No one knows I’m helping him out so why would they? I’ll check though. Why do you ask?’
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I’m betraying a confidence by discussing this with George.
‘Clive has an old arm injury. He can’t remember how it happened and I just wondered if it has any relevance… Apparently he didn’t tell the doctors about it because he didn’t think it was important.’
George rakes a hand across his day-old stubble. ‘I’ll see what I can find out, but I doubt an old arm injury is connected to his current problems.’
‘It would be great if you can. Clive seems a bit down after returning to the allotment because it didn’t bring everything back to him, or rather hasn’t helped him forget.’
There’s a moment where we both contemplate the situation. For the first time I take in the fact George isn’t in his uniform. He’s wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt. We’re practically twins with what we’re wearing, but I realise in good time that it would be totally uncool to point this out.
‘Do you want to stop for some lunch?’ I ask, wanting my stomach to settle down. ‘I brought us both some food. I figured we would want to battle on.’
‘You weren’t wrong.’
I find the packed lunches I’ve made. As George has organised everything else, I have a multitude of snacks to support our efforts: crackers, vegetable crudités, boiled eggs (the shells very carefully removed in their entirety) and cheese slices. It’s a random mix, but I like to keep my diet in balance and there are no complaints from George. Because we’re at Clive’s, I realise the main thing that should be in this lunch is pickled onions. He might tell me off for not adding any. We’ll probably come across a stash when it comes to sorting the kitchen.
It isn’t long after refuelling that we’re both back to packing up our respective rooms. After I finish the other half of the cabinet, I move on to a sideboard. The top is covered in trinkets that I take off and wrap one by one. Inside, I discover paperwork files in boxes. At least this is one section that’ll be easier to sort. I slide out a box that looks like it contains recent bills. The next contains insurance paperwork. Another looks like important documents to do with the house.
The last box is wedged at the back of the cupboard and is awkward to grasp. I use both hands to get a purchase on it and manage to tug it out. It’s an old shoebox full of photos. Some old back-and-white ones, others full of colour.
It’s only on finding the shoebox that I realise for all the items in the room, there aren’t any photo frames displaying images such as these. Some of the pictures are visible without me poking around and I take a moment to see if I recognise Clive in any of them. None are recent and with at least thirty years and a full head of hair having passed by, it is hard to tell if any of the men are him. I stop myself from wondering if they are more charity-shop finds by taking the shoebox lid from the bottom to place on top. It’s not my business.
A single photo drops to the floor.
I grab it and go to place it with all the others, but I can’t help myself… I have to take a look.
There is nothing on the back other than the brand name of the company that developed the photos printed over and over again in small text. When I turn it over, it’s a beach I don’t recognise. The picture is in faint colours that indicate it has faded with age. There’s a couple grinning widely, each with their arm around the other’s waist. The man is undoubtedly Clive. Even with the fading colours, his crystal-blue eyes are unmistakable.
This is a precious photo, I realise. One that hasn’t been looked at for years.
But does it mean anything? Is it just a coincidence that this one is caught up under the lid of the box? Or has it been hidden away from the rest for a reason?
I decide to put it safely on the top of the other pictures and tape the lid shut. It’s there for Clive to find when he unpacks his things.
After stopping to take my pulse, I continue well into the afternoon and evening, all the time fixated on that box of