Songs of Blue and Gold Read Online Free PDF Page A

defensively.
    But he did not seem to hear her. ‘Kodak paper . . . I’d say mid to late nineteen sixties . . .’
    â€˜You can be that sure?’
    â€˜Pretty much. Did you know, the world’s oldest surviving photograph was taken by a man called Nicéphore Niépce, in France in 1827? It needed an exposure time of eight and a half hours, by the end of which the roofs he had captured were lit by two suns, one from the east and one from the west. He must have given up hope of producing a picture of a living person. No one could possibly have sat still for that long. But at least the print he produced was stable, as good today as it was then which is more than you can say for these.
    â€˜The way things are, there will be better records of Victorians in their rigid black-and-white poses than there will be of the second half of the twentieth century. Moderncolour processing has not been all it was cracked up to be. It seemed wonderful at the time, but it’s not permanent. It begins to fade after only about twenty years because the dyes break down, or rather the three colours of dye used break down at different rates so there’s a noticeable shift in colour.’
    They both looked back at the random mosaic of photographs on the table between them. There was a yellowing tinge to the rocks and the water on some of them that she had not noticed before.
    The clock on the wall ticked loudly.
    â€˜That’s how I first met Elizabeth,’ said Bill. ‘She came into the shop one day.’
    Maybe Melissa did know that. The information was there but had to be teased out, having lain dormant for so long.
    He told her how it had taken years to overcome their mutual shyness and to meet at a gallery for an exhibition. How that had progressed to a regular Thursday matinee at the repertory theatre. Their mutual dislike of stage musicals and secret passion for Ayckbourn and the sly intimacies of Alan Bennett.
    All the while, Melissa was thinking how strange it was that she had never realised they were such good friends.
    But then, how well did she know her mother as she had grown older? Understanding the wider story was going to be a matter of connecting disparate pieces of seemingly unrelated, almost forgotten knowledge. Just as, at the same time, an infinite number of her mother’s thoughts and experiences and unconscious perceptions were fragmenting into a jumble of impressions.
    They made an arrangement to visit Elizabeth at the home.She was not sure of the rules regarding visitors, but was sure her mother would be pleased to see Bill.
    Melissa was convinced she was doing the right thing, trying to stimulate Elizabeth’s mind with the familiar, the friendly face, the happy memory.
    Bill agreed readily.
    â€˜You don’t want to take that ivy down,’ he said as he paused on the doorstep where she was seeing him off. Some long dark strands of it curled by the garden wall where she had made a few half-hearted attempts to chop into it, fresh from wielding the shears in vengeance against the rambling rose which had fallen so spectacularly.
    â€˜It will only kill a tree if it’s allowed to run riot all over it and reaches the crown. And over a wall a good thick mess of ivy like this gives food and shelter to all sorts of creatures . . . birds and bats and butterflies.’
    â€˜I thought it was supposed to damage brickwork.’
    â€˜Or maybe it protects the old walls from damage from wind and rain. You could be doing more harm by pulling it away. You might think about that.’
    She did. It was nice to feel there was someone looking out for them, her mother and her.
    Melissa did not like the idea of searching through her mother’s private belongings. But she had to keep trying. She had it in her mind that if she could keep her mother talking it still might make a difference.
    The photograph albums were easy to find. They were in the dining room