OLD PHOTOGRAPH
Oh, granddad! Are those mushrooms? the spry little lad whirled around Arthur Whitaker. His name suited him perfectlyTommy, as lively as his nickname suggested.
Yes, the old man replied, his voice weary, a sigh escaping his lips.
Even though porcini had grown on the hedgerows of their hamlet since time immemorial, the old fellow found it a struggle to lug a basket brimming with the fleshy caps. He perched for a breath on the same timeworn bench outside the cottage of Mrs. Maggie Hawthorne. What a grandmother she was, he thought, having married long before Maggie had ever tied the knot with her own husband, Thomas. To him she was nothing more than Tommys greatgrandmotherif only her brother, Jack, hadnt been roaming the towns with his coat flapping to the age of forty, she might have been counted among the ancients. Her house was empty, and then, a year ago, a stranger appeared on the doorstepa man with a family in tow. The shock was palpable! Maggies shriek echoed so loudly that the villagers thought the old woman was being cut down. Fortunately it turned out to be sheer delight.
That summer the townsfolk once more rolled in as Augusts sun slipped toward the horizon. Tommy spun from dawn till dusk along the dusty lanes. What else could he do, with no peers to chase? Hed pestered the elders, especially Arthur, for a break. Now Arthur, longing for a moments rest, hurried home so his wife Emily could sort the mushrooms and soak them while he massaged his aching feet on the bed. Then Tommy, clutching his plastic gadget, veered toward Arthurs basket and begged:
Let me take a picture!
And what do you think youre doing, you little rascal? Shooting with whatsome board? the old man wondered, forgetting his own sore feet.
With my tablet! Tommy declared, hoisting his contraption high above his head.
He angled his toy with solemn pride, and the click of a camera rang out.
Look! Tommy turned the back of his board toward Arthur, who stared in astonishment at the image of his own basket.
Brilliant! the elder managed, but before he could collect himself, Tommy flicked a careless finger across the photograph, and where the mushrooms should have been, a face appeared.
Father, Tommy said gravely, and Arthur, caught off guard, cast a sideways glance at his basket: What on earth? One moment its a basket, the next its Jack! Yet the mushrooms were still there, untouched
Tommys finger kept moving:
Thats Mum, thats our cottage thats the Marquis
Arthur knew the Marquis. It wasnt a cat at all, but a piglet that Maggies daughterinlaw only ever took for a walk on a leash. The village folk never understood why a leash was neededcats simply sauntered behind their owners. Until the tractor driver Pashka finally muttered:
She drags it on a lead like a kite!
Granddad, may I photograph you? Tommy blurted, flipping through his pictures.
What for? the old man asked, baffled.
Well you look grand: white beard, strong hands, not like a father, tanned, tough. You Tommy faltered, searching for words, then blurted out, Like my granny, only granddad! He paused, then tried to salvage the awkwardness, adding, Right.
Arthur chuckled.
No need to he began, stopping himself.
He stared into Tommys eyes and asked:
Do you mind the film?
What film? the boy was clueless.
Photographic film.
Now it was Tommys turn to laugh.
In the five minutes Tommy spent insisting there was no film needed, that any picture could be printed on a home printer, Arthur felt his strength return for the remaining journey. Before rising, he said:
You know what, Tommy come back in an hour. Take a picture of Emily and me, alright?
Alright! the boy replied brightly, and Arthur, creaking, pushed himself up.
He hoisted his heavy basketstill a burden for a fit manand shuffled toward the house. After a couple of steps he suddenly spun, calling after the sprinting lad:
Tommy, dont forget: in one hour!
Got it! a voice shouted from the next lane.
Scoundrel the old man sighed, his feet finding the path home.
Here, Emily, he muttered, laying the basket on the porch steps and settling onto a low step. One more like this and well winter like lords: potatoes and porcini if theres no meat, that is.
Arthur had spent his whole life in the countryside, never tasting anything from a shop. Sausages, back then, were a city luxury, reserved for grand celebrations when guests arrived. It wasnt that storebought food was bad; it was simply that a farmers life required little elsejust a pinch of salt and pepper. After a lifetime of working the land, he could no longer chew a slice of processed meat. He didnt despise it, he just never grew accustomed. Each day demanded he rise before dawn not to hunt mushrooms, but because his health only allowed it in the mornings.
Thatll do, Tom, with cucumbers and tomatoes. Settle down, Emily sighed, trying to lift the basket.
Hold on, you fool! Arthur snapped, then slipped onto the step again. I told you, wait! a note of authority flickered in his voice before softening. No mushrooms now. Go brush yourself and put on your favourite dress.
Are you losing it, old man? Emily shot back, hoarse. Going off the rails because you want to marry again? Weve been married sixty years!
Thats exactly why Im saying it, Arthur said slowly, rising again. We need to be photographed.
What?
We must have a photograph taken, he repeated, frowning. Tommy will be here with his gadget soon
You do it yourself, Emily flailed her arms, proud, and marched into the kitchen.
Without even glancing at the basket, Arthur assumed a stern expression and followed his wife.
Emily? he asked, bewildered as he entered the cottage. Emily!
She was nowhere to be seen.
It took a few frantic minutes of shuffling feet before he found her tucked away behind the hearth, a place shed once hidden when they quarreled in her youth. Emily sat with her face in her hands, silent tears streaming down, each drop slipping through her clenched fists like water through a sieve onto the faded hem of her old dress.
Arthur opened his mouth, but no sound emergedhis throat seized. When had they last argued like this? Two decades ago? It felt like forever. He hadnt seen his wife in that corner for twenty years; any disagreements had never been so deep, and now, out of nowhere
Emily the single word, softened by the tremor in his voice, broke through the silence. Em
Emilys shoulders stopped trembling; she lowered her hands, looked at him with eyes swollen from weeping, then rose and pressed her head against his shoulder. His beard grew damp with her tears. He began to sob, but Emily cut him off:
Comb your beard while I iron the shirt
Tommy arrived half an hour early, but the old couple were already set. They sat at the table, Arthur fiddling with his beard, worrying whether the boy might have stumbled. Emily tried to steady his hands, when suddenly the back door slammed shut in the hallway
That night, as they lay in bed, they examined the two photographs in turn. One was small and blackandwhite: a young, reddishhaired girl clutching a massive bouquet of wildflowers, leaning her head on the shoulder of a dashing young man in a suit. Their faces beamed with joy, and behind them on a brick wall hung a sign in four bold letters: REGISTER OFFICE.
The second picture was larger, in colour. An elderly woman with silver hair rested her head on her husbands shoulder at a table, a huge bouquet of garden flowersstill vivid under Augusts glowspreading before them. Their smiles were just as radiant as those in the first photo.
They owned other pictures, but only these two captured them together, frozen in happiness.
