The photographs in the car

It was a dark night that night, and unusually for the city, the sky was clear, affording a very visible view of the stars.

The man noted this as he sat in his car atop of the hill overlooking his hometown.  The temperature outside was cold, but not bitterly so, nether-less he’d left his coat on whilst he drove, which was not typical for him. On the passenger seat next to him was a photograph album, snaps falling out of the battered pages. The man slotted a cassette tape into the car stereo, and as the familiar sounds washed over him, he picked up a handful of the photos nearest to him, idly flicking through them.  He paused at one of them, an image of a 1930s brick house.  It was a black and white snapshot, but he remembered clearly the door painted blue, and the step that his mother spent many hours on her knees scrubbing away, just to avoid giving the neighbours something to talk about. She seemed to spend a lot of time doing that, always washing or mending something.  She cared very much about what the neighbours thought, but never actually seemed to have anything to converse with them about, nor did she ever appear to want to.  She rarely ventured away from the front yard.  She was pictured here, to the left of the front door, smiling slightly.  The man didn’t remember the photo being taken, but he did know the two young boys in the photo standing in front of her was himself and his older brother.  A stern looking gentleman stood closer to the gate, as if he was impatient for the whole process to be over.  He probably was, thought the man.  Always going somewhere, he never seemed to be at home much, but his voice was always there in the background.  He had an important job at the university, teaching much older boys, but he had very little patience for his own young sons.  Or indeed, patience towards the woman he had chosen to be his wife and bear his children.  

His mother’s stance in the photograph showed off a small bump, the only evidence of the baby girl born a few months later.  The man didn’t have very many memories of her, only of her learning to walk, toddling up and down the wooden floorboards.  She had disappeared from the family when she was very young.  The man didn’t remember why, only the shouts of his father and his mother’s tears for a long time throughout his childhood.

The man had asked his brother about their sister once they had both grown up and left home.  He had gone silent for a long time, and then started to talk, haltingly, about the abuse.  About the reasons for his mother not leaving the home often, or making many, if any friends.  Too many bruises to hide, too many arguments to explain.  The man had felt guilty realising neither he nor his brother visited home very much.  They had both been eager to get away, to join adulthood.  Both had called their mother weekly, but she was uneasy about the telephone that their father had installed for his business calls, laughingly claiming that the newfangled thing confused her, hiding the fact that she didn’t want to upset their father for whatever reason he chose that time.  He didn’t want her getting ideas about making a life of her own, outside the house, nor did he encourage his own sons to visit either of them.

He didn’t know about their sister though. He’d asked, but never been answered.   He had his own theories of course, but he didn’t share them.

Moving on, the man picked up another of the images.  This time it depicted him as a teen, sitting astride a small motorbike.  He’d saved the money for it from the job he’d begun after leaving school, an act of defiance against his fathers wishes, pushing aside any remorse for causing his mother yet more tears.  He’d left home a few months later, selling the bike to pay rent on a tiny flat, a small price to pay for his freedom.  

The next photo showed a laughing young woman.  He remembered her like that, always smiling and joking.  His first love.  They were together for two years, a happy time he thought, but she’d left him, claiming to be tired of his moods and his jealousy.  He had denied it then, but had come to realise that she had a point, unconsciously he’d been channeling his father, the role model he’d never wanted.  He’d stopped trying to win her back after that.  She was right, she didn’t deserve that kind of life.

He’d wanted to travel then, to get away from it all.  He’d joined the army.  The man shuffled through the album, looking for the evidence of that time.  There had been a photo taken when he’d signed up of course, which had been sent to his mother.  The man had found it amongst her things following her death, and had added it to his album for her. There was a few photos taken with his old camera, in some of the countries he had visited during his service.  Memories of the locals, in the often dilapidated towns.  These were all bundled together, held in place by an ancient elastic band.

A child, a young boy with brown hair and a lopsided smile.  His nephew.  His brothers child; the family had emigrated to Canada when he was only a few years old.  Correspondence was sporadic for several years, eventually reduced to postcards from his sister in law which had finally dwindled to a halt altogether, shortly after she informed him of his brother leaving her for another woman.  Nothing had been heard of him since.  The man was sad of the disappearance and lack of contact from his only sibling, but he understood his brothers desire to get away from any memories of their previous life.  He didn’t understand his need to leave his only child though, but, he surmised, perhaps he was also afraid of turning out like the man who’d raised them.

The last photo he held in his hand, he tapped it on his knee a few times, working up the courage to turn it over.  He didn’t need to look though, the image was burned into his retinas.  The wife, patient and loving, accepting of his faults and calming him into seeing reason.  She didn’t judge, just encouraged.  Through her, he’d gained the confidence to retrain for a different career after he’d been made redundant.  His new job was less stressful, and allowed him more time to spend with their daughter after school.  The daughter also featured in the picture, taken of them both standing in front of the Christmas tree they’d spent that afternoon decorating, whilst he’d looked on, offering tips which had all been laughed at and ignored by both of them, jokingly teasing his lack of taste.

Tears burned a trail down the mans cheeks as he thought of that last morning.  He’d been late to work, and didn’t have time to drop his daughter off at school as usual.  In his hurry, he’d assumed his wife would take her on the bus.  He hadn’t anticipated she would drive her car out of the garage, where it had been parked since failing its last test.  He had forgotten to tell her the work still hadn’t been done, the perished brake pipe still not replaced despite his promises.  The less stressful job hadn’t been quite the same the last few months, the man worrying that redundancy was going to happen a second time.  The redundancy hadn’t happened in the end, just an endless sick leave that started after the police arrived at his work, to tell him of the traffic lights, the failure to stop, the lorry.  No survivors. 

The man looked at this last photograph for a long time.  He didn’t know how long, just that eventually the coldness seeped into his fingers, the resulting cramp causing him to shake them out, breaking his trance.  He opened the door and stepped out of his car, checking his handiwork.  The pipe seemed secure enough, the window was closed tight. He returned to the drivers seat, looking out of the windscreen at those clearly visible stars, hundred of them, twinkling away miles above the Earth.  Yet soon, dawn would break, hiding them from view once more, for yet another day.  

The man started up the engine.