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Pictures at an Exhibition

by Andrew Macintyre

And you said 'but it's for charity!' You must remember this. You were five, five and a half by then. And Mum looked down at you from where she stood at the sink, the fluffy suds making rings around her forearms. Back then, you didn't know any more words that might turn the issue, and so you stood straining, searching , for that look of insufferable cuteness that had been known to work, although usually in relation to another chocolate. You waited: perhaps tenacity might have its rewards.

'We'll ask Dad tonight' she said finally, and turned back to the dishes.

And you were happy: this was as near to it all happening as you were likely to get right now. So you ran off to the living room to continue the matchbox car motorway pile-up that had already tragically claimed two hundred and forty-three lives at the last count, with still more carnage to come. And you were safe in the knowledge that the hard part was over. 'We'll ask Dad' meant that Mum would ask Dad over coffee after dinner when he was almost certain to say yes to anything, if only for the sake of a bit of quiet. You were less skilled at getting things out of Dad at that point. It was at that time that you still hung onto the notion that if you said it fast enough they would have to say yes, because they'd never ask you to repeat it, would they? They'd be too embarrassed, wouldn't they? But they weren't and they often did. And then they said no. But the repetition of rejection had yet to take effect then, even if there were stirrings. Anyway, Mum had a way with words that you found astonishing:

'I want a football and boots 'cause Murray Brown has one and plays with the other children on Saturdays and they all wear the same socks and shirts and shorts and eat oranges at half-time'

became

'Robert is interested in playing for Stop Out.'

'For what?'

'He wants to play football, for the club in the recreation ground.'

'Oh, sure. Why ever not - another chocolate?'

The football boots duly arrived and you ran up and down with the other boys on Saturday mornings, although Murray Brown said that you were in the 'C' team because you weren't any good. Murray was in the 'A' team but Mum said the teams weren't called 'A' 'B' or 'C' out of any hierarchical sense - whatever that was - but purely for organisational purposes. She said that next season she'd ask them to call the teams 'Red' 'White' and 'Blue' in order to avoid any confusion on the matter. You didn't see it that way, however. Murray Brown was in the 'A' team and you were in the 'C'. In an ideal world you were promoted to the 'A', and Murray went down to the 'C', or he was involved in a major road accident.

As you sent matchbox car after matchbox car, blinded by the imaginary rain, (which would have been real, had Mum not stopped you from bringing the watering can inside) into the steadily growing pile-up, you saw Murray Brown inside nearly every one, his terrified face pressed up against the windscreen glass. It was a nice way to spend the afternoon.

Dad had a camera, with a leather case and all those shiny metal catches and knobs. But he only got it out for family weddings and funerals: he said it didn't matter that the photos were in black and white, as all the important people in the pictures he took would be wearing either colour. You remember imagining the school assembly, don't you? The hush as they announced the winner, then your name thrillingly ringing out over the massed ranks of children, the sudden turning of heads, and the look on his face...He could play for Stop Out 'A' all he liked then. You'd won something else, something different. So the girls could go on writing secret, unsigned notes to him, asking if they could be his sweetheart, and you wouldn't care. You could walk away from all that, your head held high, your conscience clear. You had an inkling then you'd be having a beer with Murray Brown ten years on, the Stop Out star strikers laughing about Primary school days, and that competition.

Not that it was a competition, of course: it was for charity. The school sponsored a child in Kenya, for educational purposes of course. Nearly everyone in the class (except for Michael of course, but he never got anything right, the wimp) could point to Kenya on a map of Africa and recite a fact about Kenya, like that they were poor, and we were rich.

However, lately there'd been a dramatic trailing off in contributions, and the school might find itself embarrassingly short of the minimum yearly stipend. So Miss Jones in Room 12 had come up with this super idea. The children from the two primers would bring photos of themselves from home and the older children would vote for the one they liked the most by way of donation. The most popular photo would be mentioned at assembly, along with how much money it had attracted. This was later changed to the number of coins each photo captured, rather than their actual monetary value. Apparently this was after objections from the blazing red communist pinkos who lived in the flats by the railway station because they were too lazy to go out and earn the money to live somewhere nicer. But that didn't matter to you then. You were focused on winning; on the tight knot of other children around you at playtime after your victory, the steady rattle of coins into your box and the orderly line forming every lunch hour for the honour. But for all that to come to pass, you needed the photo. Do you remember how that night you dreamt of local paper headlines (BOY WINS PHOTO CONTEST THEN SCORES 6 GOALS, BROWN FAMILY IN TRAGIC

CAR ACCIDENT...)? Of course you do.

Dad woke you in the morning. He said

'Do you want to wear that for the photo?' as you were pulling on the Stop Out strip. You weren't quite awake, were you? Because you said

'What photo?' He looked confused.

'The photo for school. Your mother said you were all keen on it. Do you still want to do it?'

'Oh yes please!' you said and tried to look angelic. This was easier back then of course, and you were wearing your Mickey Mouse pyjamas - a happy accident. Here was a dream come true - winning the photo contest, and dressed in your football kit! Let's not talk about the game.

In the garage there was a nylon cord strung between the two pillars for drying the washing in winter. Mum brought out a sheet and hung it over the line.

'That'll be the backdrop' she told Dad. The moment had arrived.

Ever since the competition was announced, you'd known that that the look on your face would tip your fortunes between success and failure. You'd practised assiduously the perfect expression: merely smiling beatifically wasn't enough, you knew. You might have said the look you'd discovered in the mirror was smouldering, sexy even, but those words meant nothing to you then.

So when Dad said 'smile', you smouldered. No-one could have done it better.

There was a moment of profound silence. Mum and Dad looked at each other.

'Robert' said Mum. Mum always used your full name when you'd done something truly awful, drawing it out until the two syllables became double-barrelled, more two words than one.

'If you pull a disgusting face like that again, Dad will put away his camera and there'll be no more photos - OK?'

So you did your best to smile the way they wanted you to, and after three or four goes Dad seemed satisfied. On Wednesday evening Dad brought home the pictures and you thought they spent rather a long time looking at the photos of Auntie Jo's wedding, instead of choosing the best photo of you (and you do remember being secretly satisfied with your smoulder, even if there was no chance of it going to school). Mum brought out some black cardboard she'd saved from one of Dad's shirts and sellotaped the second photo to it.

'It's off centre' said Dad.

The next morning you went straight to Mrs Jones's room and held out the plastic bag to her without saying anything. She looked at the photo, and smiled. And you thought about how she might tell the other old ladies over tea one day how she'd known Robert Packer when he was a wee bairn, and she'd always known he'd make it big as a footballer. Do you remember how you'd imagined the scene at lunchtimes - the orderly line of children awaiting their turn to place a coin in the box, safe in the knowledge that they weren't helping you win the competition as such, they were buying a stake in history. They too would be able to say in years to come

'I knew Robert Packer before all that...'

Well, of course they can.

But when all the pictures were put up the next Monday, the slide began. They were in a line along the corridor leading to Room 5. Underneath there were boxes for the coins. But when you walked down the line looking for your picture, you saw for the first time, the colours. Colour! Some of the kids had had their photos taken in colour! How could you compete with that? There was Fiona Dawson, leaning against a tree, the impossibly green leaves about her feet. And there was Susie Wilkins in her ballet costume, arms above her head, her nose lifted just so. Already there were a cluster of girls around that photo, and they were putting coins in the box! Well, all for the good, it's all for charity. But you couldn't help hearing that the coins in Susie Wilkins' box were clattering atop a whole heap of others. So when you finally found your picture, and peeked inside your box, the sight of its emptiness wasn't that surprising. It wasn't your fault. The picture was off-centre.

So when Mum gave you those pennies she had to remind you what they were for. They made a soft, cardboard thud when you dropped them in your box. And it all passed you by, the scandal of Bruce Johnson getting caught trying to wrench the cardboard box with the most coins from the wall. Fiona Dawson had to go home early she was so upset, although nearly all the coins were recovered. And when Fiona had her name read out at assembly (all the other kids turned to look at her, the saps) she smiled and blushed. It was a pleasant surprise to find that you couldn't remember what it was for, some sort of competition? Your Mum probably still has the photo - and the boots, and the football you never kicked again.