The Photographer's Wife (41 page)

“I’m sorry?”

“My images. They’re the best ones I’ve ever taken but… they’re still just… just girly bubbles of fluff next to Dad’s. I tried
so
hard, Brett, but look. Just look.”

“I think you’re–”

“I want to take all mine out. I
really
want to do that, Brett. Can I? Can I do that?”

Brett laughs at this, genuinely, heartily.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” Sophie sniffs.

He gives Sophie a squeeze and snorts again. “That’s not why I’m laughing, babe. I think your images look awesome.”

Sophie glances sideways at him. She starts to cry freely now. She pushes Brett away so that she can fumble in her bag for a tissue. “But they don’t Brett,” she says through fresh tears. “They look like pretty magazine pieces. And next to Dad’s, they look even worse. People are going to think that I’m taking the piss.”

Brett rubs her back briefly and then unexpectedly stands. She wonders if he’s going to simply walk out. He’s not always that good with her girly moods.

Instead, he parks himself in the middle of the floor and stares at one wall. After about a minute, he turns ninety degrees and studies the next wall. Only when he has finished his three-sixty scan of the room does he turn back to face Sophie, who is by now watching him with all the terror of the executioner’s next victim.

“Look, I see what you’re saying,” Brett says.

Sophie starts to cry again.

“Hey stop. I haven’t finished. Gee, Sophe! Stop! For God’s sake!”

Sophie manages to stem the tears and looks up at him again.

“I see what you’re saying but you’re wrong. That’s what I was gonna to say.”

Sophie rubs her nose on the back of her hand. “You
think?”

Brett nods. “If the world was grey…” he says thoughtfully. He glances around the room and then starts again, speaking more slowly. “If the world was black and white and all grime and misery, then you’d be right. But it’s not, Sophe, it’s not like that. It’s also colour and life and joy. It’s grinning kids on play castles and perfectly contented old-folks with ices. And the juxtaposition that you’ve created here, between each of your father’s images and each of yours, is just so… so
joyous
Sophe. That’s the only word I can think of. The world moves on and things do get better. It’s uplifting. It’s brilliant. I wasn’t expecting this. But I’m stunned. I’m… I’m
moved,
actually. Really. That’s it. I’m moved.”

Sophie bursts into tears for the third time but these are tears of relief. She stands and drops her bag to the floor and runs into Brett’s arms. “God, Brett,” she says. “You have no idea what that means to me. I’ve been feeling so
scared
all day.”

Brett hugs her and then pushes her away so that he can stare into her eyes. “You silly, silly girl,” he says. “You’ve done everything you wanted, here. And some. You’ve got nothing to be scared about. They’re gonna be blown away.”

“You really think that? You’re not just saying?”

Brett shrugs. “Hey, come on. You know me, babe,” he says. “When did I ever
just say.”

1982 - Hackney, London.

It is Sunday morning. Tony and Sophie are seated at the dining table awaiting the cooked breakfast which Barbara is busy frying.

“Why don’t you open it, Dad?” Sophie asks. Sophie, like Barbara, doesn’t much like unopened letters but she considers an unopened
parcel
an affront to all humanity.

“I’ll open it when I’m good and ready,” Tony says, glancing nervously at the package on the sideboard.

“I think Sophie’s right,” Barbara says, taking her life in her hands. “If you open it today, you can take it to Portsmouth with you.”

“Huh!” Tony says. “I’m not going to something as important as Portsmouth with a brand new camera. That’s for sure.”

The package is from Pentax. It contains a camera, an amazing whole new kind of camera which knows how to focus itself, a camera which calculates its own exposure and sets its own shutter speed. Unfortunately, Tony doesn’t much like amazing new things and his tension around the package has been palpable for days.

“Please
open it,” Sophie pleads. “It’s been there for years.”

“I’ve told you a million times not to exaggerate,” Tony jokes.

“OK, weeks then.”

“Days,” Tony says. “It came on Saturday.”

“It actually came
last
Saturday, so that is more than a week,” Barbara comments, from the stove. “Why don’t you let Sophie open it? She’ll enjoy finding out how it works.”

An unspoken decision has been made to allow Sophie to follow in her father’s footsteps. Barbara did everything in her power to push Jonathan in a different direction. Photography had seemed such a dangerous way to attempt to earn a living back then. It had seemed to offer little more than the promise of yet another generation of hardship. But having saved Jon from the flights and fancies of the art world (he’s at college, right now, training to be a quantity surveyor) the world changed. Photography suddenly became important. It became a proper job that could provide a living wage. The brand new kitchen around them, the eggs, the bacon, the mushrooms in the pan, the refrigerator beside her (stacked full)… Yes, these are all proof of it.

“OK,” Tony says, finally seeing the inevitability of unboxing the camera plus an escape route from the responsibility for making the damned thing work himself. “OK, Sophe, go for it. Knock yourself out. Just don’t involve me until it works. And don’t break it.”

“After
breakfast,” Barbara says, heading across the room with the pan.

It is later in the day and the light is fading. They are in the lounge and the new camera is the centre of attention.

“So you just press here,” Sophie is explaining. “And point the funny bit in the middle at whatever you want to be in focus. And… see… It just does it.”

The camera lens whizzes in and then whizzes out, and then whizzes in once more before settling down with a happy sounding beep.

Tony groans and takes the camera from his daughter’s grasp. He raises it to his eye.

Barbara holds her breath. Tony has a real problem with new technology and this little scene of family unity could dissolve in the blink of an eye into a fit of toddler rage. Things can get thrown. Things can get broken.

They had gone, a few months back, to buy a new car, a Ford Sierra (or ‘jelly mould’, as Jonathan insisted on calling it). The Beetle, now fifteen years old, had been playing up.

The salesman, a patronising man who told Tony all kinds of technical details about the car (his eyes glazed over) and Barbara all kinds of useful, girly things like where to stash her handbag, had finally handed him the keys for the test drive.

But the controls had been different to the Beetle. The indicators were on the “wrong” side of the steering column. The reverse gear was in the “wrong” place. And just a few feet off the forecourt, Tony had swung violently around in the traffic almost killing them all, before driving straight back to the garage.

Barbara and Sophie had then tried as a team to convince him that he’d get used to it. They both liked the Sierra. They were both sick of the unreliable cramped Beetle. So they attempted to calm him down. But eventually when Barbara had, just for a second, in an effort to make him see sense, withheld the keys to the Beetle, Tony had strutted off down the road muttering madly to himself.

“Sometimes, I think Dad’s a bit cuckoo,” Sophie had commented, daringly.

“Yes,” Barbara had replied with meaning. “Me too.”

In a way, Barbara understands his pain. Their new video recorder has the capacity to drive
her
to distraction as well. But at least she
tries
to use the damned thing. Even if she does forget to press the record button, or she gets the wrong day, or records the wrong channel, at least she still attempts it from time to time (primarily when Sophie’s not there to do so.) Tony won’t even go near the thing.

Right now, he is peering through the viewfinder of the Pentax and the autofocus is whirring in and out, and in and out, in a way that’s setting
everyone’s
nerves on edge.

“What are you pointing it at?” Sophie asks, sounding irritated.

“You can see what I’m pointing it at,” Tony says. “I’m pointing it over there.”

“But the middle bit. What’s in the middle bit where the split is?”

“The curtains.”

Bzzzzzzz,
the lens goes.
Zzzzzzb,
the lens goes.

“That’s why,” Sophie says. “You have to give it a straight line to focus on. Try the edge of the window frame.”

“But what’s the point of that?” Tony asks, now aiming it at the television instead. “What if I want to focus on the curtains? What if I have some incredibly strong desire to photograph the bloody curtains?” He lowers the camera from his eye. The lens continues to pfaff around on its own, buzzing like a wasp in a box. “What’s it doing now?”

“You have to switch the lens off,” Sophie says. “Otherwise it wastes the batt–”

“Well I hate the bloody thing. You can have it.”

“Really?” Sophie looks excited.

“Actually, she can’t,” Barbara points out. She pauses. On reflection, it seems safer to address her daughter than her husband right now. “Sorry Sophie,” she continues, “But your dad’s been sponsored to take photos with this particular camera. He needs it.”

“It is bloody particular if you ask me. I prefer my old Rollei,” Tony says.

“Yes, but Rollei aren’t sponsoring you.”

“I don’t care,” Tony says. “It’s rubbish is what it is.” He now chucks it disdainfully at the sofa.

“Careful Dad, that’s worth hundreds of pounds.”

“Not to me it isn’t,” Tony says, standing. “It’s not worth shit-all to me.”

“Tony, really!” Barbara protests. But he has gone.

***

Two weeks later, a smaller, flatter package from Pentax has been lingering on the sideboard for three full days before Barbara, in exasperation, decides to open it herself.

From the envelope, she pulls a folder, and from the folder, a full page advert printed on glossy photo paper. There’s a letter too.

The advert features a full-page black-and-white photograph of one of the warships in the Falklands task-force setting off. Featuring waving troops and weeping women, swooping seagulls and fluttering flags, it’s truly a beautiful photo, one of the best Tony has ever taken, somehow encapsulating all of the dangers and all of the fears involved in Thatcher’s new war.

Barbara is surprised. When Tony had failed to show her the photos from his Portsmouth trip, she had assumed that they hadn’t worked out. And when he had posted the camera back to Pentax with a rude letter, her fears had been all but confirmed. But this is gorgeous. She feels proud.

Across the top of the advert, the text reads, “The best photographers won’t work with any other camera.” And at the bottom of the page is an insert of Tony holding the Pentax ME-F, along with a quote that Tony will certainly never have said.
“With the Pentax ME-F taking care of focus and exposure, I can concentrate on what I do best – simply creating beautiful images.”

Barbara turns to the accompanying letter.

Dear Anthony,

Please find enclosed the July advert for the ME-F, which, as you know, is part of a nationwide campaign.

As you are also aware, the 35mm images you supplied were, without exception, unusable, being either over-exposed or out of focus and in many cases both.

After thorough investigation by our technicians, we can confirm that no defects were found in the ME-F you returned and we can only assume that these problems resulted from misuse of the camera by yourself.

If you would like one of our experts to walk you through the features of the ME-F then please don’t hesitate to contact us.

In the meantime, for the advert, we have cropped one of your 120mm images taken with the Rolleiflex so that it appears to be from a 35mm camera. Needless to say, this sleight of hand must not be made public
under any circumstances.

While this is an acceptable stop-gap solution to an immediate need, I am forced to remind you that our contract specifically states that all photographs supplied
must
be taken with the ME-F, another verified example of which will be shipped to you shortly.

Failure to respect the terms of the contract will result in cancellation of said contract, including but not limited to all further publications, all future payments, your inclusion in the Pentax Summer Show and cancellation of the slated Pentax / Anthony Marsden one man show at the Hayward Gallery.

I trust you will find this motivation enough to get to grips with the excellent camera that is our flagship ME-F.

Yours Faithfully.

Yamada Kuzuyuki.

2013 - Bermondsey, London.

Sophie lifts a glass of wine from the table. It is the night of the private view and in less than half an hour people will start to arrive.

“You should maybe slow down on the wine, honey,” Brett says.

Sophie pulls a face. “Um, I think I’m old enough to decide for myself how much to drink, Brett.”

“You do?”

“God! Stop it. You sound like Jonathan’s wife.”

Brett shrugs and fiddles with his bow tie. He’s wearing evening dress and it suits him. In fact, Sophie can barely believe how stunning he looks. “Whatever,” he says.

Much as Sophie hates to be told what to do, she’s clever enough to spot when Brett is right. So after one militant gulp of wine, she does, all the same, stop drinking.

Other than Sophie and Brett, only four people are present so far: two eastern European sounding waitresses from the catering company, Sarah Stone of White Cube wafting in and out; and a very
Men in Black
security guard. The gallery, freshly cleaned, seems even bigger than usual.