Back then...

Two sets of black and white contacts from the fifties. Sent to me by my aunt who, for some reason had kept them tucked away at a back of a draw probably. There I lay in the dark, mainly free from dust. Only coming out when somebody went rummaging for some sellotape or a birth certificate so that they could apply for a passport.

Look at me. How old am I? Two? Three?

Back then everyone went to the photographer to get a professional portrait taken. It was an expensive business and you had to save hard for it, forgoing tea, or bread, or meat, but it had to be done. It was expected.

Back then the photographer’s camera stood on a tripod and he stuck his head under a big black cloth, holding the needle trigger in his hand, shooting off shot after shot and trying to get the attention of his subject. And me? Well, I seem distracted by the headlights even then.

Just missed me.

Back then, hair combed, tears wiped away with some spit and hanky by mum. Mum in her best spotted dress and hat, smiling on. My Dad in the corner fuming, well I wouldn’t, couldn’t, behave. It was all too frightening. Tapping his pointy shoed toe, wanting to get away outside to have a fag.

I’m in here somewhere. I know I am. I can see it in my face. The start of the lines that would become oh so deeply etched with the passing of the years – my X face as I’ve come to call it. See my hands all wrinkly like an old man’s even then? Old man’s hands, far too much skin to firmly enclose the bones it slips across.

And that bear I’m holding. Was it mine? I don’t remember him. I don’t remember any bear to hold and hug. I must have had one, mustn’t I? He’s so shabby. A Mr. Shabby from Shabby Town – just like me.

Yes, I’m in here somewhere. Back then. In the beginning, as I am now. Startled and scared. For ever and ever? Well, no not that.

I’m in there somewhere though.

Yes, look. Here I am startled and scared. I wonder what it is I see? All the others aren’t me at all. Here I am - Mr (or should I say Master) Shabby, peeking out from behind the happy veneer made by the face pulling and waving of the photographer. Look at him, see his eyes?

And that other thing?

Well, that’s just a rip in the paper. The real scars don’t begin until later.