Charlie

By Eric Bray

Charlie is a self-employed photographer, trying to make ends meet.
Then a chance encounter in town changes everything.
This book could really be called Vince 5 1/2, as it fits in approximately there, but although Anglesey, and Oki and Pete appear, it is not really about them, but how they influence Charlie's life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Bray
• Release date: Jan 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465786630

Eric Bray

Born in 1950, after school,I served my country in the Royal Navy, the least said about which the better. Since then I have made plastic drain-pipes, driven a fork truck, worked as a courier in the multi-drop rip-off game, and for the last two years have watched a conveyor belt going around. I have now achieved retirement. I began writing for amusement during my lunch-breaks, and rose to the challenge of becoming published when I commented on a book I had purchased, saying something along the lines of - "I could do better than that!" - when someone said - "Go on, then!" My other hobbies are scuba-diving, designing, building, and flying radio-controlled model aircraft, ham radio, photography, and avoiding gardening.

Book preview

Charlie

Published by Eric Bray at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Eric Bray

This is entirely a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are entirely a figment of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person, place, or event, is purely coincidental. If any affront or slight is perceived, it is completely accidental and sincerely regretted.

The amateur radio callsigns, at the time of first drafting, were unallocated. If one now 'belongs' to a reader, again I apologize. No slight was intended against you.

chapter--------------title

one------------The Photograph

two------------What next?

three-----------New Year

four------------Bertie

five-------------Bertie and Charlie

six--------------Mr. and Mrs.

seven-----------Onwards

Chapter one.

The photograph.

I suppose, when I look back at the chain of events, that it all began when I took a photograph with the snapshot, cheapie, camera that I always have with me, ready for that one shot that might be THE ONE. This particular photo was of a pigeon that was sitting on a statue. There was nothing special about the statue, or the pigeon, that I know of, but the light was just right, and the bird was perched just so, and – if you are a camera-person, you will know what I am trying, and failing, to put into words.

Having clicked the shutter, I wandered off along the precinct, in search of inspiration for lunch, and a new jumper. The one I was wearing was too thick for a warmish summer’s day, yet too thin for winter, which was creeping around again. So I suppose that I was looking for two jumpers, really!

I was looking into the window of a Hi-fi shop, don’t ask why, because they sell neither jumpers nor food, when this skinny guy with greasy hair and a severe case of acne tried to lift the camera from my pocket. I cured that desire with a sharp elbow jabbed into his ribs, then caught his arm, turned him and rammed a knee into the part that you don’t want the beer to reach. I hadn’t spent hours watching Bruce Lee, Van Damme, and Steven Seagal films, and not learned anything. Oh, I forgot the Karate Kid, didn’t I, where Mr Miyagi tells Daniel - ‘Prime Target’,- when they were in the dodo, or whatever it was called. Anyway, it worked nicely. The kid dropped to the concrete flags, clutching himself and groaning. I left him to it, re-settled my camera, and wandered off, after snapping him lying there, for the record. I assumed that he was a petty pick-pocket.

A while later I felt another need, and went into the loo. (Don’t those stories where the character NEVER needs a pee, or the other extreme, where the action is detailed to the very last drip, annoy you? We all do it, with minor plumbing variations, so why detail or ignore it?)

When I emerged, it was through the other door, because it by-passed a section of the precinct that was filled with jewellery shops, and I don’t want any more watches. I already have one for daytime, one that glows in the dark, and one for going out posh, not that I do! (Mind you, there’s one I’ve seen that – oh never mind.). I went into the ‘Jumper Shop’, for a browse, but all they had in was drab grey-brown things made from hard, scratchy wool, or those with the shop’s logo plastered across the front. I was not about to pay them to allow me to be a walking advertisement for their shop!

From there, I went into the catalogue shop, to see if there was anything in there that jumped off the rails at me. Unfortunately, their stock was pretty much the same, or alternatively I could have chosen diagonal stripes, or some psychedelic stuff assembled from mis-matched blocks of colour, seemingly assembled by a colour-blind machinist on her first day back after a fortnight’s drinking binge in the tropics, while she was incapable of seeing past the ends of her eyelashes.

I left them there, and tried the Indian shop, but they seemed to have the catalogue shop’s seconds!

In desperation I tried M and S, but they were having an end of season clearout, and all the displays were of desert wellies, shorts, tee-shirts, and silly hats. There wasn’t one single winter woolie on show.

All the while, I was being pushed, pulled, squashed, trampled on, and elbowed, (except in the loo!), by crowds of people who all wanted to be somewhere else ten minutes ago. Very few of them were actually shopping, or carrying anything they had bought. I pushed, shoved, elbowed, and tramped on corns, to the cake shop, where I exchanged a small fortune for a cream bun and a can of ice-cold coloured fizzy water, with added chemicals. Now to find somewhere to sit, in comparative safety, while I consumed them!

In the park, all the bench seats were occupied by perspiring Grannies, many of them displaying their knee-length flannel bloomers as they sought a cooling breeze around the nether regions. I finally claimed a discarded newspaper and spread it on the grass under a tree, where there appeared to be no dog-dirt lying in wait. Somewhere along the way, the cream bun had been squashed, squirting its contents all over the inside of the paper bag, and was a sticky mess. I made the best of it, and then sucked my sticky fingers almost clean, before opening the nail-snapper ring-pull on the can, which was now almost warm. It tasted like warm chemicals in water, but it did at least dilute the glutinous goo left in my mouth by the cake, and it was wet!

When I had finished, I looked around for a litter-bin, in which to deposit the remains, with no success, slowly becoming aware of the foul taste developing in my mouth as the chemicals destroyed my taste-buds.

All the while I was watching the Brownian motion of the crowds, all still trying to be elsewhere. I sometimes wonder - if everyone reached the place they wanted to be, all at the same instant, what would happen? I had fired off a couple of frames at interesting scenes, and had almost reached the end of the roll, so I fiddled around rewinding the 35mm strip into it’s little tin can, then popped the camera’s back open, extracted the can, transferred it to the plastic canister, and then tried to get a new film strip to engage with the teeth on the little cog that draws it out, when the film advance lever is operated. The plastic cans went into my pocket, a different pocket to the camera, and I stood, slyly leaving the little card box, the torn cake bag, and the can, on top of the paper. (I didn’t notice the skinny guy pick them up, examine them, then hurry to catch me up again).

Unknowingly, I led him on a tour of the market hall, then Asda, then round the shops again. I dropped off half a dozen rolls of film for processing, and exchanged some casual banter with Maggie, behind the counter, as she filled in the envelopes and gave me the ticket stubs. As I was a regular and, she claimed, one of her best customers, we were on first-name terms.

It wasn’t until later that I noticed that I hadn’t left the latest film that I had used. Not that it mattered, I would be in again in a few days with another lot, and it would do then.

When I went back, two days later, to collect my latest crop of discards, I discovered that they had been burgled. Their entire stock of new film, as well as all the used stuff that had been waiting for collection, and the cash-box, had been taken. There was a new face behind the counter, and no processed film to match my ticket stubs. Naturally, I was a bit annoyed, because a replacement film doesn’t replace the photographs that were on the lost rolls. I didn’t link the robbery to the attempted camera-snatch, though. Would you? It is only with hindsight I realized that there might be a connection.

Temporarily abandoning my continued search for a new jumper, I called in at a Butcher’s shop, and chose a nice gammon steak for my evening meal. While my culinary skills are adequate, I make no pretense of being a Chef, because I had taught myself by the trial and (mostly) error method. At home I had some canned pineapple rings, and some spuds.

Lacking a new jumper, but with the fresh meat, I made my way home through the thinning crowds, the further from the centre I got, the thinner the crowds. (Do the people who spend all day pushing and shoving in town centres, spend all evening pushing and shoving their partner around?)

The next few days were similar to all the ones preceding them, in that I wandered about, in response to tip-offs, or instructions from above, intuition, and suggestions from anywhere else that had a ring of authenticity to them. I used up rolls of film, battered away on the portable typewriter, and collected rejection slips. Somehow, along the way, I managed to sell enough material to keep the wolves at bay, but barely made any profit. My last ‘phone bill had been printed in red ink, and I had found that, while I could receive calls, I couldn’t make any. My ‘plastic’ bill was due in, any day now. That wouldn’t wait, because I had already carried some over from the previous month, and I didn’t dare get in too deep, which is SO easy to do!

Oh, I never said, did I? I’m a freelance photo-journalist, and so far unsuccessful writer of thrillers. I had one novelette pending, and had managed to sell a few one-thousand worders to the gory end of the pulp fiction range, which, at two pence a published word, hardly earned a fortune. I was living in a twenty-six foot Elddis caravan which was parked in the yard at a Stable. I had free cold water on tap, and free ground space, provided that I doubled as Security Guard when the day staff had knocked off. There was a communal shower and loo in the shed across the cobbles, which I could use. An extension lead was slung across from the rafters of the machinery barn, to my van, which provided me with power to charge my ‘phone, and run the van lights, radio, or tv.

Cooking was done on a two burner propane thing, with a grill that didn’t work, and an oven that had a leaky door seal. It confined me to minimal operations, and I had become skilled at one-pan cooking.

On this day, when I got back to the ‘van, I found that I had been moved, and was now parked near the manure pile! An apologetic note that was blu-tacked to the ‘van door said that I would be moved back tomorrow, but they had been forced to move the van to allow access for an artic that had to come and collect a piece of broken machinery that was going for repair. My ’van would be replaced after it had gone.

Before I had tried this line of work, I had been selling bicycles, for a big Dealership, until they decided that I was costing them more to keep than I was earning. I suppose it must have been because I was overheard recommending a customer to not buy one of their Taiwanese made, British-assembled, scaffolding pipes, and to go to so-and-so’s, where they could get a much better machine for the same number of Queen’s Engravings. That career was short-lived, I suppose that I should have learned to smile while I was lying through my teeth, but I couldn’t do it. It isn’t in me to rip people off from their hard-earned cash. After all, I knew what being skint was like! If they had been twits, wearing buckets full of gold, I’d have happily sold them two wheels, a hack-saw, a drain-pipe, the instructions for an arc-welder, and told them it was the latest idea, D.I.Y bike kits. In my book, that kind of person doesn’t count, they are there to BE ripped off! Let’s face it, they think that money comes from a bank, and they have no idea how it gets there, it just does!

I think there are two pounds thirty something in my current account, and the emergency money I keep in the deposit account is hovering at around the minimum necessary to maintain the account! I knew that if I were to make out a cheque for five pounds, and not replace it within the month I could expect a cheque for the balance in the post!

With the gammon sizzling nicely in a drop of oil, I checked the days post. Most of it was junk mail. (What do I want with free upstairs windows, if I have the ground floor double-glazed? What point in having a Victorian-style conservatory roller-shutters, and automatic garage doors? Did I really want my driveway flagging in a decorative pattern?) My plastic card bill had landed, as was a final warning reminder for the ‘phone. The spuds began bubbling, so I turned the gas down. One letter was from the local Daily rag. They had sent a cheque for two photos’, and a pile of returns. The one from my Publisher was a reject slip for the resume of my latest attempt at creating a best-seller. Ah, well, the cheque nearly covered the plastic card bill, so I was back where I started, flat broke. Tomorrow was Sunday, and because of my present place of abode, it meant an early start. There are no late lie-in’s, in a stable yard. So, with the gammon eaten, I turned in.

The clip-clopping of hooves and the noise of birds clog-dancing on my roof woke me at six a.m. The local Trainers were taking their strings out for a warm-up, prior to trailering their horses to the gymkhana, in the next town down the road. They began straggling back at seven, while I was busy with the cornflakes. I had dashed over to the loo and shower block while they were out, knowing that I would have to queue for hours once they got back. After the jockeys, it was the turn of the amateurs, with their clanking buckets, scrubbing, grooming, and kick-dodging, before they began climbing aboard the various beasts, and learning how to fall off again! They gave way to the next lot, an hour or so later, on the long-suffering stable hacks.

A few of the better-off people kept their own horses at the stables, and they rolled in, at odd intervals, in their Jag’s, Range Rover’s, Jeep Cherokee’s, and the like - after lunch, to perform the weekly ritual of riding the nag to the pub, parking it for an hour, then wobbling back again. The rest of the time, the stable staff looked after the animals. One woman, I had noticed, arrived at exactly 1405 every Sunday, in a Ferrari. She would swagger around for a few minutes, then pat her beast gingerly on the nose, before feeding it a carrot, allowing it to salivate all over her Gucci suit. Then she would leave again at exactly 1415. In the six months that I had been watching, I had never seen her even sit on the beast. (Or anyone else, come to think of it. – Sit on the beast, I mean! Don’t read things that I haven’t written!).

The stable lads and lasses were finishing mucking-out, now, adding to the aromatic heap just outside my ‘van window. Two of them dragged the hosepipe out, and began blasting the muck and debris from the concrete yard and into the sullage ditch at the far end.

A big, eight-wheel crane nosed into the yard, squeezing in between the gateposts, with nothing to spare on either side, then came to a halt as the yard Manager paddled across to confer with the driver. A few minutes later, it was juggled into the space between my van and the artic which stood waiting. The crane crew began extending the jib, and the stabilizer legs, and then the Manager knocked on my door.

Sorry, we have to move you again! The crane needs more space to swing its body round!

Ok. I replied, Give me two minutes. Where are you putting me?

Round the back of the hay-barn, it turned out. I pointed out that from there I couldn’t see the yard entrance, or the yard! I was advised that I could have my space back later, when the crane and the artic had gone again. So, I finished my breakfast, then unplugged the chargers from the power line, before I unplugged that, and coiled it up. With that done, I wound up my stabilizer legs, and was done just as a tractor fitted with a tow-ball clattered up, and positioned by my ‘van’s towing hitch. As the ‘van was towed up the yard, I noticed that the left tyre was going down again, so that the ‘van leaned to one side and wobbled drunkenly about

Sunday is my paperwork day, so once I was parked up again, and had the legs down, I got on with fudging the books. With almost no income, and almost no outgoings either, it didn’t take very long. With that done, I pretended to clean up. That involved swiping at the ledges with a damp cloth, then brushing the migrating straw and general debris out of the door, back to where it had come from. Once that was done, I boiled water, then washed the pots, consisting of last night’s plate and cutlery, and this morning’s breakfast bowl, along with my one and only cup. (I must get a spare one!) That used up one hour.

After that, I studied my last five pound note, and the tiny pile of mixed coins, while I wondered what to do about it. I had two options, really, get a proper job, or starve!

In the food cupboard, I had a can of spaghetti ‘O’s, a can of sardines, half a bottle of ketchup, and a scrap of green, hairy cheese. There was no bread left, and no butter. I had a part-used jar of coffee, some sugar, seven spuds, two carrots, and a limp lettuce heart. Now that I had eaten the gammon, I had found where I had put the pineapple rings, languishing under a packet that used to contain a biscuit assortment. So, for lunch, I could have sardines and spaghetti, or go and buy something. What goes with sardines or spaghetti, is cheap, and filling, and isn’t bread? I didn’t fancy sardines and pineapple, or pineapple and mash. Lacking any better ideas, I put a film into my ‘serious’ camera, an SLR, fitted it with an 80 – 200 mil zoom lens, and pocketed the 28 mil wide-angle, then went to watch the crane. You never know, it might fall over, or catch fire!

It didn’t, nor did the cable snap, or the load fall out of the slings. With the minimum of fuss, it plucked the broken machine off its concrete plinth, swung it round, and lowered it onto the trailer, with a little manual pushing and pulling at corners to line things up. The trailer groaned a bit as it took the weight, and then everything was unhooked, folded up, cranked down, and put away.

The crane reversed cautiously through the gates, then lumbered off down the lane, as the tractor unit that was part of the artic started its engine, backed under the fifth-wheel coupling, and checked for a good couple. Then the air lines and curly power wire were plugged in, the trailer suspension pumped up, and off they departed.

Following a brew-up in the tea shed for the yard-lads, my ‘van was returned to its regular spot. I went in, put the unused camera away, and re-connected my electrical feed. I noticed that the ‘missed call’ logo was flashing, on my ‘phone, and I hoped that whoever would call again, as I couldn’t call them!

At about one p.m, when I was considering dining on spaghetti and mash, the yard Manager called in for a yarn. Over a coffee, we discussed this and that, insulted the politicians, put the world to rights, and generally killed an hour. Eventually we got around to finances, and my lack of it

Struggling, are you?

You said it! I agreed. I’m barely afloat. Last month’s work doesn’t quite pay off the bills I have accumulated, doing it!

Hmmm!

We wandered off onto a side-track about motor racing, and how it compared to horse racing. A while later, he was called away to deal with a lame horse that had kicked itself.

On Wednesday, I found myself a ‘proper’ job, which paid three pounds fifty an hour for collecting trolleys in a supermarket carpark, and returning them to the storage area. Oh yawn! At least, I was outside, with my handy camera always ready, just in case. Not that crazy driving, or bad parking, were particularly photogenic I must have walked fifty miles, that first day, going up and down, and round and round. My feet were blocks of molten lava inside my shoes, and my back and shoulders ached. You are no doubt aware of how a trolley will not go straight? Try it with a stack of thirty!

At least, if I stuck it for two months, I would qualify for a staff discount card, and I was well placed, in the meantime, for purchasing the ‘reduced’ items of food which had reached their sell-by date. That night I dined on canned salmon, (bent can), a broken baguette, and the last of my limp lettuce, topped off with a cream gateaux, total cost fifty pence! Ah, luxury! If I could match that level of daily expenditure until next Friday, payday, I could just scrape through.

On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, I pushed trolleys for ten hours a day. On Sunday, I volunteered to help with re-painting the white lines in the car-park. That task proved to be even more of a back-breaker than pushing trolleys! At least trolleys are at standing height! There was a lot less walking involved, of course, but oh, my knees! I survived for the required six hours, and hobbled off home with a fresh spit-roasted chicken the size of a budgie, a three-pack of lager with one can missing from the strap of four, and a slightly squashed Dundee fruit cake, the cost of which totalled fourty-two pence.

On Monday, when I wandered in at ten to eight, for the eight-thirty start, I was called in to the Manager’s office.

Here we go! I thought. Thanks, but no thanks! Bye-bye.

I sat in the chair, outside, suffering the stony glare of his Secretary, until I was called in.

He had a thin file on the acres of polished walnut desk, in front of him, which he flicked through all one page of, as I stood on the little square mat in front of it all.

Sit down, Charlie! He waved at a chair that cowered in a corner. Not over there, bring it nearer!

What on earth are you doing, pushing trolleys, with qualifications like this? He began.

I said something about gainful employment.

Ah, a cash-flow problem?

I agreed that it was.

Is that why you have only purchased out-of-date, or damaged items, so far?

I agreed again, and explained that I had three pounds left, to last me until Friday.

He rattled the skimpy file again, Living in a caravan? On your own? Not that it is any business of mine?

I nodded agreement, to all three statements.

Hmmm!

I waited.

I see that you used to sell bicycles?

Yes.

Can you mend them?

Yes, if I have the parts, and the tools.

I was considering starting a cycling accessories section. If we do, are you interested? The pay will be better, of course.

Yes!!!

I also notice that you are a photographer, and novel writer. Do you sell much?

Not so far, that anyone would notice.

We are planning a new advertising session in the local media, and need some pictures of the shop, inside and out. If you wish to - take a few, present them, and we may consider using them. There are no guarantees.

I asked if he wanted a write-up to go with them.

Submit one, if you wish, and we will look at it.

When I came out of his office, with my spirits a lot higher than they had been when I went in, it was raining - that constant, persistent, downpour that never seems to end. I found a bin-bag, made three holes in it, for arms and head, and got very, very, wet, pushing trolleys.

I squelched home that night, carrying a complementary bag of lucky-dip foodstuffs, gratis, and with the knowledge that the other trolley-collector had said Sod this! He had resigned on the spot.

Inside my ‘van, dressed in a towel, I wrung my clothes out, propped up my shoes, toes high, and open end down, to allow the worst of the water to drain out, then investigated the contents of my food bag. I had a pack of crushed biscuits, a squashed cake, a three pack, (one missing) of beans, a can of peas, one of corned beef, without a ‘key’, a packet of Go-Cat biscuits, a split pack of Kleenex tissues, a large jar of good coffee with a cracked cap, a pack of back bacon that was reaching the end of its shelf-life, five eggs, and a squishy yellow mess, a part pack of pork chops, a block of butter with a split wrapper, two broken French sticks, and a box of matches.

I wasn’t quite sure what to use the Go-Cat for, but no doubt something would come along. I enjoyed a cup of decent coffee, with treacle-smelling Demerara sugar, (I forgot to list that). I saved the last of my milk for breakfast. I dined well again, that night, on chops, mash, beans, and a slice of iced Genoa, washed down with more coffee.

On Tuesday, I pushed trolleys, and got rained on a few times, while I studied the store-front, and planned my strategy, and took home two in-store bakery batch loaves that had been ordered, but went unclaimed, for my ‘spends’ ration of 50p.

More junk mail greeted me, flyers for pension funds, glasses, and hearing aids, along with someone having a bed sale. While I would love having a double bed, where was I going to put it? A buff window-envelope was multiply stamped from the Infernal Revenue. When I plucked up the courage to open it, I found I had been sent a cheque for over-payment of income tax, for the last year, my income having been less than expected! It had only taken them five months to cough up! It did mean that I could pay my ‘phone bill, now!

In the free local rag, my picture of a pigeon sitting on a statue stared cheekily back at me from the front page. It had been used in conjunction with an article about refurbishing the town square. The last letter in this batch was from an Agent who had published a few of my photo’s, in the past. She wanted me to submit anything I had that was suitable to marry up with a proposed vermin cull, or conversely, to counter the cull. I suppose, by vermin, she meant pigeons, as I hadn’t seen any rabbits or foxes in town. I decided to have a hunt through my collection, after lunch.

Wednesday dawned, so I let it get on with it, while I breakfasted on eggs and bacon.

I took my serious camera, and a couple of lenses, along with some old prints, to work, in the hope of getting enough spare minutes together, to take the photographs I wanted of the store front, and exiting happy shoppers. That was what the prints were for, I was going to position them on a poster board, where they would be seen on the way out. I had picked my best angles, yesterday, while pushing trolleys.

When I returned to my ‘van, that night, I had company.

Two very bored men were sitting in a white Escort van with orange doors, with a blue jam-jar perched upside down on the roof above a sign that read – POLI E. They waited until I put the key into the lock on the flimsy door, then climbed stiffly out of the van, then carefully picked their way towards me around the detritus and fresh manure that was scattered all about.

Are you Charlie McAbee? The intelligent-looking one asked.

That’s me, what can I do for you?

They identified themselves, briefly flicking pictures from the Chimp’s tea party under my nose, too close to focus on, because I’m slightly long-sighted. Did I take this photograph? They brandished the pigeon on a statue picture.

It looks like one of mine, yes.

Did I know any of the people that appeared in the frame?

No, I took a photograph of a pigeon on a statue.

They had a quick conference, then, - Do you have the original?

Yes, it will be in my file-box. I finally turned the key, and went in. Wipe your feet! I trailed straw and horsey unmentionable across the interior of the ‘van, so that I could put my camera bag and shopping down. With that done, I opened the relevant cupboard, and lifted out a metal, fire-proof box, one of many.

Are they all photographs? Plod asked.

No, just negatives, in their packets.

You have got a lot! Smart-arse!

I’m a photographer.

And this is your workshop? Plod fanned his nose, as the odour of the manure pile permeated, carried by a freak eddy of the breeze.

Not quite, I live here.

It pays well, then! The other one quipped, ignoring his partner’s glare.

I don’t owe anyone a single penny! I retorted, thinking, Well, I won’t, when the post gets delivered tomorrow! I had posted my payment to the ‘phone company, and paid in the cheque to the current account, during my lunch break, along with a selection of ‘flock of pigeon’ shots, to the publisher. Ah, here it is! I produced a strip of four negatives in a cellophane sleeve.

Plod plucked it from my grasp, and peered at it. I can’t see a bloody thing on it!

If you would wait a moment, I have a light-box, and a lens! I rescued the strip before he took it out of the packet, and got fingerprints onto the emulsion.

A what?

Just wait a minute, and I will show you I did.

Ah, that’s better, but it’s all inside out, the colours! Plod peered at the frames, using the loaned magnifying glass. If he’d had a pipe and a deer-stalker - .

I sighed. It’s a negative, the reverse of a print, the picture.

Why do that? My polyrood doesn’t!

Polaroid, do you mean? It’s just the way it works. I saw no point in trying to explain.

Bloody silly idea! Plod groused, and then examined the next frame on the strip. Who’s he?

Oh, he’s just some pickpocket that tried to steal my camera from my pocket.

He seems to be in pain.

Well, he accidentally banged his groin against my knee.

The copper went back to the pigeon photo, comparing it with the newsprint copy he held, a perplexed look on his face.

What’s the problem?

Eh? Oh, the pigeon bit is the same, but there’s more stuff on either side, on yours.

The Editor probably cropped the extraneous material.

Eh?

Trimmed it to fit.

Why didn’t you say that?

I did.

He gave