‘There I am,’ Izz says, her voice a breathy gasp, ‘and there’s my mother.’ She points a finger, voice shaking with emotion as the figure, the double of Izz today, slips by on-screen and is gone.
I’m the one who mists up first; Izz is too determined to see the scene unfold to cry yet. She sits forward in her seat and Fern joins her, their necks extended, eyes peeled.
I think how precious each still of this film is, how measured, how economical my parents’ generation were with their recordings. Occasions we’d film and photograph every instant of these days – weddings and picnics, holidays and Christmases – had to be captured in moments back then. All of that festivity was, by necessity, distilled into a few treasured seconds on film – all they had to show for their most important days, stored on dangerously perishable film that would have to last them a lifetime.
There’s probably more snaps of my mum and dad doing nothing in particular stored in my phone at this very moment than there’ll be seconds of footage of them on their own wedding day, and I haven’t made the effort to watch any of their films, all jumbled up in the boot room with every old coat, umbrella and walking stick anyone in the Frost family ever owned going back decades, junk and clutter I’ll never use but daren’t chuck out, thrown in with absolute treasure.
I make a mental note to convert every one of their reels to digital formats for them, feeling guilty about not looking after our memories. All of this rushes through my mind alongside registering that Izz is back on-screen now.
She’s tiny and dark, beautiful with her hair tied in a folded headscarf, the knot at the nape of her neck.
‘There’s little blue flowers on that dress. You can’t make them out,’ Izz says, motionless.
I get the sense she’s specifically talking to Fern, who is now squished up close to her on the sofa.
There’s a brownish haze along the outer edges of the images where the film is burning. The heat from the projector is making my spot behind it as warm as if I were in front of the log burner. I daren’t stop now in case the film tears and we lose precious frames.
Silence falls, and I sense we’re all waiting for the same thing. An electric energy radiates out from Izz on the sofa, a static charge of old emotions building to palpable levels.
When the man appears, it is with a burst, bounding into the shot, a tall streak of fitness and youth. Young Izz already has her hand in his and they’re ready to dance. Her face, like a fresh flower, blooms, all rounded cheeks and happy eyes.
‘That’s Alexi,’ she says. ‘I remember this part. The contest.’
All the younger couples are dancing this one, the older folks sitting it out around the edges. It’s clear even from the seconds of footage who the winners are going to be.
‘He was a lovely dancer,’ says Izz.
Fern rubs soothing circles on her back, but neither of them can drag their eyes from the screen where the scene cuts to the pair of them, Alexi tall and straight, Izz small by his size, receiving the prize sash and bottle of Asti Spumante from the judge.
All smiles, Alexi stoops as if to kiss Izz on the cheek.
All of us lean in closer to the flickering screen.
The spool ticks with the sound of film working loose. It’s the end of the reel. The screen is a blank silver once more.
Izz doesn’t move.
‘It’s over,’ she says, barely audible, the words getting lost in shaky sniffs.
‘Run it again,’ Fern says, soft but urgent, drawing out her phone. ‘This time I’ll film it.’
Patrick, however, has to get going, so I show him out while the reel runs once more.
He stops inside the door frame and turns. ‘Are you going to be OK?’ he asks, with a gesture of his head through the den wall. He means Izz.
‘Yeah, we’ll order a pizza or something, feed her up, crack on with some gingerbreads, then walk her back to her place. She’ll be OK, maybe just a bit frazzled from old memories.’
‘She ever tell you about Alexi?’
‘Just the once,’ I say, with a smile.
He nods. He knows Izz and I are close. ‘You know, we didn’t get our coffee this morning.’
‘True.’
‘Or our pub meal the other night.’
‘Also true.’
