‘Of course,’ says Tumi. ‘We understand. It’s very precious.’
‘There’s no point in having all this if no one ever looks at it,’ says Mrs Bailey. ‘You two – you’re going to tell his story. And that’s what we want, for people to remember our Will and his music.’
When Aidan and Mrs Bailey leave the room, I say, ‘Woah. This is cool.’
‘I can’t believe they’re letting us go through all this,’ says Tumi. ‘Let’s start with the notebooks.’
She takes one end of the shelf and I take the other. I grab a notebook and sit on the floor. Most of the scribbles covering the pages make no sense to me, but I find the odd gem as I flick. I spot lyrics I recognise, and as I turn the pages, the words evolve as he honed and perfected them. Some sections are like diary entries, and it feels wrong to read them, but I do. I flip through the pages, consuming his thoughts and ideas.
‘You could write a book with all this material,’ says Tumi. ‘We should speak to someone who worked with him during the songwriting process. Someone who can explain all this.’
My mum could help us now. I expect she knows all about how he wrote songs. Suddenly I’m sad. Sad I can’t talk to Mum about this. Sad Will Bailey is dead. Sad his mum has preserved this room almost exactly as it was when he was last here.
Tumi senses my mood. ‘It’s emotional, isn’t it?’
Our eyes meet and all I can manage is a nod.
After an hour, Mrs Bailey pops in, asking if we want more tea. I say no but Tumi says yes and asks to use the loo. Alonein the room, all I can think about is the letters in the trunk. What if there’s a mention of my mum in there?
Mrs Bailey is clinking cups in the next room. The trunk’s still open, with the letters visible. I pick up the bundle. The surrounding string is loose, and the top envelope slips out easily. I lift the flap and pull out the contents: two sheets of yellowing paper, every centimetre covered in words and sketches. A doodle of a jar of Marmite catches my eye.
I scan the page so fast I can’t make sense of the random snippets. But I can tell the letter is intimate. Whoever wrote this knew him well. I turn the pages, rushing to find who has signed it before Tumi gets back.
The letter is so full the last line finishes vertically up the margin:
I miss you so much it hurts. I think about you all the time. I can’t wait till New York. I love you. Yours forever, Milly x.
Milly? Could that be Mum? Come to think of it, that looks a little like her handwriting. I don’t know why but I want it to be her. I hope she meant something to him, that they had this amazing love affair. That she was his muse or something.
I can hear Tumi talking to Mrs Bailey in the kitchen, so I use the last few moments alone to scan the rest of the letters in the stack. They’re addressed to him at various hotels in America, all in the same handwriting. This Milly was important to him. She wrote a lot, and he kept all her letters.
I go to the shelf and pick another notebook. I can’t stop thinking Mum could be Milly and I can’t concentrate on Will’s notes, so it’s a while before I realise Tumi hasn’t come back.
I open the door to the kitchen. Tumi and Mrs Bailey are sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits between them, chatting away like old friends.
‘Mrs Bailey was just telling me about “Fever”,’ says Tumi.
‘Call me Mary, please.’
‘Will went travelling when he was twenty-one. He got a mysterious illness while island-hopping in Greece. He almost died!’ Tumi sounds weirdly pleased about it. ‘“Fever” is about the mad hallucinations he had while he was recovering in hospital.’
‘Ah Jaysus, it was awful!’ cries Mrs Bailey. ‘I never could listen to that song.’
She pats the seat beside her, so I pull up a chair. Aidan Bailey joins us then and fresh tea is made. We sip the tea and nibble biscuits and listen to a still-grieving mother reminisce about her late son. Aidan Bailey is quiet, staring down at his hands, but the few times he speaks it’s clear he misses his little brother.
When Tumi is satisfied we have enough for our article, she says it’s time to go and Aidan offers us a lift to the station. But I don’t want to leave. There’s so much more to see. I panic at the thought of never seeing this stuff again.
As we say goodbye to Mrs Bailey, I have a crazy idea. ‘If you like, I can come back and organise the archive for you?’ I blurt at the front door. ‘I could even scan the important stuff so you can put it on the website.’
‘You’d do that?’ asks Mrs Bailey.
‘We’ll need to check with the office on that,’ says Tumi.
‘I’d be happy to do it in my spare time.’
‘We can get back to you on the detail,’ says Tumi. ‘Thanks again for letting us look. This collection is very special.’
Back at the office, as it’s the last day of my work experience, I hand out the Krispy Kremes Dad gave me to say thank you. I’m just biting into one when Paul calls me into the meeting room. Tumi is sitting beside him.