The Photograph

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 1,451
Rating: K+ / PG
Summary: An old book, an old photo…
Disclaimer: Isn't mine.
Notes: Takes place during MATB.

A special note to Blanca, who commented on The Owl but did not leave a way to reply: Your comment meant a lot to me, so thank you very much. My condolences to you, too.

(Also, to Drsuebee: Currently working on something with Mark again, so he's not gone forever here! Fear not!)

It was a curious thing, this photo: it looked old, yet that was impossible, because wasn't that his sister? Wasn't that him? But he didn't remember the photo even being taken, he didn't have clothes like that anyway, and he didn't remember his sister ever whacking him on the back of the head with a badminton racquet.

Very curious.

He found the picture tucked into an old book, one he was told had belonged to his father; he wasn't sure what kind of adventures an old detective could have, but the fact it had belonged to his father was good enough for him.

"Granny?" called the boy.

"Yes, darling?"

"How did this get into one of Daddy's old books, this picture of me and Mabel?"

She furrowed her brows. "Picture? Billy, darling, bring it here for your granny to see."

He popped up off of the floor and bounded over to where she sat there in the sitting room, holding the picture for her perusal. "So when was this picture taken?"

She took the photo into her fingers as she drew her reading glasses up; her hands trembled a bit as she did. "Oh," she said, her eyes getting all sad and misty. "Darling, this isn't you and Mabel. It's your daddy and Mummy when they were small."

Billy's mouth dropped open. "Really? They got married when they were my age?"

His granny chuckled. "No, Billy. We knew your mum's family when she was a little girl, so we would visit each other. That's how they first knew each other. They didn't get married until much later."

She handed the picture back to Billy, who stared at it again in wonder.

"You do look a lot like your daddy did at that age, don't you?"

He nodded. "I thought that was us."

"You have a pretty good idea what the two of you might look like when you grow up," said Granny.

"Hmm," said Billy, scanning his gaze over the picture again. He hadn't been oblivious to the sad way his mother sometimes regarded him, and this made him wonder if his resemblance to his father was the reason. "Don't know if that's cool or not."

"Of course it is," Granny said. "It's a lovely reminder that he's a part of you."

"I guess," he said. He took one last look, then tucked it back into the book and closed it.

"You know, you can keep the book," said Granny, "and that picture too, if you like."

He looked up to her. "Oh, can I?"

She nodded. "I think your daddy would want you to have it. In fact, you might like to read it sometime soon. You're a pretty advanced reader, right? Your father read it for the first time around your age."

"Really?" He stared at the tome, heavy in his hand; it seemed like such a grown-up book, like from the olden days.

"Give it a try," she said. "I really don't think you'll have any problems, but don't let the big words discourage you."

Billy grinned lopsidedly. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. His dad would be proud.

…

Billy was acting quite unlike himself.

Usually he was up to his neck in playmates, a bundle of energy running around, but for the last three days, he had been toting around a large, black, sombre-looking volume, and though he had been clearly struggling with it (from the look of intense concentration on his face), he seemed determined to get through it.

He decided to approach the boy where he sat on the grass under the tree and see by which book he was so enthralled. As he got near, the gilded cameo-style portrait gave it away even before he could read the text: the meerschaum pipe protruding out from under the deerstalker told him it was a volume of Sherlock Holmes stories. Not the usual fare for seven-year-old boys, at least not in that format. Was that his mother's solution to his spelling problems?

"Well, Billy, what have you there?"

"Oh, hi, Mr Wallaker," said Billy, not looking up until he finished a paragraph, then stuck his finger to the page so that he wouldn't lose his place. "It's a book about this really smart guy named Sherlock Holmes. He's practically like a mind-reader or a magician, except he's not. He just pays really close attention to everything."

"That seems like an awfully advanced book for you," he said. "Maybe you should try a children's edition, or have… your mum read it with you."

"Nope," he said, the finger not moving from its spot. "Mummy said the same, said she wanted to read it to me, but I told her I didn't want her to."

"It's not too hard?" he asked gently. "I'm sure there are some words in there that are a bit much for you."

"It's okay, I can guess most of the time," he said. "It's got to be this book, though." Before Wallaker could ask why, Billy continued, "This was my daddy's book, and I want to make Daddy proud of me."

"Ah," said Wallaker, strangely unsure of what else to say. "I'm sure he would be proud. But, er, your mum'll be here soon, so you should put it away to be ready for her."

"Oh, okay." He opened the back cover and pulled out what Wallaker though at first was a bookmark, but when it fell from Billy's grasp and he retrieved it for the boy, he got a closer look. It was a photograph.

"Well, Billy, this is an interesting photo," he said, scrutinising it. He then asked teasingly, "What on earth have you done to warrant Mabel banging you on the head with a racquet?"

"It's not us!" he said brightly. "That's my mummy and daddy when they were kids! But they weren't married yet, though. Granny said so, and she'd know, 'cause she's Daddy's mummy."

"Ah," said Wallaker. "Well. Good to have that all cleared up." He should have handed the photo back, but he couldn't tear his eyes away; in fact, he drew out his reading specs for a closer look, saw immediately that there was a bigger age gap between these two children than between Billy and Mabel. Mrs Darcy—Bridget—there with the man who would go on to become her husband, acquainted since childhood. He didn't know of anyone else who could have claimed the same sort of history with their significant other or spouse; the true depth of her loss was unfathomable to him. It spoke volumes that she continued to keep his spirit and his love for them alive; their two children must have been quite small when he died, and probably didn't remember him much at all. Would his sons' mother have done the same for him if he had died in Afghanistan—

"Please can I have that back now, Mr Wallaker? I'll lose my place."

"Please may I," corrected Wallaker, handing it back, "and yes you may, though I would not suggest continuing to use that photo to mark your place. You might damage it or lose it."

"Oh," said Billy, frowning a little, as if the thought had not even occurred. "I just wanted to keep them together. They've been together a long time."

He knew Billy meant the photo and the book, but it was hard not to think he meant his parents, instead. He smiled. "I think it'd be okay to put them back together when you're done."

Billy nodded in agreement. "I'll do that when I get home," he said. "I wouldn't want to lose it."

"Smart chap."

"Billy!"

Speaking of the devil—"Billy was just putting his book away, Mrs Darcy," Wallaker said with a polite smile.

"I can see that, thank you," she said, then crouched down and helped Billy get the book into his knapsack. Still holding on to her mother's trouser leg, little Mabel looked on, fascinated. "Can't believe you're making such progress on that thing, and all on your own," Bridget said, zipping the knapsack up for transport. "Daddy would be proud."

"I wanna read Daddy'th book, too," said Mabel sadly.

Bridget turned to Mabel. "Once Billy's done, I'll read it to you and the Hellvanians. How's that sound?"

"Okay," she said with a big smile.

Bridget rose to stand once more, taking their hands in hers. Her blue gaze met his. "Thanks for keeping Billy company, Mr Wallaker, until I got here."

"My pleasure," he said.

He watched them walk away, and didn't move for some minutes after they were gone; he pondered the little scene that had just occurred. Mostly, he smiled and wondered what on earth a Hellvanian was.

The end.