The Last Photograph in the Album

By Garry Pope

Garry Pope writes film reviews for Take One, an independent magazine and website, and play reviews for Theatre Blog. He also writes book reviews for Great Shelford Village News. He read Creative Writing at M.A. and B.A. levels. He has written novels, novellas, short stories, plays and film scripts: all successfully unpublished! He is currently working on a novella about a theatre producer attempting to put on one last play before he dies.

23rd July 1989, Gatwick Airport. Left is my father, younger brother George, older brother Matthew and my mother. Our first family holiday, but only my father and George travel, as holidays are expensive, and it’s George’s birthday.


Thirty years later, weeks after my father’s funeral, only I attend his one bedroom bungalow and remove his belongings. Flicking through his family photograph albums, this is the last picture he saved.

They flew to Orlando. On their second day, in Disneyland, my brother George disappeared. My father, alone, other than Orlando’s police force, spent the following twelve days searching. He extended his stay for another week, at an astronomical cost. But returned home without George.

Matthew, then seventeen, soon joined the army and had little to do with us.

My mother, a whirlwind of love and anger, blamed my father. When my aunts arrived on Sundays with wine bottles, my mother always slurred, “John lost George in America.”

My father wore a constant smile. When he returned, he never smiled again. He increased his work to evenings and weekends. We saw him only at meal times.

When I think of my father, on his own in Orlando, I choke, as if drowning, wondering what it must have been like for him.

Five years after the disappearance, I turned sixteen and my mother left. I lived with my father until university, and then I too never returned.

I tried keeping in touch, but Matthew stayed abroad; my father seemed pained when he saw me; and my mother, with only anger and not love, distanced herself. Now we don’t even send birthday cards.

Years later, in London, I entered a supermarket, and saw my mother. She must have been forty-five and looked exhausted. She pushed a shopping trolley with a young girl in the seat. My mother smiled at her daughter and her daughter laughed. I didn’t approach them.

Back home, holding my father’s photograph album, I turn to a blank page and slide in a new photograph. This is my future child. If our baby’s a boy, I’ll name him George.

WARNING: Public Health Warning.  This is all made up.  I loved, when reading, the ghastly sense that it was true. Sorry if you feel had, Miranda