Focus.
‘He’s writing in a notebook.’
Dad is scribbling in a maroon leather-bound journal. His eyes are narrowed, his nostrils flared and he’s shaking his head. He turns in my direction and I flinch. But he’s not looking at me, just at the door. He shouts something that I can’t make out then goes back to the book.
‘The batteries must be dead. What’s happening, Michael? Is it enough, you telling me this? Will you remember?’
‘I don’t know. He’s still writing. No, he’s done now. He keeps looking at the door. He’s standing up and grabbing the notebook and—’
I stare as Dad, teenage Dad, holds a wooden box. My skin tingles with recognition. I’ve seen that box before. I know what it is.
It’s a wooden camera.
Dad is walking round the bed now, past Meg, towards the wardrobe.
‘These aren’t working. You need to take a picture on your phone,’ calls Meg. ‘In case you forget.’
I take out my phone and snap pictures as Dad throws open the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. He pulls it all the way out, glances at the bedroom door, then puts the notebook and box at the back and pushes the drawer shut.
The light is fading now.
I take another photo as Dad wipes some dust from his jeans and stands up. As he’s about to walk towards me, the light fades. My head tingles as the vision falters, then everything returns to normal. And I remember everything. And I didn’t black out.
I can really see the past!
‘What did you see?’
‘My dad.’ I give her my phone and head to the wardrobe.
‘That’s so weird… Are you…? What are you doing?’
My fingers tingle as I kneel and pull out the drawer. I reach in and feel around until my fingers graze a wooden box.
‘Oh my God.’ My chest flutters as I pull it out.
Meg crouches beside me. ‘What the hell is that?’
The wood is dark – I want to say walnut. It’s polished and smooth and around the size of a small shoe box. There are metal hinges on both sides, and in the middle of one of the panels is a brass disc like the ones that cover old keyholes. My hands tingle as I bring it closer to my face. The wood and metal smells mingle with something else, something sharp and chemical.
‘I think it’s a camera,’ I say.
Meg strokes the wood and shivers. ‘It’s beautiful. May I?’ I instinctively pull it back towards my chest before I pass it over.
Meg inspects it carefully. She pushes the circle of brass on the front and it swivels to reveal a small hole. ‘It’s a pinhole camera.’
‘A what?’
‘You need to learn your art history! A pinhole camera is like the original camera. You’ve heard of a camera obscura, right?’
I shrug. It rings a bell.
Meg stretches. ‘OK, class, settle down. So, thousands of years ago – yeah, seriously, like bc times – they discovered that when light shines through a small hole in the wall of a dark room it will project an inverted image onto the opposite wall. Camera obscura – it means dark room.’
I nod. ‘OK, so they were able to take photos in bc times?’
Meg laughs. ‘Sure, you should see Plato’s Instagram. Total poser.’ I roll my eyes and she smirks. ‘No, photography came later, like nineteenth century. That’s when they invented these. They put this hole here – a pinhole, if you will.’
She’s enjoying this.
