UNCLE MAY WELL have taken several, since he was hardly likely to have fetched out his camera from the cabinet purely because I had turned up for breakfast in the dazzling white shirt that Aunt had ironed so carefully. He must have had it all planned, and Aunt Laura was probably in on it too. He seldom took photographs, and never on a whim. Perhaps the rest of the pictures were distributed among other albums, gone to family relations, forgotten over time. I remember Aunt making me wear knee socks, too, although you can’t see them here. I am way down in the bottom right-hand corner, you can see one of my arms resting on the table, and although Uncle photographed me from behind you can tell I am looking at Aunt. She is putting a blouse on over her bodice. It floats ethereally over her shoulders; a second or two later it will be buttoned up.Behind her the window is a bleak rectangle of whiteness, a white that seems to leach into my shirtsleeves. It casts a wintry pall over the objects in the room, making them appear both paler and darker than they presumably were.
