My father must have taken this picture in the early 1930s. That is my mother, Gladys, sat there on the left, looking so pale she almost leaches into the white limestone boulders. But who is the woman on the right, snapped up by the greedy camera lens? It could, of course, be nothing more than a case of inaccurate framing (this was the age of tiny viewfinders and painfully slow lenses, after all). It could be a shot that ranks up there with the steeple growing out of Uncle Frank's head or the case of Auntie Annie's missing legs. It could be.