A Boy Developing
George Wills is the boy who escaped the mundane, he's the boy who followed his dreams and the man who returned.
Sometimes the best ideas are left behind in places we’ve long forgotten. The same is true for people too. More often than not, life is messy and impossible to decipher, even with all the training in the world. One day we wake up in one life, and then in the next step, we are walking through something entirely different.
Somewhere in British suburbia, tucked away in the middle of a street, stood an unassuming house. It was now the home of George Wills and, before that, of his uncle. George was known in the town as an artist and a man of adventure. He had stepped foot on every continent and presented his work in museums and galleries from London to Tokyo. He was someone the residents took pride in. If George Wills came from their little dot on the map, then perhaps it was worth something more than its convenient transport routes.
George did nothing special in school. He was, like his friends, smoking when he should have been studying; and flirting when he should have been figuring out his future. After retiring from school at sixteen and destined for a life working wherever he could get employment, his uncle gifted him a camera. He was an analogue man, so it made sense the camera was from a past age. It was George’s first camera not attached to a phone, but a strange gift since he had shown no interest in taking pictures. The camera looked boxy and had confusing switches and buttons scattered along its sides. There were scratches on every edge, proof of the years of service it had already accumulated like medals on a soldier’s chest. But even at its age, it worked perfectly, like a Swiss watch or a warm smile on a handsome face. That summer, when he had nothing to do other than waste time, his uncle taught him all he knew about photography, and by the end of it, he could turn a scene into a print. It was, not that he knew it at the time, a gift that changed his life.
His uncle was also the one who pushed him into his new life, sending prints to magazine editors he had saved in his Rolodex. One day, in the midst of golden leaves and grey skies, a letter appeared in the American-style postbox his uncle proudly planted out front. There’s not much those yanks do well, but I like their postboxes, he told anyone who asked. One day a cheque and an assignment were slipped into it, and its small metallic flag was raised. It was George’s ticket out of the mundane, and he took it with both hands. He had nagged his uncle to tell him which pictures he had submitted. But his uncle never told him, and eventually, he stopped asking. They’re all worth sendin’, he replied with the confidence he missed from his parents.
By the time George reached his uncle’s age, he was famous. Half the world had seen his pictures whether they knew it or not. They appeared in all the best magazines, hung on walls of exhibitions, discussed in classrooms and sold for eye-watering sums at auction. His ticket out of his unassuming town had taken him further than he could ever have imagined.
Eventually, the travel and responsibility grew too heavy, and he was sick of hotel suites and pretentious parties. When he returned home to visit his uncle, which was not often, he winced at the thought of leaving again. Nothing sounded sweeter than a permanent return to his uncle’s small house with its life-changing postbox. His uncle never moved, either physically or culturally. He was a man who refused the new digital age; he loved his analogue life too much to leave it behind in history. So George sent a letter ahead whenever he thought about a return. He knew the address by heart. Sometimes, when he was on the road or sitting uncomfortably on stage, he'd recite it to himself. 33 Sheridan Close.
But when he returned twenty-five summers from when he had left for good and six months from the last letter he had sent, he found the house for sale. Where is my uncle? He asked the neighbours, new and old. He vanished a few months before, an old friend from high school told him. But he didn’t leave in a hurry, he was as quiet as a mouse, said one of the old ladies who knew everyone. The house was cleaned, and arrangements had been made. Now the house sat empty with a For Sale sign planted in the soil next to the postbox where the roses used to grow. He opened the postbox, and inside was a single letter collecting dust. It was his.
George stayed in the only B&B in town for the first couple of nights. When the sun rose, he began asking questions to those he thought might know the answers. In the local pub at the bottom of the road worked a familiar face, one of the girls he had smiled at in geography class. But she had nothing new to say. His uncle had stopped drinking a few years before and only came in at Christmas for his lunch. In the post office, another face he recognised, one older than him, but somehow it had aged less. The last letter delivered to his address was his now collecting dust, and no new address had been named. The same pattern followed him everywhere, like a shadow powered by a bright sun. It was as if the entire town was the same as he had left it aside from his uncle.
A week passed, and he became resigned to the idea that his uncle was where he wanted to be. He decided to stay a little longer in his sleepy dot on the map. There was peace here in not being recognised as the insightful photographer; but as George, the cheeky lad from school who had made some money. No one here cared what message lay mysteriously behind his latest series of work, what film he preferred, or which lenses he used. Instead, the questions had changed to ones he wanted to answer, are you still single? Yes, he replied with the same sparkle he had in school. Did you know Mr Wilson, the old history teacher, got caught smoking weed in the car park? No, but excellent! He was always a massive grump. The boys have joined a darts team, we meet every Tuesday and Friday night want in? Absolutely. There was also no doubt that this was where he wanted to be, and his uncle’s house was the perfect place for him to live. He made an offer that same day, and within a few more, he took the keys and moved in. Only in a small town was such a fast purchase possible.
Inside the house, it was as it had been when he first learned to develop images, the curtains pinned against the walls to shut out all the light. He tore them down and filled the house with sunshine; it grimaced at the change, throwing a plume of dust into the air. In the hallway, between the kitchen and living room, hung a collection of his photos on the smoke-stained walls. His first three had been neatly grouped together. First, as you looked left to right, was a close-up of a rose. The second, placed in the middle, was a blurry but somehow beautiful picture of his uncle’s dog running out of the gate. The third was a candid of his uncle bent over his oak dining table, examining the finished products. There was something special about these images. Not only did they represent the infancy of his life, but they were his memories, fixed in place. And more than that, they were his three little secrets, kept for his uncle's eyes only. You couldn’t find them on Google or by visiting a gallery. And you certainly couldn’t buy them at an auction for an eye-watering price. They were here and only here, stuck in the place where they had been born, hanging on the walls that watched him create them. They were more than still images; they were keys, unlocking the moment trapped in time. He could hear the bee that flew around him as he tried to stay still long enough to capture the delicate rose in perfect clarity. He could see his uncle’s greyhound leaping over the gate, provoked by an emboldened squirrel; his uncle’s voice calling after him in vain hope. But more than anything, he felt the excitement he had once felt bubbling away in his stomach as he waited silently for his uncle to assess his work. He used to hang on every hum and haw his uncle made as his eyes moved painstakingly over each detail.
The same two upholstered chairs sat in the corner of the living room, looking at the table he once laid his images on for inspection. He took a seat; it was here that he used to wait, feeling his heart pumping with anticipation. His hand wrapped itself around the end of the armrest, and he felt the scratch marks he had made as a teenager under his fingertips. He knew then that every success he enjoyed stemmed from this seat positioned at this angle. If he had pulled it to the other side of the table, he would have seen his uncle’s face react. Perhaps, even that small change would have sent him down a different path. Maybe he would have craved those funny faces people pull when they react earnestly to something. Instead, he never felt the need to see. For him, the beauty lay in the mystery, the deciphering and detachment. Was that hum a good one or a symptom of confusion? Did they lean in for a closer look because the picture pulled them in, or was the image blurry?
George sat in that chair, stroking his hidden scratch marks until it was dark, and he had to get up and turn the lights on. The switch hung out of its hole in the wall, dangling happily like a panting dog’s tongue. There would be a screwdriver in the garage; he remembered a cabinet hidden amongst chaos full of odd tools, none originating from the same set and half completely dysfunctional. The garage was cold as it had always been, and in the night air, his breath fell out in front of him. The cabinet was in the same place, although now, it stuck out as something important. It was the first time George had seen it alone, freed from the boxes which used to cascade down on it from both sides. Now he could see what he had always suspected, its unevenness. The cabinet leant awkwardly against the exposed breeze block wall behind it, jutting out at one side. The cabinet and its strange angle were all that had remained the same. Each drawer had been emptied and shaken free of its dust. He had to remind himself that the house had been left, and he was no longer the nephew who came visiting after school or in the summer; he was the owner. The first order of service would be to straighten out the cabinet. He pushed and lifted the uneven side but met resistance. Perhaps the cabinet wasn’t the problem. He pulled it forward to assess what stood behind it. Sure enough, there it was; the obstacle, an evading brick, either too big for the wall or trying to escape from where it had been placed. George pulled it, and it came loose with a cloud of dust. It was a brick that had been removed before, and behind it was a little space to hide something small. A clue? Maybe something inside would tell him about his uncle's whereabouts. It would have been strange, but not out of character. He did like to read murder mysteries. He liked puzzles too, but this was a stretch even for the most calculated mystery solver. The chances of George visiting the house while it was empty were slim. And the chances of him buying it and then sticking around long enough to find a secret hiding place were obscene. The dust cleared, and laying in the space was an envelope.
*
Dear Mr G Wills
We are writing to inform you that you have been successful in your submission to the upcoming November edition of our magazine. We have had an enormous sum of pictures sent to us this month, but your candid; ‘A Boy developing’ was something we had to include. Please see the enclosed cheque. We hope to see you at our offices on the 2nd of December at noon to discuss assignment opportunities.
Kind regards,
Mrs O. Wilde
*
O. Wilde was the woman who gave George his first cheque. His uncle had told him the magazine was never published here, so it was impossible to get a copy. And because he believed his uncle wholeheartedly, he had never even asked to see it when he went to the offices the next month. But even without seeing the print on paper, it had propelled him into his life. There was a sense of beauty in the letter. But it wasn’t perfect like the rose with the bee, the greyhound leaping over the fence or his uncle studying his images on the table. It was confusing and painful, but even so beautiful. Because he knew he had never taken a picture called 'Boy developing', he couldn’t have because he was the boy.
Then as he went to put the letter back in the envelope he had taken it from, he noticed something else inside. A newer letter, one twenty-five years younger, crisp and white. He slid it out of its dusty jacket and unfolded it.
*
George,
I thought you would find this eventually. When you were younger, you always asked me why the cabinet looked broken on one side, and I never gave you a great answer. You stopped once I hid it between a pile of boxes and old clothes. But now you know. I’m sorry if you feel duped; it wasn’t my intention. I just wanted you to have some luck, you were always bright and ambitious, and all you needed was luck. So I decided to create some for you, now look at you.
I’ve never been good with words, or at least not when it comes to serious ones. So I thought it would be better to say what I need to like this. That way, the next time we see each other, there will be no elephant. I’m ill George. I’m not going anywhere right away, but there is no cure, and you’ll probably notice it when you see me. I needed a few months to do some things I’ve always wanted to do before I can't. I’m in the Highlands now or Iceland, depending on when you find this. I hope the house sells soon, then I can do a few more things. There’s a cruise to the North Pole that I’ve been eyeing up. Whatever I don’t spend will be yours, my lad, and so is everything in storage right now. I know you don’t need it, but you’re the only one I have to give it to. Anyway, enough words. See you in The Oak at Christmas; I'll bring you a piece of a volcano. P.S. If you’re not named George Wills, please put this back where you found it.
Uncle Neil
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