Shooting Butterflies

by Marika Cobbold

  Trailing behind Angelica on a shopping trip – watching as she tried clothes on, holding up the jumpers she pointed at – Grace’s yearnings for pinker fluffier things were satisfied by proxy. Maybe this time she had an especially longing look in her eyes because Angelica thrust a jumper into her hand and gave her a shove towards the changing rooms. ‘Try it on.’

  ‘It’s baby blue.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘It’s got little puffy sleeves and a frilly neck.’

  ‘Yes, Grace, it has.’

  ‘I’ll look like a Beatrix Potter animal.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You’re a very good-looking woman.’

  ‘Jemima Puddleduck was a very good-looking duck but she still looked jolly silly in that blue bonnet.’

  ‘You don’t look like a duck and that’s not a bonnet. Come on, I can see you like it.’

  Grace did as she was told and tried on the jumper. As she expected, she looked stupid although she appeared from the changing room still wearing it, just to prove her point. ‘Wow,’ Angelica said. ‘Wow, wow, wow.’ She paused, head tilted. ‘Actually, maybe not. No, you’re right, it’s not your kind of thing, is it?’

  Grace was about to say, told you so, when she saw him, Jefferson McGraw, across the shop floor, standing by the till, a heap of women’s clothes in his arms. This time it really was him; not a delusion or a fantasy but the boy she had loved the summer she was eighteen, the boy who had so nearly been the father of her child; a man to whom she probably meant nothing. She stepped closer. ‘Shut your mouth,’ Angelica said.

  ‘It’s Jefferson.’

  ‘I thought you’d stopped that.’

  ‘No, really.’ Grace’s voice was shaking and she paused, took a deep breath and tried again. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’

  Angelica looked over to the till. ‘Hilarious. He’s cute, whoever he is.’

  ‘Jefferson.’ Grace stared as he handed the clothes to the assistant and watched as he smiled that big guileless smile she had captured in countless photographs.

  ‘So don’t just stand there.’ Angelica gave Grace a little shove in the small of the back. ‘Go up and say hello.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not, for pete’s sake?’

  ‘I just can’t.’ Grace took her eyes off him for a moment, turning to Angelica. ‘You’re right, it can’t be him. I mean, what is it with us and retail? The first time I met him I was coming out of a fur shop.’

  ‘Don’t stall.’

  Grace sighed, pulled back her shoulders and … ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I expect he’s gone where all good phantoms go, up in a puff of smoke.’

  ‘It was him.’

  ‘So run after him. He won’t have got very far, unless he flew.’

  Grace gave her a look and then she ran for it. She was still wearing the angora jumper. The store detective stopped her as she reached the escalator. By the time she had convinced the floor manager that she had not intended to steal – ‘Please, put yourself in my place; would you wear this?’ – Jefferson, if it was him, had vanished.

  ‘After Tom and I divorced I kept seeing him everywhere,’ Angelica said to Grace who stood by the escalator with a look on her face as if she had missed the carnival. ‘I even saw him in the breadbin. Well, his head anyway.’

  Grace relaxed and smiled at her. ‘You’re right. It could never have been him; he looked too much like himself.’

  ‘I’m sure that makes sense, to someone.’

  ‘And what would he be doing at Harvey Nichols of all places, and with his arms full of women’s clothing?’

  Angelica winked. ‘He’s your friend.’

  For a hallucination, Jefferson McGraw had strong powers. There was Grace’s flat for a start. She returned that afternoon to find it had changed. Instead of being on just the right floor above street level, it was now far too high up. If Jefferson were ever to walk by, he wouldn’t be able to see her sitting reading by the window. Old Mrs Blenkinsop with her bald patch and her velour lounging suit would be clearly visible as she sat by her ground-floor window smoking her pipe, but Grace, far up there, would be as indistinguishable as one pigeon from another. The phone was too far from the bedroom should he – who was not Jefferson, who had forgotten all about her, who did not know where she lived – decide to phone. Should he appear on her doorstep unannounced, the comfort-sag in the sofa and tea stains on the armrests would not say cosy but slut. She stood in the middle of the room, her hands to her face, thinking she must be going mad. There was nothing for it but to kick some furniture. She started with the sideboard that Mrs Shield had given her for her thirtieth birthday. She moved on to the pine coffee table. (What had possessed her to buy pine?) And finished off with three high kicks to the side of the sofa as she hummed some show tune she had not even been aware she knew.

  She mixed herself a mug of whisky and hot lemon and went to bed early that night, her toes aching … and her heart.

  The day she had moved into her new flat she had walked along the busy street, smiling at the unconcerned strangers in her path, people who might or might not smile back, but who basically did not give a damn what she was doing as long as she did not take their parking space or queue jump at the bus stop. She had listened to the hum of traffic, the roar and singing of engines, the calling of sirens; she had drawn in the cool fume-filled air: she was back and she was free.

  For a while, after her marriage ended, she had been angry – at Andrew and herself, for failing. There had been sadness too, but it had come in such manageable gulps and sniffles it could hardly count as suffering.

  And her work was going well. Lately she’d had to pass on commissions to colleagues because she had too much work herself. And then, when all seemed to be going so swimmingly, the sightings had begun.

  ‘Do you know what I like best about living on my own?’ Angelica said. ‘Being able to fart in bed.’

  ‘So don’t move in with Whatshisname.’

  ‘His name’s Nick. Can you at least try to remember?’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to. It’s like naming your car; next thing you know you endow them with feelings.’

  ‘That’s so funny, Grace. But seriously, don’t you ever miss … you know … having someone?’

  ‘No,’ Grace said. ‘I’m not very good with possessions.’

  It was just over a week since her hallucinatory experience on the second floor of Harvey Nichols and her flat had begun to return to normal. On Monday morning she got up early to catch the light of a fine London day, that special light of the sun fighting through the pink-edged orange haze of pollution. One of the big photographic magazines was running a series of special features on the theme of the Family of Man. Each week featured the work of a different photographer. Grace had been asked to contribute to the Christmas issue. The lead-time was about four months so she needed to get on. None of the shots she had taken the previous week had been exactly what she wanted, what she had already seen in her mind’s eye. Although there is no need for an artist’s hand to hold the camera, there should be an artist’s eye behind the lens; and it seemed that her eye had got tired lately, letting down the equipment. But this morning she was wide awake, the way you are when you’re in love and have the energy and curiosity of a puppy or a young child.

  For a photographer, Grace travelled light. As often as not she would use the Leica M4. It had no inbuilt light-meter and no flash; with the latest equipment she could shoot for as long as her eyes could see, although obviously some light was better than others. But she did carry three lenses. For portraits, the Hasselblad camera was still the best, but it was not one for informality, more an acquaintance to invite along respectfully; it had none of the easy camaraderie and go-anywhere style of the Leica.

  This Monday morning she wandered the streets in search of a picture. One would present itself eventually but, as is common with hunting, you had to be patient. She took some colour shots but knew none of them
was strong enough. As the morning wore on, the haze lifted. She reloaded with black and white.

  More and more she thought how much of what mattered came down to something as simple as distance. Show a picture of a crowd at a funeral, getting them all in, every single person there, and watch the punters walk on by. Come in tight on one weeping pain-distorted face and hear the plucking of heart-strings. God had not only given us the Dumb-chip to protect us, Grace thought, but myopia as well. Part of the photographer’s role was to provide the glasses.

  From a distance the street was busy with busy people. A little closer you could see the beggar slumped on a filthy sleeping-bag, a raggedy mongrel on his lap, his dirty hand outstretched. You noticed his pallor and the sores on his face and neck. A young woman comes towards him. She has a spring in her step and her soft brown-leather boots shine. Her face is an immaculate oval of clear skin, her lips are glossy red, her smooth hair bounces off her shoulders. They look a different species; the beggar and that woman. A young man swooshes past on a skateboard, a can of Coke in his hand. A dog leashed to an elderly woman wags his tail at the raggedy mongrel and sniffs a greeting. It seems a better day for the Family of Dogs than for the Family of Man. Grace watches and waits. The young man on his skateboard passes the other way. Without slowing, he raises the can to his lips. The next moment he’s collided with a lamp-post and fallen flat on his behind. The young man begging raises his head. The glossy girl meets his gaze and then they both laugh. Different lives, same laughter. She had a picture.

  The next day, developing the film, Grace saw him again, Jefferson McGraw, at the edge of one of her shots. Angelica suggested she see a grief counsellor. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Grace said. ‘Whatever it is I’m going through it can’t be grief, not over a love affair that ended fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Grief lasts as long as there are people willing to pay hourly fees. Anyway, didn’t you tell me yourself that the reason you found it so difficult to get over the death of your mother was that you were too young to remember what she was like. It’s the loss of a dream you’re grieving over.’

  Grace had not expected such understanding. ‘I never knew you could buy a heart at Harvey Nic’s,’ she said.

  But Angelica herself was in love. She had reached the mellow stage when the all-engulfing flames of passion had died down to a manageable warm fire, but had not yet been doused by the cold water of realisation that life with Nick was much the same as it had been with Tom and Derek.

  ‘You are so sane, so cool-headed and firm, but when you meet a man you disappear into the nearest phone box as Wonder Woman and emerge in your mother’s pinny. I don’t get it, Angelica.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Angelica looked at Grace, all wistful smile and sad eyes. ‘No woman is a prophet in her own heart.’

  ‘I think I understand what you are saying, sort of. I just wish you’d stop trying to please these men whose nature it is to remain displeased, whose very lifeforce seems to spring from discontent.’

  There had been no way of pleasing Tom, because in his eyes how could anyone fool enough to love him be worthy of respect? And then there was Derek who fell in love with an independent career woman in killer heels and pillar-box-red lips, only to wipe down her lips with a damp cloth and hand her some comfy flats the moment she was his. That was before running off after the next woman with a bright-red come-hither smile and stiletto heels. And now there was Nick. Angelica always hoped things would change for the better. Hope saved lives, hope was the greatest gift given to mankind, but hope was also a knave. Hope makes us carry on. Hope makes life possible. Hope, Grace thought, was what made her stomach lurch whenever she glimpsed a tall loose-limbed man with dark auburn hair or heard a male voice speak in a soft East Coast accent. Another name for Hope was Dumb-chip. But this time, as it happened, the Dumb-chip was not so dumb after all.

  Nell Gordon: The rekindling of an old love affair led to renewed heartache.

  She slipped on a leaf. It can happen in autumn if the leaves have fallen suddenly and not been cleared and rain has followed, turning them to a soapy mush. She was coming out from the dentist who had told her that she was lucky her teeth were as white as they were but also that if she did not stop chewing tobacco they would soon be as yellow as an old dog’s. ‘What about polishing?’ Grace said. She did not like the thought of giving up the tobacco. You needed both your hands for the camera so cigarettes were often not an option. But she needed tobacco in some form or another. She imagined that it kept her alert. Grace had a horror of inertia, ever since those days, as black and still as a forest mere, that had followed her miscarriages. The universe rewards action. The roots of evil grow in sloth. She repeated such little mantras to herself daily to kick herself into action and to keep going. And then there was nicotine which did its part.

  She had had two cavities and on her way home she was walking without attention, her tongue teasing the outline of the fillings. She stepped on the leaf and lost her foothold, falling face down on to the pavement, her hands busy protecting the Leica. She lay there hurt and dizzy until someone put out a hand and helped her to her feet. Blood was trickling from her nose and forehead. She felt sick. A voice said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, still unable to focus, still bleeding. ‘Absolutely spiffing, thanks very much,’ and she hobbled off hanging on to the railings for support. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ the someone called after her. Grace just raised one hand in the air, waving off the suggestion. She knew there was a café just yards away. She would sit down. Have a cup of tea. Check in the mirror to see if her nose was broken.

  Stars of gold and red shot across her blurred vision. Later, because it amused her, she took a photograph of a brilliant night sky and called it Pain.

  She had washed the blood off her face and hands and was sitting at a table by the window with her pot of tea for one, a jug of milk and the miniature pot of honey she carried in her handbag, when she noticed someone walk past outside, stop, walk back, walk off again only to return, stare in through the glass at her and enter.

  ‘It’s not?’ the voice said. Grace was too sore to bother turning her head. ‘Grace? Grace Shield.’

  Soft male voice, East Coast American. Now she did look up. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Not exactly. Have another guess.’

  Grace stared at him. ‘Jefferson?’

  ‘That’s it. Can you believe it? How long has it been?’

  ‘If you are real and not a hallucination, sit down and order some tea.’ She was trying not to stare at him while she worked out how she felt; there were too many emotions running through her all at once for one to stick right away.

  Jefferson McGraw sat down opposite Grace at the table in the café by the dentist. ‘You look a bit bashed about. Are you OK? Grace, can I take you to see a doctor?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. It’s just I was wondering if I was unconscious or something.’

  ‘You don’t seem unconscious.’

  Angelica had once said that if Grace ever did meet Jefferson again she would wonder what on earth she had seen in him. Angelica had been wrong. Grace scrabbled in her bag for her cigarettes, offering him one. He took it and offered her a light in return. She inhaled and gave him a pale smile. He grinned back, the wide-open smile she remembered so clearly.

  ‘How about that?’ he said. ‘Of all the people in all the places …’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A hallucination would have come up with something a bit more original.’ For a second coming something a little more startling is usually required.’

  ‘I like clichés,’ he said, just as he had back when they were lovers. ‘They’re so true.’

  She must have hurt herself quite badly, because for no reason her eyes filled with tears. She turned away and pretended to blow her nose, actually wiping her eyes. Jefferson shot her a concerned glance as he moved his hands from the table to his knees and then he raised the right one
to the back of his head in a stretching yawning movement as if about to scratch an itch. As their eyes met he lowered his hand to his side. Next he placed it on his hip in ‘Hello, sailor’ fashion before turning the fist around to inspect the nails. He raised it again, this time to scratch his ear. Grace knew how he felt. You spend most of your life perfectly comfortable with your hands, then comes a moment when they take on a life of their own, popping up everywhere like the snout of an over-excited dog.

  ‘You never ordered,’ Grace said. ‘Shall I get you some tea?’ She realised that she was staring, and quickly looked over at the waitress. He said he would love some. Grace wondered how anything could seem so impossible and so normal both at once; she, him, together, on an autumn day in London. She chatted on, the words coming faster and faster as she avoided his gaze. ‘You won’t believe this, but I’ve been seeing you. Of course it can’t really have been you … can it? So what are you doing in London? You don’t live here, do you?’ Now she looked straight at him, he was sitting, back to the window, askew in the chair, long legs crossed, playing with his packet of Marlboros. The sun appearing from behind a cloud picked out the auburn glints in his hair. He always had understood the importance of lighting.

  ‘I’m over visiting clients. We’ve opened an office over here. I come over about once every two months. So it probably was me you’ve been seeing.’

  ‘Animals?’

  ‘Pardon me,’ he said.

  ‘Your clients.’

  ‘No, no, I wouldn’t say that. They’re rich, most of them, I suppose, but that doesn’t make them animals.’

  Grace’s forehead was throbbing and her nose felt as if it had grown two sizes. ‘Aren’t you a vet?’

  ‘A vet?’ He laughed. When she did not laugh with him he checked his watch. Her gaze followed his. She knew that hand: average size, long square-tipped fingers, clean nails bitten right down. And that hand knew her, every inch of her. She felt the heat in her cheeks and looked away. ‘It’s almost lunchtime,’ he said. ‘I think you should have something to eat.’