The Woman in the Photograph

by Stephanie Butland

  Marcus half-smiles. ‘I would have been too,’ he says, ‘why didn’t you phone me? Tom and I would have broken you out.’

  ‘A woman came to talk to me, asked me what my involvement was, and I told her, and then she let me go.’

  Marcus lays Tom on the sofa next to him and barricades him in place with a cushion. Erica scoots along the sofa to make room, crosses her legs. She can smell the fustiness of her sweated-in socks.

  ‘And what did Veronica do?’ he asks. ‘While all this was going on?’

  ‘She took my photograph. What else was she going to do?’

  ‘So it was a good day, huh?’

  Erica thinks of the speakers she heard. Some had stories of blatant male abuse, but others spoke of the creeping insidiousness that made women subjugated, self-censoring, wondering whether it was worth making a big deal of a hand on a knee. She’d thought about how she and Marcus, good people who believed in equality – of course they did! – had slumped into him-going-to-work-her-mostly-staying-at-home because of the mathematics of it. He earned more, and his career paid the mortgage while hers was their frittering money, for meals out and holidays and covering the cost of the we’ve-rented-out-a-country-house-for-the-weekend fortieth birthday parties that their friends were starting to invite them to. They’d made a decision about this; it wasn’t because she was the woman, it was because it made practical sense. And now Erica could kick herself, because the only reason it makes practical sense is because the world is so skewed in Marcus’s favour. And she has, in her acceptance, been complicit.

  ‘I thought about the world that Tom is growing up into,’ she says, ‘I thought about what I was doing to make it a place that’s safe for everyone.’

  Marcus nods, and then, before she can say more, says, ‘I’ll put Tom to bed.’

  Erica knows Marcus is expecting her to do it, because he has been in sole charge of their child for all of ten hours. But she lets him go, and then she tops up her wine, ignores the dishwasher, and goes to run herself a bath. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

  Part 4: Distance

  The distance between photographer and subject may not need to be great. You don’t need to show the whole. You can trust the viewer to fill in the spaces behind, around and between. A photograph of head and shoulders won’t make a viewer wonder whether the subject has legs. Get as close as you need to to show what it is you want to show. Remember, the most interesting part of anyone is likely to be their face.

  Veronica Moon, Women in Photographs (unpublished)

  ‘Margaret Thatcher on Parliament Hill’

  Political Photograph of the Year, 1979

  Veronica Moon

  Exhibition section: High Profile

  Camera: OM-1

  Film: 200 ASA

  First published: Observer, 1979

  You probably recognise Margaret Thatcher here – but can you think of another image that is quite so relaxed, or informal?

  Margaret (later Baroness) Thatcher was already one of the most recognisable women of the late twentieth century when Veronica Moon photographed her. She had recently become Prime Minister of Great Britain and the first female head of state in Europe, Moon was commissioned to take a cover for the Observer magazine.

  The photograph was taken on Parliament Hill, close to Thatcher’s constituency of Finchley. At this stage in her career, Moon was sufficiently well known and well respected to be able to state her preferences. She always worked in black and white, although from this period onwards other photographers were experimenting with colour news photography, and The Times newspaper started to publish a colour supplement from 1982.

  Here, Thatcher is shown half-laughing, looking slightly to the side of the camera, as a scarf knotted at her throat flutters upwards in the wind. When this image was published, it was with the cover line Margaret Thatcher: which way is the wind blowing for the first woman in charge? Gossip at the time suggested that Thatcher did not like the portrait and dismissed it as being ‘unstatesmanlike’. The other photographs that accompany the article, also taken by Moon, are much more unremarkable: the Prime Minister is seen standing straight-backed looking out over London; in conversation with a passing dog-walker, head slightly to one side. These other photographs are still tellingly Moon, though; you’ll notice the dog that the Prime Minister has not seen, appearing into the side of one shot, and the fact that the focus of the dog-walker is not, apparently, Thatcher. Rather, he is staring over her shoulder, as though waiting for the encounter to end. Moon never photographed Thatcher again.

  In this section of the exhibition you’ll find more of Moon’s high-profile work – during the early 1980s it was rare for her to be commissioned for anything less than a cover shoot.

  In 1979:

  • It was the United Nations’ International Year of the Child

  • The early part of the year was known as ‘The Winter of Discontent’: high inflation and a weak economy led to shortages, strikes and unrest

  • Politician Airey Neave was killed by an IRA bomb in March

  • The Yorkshire Ripper murders continued. In 1981, Peter Sutcliffe would be tried and found guilty of murdering thirteen female sex workers and attempting to murder seven more. He claimed that the voice of God had told him to kill the women

  • Dame Josephine Barnes became the first woman president of the British Medical Association

  • Sebastian Coe set a new world record for running a mile

  • Britain’s first nudist beach, in Brighton, was given the go-ahead

  • TV shows Question Time, The Antiques Roadshow, Terry and June and To the Manor Born were broadcast for the first time

  • Southall Black Sisters was formed, to support all black and Asian women living in the UK

  • Ridley Scott’s film Alien, starring Sigourney Weaver, was released, as was Monty Python’s Life of Brian

  • Six women were acquitted in the ‘Reclaim the Night’ trials

  • Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber was published, as was A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford, Kane and Abel by Jeffrey Archer and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

  • Following a vote of no confidence in James Callaghan’s Labour government, the Conservative Party won the election and Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister

  And, much to Leonie Barratt’s disgust, Veronica Moon is commissioned by the Observer magazine to photograph her.

  15 May 1979

  ‘HEY, LEE.’ KENNETH IS A head taller than Leonie, wide as well as tall, and when he embraces her she feels, for a moment, small. She doesn’t like it; she shakes him off.

  ‘Hey. Long time no see.’

  He grins and throws himself onto the sofa in the corner of the magazine office where he works. ‘Have a seat,’ he says. ‘You should have said you were coming in, I could have skived. But I’ve got things to do.’

  She did wonder about letting him know in advance, but in and out is probably best, ‘I’m going to meet Veronica Moon after this,’ she says.

  Ken makes an impressed face. ‘You’re mixing in grand circles.’

  Nobody remembers, or cares, that Leonie was the one who got Vee started. ‘Sod off,’ she says. She should get this over with but it’s harder than she thought it would be, now she’s here.

  ‘What can I do for you? Last time was – a blast. As I remember . . .’ He smiles, just the right side of lechery. It gives Leonie both the warm remembrance of one of the rare nights she actually let a bloke stay over – she learned from that time some idiot trashed Vee’s photos – and the way to start the conversation.

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ she says, ‘there were . . . consequences.’

  Another nice thing about Ken: you can see exactly what he’s thinking in his face. He goes from puzzlement to surprise to worry to calculation, and skims his gaze over her body – breasts, belly. ‘Lee. I’m sorry. That was months ago, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Six,’ she says, ‘I did
n’t realise until a couple of weeks ago.’

  He nods. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘you wouldn’t.’ Translation: someone your size wouldn’t notice a pregnancy unless you were looking for it. He leans back on the sofa, letting out a long exhale. ‘Christ. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey. It happens.’ Come on, Leonie. Talk. But this is a conversation that she isn’t up for, all of a sudden. She wants to be with Vee. Sisters are always better at this sort of thing.

  ‘I assumed you were on the Pill.’

  ‘You assumed wrong.’ Leonie’s never bought into another way of making women be responsible for everything in the world except money, but she doesn’t have the energy to explain that right now.

  ‘What do you want to do? Is it too late to—’ He makes a sweeping motion with his arms, waist to knee.

  ‘Abort it? Yeah.’

  ‘Right.’ He gives her a nervous smile. ‘I’m assuming you don’t want to – like – get together. Get married, or anything?’

  God, this is painful. Suddenly, talking is easier than playing this tortured game of pauses and sighs. ‘Christ, Ken, it’s 1979. I’m not marrying you because I’m pregnant. Or for any other reason.’

  He knows her well enough to laugh, ‘Well, good. So . . . ?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll get it adopted. Just thought I should check if you wanted it first.’

  ‘Wow.’ He sits forward, rakes his hands through his hair, which is longer than Leonie’s, falling to a ragged line at his jaw. ‘Wow. I feel like I should, but . . . I don’t feel like I can. The job, you know? And the flat’s not exactly . . . I mean, I would if I could, but it’s just not . . . it’s not feasible.’

  Leonie shrugs. ‘Thought I’d ask.’

  ‘But hey.’ Ken pulls his wallet from his back pocket. ‘I can help you out. If you need money for – until it’s . . . done.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Leonie says, and she hauls herself to her feet. Even the good guys can get out of these things with three minutes of looking pained and an offer of cash. Time to go and see Vee, and then she’s got a meeting about the shelters. Real work. She’s wasted enough time on Ken.

  15 May 1979

  1 p.m.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ And Vee is. It’s not like her to keep people waiting; she makes a point of her promptness – earliness, even. But this morning has been different, to say the least. She just photographed her first world leader.

  ‘You’re too important to remember your appointments with the little people now, I suppose?’ There’s a half-drunk pint of cider on the table in front of Leonie, a whisky chaser.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Vee says, ‘it’s just you’re normally late. So I thought I’d be on time, if I was late.’

  Leonie laughs, and gets to her feet. She embraces Vee with what feels like a hard, clinging need. ‘I had an appointment. It didn’t take as long as it might have. I’m on time by chance. You can stay cool and comfortable in your world view, baby.’

  ‘Thanks. I think. I’ll get us some drinks, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing this morning. You’ll laugh.’

  At the bar, Vee orders two pints of cider, bags of crisps and sausage rolls; her work for the day is done, but she doesn’t want to lose the afternoon, so one drink and some food to absorb it should be OK. She’ll take the film to the lab, and talk to the guys there about how she wants it developed. They know her well enough by now to make sure they don’t over-expose on the light, and they won’t try anything fancy. By and large, Vee shoots exactly what she wants. Occasionally – dark days, unpredictable indoor lighting, a flash bulb blown – she needs some tinkering done. There’s talk of colour magazines, not too far into the future, but Vee cannot imagine ever needing more than the tools she has: black and white film and natural light, flash when she must, and patience.

  When she gets back to the table, Leonie is shoving something back in her bag.

  ‘So, what were you doing that was so funny, sister?’

  Vee leans close. ‘Photographing Margaret Thatcher on Parliament Hill.’ She waits for the smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Leonie looks sad. The way her dad does when he waves her off on a Sunday.

  ‘You’ve been taking photos of Thatcher? You’re such a sell-out.’ Leonie isn’t wearing her customary outrage. Vee looks at her friend properly: she seems tired, and she’s different, somehow. Not bigger, or smaller, but there’s something that wasn’t there last time they saw each other. Or it could be that something is missing.

  Vee shrugs. ‘Yes, I’m a sell-out. Or maybe I’m a role model for girls who want to be photographers.’ She takes a drink. ‘Do you want to know what happened?’

  Leonie, shrugs, smiles. This is weird. Leonie is the least non-committal person Vee knows, has ever known, will ever know. She won’t be able to resist. She has always loved whatever the non-sexist, non-judgemental word for ‘gossip’ is.

  Leonie opens the crisps, starts on the fresh pint. ‘Go on, then,’ she says, then, before Vee can say anything, ‘I’ve heard all the male MPs think she fancies them.’

  ‘That tells you a lot about what they think of themselves.’

  ‘And about how she operates.’

  Vee has never, ever heard anything like this from Leonie before. ‘I know we don’t like her politics, Leonie, but what happened to sisterhood?’

  Lately Vee has been fighting off a bit of male attention, and she knows for a fact that she does nothing to invite it. When she says no, she’s often accused of ‘sending out signals’. She doesn’t want any more love, of any kind. She’s come to the conclusion that, apart from her father and Leonie, there isn’t really anyone in the world that she’s that bothered about.

  Leonie sighs. ‘Tell me about Thatcher. If it really is funny. I could do with a laugh. Then I’ll tell you my news.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Leonie doesn’t usually opt to go second, either. But she nods, and picks up the sausage roll.

  ‘We were on Parliament Hill. They chose the location. Good light, but it’s windy up there this morning. And Thatcher was – well, like a lot of these people—’ Leonie raises an eyebrow. ‘Famous people. Polite, but a bit distant. They’ve had their photo taken a lot and they just want to get it over with. Anyway, I started taking photos, but she was worried about her hair, kept putting her hand up to her head.’

  Leonie laughs, ‘I’d have thought you’d need a gale to shift it.’

  ‘I’d already got her to take her hat off.’ Vee had suggested to the Prime Minister that it was going to blow away, so it was a good idea to remove it. But Vee hadn’t wanted it in the shot – it was an ugly thing, a sort of pillbox but a bit too tall. ‘She gave it to one of her security people, and he stood there holding it as though it was a cake.’ Vee holds out her hands in a mime, straightens her spine, and Leonie laughs again. It’s such a pleasure to Vee to hear it. Being with Leonie is still one of the best things in her life. She is like an old cat that scratches and bites, but is worth suffering for the memory of her warmth. Not that she is old. But she seems to be ageing faster than anyone else Vee knows.

  ‘I thought she might relax after that, but she still looked . . . it wasn’t right. I was shooting but I knew that what I was getting was the same as every other official photograph of her. You know.’

  Leonie nods. ‘Constipated headmistress.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vee says, ‘exactly. And when she smiled it was worse. Constipated headmistress pretending to enjoy a school pantomime.’ Leonie splutters cider. ‘And then the wind caught a bit of her hair – a chunk of it, really, because it was sprayed solid – and she said, “I don’t want to look unkempt.” So I took the scarf you gave me out of my hair—’

  ‘My scarf?’

  ‘That’s right. From Dagenham.’ It’s been in Vee’s camera bag ever since then, as much as a part of her kit as her light meter.

  ‘You still have that?’

  Vee nods. ‘Of course,’ she says, ‘I use it to keep my hair of
f my face when it’s windy.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me you gave it to Thatcher?’ Leonie’s smile is getting wider by the second.

  Vee nods, starting to laugh at the memory. ‘She looked at me as though I was mad – if she had had tongs she would have taken it with those – so I said, if you tie this round your neck, it will blow in the wind, and people who look at the photograph will understand that it’s windy, and that will explain why your hair might look different to the way it usually does. She looked at the scarf, and at the man holding the hat, as if she was thinking, well, this is not at all what I expected to happen here. And then she tied it round her neck. About two seconds later, the wind blew it up into her face, and I thought, that’s it. She’s going to walk off and I’m going to have to use one of the earlier shots. But she laughed, and she pulled the scarf down, away from her face, and when she let go, the wind pulled it out sideways, and that’s when I took the shot.’

  ‘So my scarf was trying to strangle Thatcher? And that’s the money shot?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Vee says. She had taken a few more photos, for appearances’ sake and to use the rest of the frames on the film, but she’d known that she had it. And then she realises something. ‘I didn’t get it back. She didn’t give the scarf back to me.’

  ‘Typical bloody Thatcher,’ Leonie says, ‘I’ve always said she’s only out for herself. Bloody cow.’

  ‘You’d hope for better from a woman,’ Vee laughs back, knowing as she says it that it’s not as simple as that, and that Leonie is about to tell her so.

  But all Leonie says is, ‘I told you, you can’t trust the patriarchy. And she’s as much a part of it as every man in the House of Lords.’

  Last time Leonie and Vee were together, in the run-up to the election, Vee had, foolishly, attempted to argue that a female PM could only be a good thing, even if she was a Tory. Things has got heated. Leonie doesn’t look as though she has a lot of heat in her today, though.