Two copies of one afternoon in a garden in 1965. One of them lived in a family, got knocked about, got written on, got put in a tin with four hundred others and shoved in a loft and then a storage unit.
The other one was handled by one person, very carefully, for sixty years, and put behind glass in 1981 because he was frightened of damaging it.
I have the creased one. I would not swap.
But I have had to look at the fact that the people in that photograph were not precious to anybody in that photograph, and were extremely precious to a boy on the other side of the world who was never in it.
And the last thing.
He took the frame apart in the October, after I had gone home, which he rang to tell me about and which took him two days to work up to.
