Daguerreotype IV

It was cold in the lounge; front room, it had been called by Da. It was small – no – pokey. Pictures hung in the hap-hazard fashion dictated by the location of damp patches on the busy wallpaper. I shivered, cold in spite of the central-heating at OAP temperature. There was a pile of reading material on a shelf under the coffee table, Readers' Digests from 1989, various football associated publications and a solitary copy of GSA Today. I recognised the cover: the edition had been published ten years ago – and I had been in it. Pen picture paragraph; one among ten names to look for in the Geological field. I didn't need to open the magazine to cringe at the picture. It might well have been the last time I wore a dress. Under the magazine was a leather-bound book. A diary, or an old fashioned journal. It had a simple blackened-brass lock. The leather cover was blistered and grubby with time's fingerprints. Indented into the leather were initials, perhaps they had once been gold-leafed. I ran my finger over them. EP. Euphemia? Effie? Or Ezekiel?

I broke the lock, the brass having been weakened by great age and my hairstyle not being conducive to hairpins. The journal fell open and pages crumbled at the touch; dozens of them. The best stories began in medias res, I thought, as I started to read:

“again. To my great surprise, M______ is both handsome and possesses some charm. If it comes to it, there will be little hardship in following my brief. If only he were not so insufferably smug.
J______ is quite jealous. This may prove to be useful at some later time. The Professor grows ever more unpredictable, I wonder if he has the Grandgore; I have read that those who bring it to their bed risk Bedlam in later life. A bell. Dinner: good, I have need of entertainment. If only I could laugh like a mature woman. Still, it is flattering to be thought no more than twenty. What fools men are.”

The next few pages were written in something which resembled modern Hebrew. I put the diary into the satchel, next to the daguerreotype.

Again I shivered, it was already long dark outside and the lights in the room had grown dim, as if the supply were browning out. I wondered if people knew how common this was, and how much more so it would soon be. My Breitling Emergency read 7.15 PM. I rang the car-hire company. They said the car was on its way. They were made aware that it should already be being driven by me. It was quite satisfying to hear the 'bitch' just before I ended the call.

The non-slimline radiator in the room began to hiss: they were ugly things. Da had got them before they knocked the village hall down. They took up too much room and had sounded like a junkyard orchestra ever since. The hiss grew louder and began to syncopate.

'Kirssssssssss-tyyyyyyyy, Kirssssssssss-tyyyyyyyyyy.'

I was out of the front door before ding changed to dong. It wasn't the Avon Lady and I snatched the car keys out of the scruffy guy's hand on my way past. He was still on the doorstep when I looked in the rear-view mirror.