Hold on a minute! the wiry lad spun around the old farmer, his eyes bright. Granddad, are those porcini? He was aptly named Tommyquickwitted and quick on his feet.
Yes, the old man replied with a weary sigh, his voice heavy with years. Though porcini had grown wild on the hills of their little Yorkshire village since time immemorial, the weight of a basket brimming with the mushrooms made his arthritic arms ache. He settled onto the creaking bench outside Mrs. Whitfields cottage to catch his breath. Mrs. Whitfield was hardly a grandma to him; hed married before she ever tied the knot with her own husband, Thomas. In fact, she was more like a neighbours motherinlaw, a relic of a generation that might as well have been called greatgrandparents. Her house was empty of anyone except the occasional visitor that turned up last year on her porch, bringing with them a whole flock of relativesan unexpected shock that sent her shrieking so loudly the villagers thought the old woman was being attacked. It turned out, however, that the shriek was sheer delight.
That summer, the towns folk poured back into the countryside as Augusts sun sank low. Tommy roamed the dusty lanes from dawn till dusk, for there were no other children his age to chase. His pastime? Pester the elders. Even now, Georgehis proper namelonged for a moments peace, hoping that his wife, Anne, would sort the mushrooms and soak them while he rested his legs on the bed. Suddenly, Tommy, clutching a cheap plastic gadget, nudged Georges basket and begged, Let me take a picture!
What are yousome sort of lunatictrying to photograph? the old man asked, forgetting his own aching feet.
Tablet! Tommy announced proudly, raising his device high above his head.
He angled the contraption at the basket, a click rang out like a cameras shutter, and the screen flashed. Look! he said, turning the tablet toward George. The screen showed a clear image of the mushroomladen basket.
Brilliant! George muttered, astonished. Before the old man could recover, Tommys finger swiped across the picture, and in an instant the porcini vanished, replaced by the grinning face of Jack, the villages mischievous lad.
Dad, Tommy declared, his tone serious, and George stared at his basket as if it might have sprouted legs. The basket was still there, the mushrooms still lay insideyet the image had somehow swapped the fruit of the forest for a boys cheeky grin.
Tommys finger kept moving. Thats Mum, thats our cottage thats Percy! he pointed at the next photo.
Percy was no cat; he was a stout little pig that Mrs. Whitfield kept on a short leash when she walked him out. The villagers never quite understood why a pig needed a lead, but the local tractordriver, Paul, finally muttered, Shes dragging him like a kite on a string!
Grandpa George, may I photograph you? Tommy blurted, his eyes wide.
Why, whats the point? the old man responded, bemused.
You look grand, with that white beard, those weatherworn handslike a picturebook granddad. Tommy stammered, searching for words, and finally managed, Like my granny, only a grandpa! He paused, then added, There.
George chuckled despite himself. Dont
He stopped midsentence, then, looking straight into Tommys curious eyes, asked, Do you mind wasting film?
What film? the boy asked, puzzled.
The photographic film.
Tommy burst into laughter. In the five minutes it took him to explain that no film was neededany picture could be printed on the kitchen printerGeorge felt a surge of stamina for the remaining stretch of his day. He rose, groaning, and declared, You know what, Tommy come back in an hour. Take a picture of Anne and me, alright?
Alright! the boy shouted, his excitement echoing across the fields. George, his joints protesting, hefted the heavy basket and shuffled toward his cottage. After a few steps he turned back, calling after the boy, Tommy, dont forgetan hour!
Got it! a voice from the next lane shouted back.
The rascal will be back George muttered, setting his steps toward the door.
Anne, he whispered, placing the basket carefully on the porch step, and sinking onto a low stool. One more of these and well spend winter like lordspotatoes and porcini since theres no meat left.
George had lived his whole life on the farm, never tasting anything bought in a shop. Sausages were a city luxury, reserved for grand celebrations when guests arrived. It wasnt that storebought food was bad; he simply never needed anything beyond a pinch of salt and pepper. After decades of hard labour, he could no longer afford the luxury of a storebought steak. Each day he rose before dawn, his muscles creaking like old hinges.
Alice, thatll do for the cucumbers and tomatoes, his wife muttered, trying to lift the basket.
Hold on, you fool! George protested, stumbling onto the step. I said hold on! A flash of authority tinged his voice, then softened into tenderness. Not now, dear. Go and tidy yourself, put on your favourite dress.
What are you on about, old man? Anne replied, her voice hoarse. Youve gone mad thinking of courting anyone now. Weve been married sixty years!
Thats exactly why, George said slowly, rising again. We need a photograph.
A photograph of what? Anne asked, arms crossed.
Of us, he repeated, his brow furrowing. Ill need it later when Tommy brings his contraption
You take it yourself, Anne snapped, flinging her hands wide before marching back into the house.
George, his face set in a stern mask, followed her inside.
Anne? he called, stepping over the threshold. Anne! No answer.
He found her five minutes later, curled in the small nook behind the heartha spot she used as a secret hideaway during their quarrels when she was younger. She sat with her face buried in her hands, silent tears slipping through her clenched fingers, dripping onto the faded hem of her shawl.
George opened his mouth, but no words came; his throat closed tight. When had they last spoken like this? Twenty years? More? He hadnt seen Anne sit there in that corner for decades. Their arguments had been fierce, but never this quiet.
Anne he whispered, his voice trembling, the syllable trembling like a candle flame. Anne
Her shoulders stopped trembling, and she lifted her eyes, wet with sorrow, to meet his. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, and his beard became damp with her tears. He began to sob, but Anne cut him off.
Brush your beard while I iron your shirt, she said, a faint smile breaking through the gloom.
Tommy arrived a halfhour early, but the couple were already prepared. They sat at the kitchen table, George fiddling with his beard, worrying whether the boy might have caused any mischief. Anne tried to calm his trembling hands, when suddenly the back door slammed shut with a bang.
That night, as they lay in their modest bed, they each examined the two photographs spread on the nightstand. The first was a small, blackandwhite print: a young, redhaired girl holding a massive bouquet of wildflowers, her head rested on the shoulder of a handsome young man in a crisp suit. Their smiles were pure joy, and behind them a brick wall bore a bright sign reading Registers Office.
The second picture was large and in colour. It showed a greyhaired woman leaning her head on an elderly mans shoulder at a table, a huge bunch of summer garden roses spread before them. The August sun bathed the bouquet in gold, and the couples faces glowed with the same happiness as the first image.
They had many other photographs, but only these two captured them togethertwo lives intertwined across the decades, forever frozen in a single frame.
