Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. Double Exposure by The TaleWagger I’m on a safe bet here. I have never known him to turn down the offer of chips. "Can I have it with some crisps as well?" he asks, with that look that only children can put on when they want something. "No you can't" "You never let me have chips AND crisps. Never ever!", he sulked. I can't help smiling, as I know he has fallen into my trap. "Well, perhaps I could, just this once, but only if you promise to do your homework straight after tea ... and don't play Pat up when she comes round later." "Yeah! Okay!" I know my Christopher. It’s ‘one-up for Mum’ and it makes a welcome change. We sit down to enjoy our meal, me with a newborn confidence, Christopher in a chip-and-crisp paradise and Emma in her own little dream world feeding pretend chips to Teddy. **** Thursday morning is already here; I had fallen into bed last night both mentally and physically exhausted after spending the evening at Christopher’s school listening to several parents and teachers talking endlessness about nothing in particular. I had slept soundly and the countless dreams that had filled the night had all been pleasant. I had awoken to find the birds filling the early morning air with songs, while the sun had quickly cleared away the summer mist. Nature seemed to be is at peace with the land. I feel completely refreshed and rejuvenated and the omens look good for my ongoing conflict with that bloody box to be resolved so, this morning, I WILL open it, come what may! With John by my side I can do it. I feel sure that I will be pleasantly surprised by the outcome, gain further inner strength from this experience, be able to put my gremlins to bed and relax again. Perhaps this test is really what I need to break with the past and have the confidence to be mistress of my destiny, enjoy a normal life and possibly even re-marry. After all, I am not unattractive; in my teens many a man had considered me beautiful. The lines on my face are not deep, careful eating and the many hours spent walking the German and English countrysides has ensured that I am still shapely, though I may have a little too much flesh on my hips. I’m out of practice at encouraging the attention of men but who knows what life may have in store for me? Once Christopher has got used to living without his adored father, he may accept that I need the love and attention of a man. Still, that’s in the future and I still need a few more years to get over the loss of John. As I tidy Christopher's bedroom a shaft of sunlight falls on my back and the warmth of it seems to enter my body and ease the pain in my heart. Is this another good omen? Now seems to be the time to confront my demons and I finish the housework in a hurry; something that I have not done for a long time, as I normally used it as a time-filler. On the way downstairs my thoughts turn to the deliveryman. It was peculiar that he should have looked so cold and distant on such a lovely day, he was like an automaton. Dressed in his dark suit he looked like a pallbearer. Did he know that he was trying to make a delivery to a dead man? A cold shiver goes down my spine. No! Don't be silly! He must call on dozens of people every day, perhaps he was just tired or fed-up, and it was a hot day after all. Maybe, if I had smiled at him a bit more he wouldn’t have looked so blank, and I wouldn’t have assumed that he was the bearer of bad tidings. I go straight to the cupboard and, without allowing myself to a have second thought, retrieve the box and, with four decisive cuts of my paring knife, I remove the outer layer of wrapping paper and tape and quickly despatch it to the waste bin. A plain cardboard box is revealed. I open the top to find that a German newspaper is crudely wrapped around a hard, slim, rectangular object. Sensing that it is nothing harmful I can contain myself no longer and tear frantically at the paper to uncover a framed photograph of two soldiers. It’s John and Barry! Curious to know why and by whom it had been sent, I search through the box and wrapping paper for a letter, a card or anything that might give me a clue. There’s nothing, not even a scribbled note on the back of the frame! I stare closely at the photograph. It’s just a photograph of two soldiers looking towards the camera; not even a very good one, as they are off-centre, slightly blurred and tilted. The two soldiers are important to me, but I can’t understand why the photograph should be. In fact, it looks like it’s been taken by somebody who has had too much to drink! So what is the significance of it? It must have cost quite a bit to send it by special delivery from Germany so why, when I appears that it is only fit for the bin? Think woman! Think! There must be something very important about it, but where’s the clue? What am I not seeing or understanding? Was the particular time that the photo was taken of more significance than the subjects? I rack my brain but I can’t remember where, or when, it might have been taken. Carefully removing the backing from the frame I look at the back of the photograph. No! Nothing there to help me ... except ... I look closer. There is a very lightly pencilled tick mark. Had it been done to denote that it had been passed as satisfactory, or was there some other significance? I turn it over and see that it is directly at the back of John. Is it co-incidence or is there a sinister reason for it being there? I put the picture back and stand the frame on the table in front of me. I need time and a cool head to gather my thoughts. I also need a cup of tea, a tablet and John! I take my tablet, make a cuppa and slowly sip the hot brown brew as I puzzle over the mystery. The two faces proudly beam their delight, as they stand side-by-side with their arms raised in triumph. A small silver cup links them and they are obviously ‘The Champions‘ but of what, of where and when? John and Barry appear younger, although it is difficult to be precise: maybe by eight or ten years, perhaps even more. John's face doesn’t show the gaunt look of authority, which he assumed in later life. It still has the boyish charm and impish grin of a young man enjoying Life to the full; it is a face without a care in the World. I reckon it must have been when Christopher was about five or six. I delve into my memories but John won many cups and trophies in his lifetime and the Army seemed to have a cup, or a trophy, for every competition that one can possibly imagine. This competition must have taken place while we were in England. Of course! It would have been in Yorkshire, at the 2nd Division’s championships held when we had not long returned from our first overseas tour of duty. The scenery in the background does look a bit as if it is late Summer. We had arrived in Yorkshire in the Spring and this must have been the same year, just before Christopher's fifth birthday; John received his second stripe soon afterwards and spent most of that year on courses and manoeuvres. I sit for several minutes trying to think of all the important things that had happened at that time. It had been a hectic period of life what with the moving, finding a new school for Christopher and coping with my part-time job but I can’t think of anything of relevance except that, due my part-time work, I had not gone to the championships. I turn my thoughts to Barry. He and John had enlisted at the same time, trained together and, although they had not met before joining, they had become closer than normal friends; they were more like brothers. Barry had even been the best man at our wedding. Admittedly he had changed in the years since his marriage, but then time and circumstances tend to change us all. However, this had not been in the usual way as a few years back, when his marriage went through a rough patch, he had suddenly distanced himself from us. It seemed that he had concentrated his life on his trade as an armourer, and he had become one of the best in the Army. John was universally well-liked but Barry had become an introvert and I assumed that he was jealous of John’s charisma. After all, it was common knowledge, within the tight-knit circle of the Sergeants' Mess, that John was next-in-line for promotion to Warrant Officer, or maybe he would even be offered a commission. I suppose it would be unrealistic to expect that the intense relationship that they had enjoyed, since those early days, would remain at the same level forever. Both of them had, in their own ways, inbuilt competitive attitudes and everything that they did was with one hundred and ten per cent effort. As a team they were invincible, but that was yesteryear. So why the photograph of John and Barry at that particular moment in time? I don’t know and I doubt if I ever will. Since the death of John and my return to England, I have lost contact with Barry, Martina and their son Rodger and, as John and Barry had been so close, it was inevitable that Christopher and Rodger would form a similar friendship. However, with Martina and myself it was not to the same. Martina was German and from a fairly wealthy family, she always seemed to be cold and reserved and not prepared to be fit into the close-knit circle of regimental families. She had met Barry in Germany when John and Barry had spent several months competing on the European two-man bobsleigh circuits. For them, it had been one long carnival and no excuse was ever needed to hold a party. Martina had been at one of the first and after a few drinks Barry, being the single one, had asked Martina for a date. It was soon afterwards that Martina discovered that she was pregnant, although she didn’t tell Barry until much later. At the end of the competition season they returned to England and Barry wrote regularly to Martina. A couple of months later the regiment moved to Germany and Barry found that he was a father-to-be. Fortunately, he was overjoyed and they were married in a beautiful little village and had a reception party that I could only dream about! She and I have never been able to strike up an intimate friendship, as she has always seemed uncomfortable in my presence. Her impeccable command of the English language has only the slightest hint of a German accent, having been finely tuned at an English finishing school. Perhaps, with my upbringing making me a rather staid person with conservative values, and she being heavily pregnant at her wedding, she felt that she had to try to compensate with an air of superiority. Certainly, at the parties held within the Camp she always appeared reserved and aloof to the point of being called 'snobby' by some of the wives. To look at, she was a Teutonic version of a Barbie doll still in its box and, to newcomers to the regiment; it came as a complete surprise to discover that she was married to Barry and not an officer. When they married, Martina's father was a prominent businessman from the Ruhr and her mother a leading charity organiser, whereas Barry was only a down-to-earth corporal of humble background. Martina was also fairly rich in her own right, having inherited property and money from her grandmother and they seemed to be so different, however love does make unusual matches. I recall that, at the reception, John, as the best man, had given a long speech extolling the virtues of married life and went to great lengths to emphasise how lucky they were to have each other, and how lucky he was to have such a great guy as his best mate. At the time, I was involved in my changing world and I had not realised how intense and entangled their friendship had actually become. Following Barry and Martina's marriage they moved into a small, secluded house that she had inherited and although Barry used to attend parties at the Corporals' Mess and, following his promotion, the Sergeants' Mess, Martina preferred to stay at home or meet with her civilian friends. Even for the birth of Rodger, she had opted for a private clinic rather than the British Military Hospital, but I can’t fault her for that! At Rodger's christening, a grand affair with many wealthy Westphalian families attending, she had invited very few English couples and they had not asked John or me to be godparents, although later we had them as godparents to Christopher. Christopher still occasionally exchanges letters and phone calls with Rodger but I haven’t had contact with Barry or Martina in the last year. I sent them a Christmas card but, as I didn’t get one in return, I see no point in trying to revive a broken relationship. I understand from other friends that their marriage is none too happy and Barry has now left the Army and started up as a gunsmith in a small German town. I have spent all this time reminiscing but have got no closer to solving the mystery of the photograph so I pack the frame in the box and place it back in the cupboard, get myself ready and go shopping. I still puzzle over the photo and have an idea, as I am due to call into the delivery office, why not ask them for details of the sender! I do my little bit of shopping then park in the delivery firm's empty yard, enter the office and speak to the clerk. "Good Morning, I'm Mrs Buckton, of Sharpstone Drive. I've come to return the pad and pen that your man left yesterday." The woman in the office acknowledges me with a smile and a cheery ‘Thank you, Mrs Buckton.’ "Can you tell me who sent it?" I ask, trying not to appear too concerned. "Only there was no note with it and I want to thank them." "Of course," she replies, "I won't keep you a minute. I'll check on the main computer." My hopes rise as she disappears into an inner office and speaks to someone. She returns a few minutes later and the look on her face forewarns me of the bad news. "I'm sorry Mrs Buckton," she says, "but the computer just shows it as coming from our main depot and nothing else. I cannot understand that, as for security reasons it is company policy not to accept anything without the name and address of the sender." "What does that mean?" I enquire. "Why is there no name or address?" "It does happen, but very infrequently." "Is there a way that I can find out?" I ask. "I really would like to be able to thank them." "I could contact Head Office and see if they can trace it back," she replies. "I really would appreciate you doing that. I hope it doesn't take up too much of your time but it is a memento of my late husband, and I really would like to know who to thank for sending it." She looks sympathetically at me and says: "You must realise that customers can request that we do not give out their details, but I wouldn't think that that applies here." She then adds that if I contact her late tomorrow, she will let me know what she has found out. I say that I am grateful for her help and look forward to hearing something positive, as it’s nice to find somebody so obliging. I drive away from the yard feeling that I have made a positive move and the mystery will soon be solved. The rest of the day passes quickly as I busy myself with household chores and, with the photograph out of sight it was almost out of mind ... almost, but not quite. Occasionally I think about it but it is no longer in control and I will soon be able to show it to Christopher and joke about how young his father looks. **** Click to Continue

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