The Camera

By Graham Bowra

Ah, so this is the camera, Hayward said, and picked it up, turning it over in his hands and examining it closely.

My goodness, it is a very old camera, an old Kodak Eastman No. 4 Red Bellows, I think. Looks to be about a nineteen-twenty vintage. He looked at Charles. How
long have you had it? It seems to be in rather good condition. Its a real antique this one. I understand youre looking for some film for it?

Charles Bridge was told to buy the camera. When he did, it became an object to inspire him to greater voyages and odysseys than he had ever known. It took over his life until it alone decided his fate.

But thats not how it was supposed to be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499000450

Graham Bowra

Author Biography coming up soon

Book preview

Prologue

Daylight was disappearing fast on that crucial December day as Charles Bridge sat motionless in his chair at the sitting room table, a half full tumbler of whisky in his hand. He stared intensely at the photographs spread in a fan arrangement across the scarlet velvet tablecloth.

The noises from outside grew in volume and intensity; he could hear shouting and now someone was banging on the door and shouting something.

Charles ignored them, closed his eyes and cast his mind back to the first time it happened some seven weeks earlier. He was still amazed at the events that had occurred since then but he really should have become used to them by now. There was no doubt about it, they had been momentous to say the least, perhaps even cataclysmic at times.

He opened his eyes and a smile spread slowly across his face as he looked at each startling picture, their clarity and colour having never ceased to cause him endless wonder, and a sense of awe.

He took a sip of whisky, put the glass down and rested his chin on his elbow. Then he reached across and gently patted the small old-fashioned camera that lay beside the photos.

‘Well camera, it was you who did it’, he murmured. ‘You’re the one who engineered all this. You are the one who showed me the way, even though there were times I protested, or didn’t understand your reasons for doing what you did to me. From the moment I suspected that there was something odd happening in my marriage, you’ve been my guiding light and steered me to a new beginning.’

He took another sip of whisky. ‘And it was so amazing how you came into my life, just when I needed you. It was almost as if I had somehow subconsciously summoned you from somewhere. And you listened. You really listened and heeded my plea. And you came when I needed you but I didn’t even know it then.’

He paused and listened to the noises outside, but then, as if he had been asked a question, he said, ‘Do I remember it? Yes I can, very well. In fact, it’s as though it were yesterday.

‘There I was, walking along the street from work towards the East Chelmsford Bus station. It was starting to snow again and it was still freezing cold.

‘And you know I didn’t have the faintest idea that from that moment on my future was mapped out to the minute. Each momentous event segued seamlessly into the next one. Amazing! Although I didn’t realise it at the time, you, camera, were on a mission to help me, to absolve me, to free me from all my problems. And most importantly you guided me through one of the darkest periods of my life, helping me come to terms with Angela’s situation.’

He stood up and finished his glass of whisky in one gulp. With an almost casual air he turned to survey the room. The remnants of his smile lingered on his lips as he recalled that momentous night, just seven weeks ago when his adventure began.

*     *     *

Chapter 1

It was 5.30pm with the night chill closing in over the city as Charles Bridge hurried along Chelmsford’s High Street. Snowflakes swirled about, an icy November wind plucked at his overcoat and tried to claw its way down the front of his woollen scarf which was wrapped tightly around his neck and tucked deep under his overcoat.

Around him, shoppers and city workers bustled along Chelmsford’s busy streets, most like him, absorbed in their thoughts of getting out of the bitter cold and into the warmth of their homes.

Charles was the archetypal British public servant office worker; one of hundreds of thousands of similar people working in the Essex County city of Chelmsford. He was employed by an accountancy branch with fifteen other staff.

Tall and slim, Charles was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt meticulously ironed, conservative blue tie, highly polished brown shoes and a knee-length overcoat with a long woollen scarf tucked in at the neck and a woollen flat cap.

He was very neat and accurate in his work and was well regarded by the rest of his co-workers as being hard working, polite, punctual and meticulous in his manners. He appeared rather detached at times, but in fact it was more shyness than aloofness, plus he had an unfortunate habit of blushing at the most innocuous remark.

Each day, when he arrived at the office, he would hang his outer coat, scarf and cap on the hooks at the entrance; place his briefcase on his desk, put on his cardigan and make his way straight into the lunchroom. There he would pour his morning cup of tea and take it back to his workstation where he would glance through the morning newspaper. At nine o’clock, not a minute after, he would turn on his computer and begin.

*

Charles’ briefcase whispered against his coat as he marched along towards the bus station. He grimaced as he could sense the hint of a heavy snowstorm in the air. So typical for a Friday, he thought. It’s going to be a cold, miserable weekend, with me alone at home while Angela will be off on another of her trips to London. Of course I could wager that she’ll be going with that wretched next-door neighbour of ours, Reginald Hanley. I wonder when they’ll come clean about their sordid affair. I wonder if Angela even suspects that I’m aware of their little episodes.

He turned into Franklin Lane, the small side street that would take him directly to the bus station. Not too many people used Franklin Lane. It was dimly lit, the road surface was rough, and it had a dank foreboding smell about it. There were many vacant shops in the short street. Charles however, was oblivious to the lane’s gloomy atmosphere and used it without noticing the unpleasantness.

He had walked through Franklin Lane many times before as a short cut on his way to the bus station, but this was the first time he had ever noticed the little second-hand shop, although he supposed it had been there for quite a long time. He turned his head slightly and glanced at the amazing paraphernalia that this kind of second-hand establishment always accumulates.

There was a plethora of odds and ends sitting haphazardly displayed in the grimy window. There were pots, pans, clothing, an old-fashioned microscope, a stuffed rabbit and a hedgehog with a glassy, unseeing stare, and a small dusty camera sitting right in front of the eclectic presentation, if indeed it really was one, close to the window glass.

He was almost past the shop, when a small voice startled him.

‘Buy me,’ it said.

The voice was very soft but incredibly clear, so clear in fact that Charles stopped in his tracks, not sure whether the voice was actually directed at him. He looked around to see where the words had come from but he was alone. The nearest person, an old man, was some fifteen feet away and walking in the same direction.

It was obvious to Charles that there was no one near enough to have spoken.

The voice spoke again, but did not seem to come from any particular direction, which gave Charles a distinctive twinge of concern. It felt rather strange, and his logic couldn’t confirm it, but the voice seemed to have been coming from inside his head.

‘Buy me,’ it said again. Charles stopped in his tracks and stood for a moment; there was definitely no one close enough to have spoken that softly and still be heard. Finally dismissing the event as a figment of his imagination, he was about to resume his stride along Franklin Lane when the voice spoke for a third time, but now with a more imploring tone. ‘Please buy me.’

Charles stood there bemused. It was all rather odd. Where could the voice be coming from? Certainly there was no one near him as he stood in front of the shop. He looked around for the owner of the voice who he supposed must be very small, or perhaps possess some form of ventriloquist’s ability. Also, there was no inflection or tone to indicate its sex or age.

He couldn’t see anyone in the shop, nor could he notice any loud speaker above the doorway or in the window. There was nobody around in the street that could have spoken to him and so Charles was about to move off again, when something about the little display in the shop window made him stop and turn back.

He began to peer at every item that made up the dusty display. His eyes roved across the cluttered arrangement of memorabilia and came to rest almost as if he had been drawn to it, on the small camera at the front.

He stared at it for a few seconds. It certainly was an old camera; a small brownish wooden box-like contraption, with dusty black bellows fully extended and a round glass lens at the extremity. A square viewfinder was fastened to the top.

Charles shivered involuntarily as he stared at the large round lens. It reminded him of a big black unblinking glass eye and seemed to stare back at him with what Charles imagined was a look of pleading intent. It had a price tag attached with the faded figures, ‘Three pounds’ written in pencil.

Charles was rather nonplussed standing there staring at the camera for a second or two trying to reason what was happening. He was about to dismiss it as just his overactive imagination and started to walk along Franklin Lane.

Then the strangest thing happened. Instead of walking straight, his legs seemed to take charge of his body, and turned him toward the shop door. Charles eyes boggled as, without any conscious effort, he was marched into the small shop, right up to the counter where he banged his fist on the faded scratched counter top.

Immediately the tattered curtains at the rear were flung open and a small grubby man appeared. ‘Good evenin’, Gov’nor. What can I do fer yer?’ Charles opened his mouth to explain that he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing in the shop and that he was sorry he’d inconvenienced the man, but, to his utter amazement his words came out entirely different. ‘Yes please,’ he said firmly. ‘That small camera you have in the window. I’ll have it thank you!’

Charles started in alarm! What did he just say? He was astonished! They certainly weren’t the words he was going to say! Before he could speak again, the man shuffled up to the window, reached across and grasped the camera. ‘Is this the one?’ Charles nodded dumbly. ‘Free pounds that’ll cost you, thanks Guv.’

At first, thoroughly nonplussed at this sudden flurry of unwanted activity, Charles attempted to pull himself together and be once again in charge of his own actions. He stared at the shopkeeper for a second.

It seemed that the camera had wanted to be bought, so the logical thing was to go ahead with the purchase.

‘Er… well, yes, I suppose so.’ He tried lamely to explain. ‘I was… well… er… walking past and um… this camera… er…’ He was going to say that the camera had begged him to buy it, but realising that if he said that the man would think him an idiot, he continued, ‘Oh, well. This… this camera, er… caught my eye. It’s probably an antique, you know. So I just had to come in and buy it.’

Well, the last part was true anyway, because indeed the camera had asked him to buy it. It had made him enter the shop and made him ask for the damn thing! Charles smiled feebly, and feeling as if he still had no power over what he was doing, dug into his pocket and pulled out some notes. It was the last of his money, three one-pound notes! He thrust them at the man. ‘Here. Here’s the money,’ he stammered.

‘Oh, thank you sir. Would you like me to wrap it for you?’

‘No thank you,’ muttered Charles, and with his face red, he grabbed the camera, turned and fled from the shop.

Outside again in the icy air and away from the uncanny events he had just experienced, his reason returned and despite the evening chill, he felt the redness rising on his neck.

Charles had an unfortunate habit of blushing at the slightest provocation. He hated it, but try as he might and using all his inner persuasive powers against the affliction he just couldn’t help it when the occasion arose. Now was such an occasion and he stood motionless on the footpath, imagining his scarlet face standing out like a beacon for all to see.

He stared at the small camera in his hand. It was bizarre that he had been forced to walk into the shop, against his will, and buy it. And he had no answer for his actions. Whatever made him do something so odd, and certainly against his will, was certainly not manifesting itself right now.

He tucked the camera under his arm and resumed his journey towards the bus station.

*

The events of the last ten minutes ran around and around his mind as he hurried along. If it wasn’t for the camera, solid and real under his arm, he almost could have dismissed the complete incident as some strange daydream. But it was no dream, it was real and it had actually happened! For some inexplicable reason, the camera had somehow spoken to him, suggested that he buy it and then had physically forced him into the shop to make the purchase.

On the bus journey home, Charles waited until he was alone on the seat before looking closely at his purchase. When the man who had been sitting beside him had left the bus and Charles was sure there were no prying eyes around, he pulled the camera from under his arm and laid it on his lap. He turned it over in his hands, examining it closely. He was right when he’d told the second -and shop proprietor that it certainly was an old camera.

He’d only seen a camera like this before in magazines but there was no indication such as a nameplate or tag to tell him what make it was. Probably many years ago it had been somebody’s pride and joy.

He wondered what stories a camera like this would tell if it could only speak, and then reminded himself with a shudder that the camera had spoken to him. He tried to reason that the episode had been a bad dream, but unfortunately, there it was, the camera in his hands, so it must have happened.

Soon his rationale returned and now, sitting alone in the comparative security of the bus, he tried to convince himself again that the episode with the camera speaking to him was only in his mind. He must have seen the camera and decided that it might make a nice little sideboard piece; or it might even be an antique that might have some value at a later date.

He lifted the instrument from his lap and peered closely at it. It was made of what appeared to be once polished or stained wood, with brass fittings, now green with age. It had a black cloth bellows, fully extended. At the end of the bellows the large unseeing eye of a lens seemed to be staring at him with a baleful glare.

A small hinge on the base of the camera indicated that the bellows attachment must fold back into the body when it was not being used, although how it fitted he was not sure. The small viewfinder on the top was flipped into an upright position and as Charles cautiously raised it and glanced through it, the world appeared upside down. There was also a little handle tucked into a disc-like structure that looked like it might be used to wind the film. A trigger on the side of the box, which he supposed might be the shutter release, completed the outer equipment.

*

Half an hour later he got off the bus into lightly falling snow, and as he made his way cautiously along Rosebery Lane, he was still none the wiser over his thoughts on the camera. In fact, looking at it retrospectively, Charles was almost resigned to accept that the whole episode of the camera actually talking was just some weird hallucination, some figment of his imagination. Yes, that was it.

With all the things on his mind at the moment, he decided that his imagination must be in a bit of a turmoil, hence the voice. He must have subconsciously wanted the camera anyway, although consciously he disagreed, and this was the way his mind engineered the purchase.

Now he was satisfied with his self-explanation. All he had to do was to reconcile the fact that he had wasted his money. The damn thing would probably never be used anyway.

He was becoming a little annoyed at having to part with his last three pounds for a useless piece of junk, which probably didn’t even work! And anyway, he didn’t have any film for it.

He knew that Angela would be angry or scornful of his actions in wasting his money and so he approached a roadside bin and stopped, ready to throw the camera away, forget the whole incident and not mention his purchase when he got home.

But, as he stood before the bin, he was unable to bring himself to drop it in. He stood for a second, puzzled and irritated. Why couldn’t he just drop the camera into the bin and walk on, leaving the matter there and then?

With a short grunt of frustration, he kept hold of the camera and turned to walk away, although he knew that when he got home and showed it to her, Angela would be irate, probably castigating him for his waste of money. He wondered just how he was going to explain his purchase to her with a rational excuse.

Actually, he realised, he wouldn’t have to explain it at all. It was his money, his own pocket money and what he did with it was his own business!!

*

A few weeks previously Angela had tripped on the staircase at their Rosebery Lane home and had tumbled down almost to the ground floor, knocking herself out in the process.

Charles was distraught, and, unsure of her condition, tried to make her comfortable on the floor with a pillow and a blanket, but as Angela regained consciousness, her agonised yelps appeared to worsen with his awkward attempts at nursing.

Angela had often derided him on his clumsy approach to reality, and this time when he tried his best to help her, she reciprocated by pleading that he leave her alone and call an ambulance, saying that if he should touch her, he would only worsen her condition.

The ambulance took her to hospital in Chelmsford where examinations found that she had a mild concussion, a sprain of her left wrist and a dislocated hip. She was in hospital in Chelmsford for a day while her hip was re-aligned, her wrist splinted and her concussion allowed to subside. The doctors recommended rest followed by at least seven weeks of physiotherapy.

The medical staff Chelmsford General Hospital suggested to her that it would be the best for her to attend the physiotherapy clinics there, but Angela refused their suggestions. She told Charles that she hated what she called ‘provincial doctors’ and would prefer to undertake her treatment at St John’s Hospital in London.

As far as she was concerned the physiotherapy staff at St John’s was the best in the land and she would accept nothing less.

The fact that Angela had never been to St John’s Physiotherapy Department, nor had she even laid eyes on the place, was irrelevant. In Angela’s opinion, St John’s Hospital in London was the top of the list and she’d go nowhere but there.

She was reminded that travel from Chelmsford, Essex to London was long and arduous, and would be too expensive in an ambulance, bearing in mind that she had a newly re-aligned hip.

Angela pooh-poohed the idea, stating that there would be no problem with the journey to and from the Bridge’s home. She would be travelling by car, a new Rover.

*

The Rover belonged to Reginald Hanley, the Bridge’s next-door neighbour. He and his wife Florence had been Angela and Charles’ neighbours for years. Charles sometimes thought it was rather strange that Angela and Reginald had got on together like a house on fire, but there was an underlying coolness between Angela and Florence. For some time now, the two women were polite and civil, and outwardly friendly to each other, but Charles sensed a subtle animosity between them.

Reginald Hanley was a sales executive with a large British life insurance company in London. His position as a field representative would take him to several counties and because he was city-based he was required to drive to work every day.

And so Angela went to London in the mornings with Reginald Hanley, had her physiotherapy, waited until Hanley had finished work and came home with him. Charles wasn’t entirely pleased with the idea, but it made Angela happy and when she was happy, she was friendlier to Charles.

Hanley often left work early. He would pick up Angela and when they arrived home he and she would sit on the lounge in the Bridge house for afternoon tea together by themselves.

Charles was a trusting person, but as the frequency of their afternoon teas increased Charles began to suspect that Reginald Hanley and Angela were becoming more than just friendly neighbours.

Sometimes Charles would arrive home from his work and would find the remnants of an afternoon tea, with cups and saucers in the kitchen sink, and lipstick marks on both serviettes!

*

As soon as his thoughts had touched on the prospect of Angela’s anger, the unpleasant idea of she and Hanley together swam into his mind.

Even though he had tried many