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Super 8

Super 8 byChris Ringrose - Page 2

Chris Ringrose

A man spoke in a plummy voice from behind Judy.

“Amazing, isn’t it? Mary’s Dad had a Super 8 camera and a bit of a gift for home movies. Have you seen these before?”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Judy. “Have you?” For some reason she resisted the urge to turn round immediately. The accent wasn’t Australian. Maybe British? With a slightly exaggerated edge?

“The colours are kind of extra vivid,’ the man continued, “like life, only more so. Yes, I’ve seen them before, but I love seeing them again. In fact, I’m in every one of them.”

Judy turned to look at her companion. The voice had been warm and full-throated.

“I’m David.” He was about 60, inclining to plumpness, with rich brown skin and glossy, suspiciously black hair rippling back in waves. Indian? Sri Lankan?

“Hello David. I’m Judy,” she smiled and extended her hand. His was warm and dry, despite the summer heat. “So show me who you are in the home movie.”

He gave her just a second’s duration of what Judy’s mother would have called “an old fashioned look”, then they both turned back to the screen. Of course, she now spotted him immediately. He was long-legged in his short shorts and sandals, with a red polo shirt open at the throat. His face, arms and legs were dark brown, and he was beautiful. Animated, he ran around the garden after another, white, ten-year old boy, and then turned to wave at the camera. In fact, in response to some silent summons from behind the camera, he approached it and smiled directly into it. His brown eyes shone as he replied with unheard words to the person filming the scene, and then he took off gaily and ran out of the frame.

“The innocent pleasures of childhood,” said David, as they stared at the screen, now filled with other children, variously pushing each other on swings, eating cake, and climbing trees.


Super 8 byChris Ringrose - Page 2

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