When Lenny tried the first of the cupboards, the one on the left-hand side, they struck lucky. Wedged inside he found a cardboard box of Polaroids. Most of them were of Pippa, Freya and Howie, but they were far more interesting, far more candid and unposed than the ones Freya had shown them. Some were of Luke, wearing headphones, a Walkman in his hands. Occasionally the shots included Luke’s sister, Mary, and sometimes, an older man, probably in his thirties and usually in the background, who Adrian assumed to be Freya and Howie’s father. Included in the collection they found less candid pictures—these ones posed and formal—of Matthew and his sister, sitting on the lawn in the back garden of Bryn Bach, reading or drawing. At the same time, a much younger, recognisably severe-looking Aunt Millicent looked on from her deckchair on the raised patio. But even those told a story.
Towards the bottom of the box, Lenny pulled out a brown envelope containing shots of random older men, the collection only slightly faded with time but still sharp and surprisingly homoerotic. All of the men looked to be in their twenties, one handsome guy with freckles and red wavy hair, bare-chested and smiling unsurely at the camera. Another shot, taken in what looked to be the garden of the Manor Inn, showed two men with drinks at a wooden table, straddling the bench so that they sat facing each other, and grinning broadly at a shared secret. Multiple snaps of a bronzed and muscled farmhand stood out, a blond-haired guy wearing a thin white vest, almost obscenely short blue shorts with thick thighs and long legs descending into Wellington boots, who looked to be fixing the massive wheel of a tractor. Unlike the others, this man smiled and laughed openly, enjoying the attention, posing almost seductively for some pictures, but in others comfortable in his work and seemingly ignorant of the camera. The photos had been taken at different times because in one he was wearing a rugby shirt and chatting with Pippa and Howie. One thing was for sure. The cameraman had been captivated by his subject.
“We ought to find out who that is,” said Adrian.
“He’s good-looking, isn’t he?”
The pang of jealousy Adrian felt caught him entirely by surprise.
“Is he your type?”
“When I say he’s good-looking, I’m speaking objectively. He does nothing for me in that way. Too young, too clean cut, too innocent. Turns out you’re my type.”
Even if he had wanted to, Adrian could not have stopped the smile that rose from deep within him.
“Yeah?”
Lenny leant in and kissed him on the lips.
“Oh, yeah.”
“So maybe we should show some of these to Pippa,” said Adrian, putting one snapshot to one side. “She’s in this one with him, so she might remember who he is. What’s that at the bottom of the box?”
“Postcards,” said Lenny, reaching for them and flipping one over to read. “Sent from Bristol. Addressed to Howie and Freya from Luke to let them know the dates he would be coming to Bryn Bach.”
“Try the other cupboard.”
The second one turned out to hold even more interesting items. From inside, on the top of a pile, Lenny pulled out an old camera in its original packing.
“This is an Olympus OM1,” said Lenny, turning the box in his hands. “They were all the rage when they first came out. I wonder if Luke had hidden this to use later for his photography course.”
In the cupboard, they also discovered a collapsible camera tripod with six unopened boxes of Kodak 35mm film, and an old cassette recorder. While Lenny sorted through them, Adrian pulled out a pile of old books. One had pages of photographs by the famous portrait photographer, David Bailey, another showed the Polaroids of Andy Warhol, while the third entitledThe Americanswas by a photographer called Robert Frank. Apart from that there was a pile of well-thumbed paperbacks, including the firstTales of the Cityby Armistead Maupin,The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen,Mauriceby E. M. Forster, and a small, tattered,Berlitz Travel Guide to Italy. Adrian had read them all except the travel guide. Armistead Maupin’sTales of the Cityseries had been his go-to books in London during many a dark day when he had been feeling low, something to lighten his spirit and make him feel the world was an okay place to live in, no matter who you were, or how you chose to live your life. He took the book from Lenny and smelled the musty pages. He was moved knowing he and Luke had cherished the same book, had read the same words.
Adrian flicked through the pages and noticed a couple turned over in the corner. He used to do the same thing, not as a bookmark, but to highlight passages or sections he enjoyed reading over again.
“Oh my goodness. Look at this,” said Lenny, handing Adrian a couple of larger photographs. In another envelope, he had discovered a sheet of folded paper and some very old pictures, in what Felippe had once referred to as sepia tones—dark brown and cream colours. Adrian smiled, seeing the image of Bryn Bach during its construction. In another, six workmen of varying ages in shirt sleeves, flat caps, baggy trousers and work boots had been arranged rather stiffly and uncomfortably around a man in a smart black suit with a waistcoat, a high collar and black tie. Obviously from the upper classes, this besuited man sported long sideburns and peered haughtily at the camera.
“Lord Charles, I’m guessing. But have a look at this.”
In the last photograph, Lord Charles had his arm around the shoulders of one of the younger construction workers, one who bore a passing family resemblance to Lenny.
“Looks like Lord Charlie took a shine to your great, great grandfather.”
“I think you may be right. And look at this. It’s our family tree.”
Adrian peered over Lenny’s shoulder at the beautiful calligraphy mapping out the family’s bloodline.
“No doubt our ancestral tree began before this, but Luke must have been intrigued to know about Lord Charles Hawesworth, the man who left the house to Harold Hubert Day, our great, great grandfather. According to this, Harold married at twenty-one and had four children, the oldest being Denham Charles Day.”
Adrian followed Lenny’s finger down the page, where someone had pencilled in Bryn Bach against individual names. All through their family history, the house had been left to the oldest son in the family.
“Why would your grandfather decide to break with tradition and leave the property to Luke? Surely your father should have been the rightful owner after him.”
“Maybe he knew how much Luke loved the place. Maybe he discovered how oppressed Luke was by his mother and wanted to provide a safety net. I met Grandpa George a number of times. My father always referred to him as frighteningly perceptive. I remember my grandpa saying to my parents once, in front of me, that I was never going to waste my life in academia, but destined for commerce or other things more business orientated. I’m betting he told my father of his intentions to leave Bryn Bach to Luke and probably explained why.”
“You think he knew Luke was gay?”
“No idea. But as I said, the old fox could be perceptive. And my father would have understood. He clearly had no interest in the house, otherwise we’d have visited.”
