by Tim Pears
‘Quite right, Harry. Of course he does. But that’s why he’s expanding in all directions. The old man will sail along, I’m sure of that.’
‘But the base is underwriting the expansion, and the base is …’ Harry began to speak again, and hesitated. I’ve done my duty, he thought to himself. It’s up to Simon to think it through for himself and warn Charles, or not, as the case may be.
‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘In the strictest confidence.’
Simon held out his arms and smiled. ‘We’re friends, Harry, as well as in-laws. I promise.’
‘Good,’ said Harry. ‘Simon, how would you like to work with me? We both know what I’m like with people – and I have to deal with an increasing number of them. Most of them are stupid. I need a people person, as they say; a PR man. I think we would make a good partnership.’
‘Partners?’
‘In the metaphorical sense, of course,’ Harry made clear. ‘An assistant, I mean. Rather, an aide-de-camp. A right-hand man. Not to put too fine a point on it: a second-in-command. What do you say? You look surprised, Simon.’
‘Well,’ Simon said, ‘I am. It’s a hell of an offer, Harry, I’m quite sure. But the fact is, I wouldn’t think of deserting the old man. He needs me.’
Harry frowned. ‘I don’t understand. This is a business proposition, Simon. A career move, that sort of thing. You would certainly benefit.’
Simon shook his head. ‘No, Harry. I couldn’t leave Father. But give me that other half. I could do with it.’
James had played football in a kick-around with Lewis and his foreigners, and then gone to the pub with them. He bicycled home unsteadily and lurched into his flat. Seeing his answerphone had recorded one message he pressed play. He recognized the voice at once: it was Laura’s. James hardly took in what she was saying.
‘Sounds f-fluzzy,’ James slurred to himself. He ejected the cassette and put it in his music stereo.
‘James, this is Laura,’ her voice intoned matter-of-factly. ‘I wonder if you’d be interested in taking some photographs of food. Give me a ring when you can. Do you have my number? It’s 436214. It’d be good to see you.’
‘It’d be good to see you too,’ he said aloud. ‘I think,’ he added. He wrote down the number and dialled it, and then found he had to sit down.
‘Hello.’
‘Laura? Id’s James here.’
‘Hello, James. Thanks for calling back.’
‘I got your meshage. I was playing f-football.’
‘You play football? I didn’t know you could. What about your hips?’
‘Well, I enjoy it szo I do it.’
‘Are you OK? Did you get hit on the head or something?’
‘I’m f-fine. How are you?’
‘Well.’
‘Good. How’s your daughter?’
‘She’s well.’
‘I haven’t met her.’
‘I know, James. You should do.’
‘I’d like to.’
There was a pause between them. James stumbled into it.
‘I can’t remember why I rang you,’ he blurted out.
‘I rang you, James, because—’
‘No, I’m sure I rang you, Laura. In fact,’ he said triumphantly, ‘I’ve got your number right here.’ Waving it in front of the phone he said: ‘I have in my hand a piece of paper—’
‘James,’ Laura’s voice coolly interrupted.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You probably don’t remember, but the last time we spoke was three years ago, and you were drunk then. Do you want to call me back when you’re sober?’
A familiar wave of emotion rolled through James’ body. Once it had passed he was stone-cold sober.
‘No. I’m sorry, Laura,’ he appeased. ‘You rang about photographs,’ he said in a business-like tone. ‘Of food.’
‘I’ll cook some dishes and then have pictures taken of them. You think you could do that?’
‘I’ve never photographed food as such. I could give it a go.’
‘I’m not looking for someone to have a bash, James. I want some good photographs of my work.’
‘Shit, Laura,’ he exclaimed. ‘OK, I’ll take some good pictures. Of course I will.’
They made arrangements. He’d have to take the photographs somewhere where Laura could cook. There was no way James was going to Laura’s cottage, so he proposed making a studio in his flat. They scheduled the session for the following Sunday. In the meantime James hired some lights and went to the library for research, looking through hundreds of photographs in cookery books: some made you lose your appetite they were so bad, others made you drool. James was determined not to mess up.
Laura had continued her research into traditional English cooking. In her spare time she unearthed old recipes and experimented at home, testing the results on the inhabitants of the big house and incorporating successes into her freelance dinner parties. Now she’d decided to print a colour brochure to advertise her services. She wanted three sumptuous images of entire meals laid out.
On Sunday morning Laura, having left Adamina in Natalie’s care for the day, arrived at James’ flat early, with her car crammed full of boxes and bags. James had been up since six, preparing his sitting-room, which he’d already cleared the day before. He hoovered the carpet and cleaned the kitchen. He checked the lights and reflectors and loaded his 5 x 4 camera and shifted the blackout material he’d pinned to the windows, and sorted through the boxes of props he’d bought or hired: bottles and goblets and cut-glass decanters, fancy cutlery, salt and pepper pots, tablecloths, flowers; and he was still nervous. He was going to do this well, damn it, he was going to show her.
They made a series of trips up the metal staircase, and Laura pondered the cramped kitchen.
‘There’s enough space?’ James asked.
‘Plenty,’ she affirmed, unpacking an electric mixer, whisks, knives and other tools of her trade. James noticed felt-tip-pen stains on her skirt.
‘Well, you can leave me to it for a couple of hours,’ she declared. ‘I prepared a lot yesterday but I still need to get everything ready.’
‘You do?’ James was surprised. ‘Well, OK. Two hours?’
He bought some newspapers and went to the Café Milano.
‘Where’s your camera, Camera Man?’ Fabrizio asked him. ‘What you having today? Full English or Continental?’
James was too nervous to eat. He read through the supplements of two Sunday newspapers over three cups of coffee, until his eyes ached and his fingers had a caffeine twitch. He wandered down to the bridge and back, not looking too hard at the sleepy world around him, before returning to the flat.
‘Good timing,’ Laura told him. ‘I’ll be two seconds here.’
James fiddled with the lights. Laura came out of the kitchen.
‘OK,’ she said.
‘OK,’ he replied, ‘let’s work.’
And so they did. The day passed fast because they were both concentrating and found themselves in remarkable (and unexpected, as far as James was concerned) agreement as to the details of each shot. Laura made three complete meals, of dishes from the Elizabethan, Georgian and Victorian periods, and they garnished each photograph with appropriate props. James took a couple of black-and-whites.
‘I only want colour,’ Laura reminded him.
‘You never know, they may come in useful some time,’ he said.
The only moment of discord came early when, after an hour of preparation, Laura looked through the camera at their first set-up.
‘It’s upside down,’ she announced.
‘Damn!’ James exclaimed, clutching his head with both hands. ‘I don’t believe it! We should have set the table the other way up. What a fool!’
Laura looked at him open-mouthed. ‘You what?’ she demanded with narrowed eyes, putting her hands on her hips.
James lowered his hands. ‘It’s supposed to be upside down,’ he said. ‘That’s the way it wo
rks. I know what I’m doing, Laura.’ He could see that she wasn’t sure whether to smile or curse.
She relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, James. Of course you do.’
When they agreed they’d taken the final picture – of mock crab, poulet sauté à la plombière, ice-cream puddings and Savoy cake in fancy moulds – it was seven o’clock in the evening. All around the spotlit table was chaos: reflecting material had come unstuck and hung down from the ceiling; the props were all jumbled up against the wall beneath the windows; bits of gaffer-tape were stuck to every surface. The room smelled of hot plastic and melting food. The kitchen was worse. James took his camera equipment and films into his bedroom, then tidied up while Laura attacked the heap of washing-up. She put surviving food on the sideboard.
‘What’s going to happen to that?’ James asked.
‘Are you hungry?’
He hadn’t thought about it. All day long he’d been taking photographs of food and yet such had been his concentration that he’d felt no hunger – until now.
‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday,’ he admitted.
‘You must be starving. It’ll take me two minutes, James. Set the table.’
Laura reheated portions of dishes. James brought furniture back from his bedroom, and the temporary studio reverted to a sitting-room. They started with eggs in mustard sauce and an oyster loaf. ‘This is delicious,’ James exclaimed.
He ate a capon in lemon sauce, and pears in syrup.
‘My God, this is fantastic,’ James said.
‘You shouldn’t eat with your mouth full,’ Laura chided him.
‘I shouldn’t eat with my mouth full?’
‘I mean … you know what I mean.’
‘This is brilliant, Laura. You’re a pioneer.’
‘No, not at all. But I really enjoy finding old recipes, it’s a kind of culinary archaeology.’
‘And I suppose it’s a sort of indigenous cuisine, right? Using ingredients that are found, or grown naturally, in a particular region? Part of a sustainable economy?’
‘Well, hardly,’ Laura corrected him. ‘Apart from some staple peasant dishes, and fish, of course. Otherwise we’ve been importing food since before the Romans; spices were being traded before gold ever was. When I say “English food” people assume I’m after some pure national diet, free of foreign influence. But it’s almost the opposite, James: the history of food is a history of trade, and migration. We’ve never been a little cut-off island.
‘In the Middle Ages we imported oranges, lemons, currants and raisins, figs, dates and prunes, sugar, almonds, pepper. Of course, I’m talking of the rich here; and it was more expensive for the British to import spices because we had to buy them at markets on the continent. But we did because medieval flavour was dominated by their use: ginger and cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, cardamom, cloves. We mined or harvested from the sea our own salt, though, and grew mustard and saffron.’
James couldn’t recall seeing Laura so enthused; not even as a child.
‘Don’t get me going, James,’ she warned him. ‘Actually I ought to be going, and release Natalie from captivity.’
‘I think it’s interesting, Laura. I’d like to hear more when you’ve got time. I’d like to taste more.’
‘Sure,’ she said, getting up. ‘That’d be nice. It’s been a good day. I’ve enjoyed it a lot.’
‘You’d better reserve judgement till you’ve seen the results,’ he cautioned.
‘I almost forgot about that,’ Laura laughed out loud. James had noticed through the day that Laura smiled seldom and uneasily; she now laughed, though, like a child playing a trick on someone and being caught out. She laughed throatily, and, in addition, he saw that dimples still appeared above her cheekbones.
‘I forgot we weren’t doing it just for enjoyment,’ she said.
‘I guess that’s something we have in common,’ James suggested. ‘We’re both lucky enough to be doing work we enjoy.’
‘You like taking photographs?’
‘Of course. At least, I don’t know what else I’d do. I wouldn’t want to do anything else.’
‘Next time,’ said Laura, ‘I’ll talk to you about food, you tell me about photography. Will you bring the photographs round when they’re ready?’
‘OK. Tuesday or Wednesday, I guess.’
‘Thanks, James.’ She touched his arm as she said goodbye. ‘See you then.’
PART THREE
THE HOSPITAL (3)
ZOE CAME TO the hospital ward. Gloria was with James. She was removing his drip, and inserting a naso-gastric tube. Zoe hovered, watching, as Gloria proceeded to moisten James’ eyes.
‘They dry out,’ she told Zoe. ‘We put ointment on them to stop ulceration.’
Zoe sat beside James and took his hand in hers, and spoke to him for an hour and more, recalling his life.
In the ward office, Gloria felt the sister bristle beside her.
‘What a waste of time,’ the sister said. ‘Talking to a man who can’t hear her.’
‘I don’t know,’ Gloria wondered. ‘Why does she bother you so?’ she asked.
‘I can’t stand the false hope of ignorance,’ the sister replied.
‘Suppose he can hear,’ Gloria said.
‘For God’s sake, you’ve seen the scans: all those small haemorrhages. It’s a deep coma.’
‘So why hasn’t he died? He’s outliving his prognosis. He should have got a chest infection by now, or an infection of the urinary tract. Spreading to his organs. Suppose she’s keeping him alive with stories. We don’t know. It’s like a question of faith.’
‘Now I’ve heard it all,’ the sister fumed. ‘I’ll be glad when I retire. Why don’t you go and see if your patient’s had a bowel movement. Go and see if he heard that, staff.’
Zoe squeezed James’ hand to say goodbye, and made her way out of the ward.
Chapter 9
THE HOUSE OF TROY
JAMES PICKED UP prints and colour transparencies of Laura’s food from the printers. He didn’t, however, take them to the cottage: he had no intention of going into the grounds of the house on the hill for any reason. He had them delivered, instead, by courier. Laura rang him that evening.
‘James, they’re brilliant,’ she exclaimed. ‘They’re just what I wanted. Well, they’re better.’
He tried to agree without sounding arrogant; though also without making them seem like one-off flukes. He told her her food looked so delicious it wasn’t hard to photograph it.
‘Why didn’t you bring them round?’ she asked.
‘I was busy,’ he lied. ‘I had to be somewhere, and I didn’t want to delay your getting them.’
‘Well, let’s do it again. Or just meet up anyway.’
‘Sure. I’ll call you, or you call me.’
‘Right. OK. Thanks again, James. ’Bye.’
James was busy. His project was taking up most of his time. If he wasn’t down on the street he was most likely in his darkroom; as well as cataloguing negatives and producing prints for what was a burgeoning archive, he was conscientious in providing copies for the subjects. They were appreciative, and indulged the Camera Man in return: he was rarely allowed to pay for coffees, or even meals, in the cafés and restaurants where he ate alone watching, his eyes a little wild, the people around him.
James’ status along the road subtly changed, the longer his project continued. At first the inhabitants had accepted, and been flattered by, his attention. He’d proved that he was serious in his aim of chronicling life up and down that road, and they were glad to be included.
But how long, they would ask themselves – and then each other – does a man spend on such an enterprise? Six months? A year even? By now he’d photographed every establishment’s owner and employees, most of the residents and a good many others who passed regularly along the pavement or – delivery drivers, customers, salesmen – through the various premises. But still he came out, the Camera Man, in good weather and bad, early morn
ing or late evening, to stand watchful in shop doorways or stop people and ask for their portraits or just snap them as they passed.
James spent most of his meagre postcard income on film, paper and chemicals. As if regressing to his early days after leaving home he bought clothes at charity shops again, and ate little more than what he was given. He began to acquire the reputation – and the look – of an eccentric.
There were, after all, plenty of others: it was the time when hospital wards closing down in the town began to empty long-stay patients into the community; onto the streets. These dazzled evacuees could be seen most days on the bench by the play-park in front of the Health Centre; and James began to resemble them, in his obsessive endeavour, his ill-fitting attire and his keen-eyed interest in the crowd through which he passed.
In actual fact James had been questioning the project himself: he didn’t know whether to spread out – perhaps into another road, a purely residential one, in the rabbit warren of streets behind his flat – or to carry on in Factory Road but more systematically. To chronicle it at specific times of day or season, and concentrate on particular themes over a given period.
He cycled to the cinema one evening to ask Zoe her opinion. Dog silently made them tea while Zoe looked through some of James’ prints.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to have another exhibition?’
‘No. I suppose they’re more an archive,’ he said.
‘I thought you’d given up on posterity.’
‘I think I’ve changed my mind,’ he admitted.
Dog left without announcement, and Zoe called after him:
‘Have one for me, Dog.’
James thought he heard a grunt in reply.
‘Do you ever talk to him, Zoe?’ James asked.
‘Of course I do,’ she answered.
‘I mean, does he talk to you?’ he persisted.
‘What do you mean?’ she challenged him.
James hesitated. ‘It’s none of my business. But I wonder what he gives you.’