Getting The Picture Read Free

years with no one to talk to.
    Anyway, I’ll tell you more later. I wanted you to know where I was, Mo. In case you were wondering. And no need to worry about how well I’m being looked after. We live like lords here. Every minute of the day there’s someone coming around to boss me about. Have you taken your pill? Have you done a BM today (excuse my language, angel, that’s what we call bowel movements here and they seem awfully fond of talking about them). Or else they remind us it’s supper in fifteen minutes, or music classes, or special talks. The other folks here say we get the infants from the local schools visiting us so often it’s a wonder there’s any time left over for them to learn how to read and write.
    The children are about the only thing I’m looking forward to, but they’ve only come once since I’ve been here. ‘He’s a photographer,’ the matron told them. I liked that, it must have been what the doctor told her. Better than a shop assistant, anyway. So when they asked me to take their pictures, I pretended. I’ve still got my cameras but I don’t put film in them anymore, Mo. I stopped all that a long time ago. But it feels good to lift the camera up sometimes, to feel its weight against my cheek and to be able to catch a certain glint in the eye. Trouble is I see you too often in the viewfinder. That look on your face I can’t get rid of.
    I’ll write later, but everything will be all right. Mo darling. Haven’t I always promised you that when you are with me, you didn’t have to worry about anything anymore? That’s my job.
    M
    3. letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis
    Dear Mrs. Lewis,
    Once again the soap is missing from the hand basin in my room. I have told you on numerous occasions that Florence Oliver is stealing it. This is an intolerable situation and I would be grateful if you could take action with immediate effect.
    Yours sincerely,
    George Griffiths
    4. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
    Dear Lizzie,
    That was kind of you to send me the spare photographs of young Brian’s birthday party. I thought he had a real look of your Frank about him, especially when he was holding that dagger to the other little boy’s face. I’m glad you told me it was plastic because it looks dangerously close to the eyes. And I wonder how they could fit so many children on the trampoline! No wonder Laurie was frightened it might collapse. Good of her to make the birthday tea so healthy, although I don’t see what’s so wrong with a bit of cake. Still, if you think Brian really didn’t mind the carrots. I just think young mums these days make so much work for themselves. But hark at me. As you have so often told me, I don’t understand what it’s like to be a mother.
    Meanwhile, here in the land of the living dead, a new man has arrived, not that you’d know. What with the last one, and then this one, it’s as if we specialize in invisible men up there in that top room. Not like George Griffiths. His room is plum in the middle of everything, and you can hear him stomping around even when you don’t want to, but it’s like this new man floats. He’s always suddenly appearing in corners and giving us a shock. Beth Crosbie says he gives her the heebie-jeebies. Mind, you remember me telling you about her. She’s the one who is still married but her husband lives out. In a flat. Does for himself and everything, although of course she’s been too ill to help for a long time. He was practically looking after her himself for years. Strange thing for a man to do although he still fusses all the time about her. He’s the one who made them take up her carpet and put a pink one in. Everything gives her the h-j’s. It’s not just me who says she’s self-indulgent. Catherine Francis, the one who gets the bus into town every Friday to have tea at Hoopers, she