Shooting Butterflies

by Marika Cobbold

  ‘Don’t look so stricken, my darling Grace. You’re not a hypocrite? I’m a man who has to ask for help to go to the toilet, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you see how much better it makes me feel to think I am of some use?’

  She looked at him and then she smiled. ‘There are moments when you are in control of your equipment, and your subject. Then the camera ceases to be something mechanical, a piece of machinery, and becomes a part of you; your extended eye. It’s a good feeling. In fact, it’s a great feeling.’

  Jefferson sighed, not the heavy sinking kind, but a contented sigh that rose like a tiny feather propelled on a breath. ‘And it was my doing just now. I gave you that feeling.’

  ‘Oh yes, you gave it to me.’

  There were times when he could not bear to be touched. ‘And I’ve told you, stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘Like what? Please, like what?’

  ‘Like you’re expecting me to drop down dead any moment.’ Before she had a chance to say anything he changed his expression from disgruntled to smiling. ‘Of course that’s exactly what you are expecting, but it makes me uneasy, that’s all. I feel like I have to hurry up and oblige.’

  Grace looked at him and did not smile back. ‘That was cruel.’

  ‘It was a joke.’

  ‘It was cruel.’

  He put his hand out, willing her to let him take hers. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me. Dying puts me in a bad mood, that’s all. And I want you around; all the time, just not hovering, anxious and un-Gracelike. Go fetch your camera, my darling. I feel a heroic air coming on.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’ But she did what she was told.

  ‘Look at you; you’re making love to me with that camera.’ Then he paused before saying, ‘I’ve got ugly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I look so old. A couple of weeks ago I was forty. Yesterday, looking in the mirror, I thought, I’m giving late fifties a run for its money. So tell me, my dearest love, how old am I today? And please don’t give me the one about you’re only as old as you feel.’

  Grace sat down at the foot of the bed. ‘To me you are always beautiful …’

  ‘Peleease. Don’t give me that bullshit.’

  ‘… and never more so than now because … because each day I see it more clearly; your soul.’ She raised her hand. ‘No, don’t snigger. I’m serious. Until … well, until I got to watch someone, you …’ She paused.

  ‘… dying.’

  She smiled weakly. ‘Yes … until then, I didn’t believe there was such a thing as the soul, not in the sense of something outside the physical body something that wasn’t just the bits of DNA and brain chemicals and whatever that makes our personality. But I know now that I was wrong. The soul is there, a separate entity that will go on after our physical presence has ceased.’ She put her hand lightly on his cheek, on the flesh sunk back against the bones. ‘I can’t say that right now it’s much of a comfort because I’m selfish and I want you, all of you, with me, where I can feel you and speak to you and hear you … but it will be, won’t it? It is for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you tell me you have captured my immortal soul on camera then I am comforted. Not enough to stop me being angry at dying when I’m only just forty or desperate that soon I shall not see you again, but comforted to a degree. So you see,’ he smiled, ‘we’ve done a good job.’

  ‘I love watching you work. You’re all precision, like a ballet dancer.’

  Grace shot him a quizzical look. ‘Ballet dancer? Me? Hardly.’

  ‘All right, maybe ballet is not quite the right word, but you are different when you’re working, and I like it. You act differently according to which camera you’re using, too.’ He looked pleased with himself for having made the observation. ‘With the Leica you’re all loose and easy, like you’re hanging out with an old buddy. You keep it with you all the time. With the Hasselblad you’re reverential and, as soon as you’ve got your shot, you put it away.’

  One morning when he was too tired to sit up, he asked her, ‘How’s my soul today?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘And the bone structure?’

  Grace put the camera to her eyes to hide the tears.

  He was lying on his back beneath the thin cotton sheet, palms facing skywards in the pose of a sleeping infant. His breathing was rapid, as if he had been running, but his face was peaceful. The lace curtains at the window softened and diffused the fiery light of the hot afternoon, leaving him to sleep. She had not been able to protect him or to make him well. So she did what she could do and caught his suffering humanity on rolls of film. The bed framed his sleeping form and the window was reflected on the white wall behind. The camera was raised to her eye but she lowered it again as, for a moment, she could not hear his breath. But no, there it was again, rapid, shallow, telling her he was with her yet; for a little while longer he was there and hers. In a moment she would go and lie down next to him, hold him and tell him how much she loved him. Beg him to stay a little while longer. She heard a faint cough. He opened his eyes and looked straight at her: alert, alive. She adjusted the focal length, determined the shutter speed and the aperture. Then his chest shuddered, sending a fine spray from his lips, and his eyes widened. She did not go to him, not straight away. She took her picture first. By the time she reached his side and took his hand, he had died.

  Nell Gordon: As Al Alvarez said, ‘A great work of art is a kind of suicide.’ So, are Grace Shield’s award-winning photographs art? And if they are, did she commit professional suicide in the process?

  Every minute of every hour of that flight back to London gave its sixty seconds’ worth. She sat strapped in her seat, suspended between two continents, with nowhere to put down her grief. Were she the type to go mad, she thought, she would have done so on that flight from Boston.

  Once home, she went straight into the darkroom and developed the last roll of film. She did not sleep that afternoon or the night which followed. She spread his dying days across her kitchen table and gazed upon them. Each picture told her, in its different way, why she had loved him: his smile, his eyes, warm and full of interest in the world, even after he knew that his stake in it was diminishing by the hour. The way he tried to hide his fear from her, making her laugh. She sat there at the kitchen table, not sleeping, not eating, studying those images.

  Angelica came over. She used her key to let herself in. She took one look at Grace, shook her head and proceeded to view the photographs.

  She said, ‘They’re beautiful.’ And she gave Grace two sleeping pills and helped her to bed.

  Grace slept for twenty-two hours. When she woke, she found Angelica had returned and was sitting at the kitchen table, the photographs laid out in front of her. She looked up as Grace staggered through the door. ‘Sorry, I forgot; you should only take one of those pills. Still, you got some sleep.’

  ‘I did. Now I want to know if I’ll ever wake up again.’

  ‘Here.’ Angelica handed her a mug of strong Indian tea. ‘It’s your best work to date.’

  Grace drank greedy gulps, leaning against the doorpost. ‘Can you see his soul?’ she asked.

  A couple of days later Angelica phoned to say, ‘Everyone loves the pictures.’

  Grace was feverish in her need to have her beliefs confirmed. ‘They saw it, the spiritual side, the …’

  ‘Sure. They’re great pictures. Harrowing. Could win prizes.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s what I want. They’re private, as private as birth and death …’

  ‘Death, at least, used to be a very public affair: relatives, friends, priests, servants, dogs … that’s why they weren’t so damn scared back then.’ Angelica must have been on her mobile because she was round at Grace’s flat just three minutes later. Taking Grace by the shoulders, she jerked her close. ‘Do you know what I see? I see great shots and first-rate work. Star-quality work. Of course it’s spiritual, of course there’s soul. But you know how it is. People see what they se
e. Really, Grace, I know you’re in a tough place right now …’

  Grace couldn’t help a smile. ‘What’s this about “tough places”? I’m the one who’s been watching American television.’

  ‘Look.’ Angelica let go of her shoulders but took her hand instead, leading her to the sofa. ‘I know you’re going through hell right now. You’ve just lost the man you thought you loved.’

  ‘Try the man I know I loved.’

  ‘Whatever. You’re in shock. You’re grieving. But you’ve taken some truly great pictures here. You’ve told me yourself that it was his idea you should do it. His idea that you should put them on show. You’re honouring his wishes. I don’t see a problem.’

  ‘You’re full of it, Angelica.’ Grace sat down, as stiff and heavy as a woman twice her age. ‘It helped him to think he was doing something for me, for my career.’

  ‘There you are. Honestly, what’s the point of no one seeing them? Who will that help? I know how hung up on him you were.’ She caught the look Grace gave her and said quickly, ‘All right, all right, you loved him.’ She pulled a chair out. ‘Sit down.’

  Grace did what she was told. Then she grabbed a cigarette from the packet on the table. ‘But I wanted to do it. Can’t you see, in the end I really wanted to take those pictures, for me?’

  Angelica found some matches. ‘But, Grace, you did your best work while he lay dying. You composed your shots, worked out your light and your shades, your planes and your angles. Look, I don’t doubt you loved him, but your work is who you are. Why deny it? Why waste it?’

  Grace inhaled on the cigarette, rubbing at her forehead, then she looked up at Angelica. ‘I was taking his picture when he died. I had my lens pointed at him, thinking about the way the light was falling, of the shadows cast; I was adjusting the focus and while I did all that, while I did all those things that I do to take my great pictures, he died and I did not even notice. So, do what you like.’

  Grace walked up to the podium, her steps drowned out by the sound of applause. She accepted her cheque for thirty thousand pounds and said her thanks.

  She asked the cab to drop her by the Albert Memorial. She wanted a walk. She passed a drunk on a seat in the park and gave him her Leica. Back home she transferred the cheque to a charity for the blind.

  Grace told Mrs Shield that she was going back to London ‘just for one night’. Mrs Shield opened her mouth to speak, but Grace got in first. ‘I know you need me here a bit longer. And I’m having a nice time. The country isn’t all bad. I’ll be back tomorrow; promise.’

  Mrs Shield put both her hands to her large chest. ‘I’m not healing as fast as I had hoped,’ she said, giving Grace a sideways glance under her sandy eyelashes.

  ‘I know, Evie.’ Grace stifled a smile. ‘It’s a bummer, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Shield inclined her head. ‘A bummer, yes indeed.’

  How many antique shops can there be in the Chelsea Embankment area? Lots, Grace thought, as she traipsed along Royal Hospital Road, her painting wrapped in a pillowcase. But no one had recognised the picture as having been theirs although several dealers had expressed an interest in acquiring it.

  She nearly missed the small shop on the corner of Tite Street. There was no sign that she could see and the window display was as sparse as if had been someone’s home and not a shop; a Lalique bowl flanked by a pair of stark silver Art Deco candlesticks and the sign on the door saying Antiques was easily overlooked. Inside there was more Art Deco: lamps, bowls, a couple of hand mirrors, and a few pieces of furniture from a much earlier period. A gilded birdcage hung empty from a hook in the ceiling. There were some decent watercolour landscapes and, on the far wall, an oil. Her heart raced as she moved closer. When a woman appeared from the back and asked, ‘Can I help you?’ all Grace could do was point.

  The woman looked at the painting. ‘I’m afraid that’s not for sale.’

  ‘It’s by Forbes.’ In the picture a young boy, six years old perhaps, with flaxen hair cut in a pudding-bowl and dressed in a bright golden-yellow sailor suit, sat sideways in a chair, one leg drawn up beneath him, a toy train dangling from one hand. His face, a small triangle with huge almond-shaped amber eyes, was a study of the kind of boredom that only a child feels; so intense it hurt. The chair was faded red and a blue and white patterned shawl was thrown across its back. A little girl, a couple of years younger, knelt on a green and red rug, ministering to a doll with only one arm. She was engrossed in wrapping the doll in a small piece of peacock-blue velvet, paying no attention to the boy in the chair. He too was looking down past her; they each acted as if they were alone in the room. The walls were painted in melting shades of green. The picture glowed with light.

  ‘I know who painted it, his name is Forbes.’

  The woman looked at Grace. Then she looked at the painting Grace herself had brought. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment.’ She disappeared behind the curtain and Grace could hear her calling, ‘Come out here, will you, dear, there’s someone I think you should meet.’ Grace read the signature in the bottom left-hand corner of the second picture. It said Louisa Blackstaff.

  Noah helped his grandmother out of the car, supporting her as they walked the few steps to the shop. Inside, Viola Glastonbury, hunched over a walking-frame, was waiting. When she saw them, she let go of the frame and took a step forward, her left hand outstretched. Louisa held it in hers and the two of them stood silently gazing at each other. A smile, like a note hit and held at perfect pitch, lit up Louisa’s face. ‘Viola, there you are. I dreamt I couldn’t find you.’

  ‘Your pictures were never for sale,’ Viola said to Louisa. ‘Then this young man came along. Oh, he was determined; he had to have the painting. “For his special friend,” he said. He was so eager, charming and handsome,’ she turned and smiled at Grace, ‘and he talked about you with such love. I was never going to let it go, especially not that one, but then he told me that you were from Northbourne, that you knew them all, that you knew her.’ She looked at Louisa. ‘So I let him have it and, my dear,’ she put her hand over Louisa’s and held it there, ‘I’ve been waiting for you ever since.’

  They were drinking tea in Viola’s little sitting room at the back. ‘Rose petal,’ Louisa said, lifting the china cup to her lips. Grace looked at her shaking hand that was beautiful still, inky veins laid like ropes just beneath the surface of the paper-thin skin, strong long fingers; the hand that had painted her picture.

  Noah stood by the window, staring out at the tiny back garden. When he turned round his cheeks were flushed and there were tears in his eyes. ‘How can you ever forgive me, all of us? What kind of a family have we been to you, we who should have cherished you? And why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you make me take notice?’ He took a step forward and knelt down by her side, taking her hands in his. ‘Why did you allow him to win?’

  ‘Oh Noah, my dear, how like him you are at times; all storms and thunder. Tell me exactly how what happened to me is your responsibility.’

  ‘I didn’t see you.’

  Louisa smiled and shook her head, slowly, painfully. ‘But, dearest Noah, I saw you. I lost your father, my Georgie, but I had you.’

  ‘But you gave it all up. Your work,’ he glanced at Viola, ‘your friend … It seems that between you and Grandpa it was you who were the better artist, yet you allowed yourself to be intimidated, trampled …’

  Louisa interrupted. ‘In the end it was my choice. Whether it was the right one is another matter. I was there when my children grew up.’ She turned to Viola, ‘But my dear, how I missed you.’

  Grace and Noah stepped out into the back garden, leaving the two women to talk. ‘It is the usual story,’ Grace said, kicking a stone into the tiny pond. ‘The wasted lives of women.’

  Noah looked at her, a small smile in his eyes. ‘Well, Grace, you said it.’

  It was Sunday morning. It was going to be another hot day, but as yet it was pleasant enough with the sun filtered through
the early-morning haze. Grace was strolling through Kensington Gardens, towards Hyde Park, a Leica round her neck. She was on the way to the gallery where she was helping to hang the paintings for Louisa’s retrospective. Later on she was meeting Noah who was coming back from Canada for the opening.

  She was walking along Rotten Row when she stopped and looked intently at the path in front of her. She knelt down, the camera raised to her eyes. Next she took a few steps back, on her haunches, Cossack style, and focused the lens on the pile of horse dung and on the butterfly, its gold and orange wings fluttering as it clung on to the steaming heap. A moment later, at the sound of a car horn, the butterfly was gone, but by then Grace had her shot.

  Standing up she smiled to herself, You know, Nell Gordon, you never would have got the butterfly.

  Acknowledgments

  My warmest thanks to Jo Frank and the team at A.P. Watt and to Alexandra Pringle and Martin McCarthy and the team at Bloomsbury for all their wonderful work and advice. Also to Garlinda Birkbeck, Peter Claaesson and Alf Weihed for our conversations about photography. To John Cobb for all his help. Harriet Cobbold, Jeremy Cobbold, Lars Hjörne and Anne Hjörne for reading, advising and listening, and to Sally Montemayor for her help with absolutely everything.

  A Note on the Author

  Marika Cobbold was born in Sweden and is the author of four novels. Guppies for Tea, selected for the WH Smith First Novels Promotion and shortlisted for the Sunday Express Book of the Year Award; The Purveyor of Enchantment; A Rival Creation and Frozen Music. Marika Cobbold lives in London.

  By the Same Author

  Guppies for Tea

  A Rival Creation

  Purveyor of Enchantment

  Frozen Music