‘I don’t have anything like that.’
‘Haven’t you?’ Mrs Dacre pulled away from him slightly, sounding surprised.
‘Lost in the bombing,’ he explained.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Dreadful. Ah, here we are.’ Leaning towards him once more, Mrs Dacre passed him a postcard-sized photograph of a toddler in a jumper that buttoned at the shoulder, cheeks and lips rosily hand-tinted, grinning against the painted backcloth of a photographer’s shop. This image, like the ones in the official prep-school pictures that followed, big boys standing at the back, small ones sitting, cross-legged, at the front, had the doughty sturdiness and the eager, open gaze that he remembered. He stole a glance at Mrs Dacre, anticipating tears, but she was dry-eyed, frowning at the rows of boys in their caps and blazers. ‘I can’t see . . . which one are you?’
He saw, too late, that she’d produced a class photograph, this time mounted, with the names of the boys pencilled on the cardboard surround. Todd took a deep breath. He hadn’t bargained on that.
‘I can’t see any Thomas,’ she said.
‘Let me have a look.’ Todd took the photograph from her and puzzled over it. He could see himself - properly captioned, of course, with his real name - in the second row, half-obscured by the boy in front, cap pulled down over his face. ‘Do you know, it must have been after I’d broken my leg. I was off school a while that year. My mother wasn’t very pleased. Let’s see if I can find myself in one of the others. May I?’ He picked another photograph off Mrs Dacre’s lap, one without captions, careful to have minimal contact with her knee.
‘Look,’ he said, scanning it. ‘There I am.’ He was on the end of a row, slightly apart from the others, looking as if he were trying to step away from the picture.
‘Are you sure?’ said Mrs Dacre, leaning over. ‘Only that’ - she pointed to the new photograph - ‘looks more like him than anybody.’ She pointed to Todd, half-hidden in the captioned picture. ‘And that can’t be right, because he’s called—’
‘Perhaps they made a mistake.’ Hoping that hadn’t sounded too petulant, Todd got up and went over to stand with his back to the fireplace. Things were beginning to get sticky. Why couldn’t the silly bitch leave well alone? Seeing that Mrs Dacre’s attention was now taken up in comparing the two photographs, he bent slightly at the knees and, stretching one arm down, picked the poker off its stand and hid it behind his legs.
‘This can’t be right,’ Mrs Dacre said. ‘I’m sure that was the boy who drowned.’ Todd’s heart skipped a beat. He adjusted his hand to give his sweating palm a better grip on the iron handle. ‘I mean, I don’t remember what he looked like or anything -’ Todd smiled, quizzically - ‘but I’m pretty sure that was his name.’
‘Drowned?’ asked Todd, feeling as if his face had gone numb and the smile was now fixed for ever.
Mrs Dacre nodded. ‘Yes, don’t you remember? On holiday, I think. Very sad. James would have been . . . oh, about twenty, at the time.’
‘Which one does it say he is?’
‘There, look.’ Mrs Dacre leant forward to hand him the photograph. ‘The one you said was you.’ This time, there was no mistaking the accusation in her tone.
Todd stepped forward, the poker still clasped firmly behind his back, and took hold of the cardboard mount with his free hand. He knew his movements must seem awkward but, having come this far, he wasn’t going to take any chances. One, perhaps two, quick smashes - he’d have to get behind her, though, so he couldn’t see her face. He stared at the picture for a moment, then said, ‘That is me, you know, not this other chap. Whoever did the caption got it wrong.’
‘James did them himself.’
‘Well, it’s quite easy to get muddled. Perhaps he just left my name out. That’s probably it.’
‘I suppose he might have done, but if
‘Haven’t you?’ Mrs Dacre pulled away from him slightly, sounding surprised.
‘Lost in the bombing,’ he explained.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Dreadful. Ah, here we are.’ Leaning towards him once more, Mrs Dacre passed him a postcard-sized photograph of a toddler in a jumper that buttoned at the shoulder, cheeks and lips rosily hand-tinted, grinning against the painted backcloth of a photographer’s shop. This image, like the ones in the official prep-school pictures that followed, big boys standing at the back, small ones sitting, cross-legged, at the front, had the doughty sturdiness and the eager, open gaze that he remembered. He stole a glance at Mrs Dacre, anticipating tears, but she was dry-eyed, frowning at the rows of boys in their caps and blazers. ‘I can’t see . . . which one are you?’
He saw, too late, that she’d produced a class photograph, this time mounted, with the names of the boys pencilled on the cardboard surround. Todd took a deep breath. He hadn’t bargained on that.
‘I can’t see any Thomas,’ she said.
‘Let me have a look.’ Todd took the photograph from her and puzzled over it. He could see himself - properly captioned, of course, with his real name - in the second row, half-obscured by the boy in front, cap pulled down over his face. ‘Do you know, it must have been after I’d broken my leg. I was off school a while that year. My mother wasn’t very pleased. Let’s see if I can find myself in one of the others. May I?’ He picked another photograph off Mrs Dacre’s lap, one without captions, careful to have minimal contact with her knee.
‘Look,’ he said, scanning it. ‘There I am.’ He was on the end of a row, slightly apart from the others, looking as if he were trying to step away from the picture.
‘Are you sure?’ said Mrs Dacre, leaning over. ‘Only that’ - she pointed to the new photograph - ‘looks more like him than anybody.’ She pointed to Todd, half-hidden in the captioned picture. ‘And that can’t be right, because he’s called—’
‘Perhaps they made a mistake.’ Hoping that hadn’t sounded too petulant, Todd got up and went over to stand with his back to the fireplace. Things were beginning to get sticky. Why couldn’t the silly bitch leave well alone? Seeing that Mrs Dacre’s attention was now taken up in comparing the two photographs, he bent slightly at the knees and, stretching one arm down, picked the poker off its stand and hid it behind his legs.
‘This can’t be right,’ Mrs Dacre said. ‘I’m sure that was the boy who drowned.’ Todd’s heart skipped a beat. He adjusted his hand to give his sweating palm a better grip on the iron handle. ‘I mean, I don’t remember what he looked like or anything -’ Todd smiled, quizzically - ‘but I’m pretty sure that was his name.’
‘Drowned?’ asked Todd, feeling as if his face had gone numb and the smile was now fixed for ever.
Mrs Dacre nodded. ‘Yes, don’t you remember? On holiday, I think. Very sad. James would have been . . . oh, about twenty, at the time.’
‘Which one does it say he is?’
‘There, look.’ Mrs Dacre leant forward to hand him the photograph. ‘The one you said was you.’ This time, there was no mistaking the accusation in her tone.
Todd stepped forward, the poker still clasped firmly behind his back, and took hold of the cardboard mount with his free hand. He knew his movements must seem awkward but, having come this far, he wasn’t going to take any chances. One, perhaps two, quick smashes - he’d have to get behind her, though, so he couldn’t see her face. He stared at the picture for a moment, then said, ‘That is me, you know, not this other chap. Whoever did the caption got it wrong.’
‘James did them himself.’
‘Well, it’s quite easy to get muddled. Perhaps he just left my name out. That’s probably it.’
‘I suppose he might have done, but if
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