The Photographer's Wife Read online

  “Cramping? Like tummy ache?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well...” Joan says.

  “Is that what it is, then?”

  “Probably. Yes,” Joan says. She sighs deeply, then continues, “Does your mother know yet?”

  Barbara shakes her head.

  “Are you scared to tell her?”

  Barbara nods.

  “I would be too,” Joan says, then, “There’s a woman in Newhaven. A friend of a friend. She... you know... deals with this sort of thing.”

  Barbara stops washing dishes again and turns slowly to look at Joan’s face. The two women stare deeply into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Joan’s features soften and she says, “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “You want to keep it then?”

  Barbara licks her lips and opens her mouth to speak but her throat feels constricted. Instead she just nods.

  “You’re just so young, love,” Joan says. “You both are. Wouldn’t you rather have some fun first?”

  Barbara clears her throat. “I’m how old my mum was when she had Glenda,” she says, aware that she’s sounding vaguely belligerent but unable to help herself.

  “You’re the same age I was when I had Tony,” Joan says. “That’s why I’m telling you it’s too young. I know.”

  “I thought he’d be glad,” Barbara says, her voice wobbling. “But he thinks I did it on purpose.”

  Joan’s face softens again. She drops the tea-towel she has been wringing and crosses the room to take Barbara in her arms. “On purpose?” she says. “As if that was something you could do on your own. Men! They don’t get any better. You do your best to bring them up proper but nothing ever changes.”

  “I thought he’d want to get married,” Barbara says, emboldened by Joan’s support. “But he just seemed angry.”

  “Is that what you want?” Joan asks. “To get married?”

  Barbara nods and buries her face in Joan’s shoulder.

  “We had better get Tony back down and talk to him,” she says.

  Barbara nods. “But I think he’s still drunk.”

  Joan pushes her away and looks into her eyes. “Exactly,” she says. “You’ve still got a lot to learn, girl – a lot to learn. Now go fetch him and let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

  2012 - Eastbourne, East Sussex.

  Sophie rings the doorbell and, unsure if it is currently working or not, raps on the front door as well. Her mother gave her a key years ago but because she doesn’t seem to like Sophie actually using it, (she always makes a fuss about nearly having had a heart attack) Sophie rarely even brings it with her these days.

  Her mother’s voice comes from behind the frosted window of the front door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me! Sophie!” she says, rolling her eyes and thinking, who else is it likely to be? Her mother has few visitors and Sophie forewarned her that she would be here at ten. She checks her watch. She’s one minute early.

  The door opens a few inches, its movement limited by a flimsy gold chain that any of the ruffians mentioned in her mother’s Daily Mail could snap with a single kick. Her mother’s face peers through the gap and Nut, her ginger cat, looks up at her from ground level. “Oh, it’s you,” she says, and Sophie can’t help but roll her eyes again.

  She strokes Nut, then kisses her mother on the cheek and heads into the house. “Yes, it’s me. As expected.”

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting some lunch?” her mother says, locking and chaining the door behind her – an invitation to dine disguised as criticism.

  “No, I said on the phone that I’d take you out,” Sophie says, looking around the room and sensing that inexplicable queasiness she always feels when faced with the floral stasis of her mother’s house.

  “There’s no point wasting money on silly restaurant prices,” her mother says. “I’ve got a fridge full of perfectly good food.”

  “Oh, come on, Mum. Let’s go out. It doesn’t have to be expensive.”

  “It’ll still cost the same as my weekly shop,” she says, but she twists her mouth sideways indicating that she’s prepared to be convinced.

  Sophie restrains a sigh. She has never understood her mother’s obsession with the cost of everything, particularly because, though she has never been rich per se, she has never, to Sophie’s knowledge, been hard up either. As far as she knows her mother has never had to struggle to pay for anything essential. “Look, one it’s my treat, and two, it doesn’t have to be expensive. I actually quite fancy fish and chips. What d’you reckon?”

  “I suppose we could go to Qualisea. That wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg.”

  “Sure. Why not,” Sophie concedes. Qualisea is Eastbourne’s most popular, most economical fish and chip restaurant. It also happens to be, for all of these reasons, a firm favourite with the most geriatric section of Eastbourne’s population. And in a town where the biggest daily hazard is of being run over by a mobility trike, that’s really saying something. But Sophie has succeeded in persuading her mum to leave the house and that, these days, is reward enough.

  “How have you been?” Sophie asks, once they are outdoors and heading towards the blustery seafront.

  “Oh, you know,” her mother replies. “Comme ci, come ça.”

  “So, what have you been up to?”

  “Nothing. The usual. Sleeping, cleaning, eating.”

  Sophie, despite herself, tuts, prompting her mother to add, “It’s called life, dear. It’s called retirement. So don’t tut at me about it. It’ll come to you soon enough.”

  They pause at a pelican crossing and Sophie pulls a face as she presses the button. Her mother has never really been much fun to hang out with. In fact Sophie’s not even sure if she understands the concept of “fun.” But she worries about her all the same. Her father’s many friends faded from view at a shocking rate after his death and the only time her mother’s friends seem to get a mention nowadays is when they’re ill or, more and more frequently, have died. Her social life seems to have contracted to such a ridiculous degree that Sophie suspects that eating, sleeping and watching television really is about as exciting as it gets most of the time, and she can’t help but feel bad about that.

  “I spoke to Jonathan,” Sophie offers – an attempt at lightening the conversation. “He seems well.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Well, he certainly never calls me.”

  “I called him, actually,” Sophie says. She knows for a fact that what her mum is saying isn’t true. Jonathan is the perfect doting son. She knows, also, that her mum says exactly the same thing to Jon about her. But she lets it ride. “I shall give him a good telling off the next time I speak to him,” she says, “and I’ll make sure he calls you.”

  Her mother simply snorts.

  During the train journey this morning, Sophie had debated, yet again, whether or not to tell her mother about Brett. She suspects that secretly (because her mother would never admit as much) this news, that her daughter finally has a boyfriend, would cheer her up no end. But as she never asks Sophie about her life, she also makes it incredibly easy not to tell her, so easy in fact that Sophie is now six months into the relationship and her mother has no inkling that anything has changed. And this is now the problem. Because if she does tell her mother the truth, she will be opening the door to a whole lorryload of well you kept that one quiet reproach. Of course, she could lie and say that she met Brett a few weeks ago but then her mother would assume that it’s just a passing romance of no importance, which really wouldn’t cheer her up. Which is why she didn’t tell her at the start. So, she’s a bit stuck.

  As they move beyond the shelter provided by the Redoubt fortress, they are hit by the full force of the salt-laden wind. “Gosh,” Sophie exclaims.

  “Gosh indeed,” her mother shouts back, leaning into the wind and, rather sweetly, taking Sophie’s hand. Sophie remembers when it was to anchor her, not her fragile
mother, that they held hands.

  As they step into Qualisea, the change of temperature is so shocking that both mother and daughter flush red. “Well, that was bracing,” Sophie says.

  “You’re the one who wanted to go out,” her mother replies.

  A Polish waitress crosses to greet them. “Hello,” she says, nodding at her mother, then turning and smiling at Sophie too. “You want usual table?”

  Her mother nods. “That would be nice,” she says.

  They cross to a corner table, take their seats and place orders: cod and chips twice, a side order of mushy peas and two cups of tea. Sophie looks around at the blue rinses and trembling hands surrounding them and wonders again why they can’t ever go and sit in a nice restaurant. She has never been able to see, really, what such working class pretension has to do with her mother.

  They shrug off their coats and hang them over the backs of the chairs and then Sophie’s mother interlinks her fingers and looks her straight in the eye. It’s something that she has always done and it’s a gesture that has always set Sophie’s nerves on edge. It’s as if her mother is peering into her soul in search of hidden secrets, which Sophie reckons, is probably precisely what she is doing.

  “Jonathan’s working lots,” Sophie says, more because she feels she has to say something than because it’s any more true than usual.

  “He always was a hard worker,” her mother replies, and Sophie struggles not to take this as a criticism of her own supposedly dissolute lifestyle.

  “And Judy’s still churning out hundreds of those horrible paintings of hers,” Sophie adds, subconsciously pointing out that even if she isn’t particularly productive herself, at least she doesn’t produce shit.

  “You’re a harsh one,” her mother tells her. “Just because you went to art college doesn’t give you the right to decide what everyone else has to like.”

  “I don’t,” Sophie says. “I just know that poor old Judy couldn’t paint a white wall white.”

  “I like them.”

  “Yes, I know you do,” Sophie replies, struggling to keep the exasperation from her voice. She wonders for the hundredth time quite how her mother and brother have managed to spend so much time with the artist that her father undoubtedly was without absorbing even a smidgin of his good taste. And nowhere is their failure to learn from her father’s gift more evident than in their awed appreciation of Jon’s wife’s badly painted, nauseatingly bucolic landscapes.

  “So come on,” Sophie prompts. “What have you been up to since I was down last?”

  “I told you,” her mother replies.

  “Have you seen Patti?” Sophie asks. Patti Smith (not the Patti Smith, sadly) is her mother’s neighbour.

  “Her hip’s playing up again.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Sophie says.

  “They’re talking about operating again,” she continues, finally finding her rhythm. “Patti reckons one of those superbugs slipped in when they operated. It’s because the hospitals are so dirty these days.”

  The monologue about Patti’s hip condition lasts through the entire main course. It’s only when they reach dessert, an obscenely large slab of pappy lemon meringue pie, that her mother pauses for breath.

  “I met the new arts correspondent for the Times the other day,” Sophie says, having decided that, for multiple reasons, she needs to bite this particular bullet (or at least nibble at it.) “He’s ever so nice.”

  “That’s nice dear.”

  “He asked me if anyone had ever thought of doing a retrospective of Dad’s work.”

  Her mother stops eating for a second and looks Sophie directly in the eye. She shakes her head sharply. “No,” she says looking concerned. “Never.” It sounds not only like a response but like an interdiction too.

  “It’s funny that, isn’t it?” Sophie says. “I mean, he was such a big figure in British photography. You’d think someone would have thought of it.”

  “I don’t think they do them for photographers.”

  “Do what?”

  “Retrospectives. It’s more of a painter’s thing, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes they do. For big names. I went to the Mapplethorpe one. And Dad was a pretty big name. I thought it would be quite cool to organise one.”

  Her mother raises one eyebrow.

  “What?” Sophie asks.

  “Well,” she says. “It’s just one of those crazy ideas of yours, isn’t it. You’ll be on to something else within a week.”

  Sophie runs her tongue across her teeth, then, to avoid saying the harsh words on the tip of her tongue, she forks another lump of oozing pie to her mouth. For this has always been Sophie’s reputation. Jon is the hardworking, serious son and Sophie is the inconstant, airhead daughter. And never shall those myths be challenged. She frowns at the mouthful of sugar she has just swallowed and then pulls a face as she pushes the plate away.

  “I hope you’re not dieting again,” her mother says.

  “Mum! I just ate a billion calories of fish and chips,” Sophie laughs. “I’m not sure what diet you think I’m on.”

  “Well, good. You’re too skinny.”

  “I wish. If anyone is too skinny, you are.”

  Sophie doesn’t bring up the idea of a retrospective again until they get back to the house. While her mother makes a pot of coffee, Sophie leans on the kitchen counter and takes a deep breath before asking as casually as possible, “So, are all Dad’s photos still up in the loft?”

  “Probably,” her mother replies. “If they haven’t all turned to dust.” It’s only when she has said this that she realises that she has just provided her daughter with a perfect justification for checking on them. “But I’m sure they’re fine,” she adds.

  “I should probably check,” Sophie says, pouncing on the opportunity.

  Her mother pulls a pained expression. “It’s horrible up there, Sophie,” she says. “It’s full of junk and dust and bird-poo and–”

  “I bet there are photos of you when you were younger too, aren’t there?”

  “I’m not having you rooting around in the loft.”

  “Oh, go on Mum,” Sophie pleads. “I’d love to spend the afternoon looking at old photos with you. Just a few.”

  “Oh Sophie! It means getting the ladder from out the back and everything,” her mother whines. But she is twisting her mouth sideways again, so Sophie knows that she has won.

  In the loft – which is indeed filthy – Sophie finds the photos, perfectly preserved in a pile of stackable wooden boxes. She doesn’t know who stored them thus, but each box contains a series of plastic sleeves, each of which contains a tiny sachet of damp-absorbing silica gel.

  She takes a selection of the packages and hands them one by one to her mother.

  “Is it all dry up there?” she calls up. “There aren’t any leaks, are there?”

  “No, it’s fine,” Sophie replies. “It’s absolutely dry.”

  Once her mother has declared that, “that’s enough now,” Sophie closes the box, then, before she climbs back down, she looks around at the rest of the junk in the attic.

  Behind the photography boxes are a pile of old suitcases. She lifts one to check the weight, then, sensing that it’s not empty, she pulls it towards her and, with difficulty, opens the rusty clasp.

  “What are you doing up there?” her mother asks.

  “Just a second,” Sophie says, lifting the lid on the suitcase.

  Inside, she finds her father’s old overcoat and a lump forms in her throat. The sensation of being wrapped in his arms, of being wrapped in the texture of this coat, fills her memories. She sniffs it in the hope of detecting some trace of him but thirty years have passed. It smells of nothing these days but musty, dusty loft.

  She folds the coat, strokes it gently, swallows with difficulty, then puts it to one side and peers back into the suitcase. It contains a man’s hat, a trilby, she thinks, though she doesn’t know how she knows this and doesn’t remembe
r ever having seen her father wear it. There are, god knows why, some old, nylon net curtains, a blanket, a pair of children’s slippers and a funny old doll in a sailor dress. She frowns at the doll, then, when her mother says, “Sophie! You’re letting all the heat out,” she returns to the trap door and climbs down the ladder.

  “I found this,” she says, handing the doll to her mother, who smiles and strokes the doll’s hair.

  “Was that mine?” Sophie asks. “I don’t remember it at all.”

  “No, it was mine. When I was little,” her mother says.

  “Wow. How old is she?” Sophie asks, scooping the packages of photos from the telephone table where her mother has piled them.

  “Thirties,” she replies. “Late thirties. She’s supposed to be Shirley Temple.”

  “Really?”

  Her mother nods. “It’s a Shirley Temple doll. They were all the rage. She used to have a Shirley Temple badge too but that got lost pretty early on.”

  “Hello Shirley,” Sophie laughs, peering in at the doll’s shiny, surprised face.

  “Actually, I always called her Lucy Loop,” her mother says.

  “Lucy Loop?”

  Her mother nods. “Don’t ask me why. I don’t remember anymore. But yes. We always called her Lucy Loop. I dragged her around my whole childhood.”

  They sit, side by side, at the dining room table, the pile of plastic packages before them. Sophie sips her coffee and notices that her mother is wringing her hands.

  “Does this make you nervous, Mum?” she asks her.

  Barbara wrinkles her nose. “A bit. There’s a lot of past in there.”

  “I can do them on my own if you want.”

  “No, no, I want to look at them. It’s just... well, it’s been a long time.”

  Sophie pulls the first of the folders from the pile and slides it towards her, opens it, then pulls the contents onto the table. “Did you pack all of these up like this?”

  “Yes. When I moved.”

  “You did a good job.”

  “Jonathan helped me.”