“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.�
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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.
“I wish it would just happen,” Sophie says. “I’m so nervous I can barely stand.”
Brett reaches out and gently brushes her arm with the back of his hand. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “Just fine.”
“I suppose the really big rush will be on Sunday when the centre-spread comes out.”
“I think there’ll be plenty people tonight, hon. You did invite half of London.”
“I hope there aren’t too many either. That woman at the Mirror never got back to me to say how many colleagues she had tracked down. Imagine if they all come!”
“Sophie!” Brett says. “Relax.”
“I can’t,” Sophie says. “I don’t know how to. I’m not made that way. Actually, I’m too cold to relax. It’s freezing in here. I should have worn more.”
Brett attempts to put his arm around Sophie’s bare shoulders but because she is so stressed and rigid, this position simply cannot work. “It’ll warm up too,” he says, dropping his arm to his side. “By the end of the evening, I’ll be overheating and you’ll be just right. And anyway, even if it doesn’t, even if you catch the flu, it’ll be worth it. Because you look totally awesome in that dress.”
“I hope Mum’s dress isn’t too similar. Because the way she described it, it sounded exactly the same. Black, strapless, beaded front… We better not look like twins.”
Brett laughs. “That would be cute.”
“It so wouldn’t, Brett,” Sophie says. “But I don’t expect a man to understand that.”
At one minute past seven, people begin to arrive. The first person through the door is a woman. She’s Sophie’s mother’s age with intense blue eyes and a walking stick. “Hello,” she says glancing around nervously as she crosses the expanse of empty floor. She looks like a mouse checking for hidden cats. “I think I’m a bit early.”
“Actually, you’re right on time!” Sophie says, checking her watch and fixing her warmest grin.
“I’m Janet French,” the woman says, wrinkling up her nose. “Are you…? You’re not Sophie, are you?”
Sophie nods. “I am.”
“I’ll bet you don’t even remember me,” Janet says. “You used to play in our garden. In Lewes. You used to stop in sometimes on your way to Eastbourne.”
“Oh, did you have swings in the garden?”
Janet laughs. “Yes, we did. And a big fish pond. You got undressed once and went swimming in it.”
Sophie laughs. “Well, I definitely don’t remember that.” Another group of oldies are arriving now and Sophie glances over Janet’s shoulder as she says, “This is Brett, my boyfriend.”
“Hi Janet.”
“Sorry, but how did you know Dad?”
“I was at the Mirror,” Janet says. “In the early days. When he was still a dispatch rider. Sally Reed contacted me. She seemed to be tracking down all the old crew. I hope that’s OK?”
“Absolutely,” Sophie says. “I managed to get in touch with Phil. Do you remember him? Yes? Well, he said he’d deal with the Mirror crew. And he knows some of Dad’s friends from the evening classes he used to do as well, so…”
Janet is glancing at the rows of wine glasses. “Do you think I could…?” she says, waving one hand over them.
“Of course!” Sophie replies. “That’s what they’re for.”
Once Janet has started, wine in hand, to tour the still shockingly empty room, Sophie leans in to Brett’s ear. “I wish Mum would get here,” she says. “It’s a bit embarrassing when I can’t even recognise people.” She nods at two grey-haired men who have joined a huddle at the entrance. “I don’t know who they are either. Unless that’s Phil. Actually, it might be. Hang on.” She crosses the room to welcome the new arrivals. “Hello!” she says to the white haired man. “Are you Phil by any chance?”
He laughs. “Sophie!” he says. “Gosh, you were this tall the last time I saw you.” He makes a chopping gesture with his hand, just above Sophie’s waist. “And no. I’m Malcolm. This is Phil.” He gestures to the bald man beside him who is so bent over he struggles to look Sophie in the eye.
“Oops,” she says, “Sorry! It’s been so long.”
Strangely, Sophie hadn’t imagined quite how old all of her father’s friends would be. She had (stupidly she realises) imagined them in stasis since the moment of his death.
She realises now that her father would look this old were he still alive today and feels an unexpected surge of grief at his absence, at all those missing years.
“Is Barbara here?” Phil asks, struggling, with his bent back, to look around the room.
“Not yet,” Sophie says. “But she should be here soon. Jonathan’s bringing her.”
Malcolm, who has been scanning the room, now points (with surprising vigour) at one of the photos. “Isn’t that the one?” he asks.
Phil turns sideways so that he can peer up at the image. “Yes!” he says. “Ah, thank God! You included it.”
Sophie follows the men’s gaze. “The shipbuilders?” she asks. “Why that one?”
“Huh,” Malcolm says gleefully. “I’ll let Phil tell you that story.”
Phil offers his elbow to Sophie. “Come with me, dear,” he says. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
Sophie takes his arm and shuffles with him across the room to the photo, a huge black and white print of men, suspended on ropes, riveting the panels of a warship.
“Ah, I know,” Sophie says. “You’re going to tell me that this one got used on the cover of a record, aren’t you?”
“No, dear.”
“Didn’t it? I was sure that–”
“Yes, it was on the record sleeve,” Phil says. “Robert Wyatt, I think his name was. But that’s not what I was going to tell you.”
Sophie catches Brett’s eye across the room. He winks at her and she raises one eyebrow and leans in to hear Phil’s voice, now little more than a murmur.
“Do you know where it was taken?” Phil asks.
“Scotland somewhere, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Clydeside.”
“I think I kind of knew that.”
“And guess who never once set foot there?”
“Um… not sure. Margret Thatcher maybe?”
Phil jabs, slightly disconcertingly, at Sophie’s chest. “Your father,” he says.
“I’m sorry?”
“Tony. Never went to Clydeside. Not once.”
Sophie laughs. “He must have gone there at least once.”
Phil shakes his head.
“Oh God!” Sophie says. “Don’t say someone else took it?”
“Shh! Quietly does it, Sophie. I took it, if you really want to know.” Phil is unable to hide his pride at this fact.
“But how? It won that prize. They did posters for the record with it. It was all over the place.”
“No one knows,” Phil says. “And don’t worry. No one ever needs to.”
“But that’s terrible. Why would Dad–?”
“He couldn’t get up there for the shoot. He was holed up somewhere, I expect,” Phil says. “So I gave him one of mine. We used to trade images quite often back then. It was the way things worked in the papers.”
“But it’s in the book, Phil. We’ve got prints of the darned thing for sale in the bookshop. And if you own the copyright–”
Phil pats Sophie’s elbow. “Don’t worry, Sophie. As far a
s everyone’s concerned, your father took it. And that’s just the way it should be. And your father paid me back for that one a long time ago. So there’s no account due.”
Sophie is staring at the photograph. “God, if I’d known, I would have left it out,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Phil.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t,” Phil laughs. “I’m really rather chuffed about it.”
Something he said suddenly strikes Sophie as odd. “Phil, what did you mean when you said he was probably ‘holed up’ somewhere?”
Phil laughs, but his laughter quickly becomes a coughing fit.
“Phil? Are you OK?”
When he eventually stops coughing, he says, “Ah, now some things are better left unsaid. And on that note, I could do with a drink.”
“Yes,” Sophie says, leading him away from the dreaded photo. “After that, so could I. But you have to tell me. I know you will.”
Phil laughs again. “Oh really, it’s nothing. Your father was quite a character. But then I expect you know that already.”
“What was all that about?” Brett asks, the next time his trajectory crosses Sophie’s.
“Ugh!” Sophie says. “Don’t ask. Something about Dad being a right character.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, and apparently the shipbuilding photo isn’t Dad’s at all.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Phil reckons he took it. He says they traded photos sometimes.”
“Wow,” Brett says. “And that’s a real iconic photo of his.”
“Yep. Of course he may be talking bollocks. I’ll have to ask Mum.”
“Sure,” Brett says. “Well there she is. You can ask her now.”
Sophie turns to see Barbara just stepping into the gallery. Her eyes scan her mother’s dress and she heaves a sigh of relief. Her mother’s is longer and fuller and higher cut than hers. It has far less beading too. Other than the fact that it’s a black evening dress, there’s really not much similarity.
“Mum,” she says, when she reaches her. “Thank God you’re here. All these people keep coming up to me to say ‘hello’ and I haven’t the foggiest idea who they are.”
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