Homesickness (8 page)

His name was Hammersly, Frank Hammersly.

Sheila went along to her aunt and was still biting her lip, confused, when she returned to the hotel. She took little notice of the scenery. It was growing dark. The man—Frank Hammersly. Certainly he had the gift of the gab. Not that it… He was a tall figure of a man, solid timber. In the big suit his face and shoulders consisted almost entirely of straight lines. His shoes were dark tan, crinkled brogue. These had made her think he was from the country, originally. She should have asked him! He would have said. He could certainly talk. He'd be phoning and she'd have to say. He said he'd phone. And she didn't know.

The driver wore the cloth cap. Fat creased his neck: horizontal cuts of a knife. He was a heavy man, but not as solid as Frank Hammersly. As they crossed the river he twisted, ‘That's where the coppers caught Christie, the pervert-murderer. Right about…there.'

Steering with one hand he pointed. Then he began shaking his head.

‘He was a shocker. How many women was it he carved up? I must have passed him that day. I had a job out here. It was when we had our fogs. That wasn't all that long ago. I still have the foreigners getting in asking to see the house. Number 10…'

Sheila tilted her head to be polite.

A travel firm ran a tour over Christie's house, Christ, every Monday night. They have his cupboards open, the old bath, and on the mantelpiece his National Health eyeglasses. Some of the floorboards are up for you to see. It's for the Irish and the Scots who come down. You get a few tourists—Frogs. Americans have heard about him.

Sheila fumbled for change,

‘I've only been told about it,' he said over his shoulder. ‘I haven't been in myself.'

To make matters worse, Sheila wasn't familiar with the currency yet. Here you had to give the drivers a full tip: but the handful she shoved through, not counting the African coins, was probably far too much.

The Hofmanns were there in the lounge listening to Gerald Whitehead who still wore his raincoat. They nodded when Sheila hurried up; Gerald kept talking.

‘I didn't believe it at first. But it was everywhere I went.'

‘Oh what a pity.'

‘Why, what's wrong?' Sheila asked.

‘Let's have a drink,' Hofmann smiled. ‘At least our day wasn't bad.'

Nation, island, capital city of facts. The black-and-white half-tones had moved indoors. Someone had noted this year was the 156th anniversary of Niepce's invention of photography, and the only time the anniversary would match the camera's most popular (Number 1) aperture setting, f5.6. And that wasn't all! The retrograde of 56, it was pointed out, was 65—sixty-five years ago Oscar Barnck in Germany built the first 35mm camera! Photography—who said it?—is the folk art of the industrial age. The great museums of London were taken up with appropriate celebratory exhibitions.

At the National Gallery, X-ray photographs of the Renaissance paintings replaced the originals. From a distance they looked almost the same. The enlarged X-ray prints were fitted into the ornate frames. This was the work of the forensic experts in the gallery's basement. Explanatory paragraphs and cotton arrows pointed out the struggling artists' ‘real' intentions, ghost-like here, and their appalling early errors in composition and perspective. Nothing is as it appears. Photography's efficiency had stripped away illusion. These Renaissance masters, it was revealed, were racked by the same doubts and timidity experienced by the average Sunday afternoon amateur.

The gallery was crowded. Parties of photographers strolled around as if they owned the place. In addition to their expensive dangling equipment—the gallery's NO CAMERAS rule had been temporarily waived—they wore expressions of triumph and understanding. Groups stood talking together, their backs to the ‘paintings', introducing themselves and inspecting each other's gear. Photography had come a long way.

As Gerald fought his way out, other buses pulled into the curb, including one constant double-decker painted yellow like a film box, disgorging more photographers, enthusiasts having flown in from America and Japan, each one instinctively glancing up at the sky. Many a German's snap included the ears of Gerald's enraged head.

The National Portrait Gallery, around the corner, attracted similar crowds. Here they'd put on an important historical show. The rooms had been made specially dark and oil portraits of pioneer photographers hung in place of the usual. Oil paintings of photographers? To some this was an ironical somersault. It was a cause for serious contemplation. Oil paintings of… Others though, the photographers, saw it as the supreme belated compliment. As the excellent catalogue in a footnote challenged: when before had a photographer been enclosed in gold leaf and an artificial convolvulus border? And here were more than forty. They had been tracked down and unearthed from the most unlikely of places. Many had scarcely seen the light of day before.

There were fine realistic renderings of Daguerre, Talbot, Lartigue, Rejlander and Julia Cameron, et cetera; a mysterious oval portrait of Mangin; and what appeared to be a child's drawing on graph paper of Lewis Carroll. From America came a rare blurred portrait of Marey descending stairs and in charcoal a Cherokee's sketch of Brady. There was a small group of twentieth-century works where a painter has employed a photograph (Salvador Dali, Andy Warhol), closing with a stunning tongue-in-cheek canvas after the French aristocrat Picabia,
Portrait of Camera
, (c. 1917).

But was photography ‘art'?

A brave attempt to sort this one out was made at the big Hayward Gallery, across the river. Posters and banners announced the continuous conceptual ‘event': a series of boxing matches between artists and photographers. Big names had flown in from Europe and across the Atlantic. So far, the artists had won every round, though each fight was recorded on videotape—a point the photography faction claimed as an overall victory. A number of photographers were accused of cheating. A disciple of crazy Eadweard Muybridge insisted on wrestling with his opponents, naked. Shoot-outs between trigger-happy Polaroid teams took place at dusk.

Gerald didn't bother crossing the river. He'd returned to the hotel, bewildered.

‘What about the Tate Gallery?' Hofmann asked, being sympathetic. The Tate had a fine collection of stripe paintings. He'd been planning to go.

‘Don't bother. I was told that instead of the
paintings
—can you imagine—they've tracked down the actual subject or place. And these were carefully photographed—understand?—so a person could see what the scene
really
was like. So at the Tate there's nothing but colour slides of French canals, haystacks and lily ponds, apples, yellow chairs, and ballet dancers; God knows what else. For this they flew one photographer to Tahiti, so I was told.' And Gerald hung his hands between his legs. ‘I don't know what the world's coming to.'

Sheila felt sorry for him; she hated seeing people upset. Gerald drained his dry sherry and ordered another.

‘So that's what's on at the Tate?' Hofmann said.

Borelli who had joined them looked down at the carpet, toeing a crown.

‘Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, Futurism, Abstract Expressionism and Tourism are all related. I doubt now whether one can do without the other.'

Oh and Commercialism, never one to be left out: two multinationals, Kodak and the Kraft Corporation, had joined forces to sponsor a European food photographic competition, ‘SAY CHEESE!'

Hofmann turned to Borelli.

‘If it's tourism they're after, they're going about it the wrong way. I must say I'm surprised at the British letting this happen. They're normally better than anyone with museums. As I say, I'm surprised.'

‘I completely agree,' said Gerald, putting it mildly.

But Kaddok had bumped into his chair, followed by Gwen.

‘Ah, hello there,' said Kaddok in his monotone. His fingers followed the edge of the bar. ‘My wife and I have just been to the National Gallery. It was the finest exhibition I've ever seen.'

As Kaddok spelt out the highlights they sat quietly, politely. Gritting his teeth Gerald looked towards the door.

‘Leon just loves his camera,' Gwen whispered to Sheila.

‘Tell you what'—Garry Atlas had sat down—‘have you been to the Imperial War Museum? I'd always wanted to have a squiz there. What I've always wanted to see was a real Spitfire. I've never seen a Spitty. But all they had up was aerial photographs, whacking great things, of bomb damage—mainly World War Two. Chrrrist, you should see Hiroshima. Not a shack standing. They also had about six different camera guns.'

They had a photographic history of camouflage; a discussion on the picture-plane; selection of retouched press photographs with captions to show the art of propaganda; nineteen-forties newsreels.

‘Hey, and you should have seen this incredible bloody picture of a bullet hitting an apple. Amazing. You've got to hand it to the Yanks.'

‘Gwen, make a note. Where was that?'

The rest were intrigued, but subdued.

Since they had arrived, this famous city London seemed to have become one vast montage. And already there was something dated in the sight, or even the thought, of such well-documented factography. Unlike painting, photography wasn't timeless. It depended on death. The curiously dated clothing in photographs of former prime ministers standing in Downing Street reminded them of the past and their own fleeting presence. Photography: melancholia.

In the hollow-sounding halls of London University a seminar chaired by an Austrian discussed ‘The Difference between Photography and Philosophy': ‘Vell I vould have thought, yes, vun is logical vhile the other is negative.'

Commiserating with Gerald, Borelli suggested that the armies of photographers tend to come from countries similarly bent on golf: America and Japan, for example. These people photograph to indicate their freedom, to remind themselves and others of the work which enabled the leisure. With his photograph a photographer likes to feel superior to the viewer. Familiar scenes—Borelli went on—are given meaning or context by the photographer placing the partner, usually a wife, in the foreground. Later this proves not merely ‘I was there' but ‘I saw'.

‘I say,' Kaddok objected, as Louisa gaily laughed.

Mrs Cathcart stumped over to the news-stand to see the postcards. At least Doug joined in, nodding, ‘This is right, this is right.'

Garry Atlas ordered another round, and cold ones, not that warm piddle.

Remembering Wimbledon, Sheila told them how she'd bumped into that Australian man they'd seen in Africa, and reddened.

‘Then London isn't entirely grey,' smiled Borelli, not unkindly. ‘Alas, for some of us, as you have heard, it is.' He placed his hand on his heart in mourning; and even Gerald, a grey one, had to laugh.

Nothing appeared to concern Borelli. He was loose with time. Yet as Louisa Hofmann watched he fell silent and gazed down at the floor.

Glancing at his watch Hofmann took Louisa's elbow.

As they were leaving, Cathcart cleared his throat and told Garry about the photos he'd seen at Australia House. These were on special Masonite stands in the foyer, quite an interesting group: shots of old fencing posts, bleached shearing-shed walls, and a selection of eccentric gates taken all over the ruddy outback.

‘Christ! That sounds all right,' Garry nodded sagely.

Cathcart smacked his lips. ‘And tell you what. It makes you appreciate the old place.'

They dressed up that night for the theatre, though some had other tickets by mistake. At the Opera the Kaddoks shared a box with Louisa, sat quietly behind her, and in the dark the crumpled arm of Borelli's jacket kept shifting, occasionally brushing hers. Louisa wasn't sure what to say. Talking in the group at the hotel she thought he might have looked across and posed one of his questions again, or even acknowledged her. He didn't seem to notice her. Then why should he? So Louisa began stretching her neck concentrating on the stage, so that no one knew her thoughts. Neatly clasped, her hands formed a T across the programme.

‘What beautiful scenery,' she whispered out of the blue.

Borelli sat up. ‘Shall we have a drink?' He turned to the Kaddoks too. ‘I'm having one.'

In the loges opposite Louisa saw other people seated motionless, intently watching the opera. Shirt fronts and pale irregular faces showed as patches of light; jewellery and spectacles glittered in the dark; here and there equidistant mauve stars (contact lenses?) shone similar to the eyes of foxes when caught in a spotlight. Louisa no longer looked at the heavy soprano, now tiptoeing with the strain. One hand rested on her cheek. She bit her top lip. For the audience, of which she was part, this was entertainment at the end of a long day. Fashions had changed but in the darkened hall the scene would have been the same as on any night seventy or a hundred years ago. Men and women then had dressed up and sat in these seats through each act, engrossed, a night out. They had since gone; had died. This audience too, these men and women, would gradually be replaced. They sat now engrossed, some leaning forward, oblivious.