by Ken Follett
As they walked south on Washington Street, heading for the city’s industrial heartland, he saw Joanne join the march a few yards ahead, and his heart leaped. She was wearing tailored pants that flattered her figure. He hurried to catch up with her. ‘Good afternoon!’ he said happily.
‘Good grief, you’re cheerful,’ she said.
It was an understatement. He was delirious with happiness. ‘Are you hungover?’
‘Either that or I’ve contracted the Black Death. Which do you think it is?’
‘If you have a rash, it’s the Black Death. Are there any spots?’ Woody hardly knew what he was saying. ‘I’m not a doctor, but I’d be happy to check you over.’
‘Stop being irrepressible. I know it’s charming, but I’m not in the mood.’
Woody tried to calm down. ‘We missed you in church,’ he said. ‘The sermon was about Noah.’
To his consternation she burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Woody,’ she said. ‘I like you so much when you’re funny, but please don’t make me laugh today.’
He thought this remark was probably favourable, but he was far from certain.
He spotted an open grocery store on a side street. ‘You need fluids,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He ran into the store and bought two bottles of Coke, ice-cold from the refrigerator. He got the clerk to open them, then returned to the march. When he handed a bottle to Joanne, she said: ‘Oh, boy, you’re a life saver.’ She put the bottle to her lips and drank a long draught.
Woody felt he was ahead, so far.
The march was good-humoured, despite the grim incident they were protesting about. A group of older men were singing political anthems and traditional songs. There were even a few families with children. And there was not a cloud in the sky.
‘Have you read Studies in Hysteria?’ Woody asked as they walked along.
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Oh! It’s by Sigmund Freud. I thought you were a fan of his.’
‘I’m interested in his ideas. I’ve never read one of his books.’
‘You should. Studies in Hysteria is amazing.’
She looked curiously at him. ‘What made you read a book such as that? I bet they don’t teach psychology at your expensively old-fashioned school.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I guess I heard you talking about psychoanalysis and thought it sounded really extraordinary. And it is.’
‘In what way?’
Woody had the feeling she was testing him, to see whether he had really understood the book or was merely pretending. ‘The idea that a crazy act, such as obsessively spilling ink on a tablecloth, can have a kind of hidden logic.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’s it.’
Woody knew instinctively that she did not understand what he was talking about. He had already overtaken her in his knowledge of Freud, but she was embarrassed to admit it.
‘What’s your favourite thing to do?’ he asked her. ‘Theatre? Classical music? I guess going to a film is no big treat for someone whose father owns about a hundred movie houses.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well . . .’ He decided to be honest. ‘I want to ask you out, and I’d like to tempt you with something you really love to do. So name it, and we’ll do it.’
She smiled at him, but it was not the smile he was hoping for. It was friendly but sympathetic, and it told him that bad news was coming. ‘Woody, I’d like to, but you’re fifteen.’
‘As you said last night, I’m more mature than Victor Dixon.’
‘I wouldn’t go out with him, either.’
Woody’s throat seemed to constrict, and his voice came out hoarse. ‘Are you turning me down?’
‘Yes, very firmly. I don’t want to date a boy three years younger.’
‘Can I ask you again in three years? We’ll be the same age then.’
She laughed, then said: ‘Stop being witty, it hurts my head.’
Woody decided not to hide his pain. What did he have to lose? Feeling anguished, he said: ‘So what was that kiss about?’
‘It was nothing.’
He shook his head miserably. ‘It was something to me. It was the best kiss I’ve ever had.’
‘Oh, God, I knew it was a mistake. Look, it was just a bit of fun. Yes, I enjoyed it – be flattered, you’re entitled. You’re a cute kid, and smart as a whip, but a kiss is not a declaration of love, Woody, no matter how much you enjoy it.’
They were near the front of the march, and Woody saw their destination up ahead: the high wall around the Buffalo Metal Works. The gate was closed and guarded by a dozen or more factory police, thuggish men in light-blue shirts that mimicked police uniform.
‘And I was drunk,’ Joanne added.
‘Yeah, I was drunk, too,’ Woody said.
It was a pathetic attempt to salvage his dignity, but Joanne had the grace to pretend to believe him. ‘Then we both did something a little foolish, and we should just forget it,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Woody, looking away.
They were outside the factory now. Those at the head of the march stopped at the gates, and someone began to make a speech through a bullhorn. Looking more closely, Woody saw that the speaker was a local union organizer, Brian Hall. Woody’s father knew and liked the man: at some time in the dim past they had worked together to resolve a strike.
The rear of the procession kept coming forward, and a crush developed across the width of the street. The factory police were keeping the entrance clear, though the gates were shut. Woody now saw that they were armed with police-type nightsticks. One of them was shouting: ‘Stay away from the gate! This is private property!’ Woody lifted his camera and took a picture.
But the people at the front were being pushed forward by those behind. Woody took Joanne’s arm and tried to steer her away from the focus of tension. However, it was difficult: the crowd was dense, now, and no one wanted to move out of the way. Against his will, Woody found himself edging closer to the factory gate and the guards with nightsticks. ‘This is not a good situation,’ he said to Joanne.
But she was flushed with excitement. ‘Those bastards can’t keep us back!’ she cried.
A man next to her shouted: ‘Right! Damn right!’
The crowd was still ten yards or more from the gate but, just the same, the guards unnecessarily began to push demonstrators away. Woody took a photograph.
Brian Hall had been yelling into his bullhorn about boss thugs and pointing an accusing finger at the factory police. Now he changed his tune and began to call for calm. ‘Move away from the gates, please, brothers,’ he said. ‘Move back, no rough stuff.’
Woody saw a woman pushed by a guard hard enough to make her stumble. She did not fall over, but she cried out, and the man with her said to the guard: ‘Hey, buddy, take it easy, will you?’
‘Are you trying to start something?’ the guard said challengingly.
The woman yelled: ‘Just stop shoving!’
‘Move back, move back!’ the guard shouted. He raised his nightstick. The woman screamed.
As the nightstick came down, Woody took a picture.
Joanne said: ‘The son of a bitch hit that woman!’ She stepped forward.
But most of the crowd began to move in the opposite direction, away from the factory. As they turned, the guards came after them, shoving, kicking, and lashing out with their truncheons.
Brian Hall said: ‘There is no need for violence! Factory police, step back! Do not use your clubs!’ Then his bullhorn was knocked out of his hands by a guard.
Some of the younger men fought back. Half a dozen real policemen moved into the crowd. They did nothing to restrain the factory police, but began to arrest anyone fighting back.
The guard who had started the fracas fell to the ground, and two demonstrators started kicking him.
Woody took a picture.
Joanne was screaming with fury. She threw herself at a guard and scratched his face. He put out a hand t
o shove her away. Accidentally or otherwise, the heel of his hand connected sharply with her nose. She fell back with blood coming from her nostrils. The guard raised his nightstick. Woody grabbed her by the waist and jerked her back. The stick missed her. ‘Come on!’ Woody yelled at her. ‘We have to get out of here!’
The blow to her face had deflated her fury, and she offered no resistance as he half pulled, half carried her away from the gates as fast as he could, his camera swinging on the strap around his neck. The crowd was panicking now, people falling over and others trampling them as everyone tried to flee.
Woody was taller than most and he managed to keep himself and Joanne upright. They fought their way through the crush, staying just ahead of the nightsticks. At last the crowd thinned out. Joanne detached herself from his grasp and they both began to run.
The noise of the fight receded behind them. They turned a couple of corners and, a minute later, found themselves on a deserted street of factories and warehouses, all closed on Sunday. They slowed to a walk, catching their breath. Joanne began to laugh. ‘That was so exciting!’ she said.
Woody could not share her enthusiasm. ‘It was nasty,’ he said. ‘And it could have got worse.’ He had rescued her, and he half hoped that might cause her to change her mind about dating him.
But she did not feel she owed him much. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said in a tone of disparagement. ‘Nobody died.’
‘Those guards deliberately provoked a riot!’
‘Of course they did! Peshkov wants to make union members look bad.’
‘Well, we know the truth.’ Woody tapped his camera. ‘And I can prove it.’
They walked half a mile, then Woody saw a cruising cab and hailed it. He gave the driver the address of the Rouzrokh family home.
Sitting in the back of the taxi, he took a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I don’t want to bring you home to your father looking like this,’ he said. He unfolded the white cotton square and gently dabbed at the blood on her upper lip.
It was an intimate act, and he found it sexy, but she did not indulge him for long. After a second she said: ‘I’ve got it.’ She took the handkerchief from his grasp and cleaned herself up. ‘How’s that?’
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ he lied. He took the handkerchief back. Her mouth was wide, she had even, white teeth, and her lips were enchantingly full. He pretended there was something under her lower lip. He wiped it gently, then said: ‘Better.’
‘Thanks.’ She looked at him with an odd expression, half fond, half annoyed. She knew he had been lying about the blood on her chin, he guessed, and she was not sure whether to be cross with him or not.
The cab halted outside her house. ‘Don’t come in,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie to my parents about where I’ve been, and I don’t want you blabbing the truth.’
Woody reckoned he was probably the more discreet of the two of them, but he did not say so. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Okay.’ She got out of the taxi and walked up the driveway with a perfunctory wave.
‘She’s a doll,’ said the driver. ‘Too old for you, though.’
‘Take me to Delaware Avenue,’ Woody said. He gave the number and the cross street. He was not going to talk about Joanne to a goddamn cabby.
He pondered his rejection. He should not have been surprised: everyone from his brother to the taxi driver said he was too young for her. All the same it hurt. He felt as if he did not know what to do with his life now. How would he get through the rest of the day?
Back at home, his parents were taking their ritual Sunday afternoon nap. Chuck believed that was when they had sex. Chuck himself had gone swimming with a bunch of friends, according to Betty.
Woody went into the darkroom and developed the film from his camera. He ran warm water into the basin to bring the chemicals to the ideal temperature, then put the film into a black bag to transfer it into a light-trap tank.
It was a lengthy process that required patience, but he was happy to sit in the dark and think about Joanne. Their being together during a riot had not made her fall in love with him, but it had certainly brought them closer. He felt sure she was at least growing to like him more and more. Maybe her rejection was not final. Perhaps he should keep trying. He certainly had no interest in any other girls.
When his timer rang, he transferred the film into a stop bath to halt the chemical reaction, then to a bath of fixer to make the image permanent. Finally, he washed and dried his film and looked at the negative black-and-white images on the reel.
He thought they were pretty good.
He cut the film into frames, then put the first into the enlarger. He laid a sheet of ten-by-eight photographic paper on the base of the enlarger, turned on the light, and exposed the paper to the negative image while he counted seconds. Then he put the print into an open bath of developer.
This was the best part of the process. Slowly the white paper began to show patches of grey, and the image he had photographed began to appear. It always seemed to him like a miracle. The first print showed a Negro and a white man, both in Sunday suits and hats, holding a banner that said BROTHERHOOD in large letters. When the image was clear he moved the paper to a bath of fixer, then washed it and dried it.
He printed all the shots he had taken, took them out into the light, and laid them out on the dining-room table. He was pleased: they were vivid, active pictures that clearly showed a sequence of events. When he heard his parents moving about upstairs he called his mother. She had been a journalist before she married, and she still wrote books and magazine articles. ‘What do you think?’ he asked her.
She studied them thoughtfully with her one eye. After a while she said: ‘I think they’re good. You should take them to a newspaper.’
‘Really?’ he said. He began to feel excited. ‘Which paper?’
‘They’re all conservative, unfortunately. Maybe the Buffalo Sentinel. The editor is Peter Hoyle – he’s been there since God was a boy. He knows your father well, he’ll probably see you.’
‘When should I show him the photos?’
‘Now. The march is hot news. It will be in all tomorrow’s papers. They need the pictures tonight.’
Woody was energized. ‘All right,’ he said. He picked up the glossy sheets and shuffled them into a neat stack. His mother produced a cardboard folder from Papa’s study. Woody kissed her and left the house.
He caught a bus downtown.
The front entrance of the Sentinel office was closed, and he suffered a moment of dismay, but he reasoned that reporters must be able to get in and out today if they were to produce a Monday morning paper and, sure enough, he found a side entrance. ‘I have some photographs for Mr Hoyle,’ he said to a man sitting inside the door, and he was directed upstairs.
He found the editor’s office, a secretary took his name, and a minute later he was shaking hands with Peter Hoyle. The editor was a tall, imposing man with white hair and a black moustache. He appeared to be finishing a meeting with a younger colleague. He spoke loudly, as if shouting over the noise of a printing press. ‘The hit-and-run driver’s story is fine, but the intro stinks, Jack,’ he said, with a dismissive hand on the man’s shoulder, moving him to the door. ‘Put a new nose on it. Move the Mayor’s statement to later and start with crippled children.’ Jack left, and Hoyle turned to Woody. ‘What have you got, kid?’ he said without preamble.
‘I was at the march today.’
‘You mean the riot.’
‘It wasn’t a riot until the factory guards started hitting women with their clubs.’
‘I hear the marchers tried to break into the factory, and the guards repelled them.’
‘It’s not true, sir, and the photos prove it.’
‘Show me.’
Woody had arranged them in order while sitting on the bus. He put the first down on the editor’s desk. ‘It started peacefully.’
Hoyle pushed the photograph aside. ‘That’s nothing,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ said Hoyle, and he did not push the pictures aside.
Woody brought out his best shot: a guard using a truncheon to beat a woman. ‘I saw this whole incident,’ Woody said. ‘All the woman did was tell him to stop shoving her, and he hit her like this.’
‘Good picture,’ said Hoyle. ‘Any more?’
‘One,’ said Woody. ‘Most of the marchers ran away as soon as the fighting began, but a few fought back.’ He showed Hoyle the photograph of two demonstrators kicking a guard on the ground. ‘These men retaliated against the guard who hit the woman.’
‘You did a good job, young Dewar,’ said Hoyle. He sat at his desk and pulled a form from a tray. ‘Twenty bucks okay?’
‘You mean you’re going to print my photographs?’
‘I assume that’s why you brought them here.’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, twenty dollars is okay, I mean fine. I mean plenty.’
Hoyle scribbled on the form and signed it. ‘Take this to the cashier. My secretary will tell you where to go.’
The phone on the desk rang. The editor picked it up and barked: ‘Hoyle.’ Woody gathered he was dismissed, and left the room.
He was elated. The payment was amazing, but he was more thrilled that the newspaper would use his photos. He followed the secretary’s directions to a little room with a counter and a teller’s window, and got his twenty bucks. Then he went home in a taxi.
His parents were delighted by his coup, and even his brother seemed pleased. Over dinner, Grandmama said: ‘As long as you don’t consider journalism as a career. That would be lowering.’
In fact, Woody had been thinking that he might take up news photography instead of politics, and he was surprised to learn that his grandmother disapproved.
His mother smiled and said: ‘But, Ursula dear, I was a journalist.’
‘That’s different, you’re a girl,’ Grandmama replied. ‘Woodrow must become a man of distinction, like his father and grandfather before him.’
