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Authors: Cassandra Golds
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compelling than others. There was a photograph of the little boy Mrs Dark had lost many years ago to pneumonia, her two-year-old son James. He seemed a happy little fellow, smiling mischievously at the camera, but he was also hauntingly beautiful, with large, blue eyes and black lashes. He had never got any older. Gal thought a lot about that. And there was a photograph of Mrs Darkâs mother, a young, carefree woman despite her prim high-necked dress and upswept hair â her eyes merry, a smile playing around her solemn mouth. She had never got any older either.
Other photographs were more interesting for their absence. Gal often wondered why there was no photograph of Deirdreâs mother. Where was she now? What had she looked like? But some instinct stopped him from asking.
It was during one of these times spent staring at the photographs that Gal recognised the old lady they had met in the hall â Aunty Lainey â much younger, photographed in old-fashioned clothes and standing arm in arm with a distinguished-looking older gentleman. He had looked at the photograph before. He had known that the gentleman was Mrs Darkâs father, but he had not known who the young woman was, although he had felt that he had seen those dark eyes before. But in the end, it wasnât her eyes he recognised. It was her uncertainty.
âLook!â he said to Deirdre. âItâs Mrs Old Lady! When she was young!â
But on this particular day, Deirdre had become so preÂoccupied with another of the pictures that she hardly seemed to hear him.
âDeedee?â murmured Gal.
He drifted over to see what she was looking at.
And it was what happened next that made this time â of all the other occasions on which they had looked at the photoÂgraphs â different. Until now, the photographs had been interesting. From now on they would be fraught with meaning, not only about the past, which could not be changed, but about the living, vulnerable present.
There was a new photograph, one they hadnât seen before, sitting prominently on Mrs Darkâs desk. This in itself wasnât unusual â from time to time Mrs Dark would put one photograph away and replace it with another. She had a large collection of them in an old suitcase under her bed and she had a habit of rotating them. This photograph, however, was unusually arresting.
It was Mrs Dark as a child. But she wasnât alone. She was with her father.
He was sitting posed in a chair, wearing a suit with a watch and chain in his waistcoat pocket. She was standing beside him with her arms around his neck. Her cheek was pressed against his. One of his hands was resting on her arm. He looked calm and complacent; but she was gazing at the camera with such ferocity, Gal felt himself taking a step backwards.
He was so involved in the drama of the picture that he did not notice that Mrs Dark had come up beside him, and when she spoke suddenly in his ear it was all he could do to stop himself from crying aloud.
âMy mother died when I was born,â she was saying softly. âSo when I was little, my grandmother looked after me. I loved my grandmother. But then, when I was five, she died too. When they told me, I cried and cried. Nobody could stop me crying.
âThen my father came into my room and sat on the bed and put his arms around me. He told me I was his favourite girl. He said he loved me more than anything in the world. He promised he would never leave me â that we would travel the world together, that he would take me to Paris and buy me pretty things. And I believed him. So I stopped crying, and from then on, he was my whole world.â
Gal could not take his eyes off the photograph. He could not escape from Mrs Darkâs quiet voice in his ear. Deirdre was looking at the photograph too. She was still standing next to him on the other side, frozen, and of course she could hear every word. But Gal knew Mrs Dark
Other photographs were more interesting for their absence. Gal often wondered why there was no photograph of Deirdreâs mother. Where was she now? What had she looked like? But some instinct stopped him from asking.
It was during one of these times spent staring at the photographs that Gal recognised the old lady they had met in the hall â Aunty Lainey â much younger, photographed in old-fashioned clothes and standing arm in arm with a distinguished-looking older gentleman. He had looked at the photograph before. He had known that the gentleman was Mrs Darkâs father, but he had not known who the young woman was, although he had felt that he had seen those dark eyes before. But in the end, it wasnât her eyes he recognised. It was her uncertainty.
âLook!â he said to Deirdre. âItâs Mrs Old Lady! When she was young!â
But on this particular day, Deirdre had become so preÂoccupied with another of the pictures that she hardly seemed to hear him.
âDeedee?â murmured Gal.
He drifted over to see what she was looking at.
And it was what happened next that made this time â of all the other occasions on which they had looked at the photoÂgraphs â different. Until now, the photographs had been interesting. From now on they would be fraught with meaning, not only about the past, which could not be changed, but about the living, vulnerable present.
There was a new photograph, one they hadnât seen before, sitting prominently on Mrs Darkâs desk. This in itself wasnât unusual â from time to time Mrs Dark would put one photograph away and replace it with another. She had a large collection of them in an old suitcase under her bed and she had a habit of rotating them. This photograph, however, was unusually arresting.
It was Mrs Dark as a child. But she wasnât alone. She was with her father.
He was sitting posed in a chair, wearing a suit with a watch and chain in his waistcoat pocket. She was standing beside him with her arms around his neck. Her cheek was pressed against his. One of his hands was resting on her arm. He looked calm and complacent; but she was gazing at the camera with such ferocity, Gal felt himself taking a step backwards.
He was so involved in the drama of the picture that he did not notice that Mrs Dark had come up beside him, and when she spoke suddenly in his ear it was all he could do to stop himself from crying aloud.
âMy mother died when I was born,â she was saying softly. âSo when I was little, my grandmother looked after me. I loved my grandmother. But then, when I was five, she died too. When they told me, I cried and cried. Nobody could stop me crying.
âThen my father came into my room and sat on the bed and put his arms around me. He told me I was his favourite girl. He said he loved me more than anything in the world. He promised he would never leave me â that we would travel the world together, that he would take me to Paris and buy me pretty things. And I believed him. So I stopped crying, and from then on, he was my whole world.â
Gal could not take his eyes off the photograph. He could not escape from Mrs Darkâs quiet voice in his ear. Deirdre was looking at the photograph too. She was still standing next to him on the other side, frozen, and of course she could hear every word. But Gal knew Mrs Dark
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