SHORT STORY
Ce luloid History
Morag Dickson
Her hair fell in a neat bob either
side of skin that visibly, at least,
showed no signs of stress. Such
was its suppleness, its veneer.
Perhaps it was her pallor that
drew those eyes out on strings to engage
the observer so intently. Eve tried to put an
age to her as though to undo the power of
youth. She moved the picture aside to focus
on the next, and the one after that, pouring
minutely over each as though counting
cards. Then, she plucked a photograph from
the floor, removed it from the sequence, and
took a moment.
She smoothed the curl of the starched
paper, her index finger stroking the corner
with curious affection. Just like Cathy, she
thought. Cascading tresses clawed down
the girl’s face, now thinner. That one was
taken in a photo booth just weeks before her
life had been soured. Even the printing ink
seemed muted. And like white milk curdling,
her complexion had become sickly; tinged
with that grey yellow of cardboard. She
quickly placed it back in the sequence. Then
she rose from her knees and made for the
kitchen. Should she be doing this now? Was
it wise? All things considered. “The past
can’t harm you now,” her mother had said.
And although she knew it was history, she
couldn’t help thinking how the experience
had changed her and every expression that
had broken upon her face since. It was no
good. He would be home soon and there
could be no evidence of the tragedy he had
married. She couldn’t think of the last time
she had been able to steal time with her past.
Her hand glided across the line out, once
again checking the order. No, there were
no photos taken that Christmas. Nor in the
months that followed. So the one where she
had darkened her eye make-up would have
had to have been the next. She squinted to
study it and concluded that the girl’s eyes
were slightly less glazed, although she felt
sure the smile — however pretty — was a
sad one. Then something radical had taken
place, starting with hair dye and ending with
beads. She rolled her head back to laugh
until she became aware of her own laughter,
and then stopped.
She wondered if this were a strange thing
to be doing. Then she thought of the guy in
that French movie who stopped by a photo
booth each morning like clockwork to collect
the discarded photographs of strangers.
Amelie — that was it. Starring the lovely
Audrey Tautou — pale and interesting. And
what about the strange Victorian fascination
with mourning portraits in which parents
gathered around their dead children?
This bothered her enough to dig out the
encyclopedia from the back of the bookcase
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