The Photographer's Wife Page 11

  Sophie starts to leaf through the photos. The first twenty are rather dull black and white images of landscapes but then suddenly there is a scene change and the images are of people in London. “Wow!” Sophie says, sliding a photo of a woman in a mini skirt and knee-high boots towards her mother. “The sixties!”

  “Huh,” her mother says, studying the photo and then pushing it back.

  “Isn’t that Auntie Diane?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was pretty.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  Sophie flicks through another series of dull images: a house-front, a motorcycle, some kids playing football in the street, and then, coming upon a photo of her father in a dark checked suit holding her mother’s hand, she pauses. “Dad looked good in a suit,” she comments.

  Barbara laughs. “He did. I could never get him to wear one, though. He reckoned wearing a tie strangled him.”

  “You look good too. You look really happy.”

  “I was. We were on holiday in Scotland. That’s Edinburgh, I think.”

  “Who took the photo?”

  “Phil, your father’s friend.”

  Sophie continues to leaf through the photos, but other than three or four images of her father, the first package is something of a disappointment. For the most part, these are faded, often poorly developed photos of dull buildings and unexceptional landscapes.

  Sophie sighs softly and hands the pile to her mother who repackages them while she opens the next batch.

  “Gosh, Dad in a suit again,” Sophie says. “And look at those flares.”

  The photo shows her father wearing the same suit. He has long hair, a beard and a huge kipper tie.

  “That was Phil’s wedding,” Barbara says. “There should be some more with all of us.”

  Sophie skips through the pile until she comes to a photo showing her mother and father standing behind the bride and groom. Her mother is wearing a long tie-dye dress and a floppy orange hat.

  “That’s Phil and Jean,” her mother says pointing. “You loved Phil. Do you remember?”

  Sophie nods. “Was I at the wedding? I don’t remember it.”

  “You were. You ate half the cake. You were covered in it.”

  “That’s a great dress.”

  “I was so proud of that dress,” Barbara says. “It was the most daring thing I ever wore. But I only ever put it on twice, I think. Maybe three times.”

  “Because?”

  “I don’t know. It made me feel self-conscious, I suppose. People always commented on it. It was a copy of something I had seen in London.”

  “You made it?”

  “I did. I made lots of clothes.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Sophie says. “I mean, I remember you making curtains and stuff. But not clothes.”

  “I stopped. About then. It got cheaper to buy things than make them.”

  Sophie pushes the photo to one side and continues to work her way through the pile.

  “Ooh, the summer of seventy-six,” she says, pausing to study a picture of a woman in a bikini, sunbathing on a beach that is so sunbaked, it has fractured into a crazy-paving pattern. “That’s not the photo though is it?”

  “No, that’s not the one that won a prize. It was the same day though. The same beach.”

  “This is actually really interesting,” Sophie says. “People would love to see some of these. You know, the photos around the photo. All the ones that never made it into the public eye.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Barbara says. “I think people like the myth.”

  “The myth?”

  “That the famous photographer only ever took a few tens of really memorable pictures. I’m not sure people want to see all these other ones.”

  Sophie looks up at her mother in surprise.

  “But what would I know?” her mother adds.

  Sophie frowns. Her mother has always had this ability to surprise her with a sudden pertinent remark. It’s almost as if she has learned to dumb down her conversation but occasionally forgets and lets out some razor-sharp comment.

  “That’s very true, actually,” Sophie says. “I suppose it depends on whether there are enough good ones for an exhibition. Enough good ones that people haven’t already seen, I mean.”

  “I think you’ll find that there aren’t that many,” Barbara says.

  “Gosh, this is an old one,” Sophie says, pulling a tattered image from the pack.

  “Huh,” Barbara says. “I don’t know how that got in there. That’s your grandmother.”

  Sophie leans in and peers at the picture. A scowling woman in an apron, standing in front of a laundry and holding a bag of washing. “She looks like a tough old thing,” Sophie says.

  “People had to be tougher back then.”

  “Because of the war?”

  Barbara shrugs. “In part. But everything was harder in those days. There was no hot water, or central heating, or even proper cooking facilities. Lots of people in the East End didn’t even have a tap. There were no refrigerators, no washing machines... You have no idea how lucky you were to be born when you were.”

  Sophie groans and points at the laundry behind her grandmother. “Looks like Gran used to take her stuff to the laundry,” she says. “So things can’t have been that bad.”

  “No,” Barbara says. “No, I suppose they can’t have been.”

  1951 - Eastbourne, East Sussex.

  Barbara holds out her hand and Tony fumblingly slips the thin gold band over her ring finger. He looks nervous and sweaty in his rented suit, but in Barbara’s mind’s eye he is as smooth and as suavely dressed as a prince.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the aged official says, and Tony grins and leans in to peck her on the lips.

  When they turn to face the room, just for a second, the reality of the pale green walls (slightly shiny), of the seven people sitting on stackable chairs (slightly rusty) and the dim grey light filtering through the dirty windows, pierces Barbara’s mental bubble.

  Minnie, mistaking her daughter’s expression, dabs at the corner of one eye and nods at her encouragingly, and Barbara forces herself to smile back, has to force herself because in this instant, this is all so very far from how she thought her wedding day would look that she can barely bear to look. But then the Wedding March begins to belt out of the gramophone and Barbara finds her inner princess all over again and starts to drag her imaginary train across the cold noble floors of Canterbury Cathedral, nodding at the gathered gentry as she does so.

  Back at Donnybrook, Tony’s parents have organised a reception party. The dining room table is covered with triangular sandwiches (crusts cut off) and pigs in blankets and cheese balls on sticks. It looks, Barbara can’t help but notice, a lot like the food their neighbour laid on when her husband died. “What a lovely spread,” Minnie comments.

  “Yes, you’ve done us proud, Mum,” Tony agrees. “Would you like a drink, Mrs Doyle? A glass of punch perhaps?”

  Barbara blushes as her mother leans over the punch and sniffs it. She actually sniffs it and Barbara can sense the whole room watching her do so. “What kind of punch is that, then?” Minnie asks, causing Barbara’s teeth to ache with embarrassment.

  “It’s strawberry tea punch,” Tony’s mother replies using her special posh voice, the one she usually uses when guests arrive.

  “Strawberry tea, is it?” Minnie says, doubtfully, and Barbara prays silently for her to just drink it and like it.

  “But if you fancy something a little stronger we’ve got sherry or egg nog, or I can even mix you up a gin fizz,” Tony offers, sensing the tension and trying to avoid a diplomatic incident.

  “Ooh yes, I think a little glass of sherry might hit the spot better, thank-you, Tony,” she says, and Barbara sees that Joan, who doesn’t drink and doesn’t much like people who do (her husband included), raises one eyebrow.

  “Can I put a record on, Mrs Marsden?” best man Hugh asks.

  “Are you a
sking me or Barbara?” Joan laughs. “Because there are two Mrs Marsdens now.”

  “Oh, of course there are! Well you of course,” Hugh says. “You being the lady of the house.”

  “Please... go ahead,” Joan says, waving one arm regally at the curved wooden radiogram in the corner of the room. “Tony brought all his records down especially.”

  Hugh crosses the room and lifts the lid on the radiogram and Barbara, who has been feeling self conscious, moves to his side, happy for the distraction of helping with the music. “You switch it on there,” she tells him, pointing at the chunky Bakelite knob. “But it takes a while to warm up.” She runs the tip of her finger across the radio dial, over Paris, Luxembourg and Oslo, before letting it settle on Hilversum. “I want to go to all of the places on the dial,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “Not immediately but, you know, before I die.”

  “Ah, well, in that case, you’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Where is Hilversum anyway?”

  “In Holland, I think,” Hugh says.

  “Oh, put that on,” Barbara tells him, as he slides Hop Scotch Polka from the rack.

  “This one?”

  “Yes, I really like that,” Barbara says, wrinkling her nose. “It’s really, sort of, happy.”

  “So, are you happy now, Mrs Marsden?” Hugh asks her, and Barbara, wondering what the word now is doing in that phrase, smiles and nods enthusiastically.

  “Of course I am,” she says.

  “Is this everything you wanted it to be?” Hugh asks, and because of something strange in his voice, Barbara turns to study his face. “I mean the wedding and the party,” Hugh explains, and his voice, which sounds falsely flippant, doesn’t match his regard which looks soulful, regretful almost, and Barbara has no idea why.

  “Of course it is,” Barbara says, frowning now and wondering momentarily if perhaps Hugh alone understands the yawning gulf between this cheap, rushed, working class wedding and the fairytale ceremony that every girl dreams of. But then she realises that with Hugh being a communist, the opposite is more likely true. He probably sees this marriage as some obscene expression of capitalist excess.

  “I hope Tony will live up to your expectations,” Hugh says.

  “I don’t really have any,” Barbara replies.

  “Then he probably will,” Hugh says darkly, then changing tone, “You look lovely anyway.” He lightly touches her shoulder. “That’s a lovely wedding dress.”

  Barbara looks down at her simple ivory dress. “I made this myself,” she says. “With a bit of help from Mum.”

  “I know,” Hugh says. “Tony told me. That’s very impressive. It looks like the dresses you see in films.”

  The radiogram pops, buzzes and then pops again. “That means it’s ready,” Barbara says, moving gently to one side so that Hugh’s hand can but fall away.

  “Are you ready to dance?” he asks, lifting the stacking-arm to one side and lowering the record over the spindle.

  “I think I need a drink of something first,” Barbara says. “But yes. Nearly ready.”

  Still attempting to analyse her strange conversation with Hugh, Barbara crosses to the drinks cabinet where Tony’s father Lionel is mixing gin fizzes. “Can I have one of those?” she asks.

  “Sure,” Lionel says, grinning at her. “Have this one. I’m just churnin’ ‘em out for anyone and everyone.”

  A group of Tony’s friends appear in the doorway just as the needle hits the record and, as Hop Scotch Polka starts to play, it begins to feel a little more like a party.

  Barbara downs her gin fizz quickly, then, suddenly tipsy, accepts Tony’s offer to dance and soon Diane and Hugh, and Glenda and James join them, jiving around in the corner behind the dining table.

  After a few songs, Barbara breaks free and crosses the room to join Minnie, who she has noticed is standing alone, staring out of the window at the street beyond. “Are you alright, Mum?” she asks.

  Minnie turns and distractedly replies, “Sorry dear?”

  “Are you OK? Are you having a nice time?”

  Minnie nods and smiles unconvincingly. “I’m fine,” she says. “Anyway, today’s not about me. It’s about you. Are you having a nice time?”

  “I am,” Barbara says.

  “The best day of your life,” Minnie says flatly. “That’s what they say.” And Barbara feels suddenly sad and isn’t sure quite why.

  “You’re not ok, are you, Mum?” she says. “Is it because Dad’s not here?”

  “Is what because your Dad’s not here?”

  “Is that why you’re sad?”

  “Ha!” Minnie laughs. “No, that’s a blessing, believe me,” she says. “Anyway, I’m not sad. I’m proud. You look lovely.”

  Barbara nods. “Good,” she says. “Come over and talk to Joan or something. Don’t stand by yourself. It’s supposed to be a party.”

  “Yes,” Minnie says. “Yes, I will. Now you go and enjoy your wedding day with that husband of yours.”

  Barbara strokes her mother’s arm tenderly, then resigning herself to the fact that she has never much understood, let alone been able to influence her mother’s moods, she returns to the rear of the room where Hugh is now swinging Glenda around to the “Chatanooga Choo Choo.”

  “Is Mum alright?” Glenda asks, pausing breathlessly in front of her. Barbara smiles tightly and shrugs.

  “Just make sure you enjoy yourself,” she says, throwing herself back into the dance.

  By seven, Tony’s father has fallen asleep on the sofa, visibly drunk and audibly snoring. According to Tony, this is by far the better of the two possible outcomes but then Tony himself is already swaying on his feet, already slurring his words. A sobriety gap is fast opening up between Barbara, who stopped drinking two hours ago, and her new husband.

  Barbara, who has been watching Tony from the corner of her eye whilst talking to Minnie, now stands and heads through to the kitchen, where, on her mother’s advice, she intends to make Tony a “good, strong cup of coffee.”

  In the kitchen, she finds Glenda and Diane talking to James. Both, it would appear, judging by all the eyelash fluttering and hip-jutting going on, are flirting with him. With his impeccable blue suit, his immaculate blond hair and his bright blue eyes, Barbara can see the appeal. He has to be the most eligible bachelor present, if not actually in town.

  Barbara lights the gas ring and puts the kettle on to boil, then turns to see James leaving the room, closely followed by Diane.

  “Come outside, sister,” Glenda says, reaching for her hand. “I need to talk to you.”

  Barbara follows Glenda outside, thinking that Glenda, too, is going to comment on Tony’s inebriated state. “I think Tony’s had too much to drink,” she says, attempting to head her off at the pass.

  “Of course he has,” Glenda says. “It’s his wedding day.”

  “I’m making him coffee to sober him up a bit.”

  Glenda raises one eyebrow. “Well, good luck with that,” she says, then, “Now, tell me about James.”

  “I don’t know him any better than you,” Barbara says. “I only met him yesterday. Tony has so many friends buzzing around, it’s hard to keep track.”

  “He’s handsome,” Glenda says.

  “He is.”

  “You’re not having regrets, are you?” Glenda asks, smirking.

  Barbara laughs. “You’re terrible,” she says.

  “Then you are?!”

  “Of course I’m not!”

  Glenda pulls out a packet of Target and points it at Barbara.

  “I still don’t smoke,” Barbara replies.

  “You should. The boys think it’s sexy,” Glenda tells her.

  “I don’t and neither does Tony. Which is just as well.”

  Glenda lights up and takes a drag, then blows the smoke up into the cooling evening air. “Can you help me with James?”

  “Help you with what?”

  “Help me snag him,�
� Glenda says. “I’m in competition with Diane.”

  “I saw that,” Barbara says. “Maybe you should just let her have him.”

  “Now why would I want to do that?”

  Barbara glances back at the house to check that they are alone. “To start with, they both live here in Eastbourne.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You live in London, Glen.”

  Glenda laughs and coughs out cigarette smoke. “I don’t want to marry him, Sis. I just want to kiss him! He has the loveliest lips.”

  Barbara checks the back door again. “You’re awful! If Mum heard you...”

  “Do you know what he does? For a job, I mean?”

  Barbara shrugs. “Sorry,” she says. “I think he works in a bank or something but I’m not even sure of that. But seriously, I wish you would let Diane have him.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “For me?” Barbara whines.

  “For you? Why?”

  Barbara shrugs and feels a wave of heat wash over her.

  “You don’t think Diane’s after Tony, do you? You do! Oh Barbara. They’re childhood friends. They virtually grew up together.”

  “I know that. It’s just... I don’t know. She makes me nervous.”

  “He married you, Barbara. If he liked Diane, he’s had plenty of opportunity.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The whistling sound of the kettle starts to rise from the open doorway so Barbara sighs and turns towards the house. “I’d better sort that coffee out,” she says. “Or he’ll be too drunk to know who he’s married to.”

  “And I had better go sort that James out,” Glenda says, saucily.

  By the time Barbara has returned to the lounge with the cup of coffee, all of the older guests have vanished to other parts of the house leaving Diane and Glenda dancing a little madly with James, while Tony and Hugh argue drunkenly about politics.

  Barbara stands patiently beside Tony for a while, waiting for the right moment to interrupt him but he is being animated and annoyed, bombastic and loud. She has never seen him like this before and spends a few moments debating with herself the age old question: does drink make them more themselves, or less themselves?