadow scudders across her face.
“What are you talking about? Working out what for yourself?”
She has a sip of tea. “Nothing. I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about Wilf. I always just assumed he got some Italian girl in the family way.”
“But the lawyer in Italy said he had no kids.”
Julie puts her head to one side. “Then maybe he just ran off with one. This was only a few years after the war, remember. And my granddad—his dad—wouldn’t have liked him seeing anyone from Italy. He fought the Italians and for a long time was a prisoner of war.”
“Oh yeah, I didn’t make that connection.” I have a gulp of tea. “The only thing is, the lawyer said Wilf wasn’t married. So if he did run off with an Italian girl, it can’t have lasted. In those days wouldn’t they have got married?”
“Not if she was married in the first place.”
I turn my mug between my hands. “I didn’t think of that.”
Julie sits back and puts her feet up on the pouffe. “I remember once, when we were kids, your mum mentioned Wilf to our granddad. He went berserk and clipped her round the ear. Afterwards,Grandma took us to one side and said he didn’t want to talk about Wilf as he found it too upsetting.”
I frown. “So whatever happened, it must have been bad.”
“Especially as beforehand Wilf was a bit of a golden boy. He was the first in our family to go to university and was an English teacher.” Julie takes a swig of tea and sets her mug on a pink coaster. “That must have been a big deal for someone from our background. We lived in a council house, remember. My grandma and granddad—Wilf’s mum and dad—left school at fourteen and worked in the mill.”
Now I’m even more intrigued. “So were you never tempted to look him up on social media?” I’m not sure why I’m asking that question—I’ve already looked him up several times and found nothing. I just told myself that he was eighty-nine when he died so it was hardly surprising.
Julie screws up her nose. “I’m sorry to say that by the time social media was a thing I hardly thought about him.”
“It’s just such a mystery.”
“I know, chuck.” Julie folds her arms under her ample bust. “But you’ve got a good chance of solving it. You’ve just inherited his house—and presumably all his stuff.”
I remember the wardrobes and drawers in Wilf’s bedroom stuffed full of old clothes, his study stuffed full of bills and bank statements, and the wine store stuffed full of everything but wine. “Honestly, there’s loads of it,” I say. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Well, maybe you should forget about Wilf and just enjoy what you’ve got,” says Julie. “Maybe it’s better not to dwell on the past. What good can it do? Start afresh. A big old house like that is going to be full of ghosts. Sweep them out and make it your own.”
Chapter 3
