Photographing Fairies: A Novel
Page 3
Walsmear spoke without turning from the street. “Mr. Castle,” he said. “You may think I’m a funny man. You may get a good laugh from my clothes and my way of talking. You may think my pictures are funny. You and your friend Doyle may think I’m some kind of rustic clown. But you know something, Mr. Castle? I think you lot are pretty funny. You live in a dream world. You think you’re so bloody important. But I don’t think you’re so important.”
I was touched. I could tell he was not a man accustomed to making such speeches. His feelings had been hurt by someone, somehow, in some indefinable way and he was — very painfully — admitting it.
“I’m sorry if you feel that way,” I said.
He dismissed me with a wave.
“Really,” I said. “If there’s anything — ”
“No, no, no. It’s too late.”
“Please. Mr. Walsmear.” I got to my feet. “What you said. It’s very true. The world is a cruel place. I don’t see why any of us should ever want to make it more so. And that other thing you said about me — what was that?”
Walsmear looked at me. “About you being a snob?”
“No.”
“About you having a face like an ass?”
“Did you say that? No. It was something about a dream world.”
“You live in a dream world?”
“That’s right. You know, sometimes I do think I’m living some kind of dream. I feel insubstantial. Like I’m not even here.”
Walsmear raised his hand to his chin and gave me a dubious look. Perhaps I shouldn’t have confided that feeling to him. He was probably too crude to appreciate it.
“But listen,” I said. “Let me help you. I’m at your service. Tell me what you want and I’ll try to help you.”
He now looked me up and down as if measuring my sincerity. “I’m prepared to pay you,” he finally said.
“For what?”
“For your services.”
“What services?” I was literally begging him now. “What do you want from me?”
“Sir, I want to know about these pictures.”
He held the prints between his thumb and index fingers and shook them in my face.
“What do you want to know about them?” I snatched the prints from his hand. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“I want to know if they’re real.”
“What? The girls?”
“Not the girls.” He grabbed my hand and held the prints in front of my face. “These,” he said, pointing to one of the bright little splotches: the ones that looked like glints of sunlight, reflecting off a river. “And these, and these.”
“Yes, I see.”
“They’re real, don’t you see? The girls told me. I believe it in my heart. But I want solid proof, too. Someone’s got to prove that they’re true.”
“True? Real?” I said. “What are you talking about, for God’s sake?”
“Don’t you see them?” He beat his fingertip against the little splotches. “There’s one there, and there’s one there . . .”
“See what?”
He stopped and gave me a furious stare.
I spoke the words slowly. I implored him: “What are they?”
He looked at me like I was the biggest fool on earth.
“Why, they’re fairies, damn it. Fairies!”
Chapter Four
How I Struck a Deal with the Policeman
Just then, the whole building seemed to shake. Actually, it was just the stairway. (It did that whenever more than one person came up it at a time.) Out of it came the high-pitched screech of a child and a rich, petulant female grumble. A moment later, my next appointment, a Mrs. Skorking and her ten-year-old daughter, came pounding through the door.
“Never again,” gasped Mrs. Skorking. She flew straight to the chair where Walsmear had been sitting. There she collapsed. “This is absolutely the last time I go to a photographer who is on the fifth floor. I am absolutely dying and — ” She whipped a small mirror out of her reticule. “I look a fright. G-r-r-r-r-r-ace!”
The little girl did not respond to her name.
“Do not touch the furnishings.”
Little Grace, however, had gone behind my favorite backdrop. She was punching holes in it with a pencil.
Fanning herself furiously, Mrs. Skorking lay back and closed her eyes. A huge pile of hatboxes and garment bags entered the room in the arms of a servant girl.
“Heather — is that you?” Mrs. Skorking said, not bothering to look.
“Yes, m’um,” answered the servant.
“Come here, Heather.”
“Yes, m’um.”
“Where are you, Heather?”
“I’m under these boxes, m’um.”
“Tell my secretary to find another photographer.”
“Yes, m’um.”
“I am not a mountain goat.”
“No, m’um.”
“I want to look pretty and rested when I have my picture taken.”
“Yes, m’um.”
“Put those boxes down, I can’t see you, dear.”
The servant did so, curtsied, and withdrew. She was young, and might have been pretty if she didn’t look so tired.
Mrs. Skorking opened her eyes and snapped shut her fan.
“You there — you’re the photographer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, m’um — I mean — ” I coughed and tried to sound authoritative. “Yes, yes. I’m your photographer. And how are we today, Mrs. Skorking?”
“I don’t see why you’re standing there with your mouth hanging open. I’m the one who’s just climbed five flights of stairs.”
“Oh yes, that is a problem. But you see, high up . . . natural light . . . best for the complexion. . . .”
A crash and a tinkle came from the darkroom.
“Excuse me.” I rushed in to find little Grace standing over a pile of broken glass plates.
“Dear me, Grace. What have you done?”
The girl crunched over the broken glass as she made her escape. As I picked up some of the larger shards, I heard Mrs. Skorking addressing her servant.
“Heather, I don’t want to be dark.”
“No, m’um.”
“You aren’t making me too dark, are you?”
“No, m’um.”
“Let me see that mirror.”
“Yes, m’um.”
“Oh, there. You’ve done it. You’ve made me too dark.”
“Sorry, m’um.”
“More powder.”
“Yes, m’um.”
When I came back out, madame and her servant were sitting knee to knee, a makeup box between them. The servant grabbed a huge, dribbling powder puff from the box and applied it to her mistress’s face with vigor. In a moment, the two women were hidden in a billowing cloud of powder. It was like the stage magician’s cloud of smoke. I found myself wishing Mrs. Skorking might vanish in it. She didn’t, of course; but when the cloud had settled, I noticed that someone else had disappeared: Constable Walsmear.
Shouting his name, I grabbed my hat and made for the door. Behind me I heard another crash. A monitory “G-r-r-r-race!” rumbled from Mrs. Skorking. I couldn’t check what else had been broken. I was flying down the stairs, swinging around banister poles, and almost left footprints on Mrs. Skorking’s chauffeur who was having a smoke in the vestibule. As I hit the street, I saw Walsmear about to step aboard an omnibus.
“Hi, yo, ho!” I shouted, dodging traffic and crossing over to him. “Please, please, just a minute.”
Walsmear raised one foot toward the omnibus steps. I grabbed his lapel and spun him around.
“Please.” I caught my breath. “I wanted to help. I wanted — you didn’t tell me what it was — what it was I could do for you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
The omnibus roared off belching smoke. After waiting for me to complete a coughing episode, Walsmear continued: “I showed you the pictures. And I want you to prove that they’re authentic.”
“Authentic what?”
“Authentic pictures of fairies.”
“What fairies? The girls? Are you saying the girls are fairies?”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
Walsmear removed the photos from his jacket pocket. “What do you call this?” He pointed to one of the bright splotches there. “And this?” He pointed to another splotch.
“It’s a reflection,” I said. “A halation. An irradiation. A dab of nose grease on the lens. Very common sort of thing, spots like these. Those cheap cameras and celluloid film are extremely unstable. And lenses magnify the slightest smirch or mote.”
Standing in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, I was battered by women carrying packages, had my toe stepped on by a messenger, was jostled by preoccupied businessmen, and had my ear nipped by a cart horse. Walsmear stood above it all, for some reason unmolested.
“Photography is a delicate process,” I went on. “There are a million places where imperfections can creep in.”
“But they’re just in these pictures,” he said. “The ones the girls took in the garden. Not ones they took in the house.”
“You can’t predict what a speck of dust will do. A bit of grit can slide on and off the lens or piece of film. And it can do all sorts of prismatic things.”
“Can you prove that these are only spots of dust?”
“Not necessarily dust. Like I say, they could be anything.”
“Then they could be fairies.”
“Anything but fairies. I’m sorry. What I mean to say is, what you have there is on the lens or film. It’s not out there where the girls are. It’s in the camera.”
“Can you prove that?”
I thought for a moment.
“Well, you can’t see anything very well in these little prints. Do you have the negatives?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, if I enlarged these spots you’d be able to see better.”
“See what better?”
“See the dust or whatever.”
Walsmear pulled out his handkerchief and unwrapped the negatives. “Here,” he said.
“All right.” I slipped them from his fingers. “This should help settle your bet.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“This should help settle your bet,” I said.
“What bet?”
“Whatever bet you’ve got going.”
“I don’t have any bet going.”
“You mean you haven’t bet someone that these splotches are fairies? And they haven’t bet you that they aren’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I just couldn’t think of any other reason. For you to be interested, I mean.”
“I have my own reasons.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’m paying you. So why should it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Good. Here.”
He reached in his pocket and drew out a wad of bills.
“Not here,” I said. “I mean, not now. When I’m finished.”
“When you’re finished proving I’m right.”
“Look,” I said. “I can’t prove anything. But here’s what I will do. There are about a dozen of these little spots here. I’ll enlarge each one of them to eight inches by ten inches. That should be large enough to settle any question. And I’ll just charge you for the paper. Not the labor or anything.”
“I’ll pay full price, thank you.”
“Have it your way.”
“And take a deposit.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Take it.”
“Oh, for — ”
I took the money from his hand and quickly stuffed it in my pocket. I felt like a costermonger or something, doing business in the street.
“When will you be finished?” he asked, climbing onto the next omnibus.
“The day after tomorrow,” I shouted after him. “Morning.”
The bus ground gears and moved on.
I stood for a moment in the street. I wondered what I had just got myself into. Suddenly, I remembered Mrs. Skorking. She was still in my studio. Waiting. And probably breathing smoke and fire from every aperture in her face.
“Crikey.”
I raced back up the stairs. I was doomed, I thought. Mrs. Skorking will be furious. Nothing can save me now.
But saved I was. The U.S. Cavalry had arrived in the form of Roy. He’d decided to come back early from lunch, and he had the session well in hand.
“Surprised to find you in one piece,” he whispered to me.
“He really wasn’t dangerous,” I said, peering through the big studio camera. Standing up, I held high the red bulb. Mrs. Skorking and daughter suppressed their inner gargoyles for a fraction of a second. I squeezed.
“That will be wonderful,” I said.
It was amazing how quickly the scowls settled back on their faces.
“Tough life, eh?” I whispered to the servant girl as they prepared to leave.
“Are you talking to me?” she said, scowling.
“Ah, yes. I was, ah, saying, ah, tough life. Working for that old bat, eh?”
“Mind who you talk about that way,” the girl hissed. “Mrs. Skorking could buy you and sell you. She could tear down this building. She could ruin you.”
And from this little slip of a servant girl I got the most hateful, malevolent look I’ve ever received.
The incident wasn’t important. Except as I am trying to establish my state of mind here. And that state was: confused.
Why did this girl — a complete stranger — hate me? All I did was make a commiserating pleasantry. For that matter, how did I get stuck with this Constable Walsmear and his fairy pictures? What kind of day was this? Now Roy was standing around clearing his throat and looking at me expectantly. He’s going to ask for that raise, I thought.
“Ah, Roy,” I said before he could get a word out. “Why don’t you go home early today. I have a slight headache. You can see what kind of day it’s been. It didn’t start badly, you know. When I stepped into the darkroom this morning, all was calm. When I came out there were all sorts of crazed constables and little girls smashing my plates. I don’t know why it should be. But there it is . . .”
When Roy had gone, I walked over and pulled the swivel chair away from my desk. I set it directly under the skylight and leaned back in it as far as I could. There was a scattering of fresh weather clouds in the sky. I watched them go pink in the sunset. The street noise lost its harried edge. I tried to think about pleasant things.
That crazy copper Walsmear.
I picked up his “fairy” pictures. I looked at the sweet girlish faces. Surely, I thought, these are all the “fairies” the world needs. Two bright, merry children. An English garden. Isn’t there enough enchantment there? Why, I wondered, did this Constable Walsmear insist on complicating the scene with his “fairies”? Of all the shopworn fantasies! You could see fairies everywhere: in advertisements, on the stage, in picture books, on perfume bottles . . .
But the innocent loveliness of those two girls. Now that was rare. It probably only existed in isolated places like whatever burg, village, or market corners had produced the likes of Constable Walsmear.
Leaning closer, I squinted into the “fairy” glints on the pictures. Nothing. Zero. I took out the negatives. The glints were there, too. B
ut my conclusion was the same: The spots were grease, water, jam perhaps, on the lens. I decided to have Roy do the enlarging. I hoped the policeman wouldn’t be too disappointed.
I locked up and went downstairs to bed.
Half asleep, I saw the little girls from the photographs in my mind’s eye. They were standing in the middle of their garden. As I approached, they took me by the hands. They led me to a secret place where the flowertops were alive with figures. Little men and women. Fairies, sprites, fays, gnomes, elves, and peris sported through the blossoms. I must have been fully asleep by that time. My secret heart was “charmed” in every sense of the word. The scene perished in a point of white light as I awoke.
What a sweet fantasy. I wanted it to be true. But I was way beyond all that now. The only route to fantasy I could imagine would be through the eyes of a child. But my life in London was singularly free from childish influences. And being unmarried, thirty-two, and without a close female companion, I couldn’t see any children entering my life soon.
Chapter Five
How I Was Late for an Appointment
The next day, I felt strangely listless. I started thinking about old girlfriends. That’s not good. I thought about Sheila — now in Rangoon with her planter. And Jeanne — whom I saw the other day; still a good dresser, but much, much heavier. Then there was Laura, back in Boston. We were only sixteen. Why hadn’t I written her? Now, it could never be. I had a fantasy in the darkroom. I saw myself prostrated on her grave, my face nestled in the winding grasses, inhaling the fresh scent of the earth as I’d once . . .
That was no good at all. I flicked on the darkroom light. There were the faces of Mrs. Skorking and Grace looking up at me through a swirl of chemicals. That sobered me up good.
* * *
Roy was already working in the darkroom when I arrived at the studio the following morning. It was another nice day, so I took my chair up to the roof. London stretched around me in daunting detail. Spires. Towers. Chimneys. Windows. Rooftops. Pigeon coops. Smokestacks. And bricks, upon bricks, upon bricks, enough to drive you mad if you tried to include them all in a painting; revealing to me that there was at least one sure road to riches in this town: brick making.