On my desk is a picture of four children. Four children and a dog. 

They are so gorgeous, so iconic, so much of-their-era that they look like something out of a Ladybird book. But real, living and breathing small people, in black-and-white, rather than coloured Ladybird pictures.

They are in a sparse wood, on a hillside by what appears to be a river. But the picture is sepia, and slightly stained (was it one of our cats?), so it’s hard to be sure. Beyond the few trees, beyond the slope of the hill are what could be distant, welcoming buildings. Perhaps the school where their parents teach? (Or perhaps just… something spilt on the photograph?)

The group seems to fall naturally into two, slightly distinct. On the far left the dog is sitting very upright, a black Labrador with a smart white tie, alert and staring into the middle distance. The oldest boy, as dark-haired as the others are fair and perhaps seven or eight years of age, looks straight out towards the camera and the dog, which (when you look closely, you can see) he holds tightly on a long, thick round lead. I believe the lead is plaited leather. (I have a similar myself, though rather shorter and for a much larger dog.) The boy’s mouth is slightly open, in a confident and open smile. He is good-looking. One gets the impression he has slightly separated himself from the others.

Whose little group, by contrast, is dominated by the other boy. I’d guess he is six. Unlike his older brother – who, with his shirt open at the collar, lies along the grass with his legs behind him – this blond boy sits, slightly more formal with tie and jumper, legs straight out in front and an impressive-looking boat on his knees. In his hands he holds something, perhaps taken from the boat, and is showing it to his sisters and obviously teaching them about it. He too is smiling, enjoying the imparting of knowledge.

On the far right sits one of the two girls, aged around five, in a dark short-sleeved gingham smocked dress, bunched knee socks and Startrite sandals, smiling enthusiastically and leaning over the smallest one to see what her brother is showing them. She has long fair hair like dark sand, scooped into a pony tail, and seems keen to be included.

Finally, in the middle is the baby, hardly more than a toddler. Hair in bubbles and blonde as the snow. She too is in a very pretty short-sleeved smocked dress but hers is pale, cream, almost white. When my own daughter wore the same she looked as like this little girl as a crab is to an apple.

She is the only one not smiling. 

She gazes intently at what is being shown to her. 

Thus, the oldest is concerned with his dog. The next, with instructing his sisters. The third, wanting to be part of the group.

Only the youngest is focused. On the object itself. On no one else. Only on her involvement with it, and her interest in it.

It is almost as if, over half a century ago as this must surely be, each is telling future generations what to expect. What he or she is interested in.

I dreamt I was one of four. I had a childhood with them, and we grew, and the years grew up between us and sent us on our ways. I went to university where I fell in love; we married and had children.

My parents came to live with us and loved us and we them. My mother died and then my father, and they left us with love and kind memories; the valuing of beauty and music; and a deep respect for truth and goodness.

And an old sepia photograph of beautiful children. Which one of our cats may have peed on.