“To be honest, I didn’t know at the time. I only found out after she died.”
“What difference does that make? That was thirty-four years ago.”
I sense she’s hiding something from me and I don’t like it. It feels like it’s getting hotter and I blow down the neck of my T-shirt.
I hear Julie standing up and giving a little groan. “I’m going to put the kettle on. I’m desperate for a brew.”
“Come on,” I insist, “stop trying to dodge the subject. How did you find out Mum had been writing to Wilf?”
“I can’t remember, chuck! There was loads going on, and in case you’ve forgotten, I was grieving for my sister.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I can hardly argue with that.
Julie turns on the tap and fills the kettle. “But I wouldn’t read too much into it. You know what your mum was like. She was probably just angling for a free holiday. I always said she had champagne tastes and a lemonade budget.”
An electric current shoots through me. I wonder if whatever letter—or letters—Mum sent are still here. I wonder if they’re in that second shoebox.
All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by the urge to look.
I shift gears and ask Julie about her holiday, which she seems to appreciate. Then I update her on mine and check in on how things are going with the Airbnb lettings in Manchester. When the kettle starts shrieking, I spot my opportunity and say I’ll leave her to her unpacking.
“Bye!” I sing-song. “I’ll speak to you soon.”
“Yeah, see you, chuck.”
Once I’ve ended the call, I sit still for a moment. I sit in silence, listening to the sound of the crickets and the birdsong.
While I am desperate to look for Mum’s letters, I’m also frightened. What if I find out something I don’t want to know?
There’s a rustle in the undergrowth. I’ve no idea what it is but decide to head back.
I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something Julie isn’t telling me. But what if she’s trying to protect me?
Yeah, I need to think about this.
Chapter 29
It’s Sunday but, for once, Callum doesn’t have to be dragged out of bed. He gets himself up early to do his workout. Through the open window of his bedroom, I hear him grunting and panting, as I sit on the patio, sipping my morning coffee, readingThe Heart in Exile.
The book’s lead character is a middle-class psychiatrist struggling against his nature—a nature that, like Wilf, he finds it difficult to name, although he sometimes uses the medical terminvert. When his ex-lover dies in unexplained circumstances, the psychiatrist delves back into the underworld he gave up—because he found it “sordid”—to try and track down some answers. While the plot’s gripping, I’m fascinated by the details of the subculture he describes—although the character’s self-loathing and hatred of effeminate gay men can be wearing. And Wilf seemed to accept his class snobbery and treatment of working-class men as sex objects, but I find it difficult to stomach. Once I’ve finished the book, I’m going to scour Wilf’s library to see if I can find any other novels about gay life at other stages of history.
I’m torn away from my reading when the others stir. After going up to the temporary kitchen to make a breakfast of orange juice and fried eggs onciabatta—and after we’ve thrown the orangesover the hill—the kids do the washing up in the cottage bathroom. Then we look around the wine store collecting as many baskets as we can find and set about stripping the fig trees of their fruit. Stefano examined these the last time he came to the house and told us they were ready. Judging by the taste, he’s right. I’ve never eaten fresh figs before but they’re deliciously rich and sweet, somewhere between strawberries and currants, with a dash of dates. All of us eat as we work, making appreciative noises, Callum and Mabel breaking off to take the occasional photo. My favorite is of Archie holding up a fig in each hand, bolts of lightning shaved into the sides of his head, just like Marco the barber.
In the afternoon, we go shopping for hammocks, which we’ve decided we’ll set up between the trees at the side of the house, the opposite end to the chapel. Everything I’ve read about holiday rentals says you need to create “Instagrammable moments.” I’m sure the castle and its views are going to rank number one on our list but I want to create some more, inspiring our guests to post several times. We find two hammocks that aren’t expensive and are in pretty much the same turquoise as the front doors. As Wilf and Arnaldo must have chosen this, I decide it’s going to be our signature color.
“Is that the color you’re doing the website?” asks Callum.
I suddenly realize that, other than registering the domain name for the Castello Montemagno—and setting up an Instagram account in the same name—I haven’t done anything. In fact, I’d forgotten about it completely. “I haven’t had chance to think about that yet,” I say.
“Adam, you need to get on it,” Callum argues. “It’ll take ages to do the design and get everything set up.”
“I know, I will!”
On the way back, we call at the supermarket to pick up everything we need to make pizzas. On Friday, the builders finished rebuilding the roof over the pizza oven and told us to leave it a few days; then we could use it. As we’re still in the temporary kitchen, we’re reduced to using ready-made bases, but the kids enjoy picking their own toppings and coming up with names for their combinations.
Next stop is the beauty aisle, where Mabel finds everything she’s prescribed for my new skincare regime.
“I’m looking forward to this,” I tell her. We exchange a smile.
