Open Writing

Old photographs are commanding unbelievable prices on the market these days. But how do owners find the courage to part with them?

Mine have a value ‘beyond rubies.’ Birthdays and anniversaries would never be the same without a chin-wobbling browse through the black and whites.

This week our son celebrates his 21st birthday and I couldn’t resist a wallow through the albums. It’s lovely to look back to the short time when he could actually be persuaded to hold my hand.

Here’s one taken on his first birthday. All you can see is a chubby lower lip hanging beneath a sun hat. That year we discovered he hated Bridlington, sun, sand, going to bed, getting up and waiting for food. He also spoke his first sentence, ‘Carry me, mum,’ which I quickly translated to ‘Carry me, dad!’

We also learned he was a lad of few words. ‘I wouldn’t talk, would I, mum’ became his favourite expression, as friend after friend struggled through exhausting sessions of trying to communicate with him.

Here he is again walking with grandad at Filey. Lower lip trailing because we had sold his pushchair – he was four at the time. He managed to prolong his non-walking lifestyle by squatting in big sister’s doll’s pram – until the day she ran in, white faced and incoherent. I dashed out in time to see small brother’s happy wave, just before he and doll’s pram hurtled backwards down our eight front steps. ‘Does not like to exert himself,’ his first school report confirmed.

On the next school snapshot he and mate are disguised as ‘Steptoe and Son’ wearing first-prize rosettes. Unfortunately while they were posing someone ran off with their junk filled pram.

The following year he went to his first disco. He came in one teatime in wild excitement demanding a ‘crarvut,’ his pronunciation for a cravat a strange request since all he ever wore were jeans and T-shirts. But that Saturday afternoon he and his mate set off in their first long trousers, Paisley ‘crarvuts’ tucked smartly beneath their bulging Adam’s apples. Two hours later he trailed in foot weary and uncommunicative, with necktie crushed carelessly in back pocket.

When he eventually found his tongue we learned he was somewhat disappointed with the disco scene. Not even a silk necktie could alter the fact he had two left feet. After ten minutes he left his happily cavorting mate, collected his coat only to find his bus fare had disappeared. Too embarrassed to face his mate he walked home.

He always believed the walk from hearth to coal cellar was destroying his health, so the five-mile trek home must have been crucifying.

Here he is in High School uniform. Don’t ask me how he managed to get away with wearing a gold lame shirt under his school tie. It was about this time he first sampled the grape. He staggered in from school at 5pm with the frog-eyed deadpan expression I have grown to recognise, threw his satchel at the dog, made a derogatory remark about mothers in general and collapsed. When he felt well enough to talk about it, a week later, he said it was school dinners and had nothing to do with his girl friend’s father’s home-brewing activities.

Here he is cruising down the Broads two summers ago with five mates. That’s him behind the ‘Playboy’ magazine.

On leaving school to become an engineer his apprentice report sums up his talent. This unique gift he has for organising others – ‘fetch me this, pass me that, come on you lazy beggars,’ has turned out to be ‘Management Material.’

Now (sniff) he is a man of 21. We still haven’t been introduced to a girl friend. ‘No, better not ma, it would only upset you,’ he brushes me off, or ‘She’s not your type.’

Yes, here he comes now bless him, tall and straight, with tonight’s party invitations, the ones I gave him to post last week, protruding from his pocket. His greeting echoes through the back porch. ‘Hey come and look everybody – my spiders have hatched out!’

Congratulations, son.