MICHELLE MACKINNON
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Photographic Memories
Jane tugged open the zip of her handbag and reached inside. ‘Mum wanted you to have this,’ she said, pulling out a brown paper bag. She reached across the space between them and pressed it into his hand. ‘Goodbye, Harold.’
Harold stared blankly at what felt like a book inside a bag and then he looked at Jane walking down the steps. ‘Wait! What is this?’ Why would his ex-mother-in-law give him a book?
Jane turned slowly. ‘It’s the photo album you gave her of your trip to Holland.’
‘But . . . doesn’t she want it any more?’ He couldn’t understand it. Jane’s mother had said she would always treasure the album because it was of her homeland. He remembered the photos and how she had pushed him to enter them in his first competition. When he’d won the first prize, he’d given the book to her. Puzzled and a little hurt, he dragged his eyes back to Jane.
‘Mum died, Harold. A few months ago. I thought you might have seen it in the papers.’
He shook his head and stared at the paper bag.
Jane sighed. ‘It was written in her will. She wanted you to have it back.
I would have posted it, but I wasn’t sure if you were still here . . .’
Harold felt as though someone had socked him in the gut. Jane’s mum, dead! He didn’t know what to say. ‘Um . . .’
Jane shrugged. ‘Goodbye, Harold,’ she repeated, as she turned to go.
‘Wait! Did you . . . do you . . . do you want to come inside? Tea . . . ?’
‘No thanks, Harold. I’ve got to go.’
‘But . . .’
‘My children are waiting for me in the car.’
Harold looked beyond her to the small car parked on the verge. He hadn’t noticed it before. Two small faces peered at him from kiddy seats in the back. She has kids! He wondered why it surprised him. She’d always wanted kids. It was him who’d said they should wait. Then he noticed the figure in the driver’s seat.
‘My husband.’ She answered the question before he had time to acknowledge it was forming in his mind. ‘All the best, Harold. I hope you’re happy.’ Then she smiled. ‘I am.’
He watched her walk all the way to her car, and after she had gone, he turned with leaden legs and went back inside. He put the paper bag on the table and dragged a hand over his face. A whisky, that’s what he needed. Thank God he was over her.
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