Oh, Grandpa! Are those morels? the sprightly boy circles around Mr. George, his name fitting himHarry, quick as a flash.
Yes, the old man replies wearily, a sigh escaping his lips.
Even though morels have dotted the hedgerows of their village for ages, the old fellow finds it hard to lug a basket brimming with them, so he pauses to catch his breath on the ancient shop attached to Mrs. Margarets cottage. He isnt really her husband; he married long before Margaret wed her own William. In fact shes Harrys grandmother, if her son Leo hadnt been roaming the towns until he was forty, shed already be counted among greatgrandmothers. No one lives in her house, yet last year a man named Leo appeared on her front porch with his family, causing a great scare. Margaret shouted so loudly the villagers thought she was being cut, but it turned out to be joy.
This summer the townsfolk return at sunset in August. Harry darts along the village lanes from dawn till dusk. What else can he do, with no peers? He bothers the elders. Right now George needs a breather, but he must get home quickly so his wife Emma can sort the morels and soak them while he rubs his feet on the bed.
Harry, clutching his plastic toy, circles Georges basket and asks,
Let me take a picture!
And what are you planning to photograph, you odd fellow? With that board? the old man wonders, forgetting his own feet.
With my tablet! Harry proudly lifts his gadget.
He points his toy at the basket, and a click sounds.
Look! Harry turns the back of the board toward George, and George sees a picture of his basket.
Brilliant! the old man exclaims, while Harry, not giving him a chance to recover, drags his finger across the photo; instantly the morels on the board are replaced by Leo.
Dad, Harry says seriously, and George, startled, glances at his basket: is it still there? Its no jokethe basket was on the board and now Leo sits where it had been. Yet the morels remain
Harry keeps dragging his finger:
This is Mum, this is our flat this is the Marquis
George knows the Marquis. It isnt a cat; its a piglet. Margarets daughterinlaw only walks it on a leash. George, like the other villagers, cant fathom why she needs a leash, since the pig lazily snuffles behind its owner until tractor driver Paul mutters,
She drags it on a lead, like a rope!
Grandpa, may I photograph you? Harry suddenly asks, flipping through his pictures.
Why not? the old man replies.
Look, youre so handsome: white beard, strong arms, not like a dad, tanned, hard you Harry stumbles, then blurts,
Like my grandma, only a grandpa! He pauses, then adds,
There!
George laughs.
No need to he begins, but stops.
He looks the boy in the eye and asks,
Arent you worried about the film?
What film? the lad doesnt get it.
Photographic.
Now its Harrys turn to laugh.
In the five minutes Harry explains that no film is needed and that any picture Mum will print on the printer, George feels his strength returning for the rest of the journey. Before getting up he says,
You know what, Harry come back in an hour. Photograph me and Emma together, alright?
Alright! the boy replies joyfully, and George, creaking, stands.
He lifts his heavy basketstill heavy for a fit manand heads home. After a couple of steps he suddenly turns back and shouts after the running boy,
Harry, dont forget: in an hour!
Got it! a voice from the next lane calls.
The rascal will turn the old man sighs, and walks toward the house.
Here, Emma, he mutters, struggling to set the basket by the porch and sit on a step. One more like this and well winter like lords: potatoes and morels since theres no meat
George, who has spent his whole life in the village, never ate anything from a shop except occasional sausage on special occasions, because sausage only came from the town and was saved for big celebrations. He doesnt avoid store food because its bad, just because he has always lived off the farm and never needed anything else, apart from salt and pepper. Now, after a lifetime of hard work, he cant even bite a piece of shop meat. He must rise before dawn each day Its not about the morels; its about health.
And thats enough, love, with cucumbers and tomatoes. Rest a bit, his wife sighs, trying to lift the basket.
Hold on, you daft woman! George snaps, then sits back down. I said hold on! a dominant note slips into his voice, then softens. No more morels now. Go wash up and put on your favourite dress.
What are you on, old man? Emma grumbles. Youve gone mad, planning a marriage? Weve been married sixty years!
Thats why Im saying it, George, slowly rising, we need a photograph.
What?
We must photograph, he repeats, frowning. Harry will be here with the camera soon
You do it yourself, Emma waves her hands and strides proudly into the house.
Without looking at the basket, George, already wearing a stern expression, follows his wife.
Emma, where are you? George asks, entering the cottage. Emma! No answer.
She appears after a few minutes of shuffling feet, found in a small nook behind the stove where she used to hide during arguments. Emma sits, face in her hands, silently weeping. Tears slip between her clenched fingers like water through a sieve, staining the faded hem of her old dress.
George opens his mouth but no words comehis throat tightens. When was the last time they argued? Twenty years ago? He hasnt seen her there in two decades; the quarrels were never that fierce, yet now it feels sudden
Emma the softest of his voice manages to say, Em
Emmas shoulders stop trembling; she looks at him with wet eyes, then leans onto him, resting her head on his shoulder. His beard becomes damp with her tears. He begins to sob, but Emma cuts him off,
Comb your beard while I iron your shirt
Harry arrives half an hour early, but the couple are already ready. They sit at the table while George fiddles with his beard, worried the boy might have mischief. Emma tries to calm his hands, but the door in the hallway slams shut
In the evening, already in bed, the elders examine two photographs in turn. One is a small blackandwhite image of a young, possibly redhaired girl holding a huge bouquet of wildflowers, her head resting on the shoulder of a handsome man in a suit. Both faces are beaming, and a brick wall behind them bears a sign of four big letters:REGISTEROFFICE.
The second picture is larger and in colour. An elderly lady with silver hair sits at a table, her head on the old mans shoulder, and in front of them lies a large bouquet of garden flowers bright as August. Their faces are just as joyous as in the first photo.
They have many other pictures, but only these two show them together.
