OLD NEGATIVES
Everyone hides a secret, a little treasure locked away behind a key that we tuck into the deepest pocket of our soul, away from even the dearest of confidants. Imagine that key slipping into some forgotten drawerwould that even be possible?
At seven oclock in the evening, as was her habit, Emma saw her husband Oliver to the front door, wrapped him in an embrace and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. She whispered a wish for a calm night shift, free of emergencies and heavy cases. Seeing him off like this had become a ritual in their household. They had been married twentynine years, practically since childhood, and had raised three splendid childrentwin boys and a beautiful daughter, Lily. The offspring, now grown, lived apart, each with their own families, yet they returned often to visit the parents.
Oliver and Emma held each others hands, exchanged kisses, and hugged without shame, standing by the doorway as if they could read each others steps, gait, even breath. Emma lingered a moment in the hallway; the entrance door behind Oliver slammed shut with a
creak. She was left alone, save for the cat, Mr. Whiskers.
Anyone who has spent decades together knows that a pause, a quiet moment apart, is a kind of recharge. As the old saying goes, it is useful to lay the cards out from ace to six, to straighten out ones dreams, feelings and wishes. A solitaire of the mind, you might say, tolerates no frantic bustle or rash decisions. A little distance, a short batteryrecharge, is essential for each partner.
Fed the cat, washed the dishes, boiled the soup, baked a cherry tart, Emma thought, reaching for her mobile and scrolling the Facebook feed.
She knew it was foolish to hunt for former friends online, that the tide of everyday troubles sweeps away anyone who isnt rowing beside you. Still, a name buried under centuries of dust tugged at her mind. She wanted to type it, just once, and see what would happen.
Mr. Whiskers shifted his weight, offering his back, his belly, his head for a pat, always obedient because his whole world revolved around Emma. After a hearty dinner and a grueling day, the cat curled into a tight ball beside Emmas legofthesofa, drifting into a deserved nap. Cats, after all, keep their own unscheduled hours; a few hours of rest before nightfall replenished his energy for the next silent patrol.
Fine, if I cant have it, Ill try anyway, Emma whispered, her heart thudding, and dialed the name that had long faded into the shadows of memory.
The internet, that strange miracle, lured her with a single tap. She slipped into its web, spiralling down an endless tunnel that seemed both pointless and inevitable.
Faces with the right name and surname flickered across the screen. Emma clicked on each profile, studying the avatars.
After all these years, Simon could have changed a lot, but not beyond recognition, she reassured herself.
What if he posts a picture of a car, a pet, or something else? How will I know its him? she worried. Ill keep scrolling, maybe Ill find a clue.
Fifteen minutes later, boredom gnawed at her. She was about to abandon the futile search when a blackandwhite photograph flashed before her eyes. She skimmed past it, then something pulled her back, compelling her to examine it more closely.
A flick of her finger returned the same monochrome image.
No way, she breathed aloud.
She abandoned the phone on the settee and rushed upstairs to the attic, where she kept her most guarded relics, hidden from prying eyes.
Do you, too, keep driedup flowers given by a schoolboy, an empty perfume bottle that no longer smells, yellowed cinema tickets, a tram ticket stub, a broken hairpin, a dulled brooch, a handembroidered handkerchief? When you read these lines you might smile, or perhaps wipe a tear. These seemingly useless objects linger because they whisper of people who mattered, of moments that still sting. They are tiny anchors to pain and longing, yet we cannot simply discard them. Where, in the mind, is the delete button?
In the far corner of a shelf, Emma uncovered a cardboard box painted with a crystal vase holding a bouquet of red roses. She hoped that some of us still remembered the taste of pinkwhite marshmallow, the tang of soursweet marmalade, the striped sherbet that parents offered on big celebrations. Childhood flavours are impossible to forget.
Once, that box had held a favourite treatsnack. The treat was now a relic, turned into a vault for broken fragments of Emmas dreams, scattered like shards across the boxs interior.
She opened the lid. Inside lay a stack of old letters tied with a blue satin ribbon, a wilted rose that had lost its colour, and other personal treasures.
Emma tugged the ribbon; the letters fluttered down. One envelope slipped onto the floor, spilling blackandwhite photographs.
Its the same picture I saw on Facebook, she whispered. I remember us with Simon, developing the photos in the bathtub, rinsing them in a basin, then hanging them on the windowsill to dry.
Older folk recall cameras named Foth, Kiev and Zenith, the tools of a bygone century. Their blackandwhite prints were magical; linger too long in the developer and they turned dark, pull them out too soon and they stayed pale.
Emma examined the photos: one showed Simon feeding white swans at a pond, another captured them cuddled on a park bench. Neither would belong in a family album.
She also remembered her favourite polkadot dress, bought with her mothers entire salary, which had fedup the household to a month of boiled potatoes, stewed cabbage and tea. A dark blue belt with a shiny buckle, a gift from Aunt Kate, once highlighted her slender waist. Red sandals that had once kept her standing in endless queues.
Thirty years, she said aloud, its been that long since I saw Simon.
Simon had moved to Manchester. He sent letters, then stopped.
A sigh escaped Emma.
She had first met Simon at a university gathering while studying food technology. Hed graduated from polytechnic but never worked in his field, drifting from job to job. His parents lived somewhere in Africa, visiting only a few times a year, spoiling their only son.
Simon had been a flash of lightning in Emmas grey days, an obsession that felt like a dream. She abandoned Oliver, with whom shed been seeing for three years and planned to marry as soon as his medical training finished.
Oliver and Emma had grown up on the same landing, neighbours since infancy. He was always polite, calm, kind, listening to her endless chatter without interrupting, eyes full of admiration. Emma, by contrast, was sparklike, impatient, impulsive.
They attended the same school. Before lessons, Oliver would fetch her from home, tie her shoes, coax her into a hat and mittens, proudly carry her satchel, hold her hand despite teasing classmates.
Simon, unlike Oliver, babbled nonstop, constantly misplaced his belongings, yet knew how to court a woman with compliments, rare gifts, guitar songs, daily bouquets. That flamboyant courtship shattered Emmas resolve, and she left Oliver without a word.
Oliver worked night shifts in surgery and studied by day; his parents barely scraped by, leaving him with no safety net. He had to earn everything with his own grit.
What a fool I was, Emma thought, to trade my steady Oliver for that selfabsorbed peacock Simon!
One evening Simon invited Emma over. They drank champagne, nibbled strawberries, laughed, whispered sweet nothings, and Simon professed eternal love, covering her fingers, arms, neck, and finally her lips with hot kisses. What followed, Emma could not recall.
A month later, suspicion gnawed at her. She visited a doctor; the verdict was clearshe was pregnant.
Simon! I have good news! Were having a baby! Boy or girl? she asked, trembling.
Really? Thats wonderful, Simon replied lazily. I have to dash to Manchester for work. Once Im settled, Ill come for you. Dont worry, well be together soon.
Emma stood on the platform, waving at a speeding train, unaware it would be the last time shed see Simon.
Early morning nausea, tears of disappointment, fear, despair, a feeling that the ground was slipping away.
Whats your due date? Oliver asked when he happened upon her on the street.
Four months, Emma replied, averting her gaze.
Did he leave you? he pressed.
Simon went to Manchester looking for a job. He promised to return, but he stopped writing. Maybe something happened to him, she whispered, voice shaking. Oliver, Im sorry. I hate myself.
Oliver reached for her hand, but she slipped away and ran.
Soon gossip whispered that Simon had fled with a new lover to the Baltic states, his trail gone cold.
The light in Emmas soul dimmed. Had Simon ever truly been her light?
Stress took its toll; Emma was admitted to a maternity ward for observation.
You cant understand, Emma! The child needs a father, a moment to repeat a mantra, Oliver declared daily, visiting the ward. Marry me. The baby will bear my name. I promise never to blame you for a child that isnt mine. You know I love youfrom the moment I first saw you in the sandbox, in that yellow dress, pounding a shovel into our neighbours head, his shout echoing across the yard, your knees stained with green paint. I thought, What a brilliant girl, well get along. If Im even a little dear to you, my love is enough for two. I wont promise golden mountains, but Ill share all I have, in sickness and health, until death parts us. I swear it!
Emma shook her head.
You dont know Im having twinstwo boys. How can you bear such a weight? What will your parents think? Can you forgive me after everything Ive done? she sobbed.
Oliver stared, unmoving, silent.
Emma realised there was no rescue; she must pay for her mistakes, the fault squarely hers.
So well have two sons? A bunk bed, a double stroller, matching blue suits? Not everyone gets such a chance, Oliver said with a smile. Ill find a way. My parents will support me. Ive saved money for our wedding; it will cover the cot, the stroller, everything. If youll be my wife, youll make me truly happy. Ill do everything I can so you never regret choosing me.
From the maternity ward, a proud Oliver welcomed his newborn sons, flanked by both sets of grandparents bearing flowers and balloons. Nurses dabbed at their eyes, watching the new father tenderly adjust the tiny blue ribbons on the babies white swaddles.
Oliver kept his promisenever chastising Emma, always present in sorrow and joy.
Four years later a daughter, Lily, arrived.
Together Oliver and Emma endured much, but never grew bitter; the trials only tightened their bond. Their love became a rope twisted three times over.
When their sons later swore vows to their own partners, the couple dabbed each others cheeks with handkerchiefs, fully aware of the weight of those promises.
Oliver eventually melted Emmas frozen heart, turning it into a spring of healing water. Emma now loves and respects her husband, constantly feeding the fire of their love so it burns brighter each year.
Remarkably, their boys, Sam and Max, followed their father into medicineSam became a surgeon, Max an ophthalmologist. Lily, like her mother, delights in baking cakes, pies and pastries. Together they opened a patisserie on Central Street, a tiny shop always bustling, its walls adorned with blackandwhite photos.
People who visit marvel at the owners culinary skill; the monochrome pictures on the walls hold a strange power, laying bare the soul of anyone who looks long enough.
Emma retrieved the old negatives from her hidden stash.
Its time to let go of the past, she announced, lighting the film.
Why arent you answering my calls? a voice crackled.
Sorry, Oliver, I left my phone in the bedroom. Why arent you at work? Emma turned to see Oliver standing, bewildered.
What are you doing in the kitchen at midnight? Is there a fire?
Ive burned the negative memories. Its fine, dont worry. The smoke will clear.
I keep calling, but youre playing with matches. As Bulgakov said, Manuscripts dont burn. Do you think memory can be incinerated?
Memory? Unlikely. Only the old negative can be destroyed, Emma sighed. Where words fail, black and white will speak for us.
Agree?
