‘He was never a man of great passion,’ her aunt sighed. Shoulder to shoulder they stood at the old kitchen table and worked through the stacks of photo frames, wrapping and sticking, piling them up one on top of the other into cardboard boxes.
‘But those trains,’ said her aunt. She passed the frame across and Anna looked at the stained silver square with its black and white occupant . ‘He loved those trains.’
Anna nodded, examining the steam train dutifully. She placed the frame down next to the box and picked up the next one.
Afterwards she put it up on the mantelpiece at home.
‘I remember that day,’ her father grinned. ‘First time I’d ever seen one.’ He pointed at the train and started talking, Anna stopped listening.
To the left, almost forgotten by the photographer, stood a woman.
‘My mother never did like cameras,’ said her father. He shook his head. ‘Then when she died he burnt the ones we’d managed to take. I suppose this one must have meant too much.’