The Chain Garden

by Jane Jackson

  Drinking in the scene, automatically noting colours and perspective, angles and quality of light, the shapes and textures of the landscape, she had felt intense joy that they shared so much, that he knew and understood.

  From harbour and bay’s edge the town surrounded the church and spread up valley and hillside. Beyond the town the rugged coast was edged with miles of golden sand all the way to the Godrevy light. The sinking sun had laid a glittering path across the water’s surface. It lightened from indigo and sapphire to turquoise and aquamarine before breaking in fine white frills against sharp black rock and ochre sand.

  Before starting to paint, Dorcas had removed her glasses. For the first time the image she produced would not be a faithful representation of what she observed. Because soon – in a few months, a year or two if she was lucky – her failing eyes would no longer allow her to see what she had painted.

  She had sat for some time mentally projecting the picture onto the thick paper pinned to the backing board while gathering her courage. Zander’s voice had echoed in her head. If you do your best then no matter what the result you have not failed. The only failure is not to try. Heart pounding, scared sick, she had selected a large sable brush and begun.

  Forced to abandon a lifetime’s technique she plunged into the unknown. She worked purely on instinct, on hope, and the need to know finally, one way or the other.

  The painting had evolved as she darkened the landscape with a glaze of thin washes to enhance the luminosity of the sky. Taking it into the cottage last evening she had brought it out again this morning and had worked all day in air fragrant with summer flowers.

  The hours had flown. When at last she stopped, knowing the painting was complete, that anything she did now was simply tinkering, she was stiff and aching. Focusing on her inner vision, rather than the blurred patches of colour had demanded fierce concentration. The effort had cost her dearly.

  As she rinsed the last brush she waited for the deep sense of satisfaction that usually accompanied the completion of a painting. Despite the lingering warmth of late afternoon a shiver tightened her skin. In painting a sinking sun and gathering clouds she had aimed to capture a joyous fragment of her past. Why then this premonition that it was also a glimpse of her future?

  She was tired that was all. She had not worked so intensively for years. Attempting techniques she had never used before was exacting in itself. She was fifty-six years old. At this moment she felt the weight of every one of them.

  Picking up her spectacles she polished them with the hem of her cotton skirt, aware she was putting off the moment. Mocking herself she put them on, settled them comfortably then turned to her easel.

  It started as a hollow feeling behind her breastbone and expanded into an aching void. In her mind’s eye the scene had been so clear. Though she had envisioned the detail she had not attempted to paint it. What she had tried to do was use shape and colour to convey an impression. So that anyone looking at it would see what she had seen, feel what she had felt.

  What lay on the paper was unrecognisable.

  Her mouth tasted of ashes. How glib, how foolish had been her promise to John Ainsley. She would never stop painting. She would simply change her style.

  Anyone familiar with her previous work would turn from this in pity or embarrassment. Those who had never heard of her would frown and ask each other what on earth it was supposed to be.

  What now? Panic flared. She fought it down. Where was Henry? Why hadn’t he come? In the past his had always been the greater need. She had understood that. Louise’s frequent illnesses would have put strain on any man. In recent years problems at the mine had added to his worries.

  Henry had always liked to talk to her. Often he had talked at her. But she had been happy to listen. She never offered advice. It was neither sought nor wanted. She knew that putting a problem into words cleared his mind, enabling him to see for himself the best solution.

  But she had not seen him since the night of Louise’s death when he had seemed unable to believe that it was finally over. Whether his reaction stemmed from shock or relief, even she – who had known him almost thirty years – could not have said.

  Days had lengthened into weeks. Obviously he would have had things to do. But she wished he would come. She wanted – needed – the warmth and comfort of his physical presence, his arms around her. She needed to hear his voice, needed to hear him say she was strong, that she would cope, would survive. That being unable to paint was not the end of the world. Because right now that was what it felt like.

  Her joints stiff and aching, she got slowly to her feet and walked into her cottage, leaving table, easel, and painting outside in the gathering dusk.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was five-thirty in the afternoon. Held in the Polytechnic Building the Photographic Society meeting had begun at two and finished at four. After the official business of the day ended most members said their good byes and headed for home. Others –the club-within-the-club –made their way discreetly and by different routes to the hotel just behind the waterfront where once more they unpacked cameras and set up tripods and reflectors.

  Aware of being merely an observer, an outsider unable to participate in what for most people was normal life, Bryce had still been dubious about accompanying Marcus a second time. The repercussions should he be discovered were too dreadful to contemplate. But loneliness, curiosity and the desire to find somewhere he might fit in had pushed fear aside. His visits had quickly become a habit, a need.

  He had heard that in the pubs and squalid hotels down by the waterfront prostitutes would, for the right sum, do anything a man wanted. The police knew. The local authorities knew. But everyone ignored it provided business was conducted away from respectable areas.

  Yet a man seeking that same service from another man was not only a target for blackmail, he risked two years in prison with hard labour. Should his preferences became public knowledge he would be ostracized: an object of disgust and derision to those same people who viewed female prostitution as regrettable but a fact of life.

  Bryce had given no thought to any of this while he was with Tarun. He had been happy in the jungle and the mountains. Each day had posed a new challenge, another difficulty to be overcome as they pushed themselves further and harder to find new shrub species and photograph them before gathering seeds and other samples.

  The nights he and Tarun had spent out in the vastness of the mountains, away from Richard, Pinzo and the hut at Zayul, had been voyages of discovery. On those nights he had plunged into a world of intense, exquisite, breath-stopping sensation that set every nerve-end on fire. He had stepped from the safety of his known world into another dimension; a stranger to himself as he surrendered to emotions that stirred his deepest soul.

  By comparison his life now was a desert. He filled his days with work at Polwellan, immersing himself in the painstaking work of aerial and ground layering, and trying different techniques to germinate the seeds he and Richard had brought back. But it wasn’t enough. Inside he was shrivelling, dying by degrees.

  During the meetings he photographed poses that in his eyes conveyed the strength and beauty of the male form. The other tableaux he simply watched. Remembering, yearning, but still not ready to break out of the cage of self-imposed abstinence. Conscious of being very much a newcomer and wanting to remain inconspicuous, he spoke little other than responding to greetings. Marcus was good company and immensely knowledgeable. But he was also subject to erratic moods Bryce found unsettling.

  His increasing nervous strain was beginning to show. Each morning as he shaved it was difficult to avoid, harder to ignore, the sharpening planes of his face, the deepening grooves on either side of his mouth, the shadows that darkened his eyes. Fortunately everyone in the family was currently preoccupied with their own concerns. But it could be only a matter of time before someone noticed. Then the questions would start.

  How could he answer? Tell the truth? Say he w
as heartsick? Pining for his lost love? They would ask her name. Richard would look bewildered. They had met few women during their travels. Apart from the Kampas most had been the wives of officials. If he said he was unwell, Grace would want him to consult Uncle John. Maybe he should.

  He knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t take the risk. Should his father ever find out – fear dried his throat. He swallowed painfully, made a minor and completely unnecessary adjustment to the backboard of his camera and noted grimly the faint tremor in his fingers.

  Light poured in through three north-facing windows: diffuse light that caused no strong shadows: light perfect for the necessarily long exposures. But despite the heat of late summer, the staleness of air tainted with the smell of pomade, sweet-scented oil, male sweat and the musk of excitement, the windows remained tightly closed. Though the room was on the second floor making it impossible for casual passers-by to look in, none of the gentlemen present wanted to risk their voices being overheard and possibly recognized.

  Bryce’s initial anxiety had amused Marcus.

  ‘Do you think any of us would be here if we weren’t sure it was safe? I’m willing to bet the original inspiration for the three wise monkeys was a hotel owner. This one certainly knows which side his bread’s buttered. Compared to him clams are chatty.’

  So it had proved. Their host had made only one request: that furniture be moved quietlyand restored to its previous position before the room was vacated. What happened in the meantime was not his concern. The additional security of allowing Nat and Spencer to enter from an adjoining room via an interconnecting door was considered by club members to be well worth the extra cost.

  Bryce stood a short distance behind the intense and silent group peering through focusing screens at the two men: one fair, one dark; one smooth, the other hairy; limbs entwined, oiled skin gleaming. After exposing a single plate he moved his camera back. Processing even one such shot was a risk. But that particular pose had rekindled memories too powerful and erotic to resist.

  With the skill of experience gained in very different circumstances he had judged the strength and quality of light and the length of exposure. When he replaced the lens cap he instinctively knew he had obtained a negative he would be able to translate into different kinds of print: varying clarity and tone, and thus the impact of the image.

  ‘Here.’ Bryce looked up as Marcus handed him a small leather-covered box. ‘What do you think of this?’

  Turning it over, Bryce’s brows rose in surprise. ‘It’s a camera?’

  Marcus rocked his splayed hand conveying his own opinion. ‘It has its supporters.’

  Though his own camera was set up on its stand Marcus had not joined the group. He seemed uninterested in the activity presently taking place under the focused light.

  Bryce turned the little box in his hands amazed at the developments during his three years abroad. ‘It looks like a toy.’

  ‘That’s probably because it was originally developed for children. It has fixed focus, fixed exposure and uses roll film.’

  ‘What about developing and printing?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the clever bit. When all the film has been exposed you send the entire camera back to the manufacturers. They develop and print the film, fit a new one into your camera then return it with your prints.’

  Bryce handed it back with a shrug. ‘I suppose it’s ideal for children who can’t be trusted with chemicals. Or for people who don’t like the mess. Personally I think if you want a high quality result you have to do your own processing.’

  Marcus indicated Bryce’s camera mounted on a scarred wooden tripod. ‘Like the Hare, do you?’

  Bryce nodded. ‘I bought it ten years ago when it was the first folding camera. As far as I’m concerned it’s still the best. I’ve grown so used to it I don’t even have to think about lens field, film scale, quality of light or paper emulsions. But what I like most is that it can be adapted to take small plates, sheet films or film packs. It has ground glass focusing as well as focusing scales.’

  Marcus’s burst of laughter won him irritated glares over hunched shoulders. ‘You’d make a great salesman. But as it happens I agree with you. I used one in India.’

  Bryce handed back the little box camera. ‘Have you ever exhibited? The photographs you took in India, I mean?’

  Marcus’s mouth twisted. ‘God knows I tried hard enough. My photographs should be compulsory viewing for governments and for army commanders who direct wars from comfortable offices and never actually visit the front line. Galleries were prepared to show the pretty life in India shots.’ His tone dripped bitterness. ‘But they refused my best stuff. The scenes I captured during battles and those showing the aftermath.’

  Bryce frowned, astonished. ‘Why? Shots like that are unique. They’re a frozen moment of reality.’

  ‘Exactly, and that’s the problem,’ said Marcus. ‘The war artists and sketchers blur the horror. They compose their pictures. They imply heroism. They play down the reality in order to create whatever emotional effect will sell the most newspapers for their paymasters. They make scenes of battle palatable. Photographs don’t do that. Photographs show the naked truth. Every gallery owner who saw my photographs said the same thing. Too graphic. Too sensational. Too horrifying. Jesus Christ, what did they expect? War is horrifying. It’s ugly, violent, brutal and bloody.’ He breathed hard down his nose as memory fanned remembered anger into fresh hot flames.

  Not knowing what to say Bryce remained silent. After a long moment Marcus shrugged.

  ‘Combat photographers are useful insofar as we provide the images from which illustrators produce their copy for newspapers and magazines. Artists can paint pictures that show war in all its glorious obscenity and have them hung in the National Gallery. But photographers – do you know what some fossilised idiot from the Royal Academy told me? Despite a certain technical expertise and emotional impact, photography will never be accepted as art.’ Marcus glowered, visibly trembling with barely contained rage. Then with one of his lightning changes of mood he sucked in a breath and raised his head.

  ‘Have you heard of a periodical called Camera Notes?’

  ‘No.’

  Marcus snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘Of course you haven’t. It was launched last year. It’s American, and devoted exclusively to pictorial photography. Alfred Stieglitz started it. Emerson’s protégé?’ When Bryce nodded, acknowledging he knew the name, Marcus continued. ‘Stieglitz used to edit American Amateur Photographer but he left there to set up this new venture. A pal of mine in New York sent me a copy. The quality of the illustrations is amazing.’

  Bryce’s interest stirred. ‘Do you think I might –?

  ‘Certainly, I’ll bring it with me next time.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The tension that had permeated the room suddenly relaxed into laughter at Nat’s groan and Spencer’s exaggerated shriek as they disentangled then stretched to ease stiffened limbs and aching joints. Two men who had been avidly watching began to pack up their equipment. Four others stood in low-voiced conversation.

  Marcus touched Bryce’s shoulder lightly. ‘I’ll see you next week then.’

  Reaching for his camera Bryce glanced over his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘Not for a minute.’

  Bryce looked around. As two made their way towards the door the others started re-loading with fresh plates or film packs. ‘What are they doing? I thought we’d finished.’

  ‘You have. Best be on your way.’

  ‘So why are you staying?’

  ‘I have another commission, specialist market stuff. Not for you.’

  Intrigued and unwilling to return to the unhappy atmosphere at home, Bryce countered, ‘How do you know? Anyway what do you mean? What kind of –’

  ‘Look, go or stay. I don’t care. But,’ Marcus thrust his face close. His eyes glittered. ‘If you stay you keep quiet. Understand?’ He smiled with all the warmth and humour of
a shark. ‘It’ll broaden your education. Who knows, you might enjoy it. ‘

  As Bryce hesitated, intuition warning him to leave, curiosity and the prospect of a long lonely evening urging him to stay, Spencer returned from the adjoining room with a towel wrapped sarong-style around his waist. A small boy of nine or ten held his hand. Looking down at him Spencer murmured a few words. The boy grinned. He had fair curls and big brown eyes. A sprinkling of freckles dusted his snub nose and rounded cheeks. He was dressed in a frilled shirt of some gauzy material that fell just below his knees. As Spencer pulled him forward into the light it was clear this was his only garment.

  Bryce swallowed a sudden dryness in his throat as unease flared. Spencer bent toward the boy. Scolding? Warning?

  ‘Not a word,’ Marcus warned quietly.

  Unfastening the towel Spencer tossed it aside and reclined on the chaise longue, pulling the boy forward.

  From where Bryce was standing the boy’s face was clearly visible. A nervous smile flitted across the small features. The men began to call out instructions. Spencer and the boy altered their position and remained still while the seconds were counted. Then grasping the boy’s head between his hands Spencer drew it down and threw his own head back.

  Bryce stopped breathing. The sharp hiss though other teeth was loud in the silence. Suddenly he saw the boy’s eyes fill with tears. They gathered in huge drops that trembled on the blond lashes then spilled down the freckled cheeks leaving a silver trail.

  Shocked to his senses, appalled by what he was watching and at himself, Bryce tensed. He felt Marcus’s hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t interfere. It’s not what it–’

  Bryce wrenched free, guilt and shame fuelling his anger. He barged through the group heedless of the angry cries as cameras wobbled precariously.

  ‘Stop!’ His throat was dry, his voice hoarse. His face burned. ‘This is wrong. You can’t ask a child to.’ His protest was lost under the storm of rage