by William Boyd
I was walking down Charing Cross Road towards Trafalgar Square, feeling good, a silk scarf protecting my new hair-do, when I passed the entrance to the Bardmont Concert Hall. I don’t know why I stopped, perhaps because I was early for my six o’clock appointment, but I did and idly scanned the poster for that evening’s concert. I read: ‘The New London Symphony Orchestra. Soloist Miss Dido Clay.’
Dido Clay?
I looked again at the programme: Chopin, Debussy and a symphonic tone poem, ‘Aeneas in Carthage’, by Peregrine Moxon. Dido Clay had to be my sister, Peggy.
The new name worked. I’m here to meet my sister Miss Dido Clay, I said, and I was led by a uniformed porter through the passageways to the rehearsal rooms at the rear, hearing, as I approached, piano music in an atonal modern style that I didn’t recognise.
The door was held open for me and there was Peggy at the piano, head down, pounding out some crescendo, eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Bash! A final dissonant chord. She slowly lifted her hands from the keys, leaning back, cigarette vertical.
‘Peggy?’
She turned abruptly, saw me, gave a little squeal of pleasure, removed her cigarette from her lips and raced over to me. She kissed me.
‘Never, ever, call me Peggy again,’ she whispered sharply.
‘Sorry. Dido.’
‘I’m Dido, now. Forever.’
‘Dido, Dido, Dido.’
Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun making her look stern, worldly. I felt that strange sensation again that she was older than me, though she was just seventeen, I realised. Then she hugged me tightly again, my little sister.
‘Darling Amory! You look ravishing. What’re you doing? Off to some party?’
‘I’m going to meet a man. An American.’
‘Too exciting! Is he rich?’
‘Possibly. But I’m late, I must dash. I saw your name on the poster outside and had to check it was you.’ I smiled. ‘Dido, dearest.’
‘I’ll tell you everything. It was Peregrine’s idea. I’ll telephone you – I’ve a concert and two recitals this week.’ She smiled mischievously and I saw the old Peggy for a second or two. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about your American lover.’
We kissed goodbye and I walked back out to the street feeling the beginnings of a headache. I pushed all thoughts of Peggy/Dido to one side and turned up the Strand, heading for the Earlham Hotel. At reception I told the clerk I was meeting Mr Finzi in the Palm Court and was led along a corridor towards the sound of a harp and piano and on into the wide over-furnished room, filled with tight groupings of chairs and sofas, its famous huge chandelier glowing brightly. My throat was a little dry and I suspected my pulse was beating faster than normal but I told myself, resolutely, to anticipate nothing.
Finzi saw me enter and stood and waved. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit, very well cut, and his Americanness was advertised only by a strange silver device that shaped his collar round the knot of his tie. And he also wore a tiepin.
‘I assume you’re not interested in a cup of tea,’ he said.
‘I’ll have a brandy and soda, thank you.’
He ordered our drinks from a waiter – he had a Scotch and water – and we began to talk at once about the exhibition. He was full of praise and as he talked I rather marvelled at the astonishing calm self-assurance he exhibited. In fact he was so self-assured I began to wonder if it was an act. I’ve known certain people where the most adamantine confidence is just a mask for terrified insecurity but I quickly realised there was nothing bogus about Cleveland Finzi. I thought that perhaps it was his American accent that contributed to the overall savoir faire, so—
‘You’re not listening to me, Miss Clay,’ he said, reasonably.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I just asked you a question.’
‘And I answered it.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
I sipped at my brandy, playing for time.
‘I’m so sorry if I seem distracted but I’ve just had a perplexing meeting with my sister. She’s changed her name.’
‘I can see how that might throw you.’
‘She’s always been Peggy but now she insists on being called Dido.’
He thought about this. ‘Dido . . . I prefer it to Peggy. Nice name, Dido.’
‘Talking of names,’ I said, ‘is your family Italian?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Finzi.’
‘Oh. Finzi is a Jewish name,’ he said.
‘Is it?’
‘Sephardi Jewish name. I think we were from Italy, originally. Then originally from Spain, of course.’
‘Of course, yes . . . How interesting.’
He carried on asking me precise questions about my photographs – how had I managed to gain access to these places in Berlin? Had I been obliged to pay money to take the photographs? Were they posed or candid? – and so on. He was very impressed with my secret handbag-camera when I explained it to him and when he asked me about printing I was glad to be able to throw in a few authoritative remarks about dodging and burning.
We ordered a second round of drinks and smoked a cigarette. I think I managed to stay relatively composed as we talked and tried not to stare at him too intently. However, had Cleveland Finzi invited me up to his room to dance naked round his bed I would have said yes in a second.
He walked me back through to the lobby, apologising for cutting our conversation short as he had another appointment. We shook hands at the main entrance. He wasn’t a tall man – taller than me, of course – but there was something spry and limber about him, as if the body beneath the smart tailoring was muscled, fit.
‘What happens next, Miss Clay?’
‘What? Sorry, what do you mean?’
‘Your work. Your photographs.’
‘Oh. I’m not thinking beyond the exhibition,’ I said, then lied. ‘I’ve already had some intriguing job offers.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, smiling. ‘Your photographs are very . . . intriguing. You have a real eye for capturing people. Please do let me know if you ever come to New York. I can promise you an excellent dinner.’
Out on the Strand the night had turned wet and squally with sharp bursts of rain stinging like hail. The street lamps shone with a watery nimbus as I made my way to the Underground in something of a brandy-and-soda daze.
6. THE WAGES OF SIN
THE TELEPHONE RINGING IN my sitting room woke me at seven. I stumbled through in my nightdress and snatched it up.
‘It’s happened,’ Greville said. ‘The Daily Express. I think we might be in a spot of trouble.’
I quickly pulled on some clothes, grabbed my coat, jammed a hat on my head and ran to the newsagent at Walham Green Tube station and bought a copy of the Daily Express. There was a tea room near the entrance of the Underground so I went in, ordered a pot of tea and a currant bun (lightly toasted) and, slowly collecting myself, sipping and munching, began to leaf carefully through the newspaper. I found the article on page 11. The headline ran: ‘A Vile and Obscene Display of Photographs’. The secondary headline below it was: ‘Outrageous exhibitionism masquerading as art’. I read on in a curious numbed way as if I were reading about a war in a distant country. ‘Miss Clay dips her camera in the most putrid and decadent slime she could find . . . Leering men consort with barely clothed women . . . It is hard to imagine visions of a more bestial and degrading nature.’ My numbness deepened. However, it became clear to me as I read of my utter viciousness that what had really offended this man – the man with the prominent Adam’s apple – or, more to the point, excited him, were the photos of half-naked women unconcerned to be in the presence of other half-naked women. He went on and on about it and yet there were only three photographs in the entire exhibition that showed this juxtaposition. Not a word of Volker and his candid nudity or the girls fooling around in bed or sunbathing on the balcony in their underwear. There was a shrillness in his condemnation
that in its near-hysteria was too revealing – as if, having mounted this exhibition, I should be stoned to death or taken to the ducking stool and be tried as a witch. ‘This repulsive display of photographs in the heart of our great city, in the heart of our great empire, is an affront to every God-loving, decent-thinking British citizen.’
I sipped at my cooling tea, coming out of my daze, feeling a corresponding new chill beginning to overwhelm me, as I realised what trouble I might be in. I had my notoriety now, all right.
Back in my flat I telephoned Greville – no reply. I telephoned the gallery. He answered with a discernible tremor in his voice, keeping it low as if he might be overheard.
‘The police are here. The photographs have all been seized. They’re being taken away in a van—’
‘Seized? Taken away?’
‘And there are three hundred people queuing to get in.’
‘Should I come?’
‘You might as well. But there’s nothing we can do.’
He sounded frightened – and that wasn’t like the Greville I knew. I took a taxi to Brewer Street and when I arrived I found the queue of photography-lovers had dispersed and there was a solitary, smiling police constable standing on guard outside the gallery. Greville opened the door to me and, as I stepped in, I experienced a visceral shock – seeing the walls now rudely bare.
‘Where have they been taken to?’ I asked, beginning to understand Greville’s untypical fear. The ‘authorities’, the guardians of public decency, the state, having been affronted, had acted, and had had their decree fulfilled.
‘Savile Row police station.’
‘What next?’
‘The unpleasant-looking but perfectly civil police inspector informed me that the gallery is going to be prosecuted for obscenity.’
‘The gallery? You mean me.’
‘Well, you are the leaseholder, darling.’
In a new and more unpleasant form of daze I wandered back into the rear room and made us both a cup of strong tea. When you’ve got a problem to solve always do something practical, my mother used to say. Suddenly I was seeing the sense in the bland adage. We sipped our tea and discussed our predicament.
‘I thought that because we were a club we were more or less safe,’ I said.
‘So did I,’ Greville said. ‘Or so I’d been advised.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘The problem was, it seems, that the photos were for sale. If they hadn’t been for sale we might have been fine. Possibly. But now they can prosecute you for exhibiting obscene pictures for “sale or gain”. That’s the issue.’
I felt my fear mounting – and I wasn’t being helped by the evident funk that Greville was in. I’d never seen him so abjectly insecure and jittery.
‘What do I do now?’ I asked, feebly.
‘I think you should find yourself a lawyer.’
The lawyer I found – a solicitor – was the brother of my best friend at school, Millicent Lowther. Millicent’s eldest brother, Arthur – in his early thirties, I calculated – was more than happy to take up my case, so he said when we met at his offices in Chancery Lane. He was a gaunt, solemn young man, almost bald. I thought he might have been quite attractive if only he’d allow himself to smile, now and then. Although he was very thin his features were even and his eyes were kind. But he had armoured himself in this persona, all serious intent and rigid efficiency.
‘Yes, they’re sticking with the obscenity charge, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘As the leaseholder of the gallery, you’re to appear at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court on Tuesday week.’
‘What do you advise?’ I asked, weakly. Following the assault by the Daily Express there had been other pieces written by journalists quick to condemn me even though they had never seen the exhibition, so swiftly had the pictures been confiscated. It didn’t matter – the epithets mounted: depraved, sordid, shameful, mentally unbalanced, scandalous, degenerate, vile, disgusting, and so on, were the words whirling around my name. Easy defamations produced by total strangers – it was a perfect vilification.
Arthur Lowther asked if I minded if he smoked his pipe. I had no objection, I said, and lit a cigarette to keep him company. A good two minutes later he managed to produce a thin curl of smoke from his small briar. It made him look foolish rather than grown-up but I knew he was doing it for my benefit, to add weight to his deliberations.
‘I suggest you plead guilty,’ he said.
‘No! Categorically, no!’
He closed his eyes. Waited. Opened them again. They were a nice shade of greyish-brown.
‘In that case, we could try and present a defence showing that the photographs were works of art.’
‘Yes, good idea.’
‘But we would need eminent people to vouch for them. In that light.’ He took out a penknife device from his waistcoat pocket and tamped the glowing tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. It seemed to go out at this point. He put it down, irritated. He looked back at me.
‘Do you know any famous artists? Politicians, people of standing in society?’
‘Ah . . . No.’
‘Then plead guilty, Miss Clay. Pay the fine. Promise never to exhibit these photographs again in England.’
‘What’ll happen to my photographs?’
‘They’ll be destroyed.’
‘But that’s so unfair, Mr Lowther!’
‘Do call me Arthur. Millicent talked about you all the time. I feel I’ve known you for years.’
‘It’s so unfair, Arthur . . . These are photographs of . . . of documentary evidence. This is how people live – in Berlin. All I’ve done is show the world the truth about people’s lives.’
‘I believe you, Amory – if I may,’ he said with manifest sincerity. ‘But you managed to cause mighty offence to the Daily Express, which is why we’re in this stew. You’ll save much time and money – not to mention stress and strain – if you do what I suggest.’ He went on to outline the case he’d make to the magistrate: my youth, my zeal, the fact that the gallery was a club – all this would help when it came to the fine – that would be somewhere between £20 and £50, he estimated.
I sat there thinking about the options ahead of me and realised that there was nothing I could do, realistically. The Grösze and Greene adventure was over.
On Tuesday week I sat behind Arthur Lowther in the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court as he informed the magistrate, Sir Pellman Dulverton, that his client, Miss Amory Clay, wished to plead guilty to the charge of obscenity and apologised unreservedly to the court. I was fined £30 and ordered never to show my ‘disgusting images’ to the British public ever again. Sir Pellman Dulverton – a pale, impassive, bespectacled man with a small bristling moustache – called me a foolish and misguided young woman and he hoped I had learned a valuable lesson. I kept my head down and nodded – demure, chastened.
Arthur Lowther and I stood outside the court on Bow Street and each smoked a cigarette – no pipe, I was glad to see.
‘It seems like an awful defeat, I know,’ Arthur said, ‘but in a week you’ll have practically forgotten about it and in a month it’ll have vanished from your life entirely. You don’t want something like this dragging on forever, casting a cloud over every waking moment of your existence.’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said. ‘I just have to think of it that way, I suppose. Try not to be bitter.’ I was looking around for Greville, who had promised to come and lend moral support, but there was no sign of him.
‘Might I ask you to dinner one evening, Amory?’ Arthur Lowther asked, a blush rougeing his sunken cheeks. ‘We can commiserate and celebrate. And I’d like to get to know you better. Not have to talk about “obscenity” all the time.’ He managed one of his rare transforming smiles.
I said, yes, by all means, not having a ready excuse available, and gave him my card. I was grateful to him, after all, and his fee had been surprisingly modest. I was going to have to borrow more money from Greville to pay my fine. Arthur hailed a passing cab.
I said no thanks, I had an appointment, so we shook hands and I strode off to the Underground. I had suddenly realised, now my photographs had been destroyed by the court, that I had to make sure my negatives were safe.
I found Greville in the Falkland Court mews darkroom with Bruno, both wearing white coats over their suits as they were about to start developing. Greville apologised for missing the court case – some earl’s daughter had announced her engagement and wanted her photograph taken immediately.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You didn’t miss anything – it was all over in minutes. I just want to pick up my negatives.’
‘What negatives?’
‘Of my Berlin photographs.’
‘Bruno, dear, could you just pop back to the flat and fetch my briefcase?’
When Bruno left on his errand, Greville turned to me and I could see instantly that his fretful, twitchy mood had returned in full force.
‘Darling,’ he said. ‘The negatives were seized. I told you.’
‘Seized? No you didn’t tell me anything about that.’
‘I’m sure I did. That evening after the gallery was closed. I’m convinced I told you. That same police inspector who raided the gallery called round and demanded them.’
I felt a kind of draining inside me, as if my blood was being sucked out of my body.
‘But, Greville, why did you tell him you had them? You could have – I don’t know – made up any old story. You could have said I had them.’
‘Very easy for you to say, Amory, dear one. But you weren’t standing facing an inspector and two ghastly enormous police constables in your own drawing room.’ He took off his white coat and threw it in a corner. ‘They said they were going to search everywhere. Most aggressive.’
I looked at Greville as he fished in his pockets for a cigarette and felt a sudden heaviness of heart. The old expression was absolutely correct – I felt as if my heart suddenly hung heavier in its cavity in my chest, and I knew that something had ended between the two of us and I suspected that we were both instantly aware of the fact. Nothing would be the same ever again. I exhaled.