“I really can’t.”
“We’re friends aren’t we?”
“Of course we’re friends.”
“Then?”
Diane sighs unhappily, then wrinkles her nose. She swallows with visible difficulty and her eyes start to water. “Oh Barbara!” she says, her voice wavering. “Richard split up with me and I’m in such a mess…”
“Oh you poor thing!” Barbara says, taking Diane in her arms. She rubs her back as she begins to cry freely onto her shoulder. Barbara can feel the wet tears sliding down her neck.
“Aw, there, there. Don’t cry,” she says. “You’ll get over it. Women have been getting over men since time began. We always get through this. And you’re not alone. You have us.”
“You’re so brave, Barbara,” Diane sobs, moving her head from side to side so that her nose gently rubs the underneath of Barbara’s cheekbone. “I admire you so much. I wish I was strong like you.”
“Strong?” Barbara says. “Me?”
“Yes,” Diane sniffs. “You’re amazing.”
Barbara laughs and pushes Diane just far enough away that she can look into her eyes. “You’re far more amazing than I am,” she says. “And you know it.”
Diane looks up into her eyes and then, before she even realises what’s happening, Diane lurches in and kisses her on the lips.
Barbara laughs again but more awkwardly this time. “What was that for?” she asks.
“Because I wanted to,” Diane says. “Because I think you’re incredible.”
The kiss was so unexpected, Barbara feels momentarily paralysed. She frowns and licks her lips and Diane, opposite, still staring into her eyes, does the same.
“Now,” Barbara says, gently pushing Diane away. “How about a nice cup of tea?”
“But there’s something else I need to tell you. Something important.”
“Well, there’s no reason you can’t do that over a cup of tea, is there?” Barbara asks, suddenly abrupt and business-like.
“No,” Diane says, doubtfully. “No, I suppose not.”
***
Barbara waits excitedly for exactly the right time. She waits for the positions of various heavenly bodies to coincide. She waits, specifically, for the film in Tony’s camera to be finished, or at least, nearly finished. She waits for him to be in a good mood. She waits for an intuition that her new life plan – to be Tony’s wife and sometime-assistant – might be well received. This could be just the new direction their marriage needs.
Her moment comes four days before Christmas. She gets up early to check the Rolleiflex, and seeing that there are only two exposures left, she swaps the film with a fresh roll before advancing it to the same position. It’s wasteful but at least that way Tony won’t notice.
She can barely wait for him to leave for work that morning and readies Jonathan in such a panic that he starts to whimper and cry as she bundles him up and marches him across town to the laundry.
“I’m rushed off my feet,” Minnie tells her. “I don’t have time for baby-sitting.”
“Please Mum. I’ve got something important to do,” Barbara pleads. “It’s a surprise for Tony.”
Minnie twists her mouth. “OK, but not the whole day,” she says.
Back in the house, alone in the chilly cellar, Barbara instructs herself to breathe. “You can do this,” she says. “Just don’t muck it up.”
***
It is nine am on Christmas day and Barbara has been up since five, officially awoken by Jonathan but in truth so excited that she couldn’t have stayed in bed much longer anyway.
Tony, exhausted after a particularly bad week at work and a series of long, icy trips, is in bed nursing a cold. Jonathan has opened the last of his presents and is now, rather annoyingly, playing with the lurid boxes they came in rather than the budget-exploding toys themselves.
Tony’s flat, rectangular gift is still beneath the sparsely decorated tree and Barbara keeps glancing at it as if to check that it’s still there, to check that she didn’t dream it.
It’s almost lunchtime when Tony finally surfaces, his nose red, his eyes watery. He’s more interested in breakfast than Christmas, so Barbara fries eggs and bacon before heading through to the lounge and returning with the package.
“For me?” Tony asks, smiling gently and sniffing.
Barbara nods.
“You’re a treasure,” he tells her. “Whatever would I do without you?”
“I hope you like it,” Barbara says, with meaning.
“There’s one for you under there too.”
“I saw. I’ll get it afterwards.”
Tony weighs the box in one hand. “Hum. Photographic paper?”
“Almost,” Barbara breathes.
Tony smiles wryly, sips at his tea and then begins to rip open the pretty holly-printed paper, revealing a standard, Ilford paper box. He winks at Barbara – who is holding her breath – and lifts the lid to the box.
“Oh!” he says in surprise, rotating the box by ninety degrees. He stares at the print, a sweep of hard, concrete architecture beneath a grey sky, made even more menacing by the fact that Barbara has dodged out the upper edges to make it look like storm clouds are approaching. “That’s Birmingham Bull Ring,” Tony says.
Barbara nods. “If you say so,” she says.
Tony frowns and lifts the print aside, revealing another image of two women in modern dresses leaving the shopping complex with arms full of bags. “But these are–”
“Your photos, yes,” Barbara says. “Don’t they look great?”
Tony nods but continues to frown. “I don’t get it,” he says, with a tiny shake of the head.
“It’s your Christmas surprise.”
“You got my photos printed?” Tony asks, now leafing through the remaining eight images.
Barbara reseats herself opposite and can’t quite stop herself from wringing her hands together. “Not quite,” she says.
“Not quite what?” Tony asks, sounding a little irritated. He reaches into his dressing-gown pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, and blows his nose.
“I actually developed them for you,” Barbara says. “I printed them too.”
Tony snorts. “What d’you mean?”
“Well, as you can’t take them to Darbott’s shop anymore, I thought–”
“Ah, you got Diane to do them?” Tony says, his face lighting up.
Barbara shakes her head. “No. I got her to teach me how to do them.”
“You got Diane to teach you,” Tony repeats, flatly.
Barbara nods and chews the edge of her mouth. “I did them here. Downstairs. In your darkroom.”
Tony pushes his bottom lip out unhappily as he leafs through the photos. “They’re good,” he says. “And you did them on your own? No help?”
Barbara nods again. “I thought I could help you now,” she says. “Now Jon’s at school and you’re going to be doing more and more photography and everything...”
But Tony’s smile has faded entirely.
“You don’t look happy. Don’t you like the idea?”
“I just don’t get why you think I need your help,” Tony says.
“I didn’t, I–”
“I’m perfectly capable of doing my own developing.”
“Of course you are, but–”
“So quite why you and Diane have decided to stick your noses into my darkroom is a little beyond me.”
“Right,” Barbara says, beads of sweat now sprouting on her top lip.
"And you’ve been using all my stuff? All my equipment? That’s expensive stuff, you know.”
“I know. But Diane brought her own chemicals and paper, so–”
“How nice of her,” Tony says.
“I... I think I’ll get this washing up done,” Barbara says, standing, desperate for some point of focus beyond this sad little catastrophe. Because she’s starting to feel a trembling anger that scares her. “Mum will be here soon,” she mutters. “I need to get
dinner on.”
Tony nods. His expression is hard. “I think I’ll–”
“... pop down to the Ladywood for a pint?” Barbara offers, completing his phrase.
“You should give up doing other people’s stuff and become a bloody mind reader,” Tony says angrily. And then he stands up so quickly that his chair falls over.
When Minnie arrives, half an hour later, she tells her daughter, “Oh, he just needs time to get used to the idea. Men aren’t as quick as we are, love.”
And in the end, Minnie will turn out to be right. It will take Tony a month to stop sniping at Barbara about it and it will take him six before he’ll be able to ask her, begrudgingly, for some advice. And finally, one full year after she handed him that ill-fated gift, he’ll actually apologise and tell her that he was wrong. But by then, she’ll have her hands far too full to give a damn.
2012 - Old Holborn, London.
Peter Dawkins, the chief editor of Thames and Hudson’s World Of Art series, is leafing through the prints. Sophie glances at Brett, who she has brought along for support, and he winks at her discreetly.
“Yes, they’re very, very nice,” Dawkins says again. “And the overall package, your father’s images, some biographical texts, and a solid ally at the Times to plug the whole thing, is more than appealing, I must admit.”
“And his daughter’s images as well,” Brett adds, and Sophie loves him for sticking up for her at the precise moment that her own voice failed her.
“Yes,” Dawkins says, scratching his head.
“It’s a package,” Brett reminds him. “That’s what we’re offering you. The father, the daughter, words of wisdom from those who knew the man, and some favourable publicity at the Times.”
“I understand that,” Peter Dawkins says. “Of course I do.” He scratches his head again and closes the folder containing Tony’s photos, then returns to the one holding Sophie’s. “Hum,” he says.
“So what’s on your mind?” Brett asks, fiddling with his cuffs and leaning forward in his seat earnestly. “Tell me where you’re at right now.”
“Can I be perfectly honest here?” Dawkins says.
“Of course.”
“These are good,” he says, tapping the top print from Sophie’s pile. It is one of her new series of fine-art photos, all taken through rain stained, misty, or dirty windows. The image currently beneath his finger is of a woman with an umbrella on a rain-swept Eastbourne seafront, photographed through the splattered window of a bus shelter. “I like them, Sophie. I really do.”
“That’s great news, isn’t it Sophie?” Brett says.
Sophie nods. She’s waiting for the ‘but’. She knows there’s a ‘but’ coming.
“But here’s the thing,” Dawkins says, confirming her fears. He reopens the first folder and chooses a heavily-contrasted black and white image of a muddy CND protester lying down in front of the caterpillar track of a Cruise missile convoy. Next to this he places the softest of Sophie’s images, a wild-flower peppered prairie pictured through a heart shaped gap, drawn, with a finger, in the heavily misted windscreen of a car. Sophie hates him for choosing that specific image. She’s particularly attached to that photo, the first of the new series, the moment she had the idea for the series, in fact. She and Brett had just made love in that car, which was why the window was so misty in the first place.
Peter Dawkins spins the two images to face them. “Do you see what I’m saying?” he asks.
“No,” Brett says. “Not really. What are you saying?”
“It’s OK, Brett,” Sophie says, finally finding her voice. “I get it. Come on. Let’s get out of here. There’s no point.”
Brett raises one hand. “No. Hang on,” he says, now standing and rounding Dawkins’ desk. “I’m afraid I must accuse you of being just a tiny bit disingenuous,” Brett tells him, and Sophie marvels at his ability to say such a thing without sounding angry, or rude, or even vaguely aggressive.
“Just let me choose a couple of different images...” Brett says, rifling through the two piles. He chooses one of Tony’s softer images – a woman in hot-pants riding a Chopper pushbike sometime in the seventies – and puts it next to Sophie’s photograph of an aged, visibly-lonely widow hugging a mug of tea, pictured through the misty window of a fish-and-chip restaurant.
“OK,” Peter Dawkins says. “Yes, I get your point.”
“All I’m saying,” Brett says. “All we’re saying, is that we feel these images can fit together if chosen with enough flair.”
“Yes, I suppose they could. But–”
“And what we’re looking for, is a publisher who knows how to do that in the best way possible. Because that’s our project. And because Sophie here controls the rights to Anthony Marsden’s images.”
Peter Dawkins clears his throat. “Right,” he says. “I think I understand your proposition better now.”
“Good,” Brett says.
“I’ll, um, need a few days to discuss it. There are other people here who will have input to make.”
“That’s absolutely fine, isn’t it Sophie?” Brett says. “We could do with some time ourselves. We have, of course, other editors to meet.”
Dawkins looks up at them. “You do?”
“Of course.”
“Might I ask who?”
Hum, Sophie thinks. Get out of that one, Brett.
“You might,” Brett says. “But I don’t think we’d be inclined to tell you at this point. Anyway, I’m sure you know the main players in the art-book market as well as we do.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do,” Peter Dawkins says. “I’ll, um, try to get back to you as soon as I possibly can then.”
“That would be great,” Brett says. “Did you have any other questions for Peter here, Sophie?”
Sophie, who is a little numb from watching this particular boxing match, just shakes her head.
“Then let’s go,” Brett says.
Outside in the street, Sophie rests the folders between her legs while she buttons her coat. It’s a sunny, crisp, November day. Her coat buttoned, she lurches at Brett and pecks him on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“For being brilliant,” Sophie says. “For being amazing. For stopping that arsehole trampling my ego underfoot.”
She suddenly becomes aware of someone behind them and turns to see Peter Dawkins, who has just descended the stone staircase as well, in the process of buttoning his own coat. “Oh, how awkward,” he says smugly. “I can assure you, my dear, that I had no intention whatsoever of trampling anyone’s ego underfoot.” Then muttering, “Good day to you both,” he strides off down Old Holborn.
Sophie exhales slowly, then folds into Brett’s arms.
“Huh!” Brett exclaims. “Nice one, Sophie. Very, very, very nice.”
1969 - Llanelwedd, Wales.
Jonathan turns from pressing his nose against the steamy window and asks, “Mum? Why’s it so rainy in Wales?”
Barbara, who is busy knitting gender-neutral baby clothes, laughs, and that laughter feels good. The cottage is cold and damp and uncomfortable and she has a lot on her mind. At a guess, it’s been three weeks since she even smiled.
“You’re right,” she says. “It is very rainy in Wales. You know, when I was a girl, we used to pretend that being sent to Wales was some kind of a punishment.” She often talks to Jonathan about concepts that she knows he can’t yet fully understand.
Minnie, her mother, mocks her. “The way you talk to that boy!” she says. “He’s not your bleedin’ husband.”
But Barbara thinks it’s good for him. And the proof of the pudding is in the eating. People are already saying how clever Jonathan is.
“It was during the war,” she continues. “And all the children in London were sent to Wales to escape the bombs. We was – we were – ever so happy not to be sent away. And then a friend of mine got herself sent to Wales as well because she had done something a bit naughty. So it becam
e almost like a joke in our family. Aunty Glenda used to tell me, ‘Buck your ideas up, sister, or it’ll be The Wales for you.’ We always called it The Wales. I don’t know why.”
Jonathan, who has been watching and apparently listening attentively, stares at her blankly now. “I think I prefer London,” he says.
“You didn’t say that yesterday.”
“I did.”
Barbara shakes her head. “No you didn’t. You said the tree house was the nicest place in the whole wide world.”
Jonathan considers this. “The tree house is very nice,” he admits. “Can I go and sit in it?”
“Not until it stops raining. It doesn’t have a proper roof.”
“Can we get one from the shop?”
“One what?”
“A proper roof?”
Barbara smiles. “We’ll ask Dad when he gets home if he knows how we can fix it.”
Jonathan frowns. “Until Dad gets a roof for the tree, I think I like London,” he says.
“Why don’t you play with some toys? Why don’t you build something with the Lego?”
“OK,” Jonathan says, climbing down. “What can I make?”
“Make me... a bird!” Barbara tells him.
“A bird?”
“Go on. I bet you can do it. You’re ever so good with Lego.”
Jonathan twists his mouth sideways, a facial expression he has learned from Minnie. “A bird is hard,” he says. “But I’ll try.”
Barbara glances up at him between stitches until he settles on the rug with his Lego, and then loses herself in the sound of the rain and the clicking of her knitting needles – in the vague, swirly thoughts that occupy her mind at times like this. She tries to imagine the baby wearing the garment that she’s knitting. It seems barely possible that in a month’s time he or she will be here. She wonders, for the thousandth time, if it will be a boy or a girl. She’ll love either, but she’d secretly like a girl. It seems absurd to want one of each, as if it were a stamp collection not a family. But want one of each, she does.
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