Girls Behind the Camera

by Adele Geras

  “I’d love to see how the photographs are made,” Cecily said. Suddenly, she longed to know all about the magical process that could result in pictures that were so lifelike.

  “I’ll show you another day, Cecily. I’ll explain the magic, I promise.”

  Was Miss Templeton inviting her to visit again? How wonderful! Next time, Cecily resolved, she would bring Amy with her. She looked round the studio, while Miss Templeton picked up various items and tidied them away into an enormous chest of drawers. “I’m very organized when it comes to my work,” she said, “but somehow my studio becomes untidy, in spite of my best efforts.”

  Leaning against one wall was a huge painting of a garden. It was almost the same height and width as the room itself, and it showed arches with roses growing over them, and a lot of trees and grass in the middle distance and a great deal of blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. Set in front of the painting was a bench, and also an urn, and a wickerwork chair next to a small table covered with a white cloth.

  “Ah yes,” said Miss Templeton. “I use that as a backdrop. My father painted it for me, which is kind of him, considering how set he is against photography. There are a great many scenes which I can photograph against that background. For instance, come and sit down for a moment…”

  Cecily sat down on the wicker chair, as instructed.

  “Now…I had a pretty straw hat somewhere…” Miss Templeton went over to a cupboard on the other side of the room and opened it. Cecily could see from where she was sitting that it was overflowing with gloves, shoes, scarves and hatboxes. Some garments were hanging up, just as though this were a normal cupboard in an ordinary house.

  “Perfect…” Miss Templeton was pushing back Cecily’s hair and she felt she had to say something.

  “I’m sorry my hair’s so unruly. Nanny Mildred calls it that.”

  “It’s most beautiful…why, half the paintings Papa and his friends admire…the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood…have ladies in them with hair like yours. Now tuck this rose under the ribbon…there… and we can pretend that you’re Mr. Wilde’s Cecily.”

  Miss Templeton picked up a looking glass from the top of the chest of drawers so that Cecily could see herself transformed. Then she put it down again next to an untidy heap of jewellery: necklaces, brooches, rings and a tiara.

  “You’re rather tall for Cecily,” Miss Templeton said, “and perhaps rather too slender. You’d be a better Gwendolen, I think. I could dress you very smartly. Gwendolen’s a very elegant London lady down in the country for the day. If only we had someone to be a pretty country girl, I would compose a scene from The Importance of Being Earnest. Cecily in the play turns out to be much cleverer than everyone thinks, of course. It’s quite delightful.”

  “My friend Amy is pretty and dainty,” said Cecily, feeling her heart beat a little faster.

  “You must bring her here to meet me,” said Miss Templeton.

  “Oh, I will. She’d love that, I know. Thank you! May we come and see you after school tomorrow?”

  “Certainly. That would be excellent. I can think of several poses I might photograph you in. Perhaps some scenes from Shakespeare…or a fairy tale.”

  She came over to Cecily and took off the hat. “I must walk you back to your house now, my dear, or your parents will think you’ve been stolen away.”

  “My papa will not be back from work yet, and my mama is dead.”

  Cecily blushed. Why had she said that?

  “Poor child.” Miss Templeton put an arm around Cecily’s shoulders. “I’m so, so sorry. Let us go and find your brother. And little Mossy, too.”

  The three of them, Cecily, Sam and Miss Templeton, made their way back to Number Six in the dark. Miss Templeton was carrying a cat basket. She’d shown Sam where the holes were that would allow Mossy to breathe, because he’d looked very worried to see his kitten shut up in such a small space. When they arrived at the steps that led up to their own front door, Sam ran ahead and lifted the knocker and let it drop.

  Florrie answered the door. “Master Sam!” she said. “Thank goodness you’re home safe. Nanny and I were about to come and look for you.” She took the basket from Miss Templeton. “Thank you, Miss, for bringing the children home.”

  “We found Mossy!” Sam ran inside, and Florrie followed him. Cecily turned to say goodbye.

  “Thank you very much, Miss Templeton.”

  “Rosalind,” said Miss Templeton. “The other’s such a mouthful. And we’re friends, are we not?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Cecily. “And I’ll bring Amy to meet you tomorrow.”

  She watched Miss Templeton walking away into the night. Rosalind. A beautiful name for a beautiful person. She couldn’t wait to tell Amy all about her.

  “Cecily, my dear,” said John Bright, “you may come into the drawing room after Sam is in bed, and say good evening to my guests.”

  Cecily looked up from her bread-and-butter pudding. Papa had come into the nursery, as he often did when he returned from work, to talk to her and Sam before bedtime.

  “Thank you, Papa…” She was about to tell her father about Mossy’s disappearance and their search and how it ended, but Sam began to babble about it in his headlong way so she fell silent. Papa smiled as he listened and looked at Cecily over Sam’s head as he gave his son a hug. “I’m sure you’ll tell me this story in a more measured way, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Papa. I will, I promise. Who has come to visit?”

  “Mr. Collins, Mr. Drayton and Miss Braithwaite. I daresay we shall play a rubber of bridge when you’ve gone up to bed.”

  He stood up. “Goodnight, Sam…” He kissed the top of Sam’s head and left the room.

  “Come on, Sam,” Cecily said. “Up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire…”

  Sam laughed. That was what Florrie always said and he found it funny. Cecily was happy to see him in such good spirits. She read to Sam every night from his book of nursery rhymes or thought of a story to tell him. He liked adventures with pirates in them and Cecily had no difficulty in inventing tales that he enjoyed. Tonight, she would try to think of a story about Mossy.

  Cecily sat at the table in the nursery, writing a letter to Aunt Lizzie. She sucked the end of her pen and turned the paper over to write a second page.

  …and at first we felt a little shy, but Rosalind insisted that she did not wish to be called “Miss Templeton” because that made her seem like one of our teachers, when really she thinks of us as friends. I wish you could meet her, Aunt Lizzie, for she is so interesting and charming. She is employed in a studio in the West End, as an assistant to a gentleman who takes photographs of families and children and anyone who requires a portrait. Rosalind says that it’s very fashionable now, having your portrait made in a studio. Mr. Templeton says that however fashionable it becomes, there will never be an end to painted portraiture, but Rosalind thinks he says this to raise his own spirits, because fewer people than before are asking him to paint their wives and children.

  Cecily sat back, remembering occasions when the atmosphere in the Templeton house became a little heated as Rosalind and her father argued about art and photography. They always ended such disputes with laughter and friendship, but Cecily had noticed how critical Mr. Templeton was of his daughter’s efforts and how harshly he sometimes criticized them. Aunt Lizzie would find it all fascinating, she knew. Cecily started writing again.

  Everyone wants wedding photographs and christening photographs and love tokens. Rosalind says it’s because they wish to preserve happy memories. She says she’ll have a studio of her own one day. I wish I could be her assistant, though I haven’t told her this. We have now visited her several times since Mossy ran away, and I’ve watched her composing tableaux: dressing and posing her subjects, and one day I will learn about the darkroom work as well. I’ve discovered that Rosalind, too, has no mama. Amy’s mother told Amy that Mrs. Templeton left the family when her daughter was very young. She went to Germany with a gen
tleman who was teaching her to play the piano. There was a scandal at the time, Mrs. Chistlehurst says. I wonder whether Rosalind still misses her mama as much as I do mine.

  Cecily and Amy were walking home after another visit to the Templetons’ house.

  “Do you think,” Cecily asked, “that Rosalind really means it? When she says she’s always happy to see us? Do you think she’d be relieved if we didn’t call on her so often?”

  Amy stopped walking and turned to face her friend. “Nonsense, Cecily. You are so timid, truly. Rosalind would not invite us to call and give us tea and let us dress up in her jewels and hats if she didn’t want us there. I think she looks on our visits as a relief after her work is done.”

  “Perhaps she’d like to rest a little? Instead of which, there we are, talking to her and getting under her feet.”

  “If you’re so worried about it, why don’t you ask her next time? Then you’ll know.”

  Amy quickened her pace, to show Cecily that she was irritated by her remarks. Cecily followed her friend, resolving to do as she suggested. Amy thinks I won’t, she thought. She thinks I’m too shy, but I’m not.

  Cecily had suddenly realized that morning, looking at the doll’s house in the nursery, that it had been days and days since she and Amy had played with the da Pontes. There was a layer of dust on the miniature furniture and Cecily took the time, before she left the room, to polish the table and the sideboard with a pocket handkerchief. Bambina hadn’t been taken out of her cradle for a long time and Paolo and Maggie were lying across the beds as though she’d thrown them there and forgotten about them. Hastily, she’d propped them up at the table and promised herself to play with them as soon as possible.

  This neglect was the fault of the photographs. Rosalind had shown them pictures of pretty girls and delightful scenes and though Amy liked these very much, it was Cecily who was particularly enchanted. Amy enjoyed being dressed up as a fairy or a sea nymph, and so did Cecily, but she found herself even more intrigued by the idea of being the person who took the photographs. No one, not even Amy, knew of the secret dream, which she went through every night in bed, before falling asleep. In this fantasy, Rosalind had a studio…in Chelsea, not the West End, for that would mean Cecily wouldn’t have to travel so far every day…and all the ladies in the neighbourhood flocked to this place to have portraits made of their babies. These little bundles of lace and frills and delicately-knitted blankets would have to be looked after before and after being posed with their proud parents and that would be Cecily’s job at first. Then, when she proved herself to be a reliable nursemaid for the infants, she would be allowed to help with other things: ladies and gentlemen posing for engagement pictures; dramatic tableaux of all kinds; wedding photographs…and in the end, Rosalind would turn to her and say: “Oh, I’m a little fatigued this afternoon, Cecily…I shall leave the day’s appointments in your hands.”

  Cecily could hardly see for tears. She couldn’t remember when she’d been so upset. She stood up, ran out of the nursery and flew downstairs. Papa was in the hall, saying goodbye to Ellen Braithwaite and a friend called Roland, who had been visiting again, as they did so often.

  “Cecily!” Papa said. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “It’s the da Pontes, Papa… Sam. It must be Sam. And Mossy…he’s let Mossy into the nursery even though I’ve told him over and over again she must be kept away from my doll’s house…”

  “Excuse me, please, Ellen…Roland,” Papa said. Then he drew Cecily aside and said, “Go to the nursery, my dear. I will say goodbye to our guests and come up at once. I promise. Dry your tears and wait for me.”

  Cecily sniffed and muttered something inaudible and made her way upstairs again. She opened the nursery door, and sat down at the table, trying hard not to look at the doll’s house.

  It’s my fault, she thought, as she waited for her father to come up. My fault for not taking proper care of the da Pontes for such a long time. I should have made sure the door was properly closed. Sam didn’t mean any harm, but where was Nanny? Downstairs talking to Cook, probably. Surely six years old was grown up enough to know that if a kitten who was well-known for her friskiness begins to play with dolls, you were supposed to pick her up and remove her from the scene? Cecily was suddenly furious with her little brother…oh, if only he wasn’t in bed, how she would scold him! Poor Mossy probably thought that the da Pontes were an unusual breed of mouse!

  “Now,” said Papa, coming in and going straight over to the doll’s house. “What’s happened here?”

  “Sam…he and Mossy have been playing in here. Nanny’s told him over and over again but he won’t listen.”

  “He’s very young, Cecily.” Papa had kneeled down beside the house and, picking up the dolls one by one, he placed them on the table in front of Cecily and she burst into tears all over again.

  “Look at them, Papa!” Mossy had shredded Mama da Ponte’s dress; poor little Paolo’s foot had been chewed nearly through and Bambina had been taken out of her cradle and dragged about so violently that her head was almost severed from her body.

  “Nothing we cannot mend, Cecily,” Papa said, turning the dolls over carefully. He took his daughter’s hand across the table. “Do you remember how we finished making the house together? How we looked forward to sticking the wallpaper to the walls? What I remember is how you helped me, Cecily. I couldn’t have done it alone, you know. It was such a sad time, was it not?”

  Cecily looked up and saw that her father’s eyes were bright with tears. She had never seen him crying properly, in the way that she and Sam often cried…of course not. Gentlemen did not weep in that fashion, but his eyes had often been red-rimmed and she could see by the set of his mouth and the stiffness in his body that he was unhappy. Now, the tears were almost there, on his cheeks. She said quickly, “I do remember, Papa. And I know the dolls can be mended, but it was…a shock. And I’m angry with Sam, too. He’s in bed, and I can’t tell him how angry I am.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Cecily. He’s young, as I said. But he probably feels upset about it, too. He may have hidden away in his bed to avoid your anger…”

  “I won’t shout at him. I’ll just tell him to be more careful. May I do that?”

  Papa nodded and stood up. “You, too, should be in bed, I’m sure.”

  “May I ask you something, Papa?” Cecily spoke before she’d properly thought about it and now that she had, she was nervous about speaking, but there was nothing to be done.

  “Certainly, my dear.”

  “Do you like Miss Braithwaite?”

  “What a strange question! Certainly I like her. She is pleasant and kind and we have many things in common. She’s a good friend. Why do you ask such a thing?”

  “I wondered, that’s all,” said Cecily. “Goodnight, Papa.”

  “Goodnight.” Papa kissed the top of her head and left the room.

  Cecily thought about what her father had said. Pleasant and kind…did that indicate love? She didn’t think so, but intended to ask Amy’s opinion again. What was certainly true was that Miss Braithwaite was a frequent visitor to Number Six, Chelsea Walk.

  Cecily was writing an account for Aunt Lizzie of what had happened to her dolls.

  …I fear you may have to make a new dress for Mama da Ponte. Florrie did a bit of stitching and she’s done her best but she is not as good at sewing as you are and it looks mended and patched and horrid. Do you have any pretty material for such a thing? I hope so.

  We’re already talking about when you next come to see us. I wish it could be before your birthday, but Papa says the time will fly. I don’t think it ever does if you’re really waiting for something. It only goes by quickly while you’re enjoying yourself. Sam is being especially good whenever he sees me today because he knows that letting Mossy get at the doll’s house was his fault. He is keeping to his room a great deal and being much quieter than usual.

  “Cecily! Come here, Cecily!”

&nb
sp; That was Sam calling her. Cecily sighed. What was the matter with him now? She’d forgiven him for allowing Mossy to wreak havoc in the doll’s house and he’d been good for some days. Today was Sunday. The Brights had just come back from church, and Cecily had been reading the Lambs’ Tales From Shakespeare. After lunch, she would write again to Aunt Lizzie about Rosalind’s plan to photograph her and Amy as characters from Mr. Shakespeare’s plays. At school, she and Amy had enjoyed studying A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Merchant of Venice and she’d been consulting Lamb to see what other heroines there were to choose from.

  “Quick, Cecily!”

  Sam didn’t sound in any distress. Rather, he was excited. She ran up the stairs to the second floor and there he was, in the doorway of the back bedroom. Behind him, she could see the furniture shrouded in white sheets.

  “Nanny Mildred will scold you for playing up here, Sam. What are you doing?”

  “She said I could come. Florrie saw a mouse.”

  “In here? How could she? The door’s always kept shut.”

  “On the landing. It was there she saw it. It ran under the door. Nanny said to bring Mossy up to hunt the mouse.”

  “And has she found it?”

  “No, but she’s in the corner. Maybe the mouse hole’s there.”

  “Why do you need me, Sam? I was busy.”

  “I wanted you to see…” His voice faded away.

  Cecily went in. Mossy was indeed crouched by the far wall, just near the corner, trying to look like a fearsome predator. The skirting board didn’t quite meet the floorboards in some places. A mouse could easily have run into one of the gaps in the panelling.

  “That’s the mouse hole,” Sam said.

  “How d’you know? Did you see anything run in there?”

  “No, but a mouse could fit.” He got down on the floor and stretched out next to Mossy.

  “Get up this minute, Sam! Your clothes will be filthy and Nanny will blame me for allowing you to lie around in the dust. Get up! You’re not going to see a mouse. Neither is Mossy. Any mouse who knows what’s good for him will keep well hidden with a cat sitting outside his front door.”