I put the family in the almost-shade of one of the denser trellises, three-quarters backlit, with a deep view behind them along one wall towards the house. I chatted with the parents as I settled them on a picnic rug, with the children half-on them, half-between. I clowned a bit for the children, pretending to be surprised by an elephant that I kept popping up behind the camera. I gave the toddler, Giles, an elephant exactly like my own, and told him that he had to make it say hello every time mine appeared. He forgot his earlier shyness and joined in with the game, if anything over-enthusiastically. Then I let the parents gradually take over their children, and began to shoot as the four played together, their smiles became slowly less forced until they had all but forgotten I was there. Occasionally I asked Emma or Tom to move slightly, or to move one of the youngsters, and once or twice I had to make the elephant perform a few tricks. I murmured to them from time to time, keeping them just aware enough of the camera that they would look at it—but I became uninvolved, an observer. I was on the inside of their lives, but just as a shadow.
The trick with photography is to keep shooting. In an average one-hour shoot I might use four or five rolls of film—a hundred and forty-four exposures—and expect to get five or ten good pictures. But you are reading your subjects all the time, anticipating them. You come to know them. When she smiles, the toddler will sink on to her lap a little further and pout; when he makes a joke, she smiles. When the toddler tickles the baby, the husband's shoulders relax and the frown lines soften. It's a kind of trance. Your own reflexes become attuned to theirs. You release the shutter by instinct, again, again, again. And with each moment you capture you see a little more of them, and for each of those moments you feel wise beyond all words. I can't describe it. If I could, perhaps words alone would be enough and I would never feel the need to make pictures. But I cannot resist the lure of catching those instants when other people are truly themselves—at least, as much as any of us ever are. For an hour, almost without talking, certainly without listening, I sank into the Carlisles' lives.
And I found that they were in love, all of them with each other.
There were stresses, of course. Emma and Tom both had worry lines. They looked a little tired; there was tension in their necks and weariness in their movements. From time to time one of them would do something that the other clearly did not fully approve of. But there was patience and affection, and a kind of stillness—tranquillity is far too grand a word for it. They were happy. I knew that, when I developed the pictures, it would be there on every frame: four happy people, together on a sunlit day, together always.
And in another part of my thoughts different images played themselves out, a counter-rhythm to every shot. “Damaged Goods”... battered people in a hostile world, the news on the radio. Verity running on the beach, caught in mid-stride. Or again, with her eyes wide and brown, lips half-parted, always so serious and so alone. Verity in stiff white sheets, bloated, bruised, and broken.
It was intolerable, impossible to believe, a savage rip in the pattern of my oh-so-normal world. Something was so badly wrong. How could I just... accept it? And how could I not? After all, it was real; it wasn't about to change. Reality was not obliged to take my feelings into consideration.
Get used to it, Harry.
The trouble was that in order to get used to it, I knew I was going to have to understand it. And I wasn't at all sure I could face that much truth.
When I got home my message light was flashing. I ignored it and sat staring at a wall as the sun slid quietly round the room. The shadows shifted restlessly. I had shot five rolls. The dark room waited.
I ignored my work, though, and went to see Adam.
*
I waited in Rita, his secretary's, room while he finished off his day's work. It was eight o'clock by the time I arrived at Wandsworth town hall, and Rita was long gone. I poked my head round the door to let him know I'd arrived. He looked surprised, and then waved breezily, mouthing, “Just a minute,” and turned back to the phone.
“Yes, yes, I do understand the problem, Gavin. We all understand. We all know it's a problem. But the problem is that it's not our problem; it's yours. And I'd like you to make the problem go away.” Adam waved me away and frowned at the phone. I withdrew, closed the door gently, and sat on an uncomfortable red nylon sofa to wait, profoundly glad that I had no interest in local politics.
The room was large, cheap and ill-proportioned, with an ungenerous window behind the secretary's desk, cut in half by the recently added partition which had created Adam's office. On the wall there were large cork message boards, several with advice leaflets about citizens' rights, health and the like, and one with Adam's electioneering material from last year. Pamphlets, rosettes, newspaper clippings, shots of Adam with half-famous politicians, strip-banners in blue—“Adam Yates, the choice for Wandsworth” writ large. All this paraphernalia was pinned round the edges of a campaign photograph, which was so unflattering that I'd always been astonished he was re-elected. Like the banners, it was trimmed in blue. His name was printed in blocky blue letters beneath it, with another blue strap-line below that. Everything was designed to frame and enhance a two-foot-high photograph of him. The simple bold design was clearly intended to make a powerful statement about the force of the personality of the person in the picture. Here is Adam Yates, it seemed to suggest. Adam Yates is all you ever need to know. Life is that simple. Adam Yates. Strong stuff. Except, of course, that the picture was crap. It was black and white, it gave the impression of being slightly out of focus because it had been printed so cheaply, and it had been shot against a blank wall. If you'd put a number round his neck you could have put up Wanted posters for him in police stations. The photo had lost everything that made him who he was: there was no generosity, no laughter, no charm. He looked like a badly drawn cartoon. I'd told him all this; he'd mumbled something about how it was always done this way, and the need to understand the common man. It sounded like standard reactionary bollocks to me, so I shut up. And, to be fair, the opposition's posters were just as bad, so I suppose it made no difference.
“Harry, sorry.” Adam burst out of his office. He dumped paperwork and a dictation tape on his secretary's desk. “Thursday's always the day from hell, God knows why. The judge was already pissed at ten this morning and we never got past lunch. So I had all afternoon here, which should have been easily enough time to get everything done except I've just had Gavin Tosspot on the phone for an hour, the fuckwit who runs Finance, telling me my own office—this one—doesn't exist.” Adam frowned. “Would he deign to come up and see for himself? Would he hell—and that was before he got on to whingeing about some subcontractor who's defaulted. All his problem, all his fault, except the subcontractor's appointment was political, so now it's my problem.”
Adam paused in his rant long enough to look at me closely. He frowned and chewed his lower lip. “Harry, you look terrible. Has it been rough?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. Hangover.”
Adam, true to form, was showing no sign of suffering; he could drink a distillery dry and bounce out of bed the next morning as though he hadn't touched a drop. He winced in sympathy. “And here's me rabbiting on about some arsehole in Finance. What an idiot.” I tried to shake my head, which turned out not to be a good idea.
“That bad, huh?” Adam tutted. “Come on, let's get you out of here.” He strode out of the office, waited for me to emerge, and then locked up and marched off. He paused when he spotted that I was having trouble keeping up. My head was beating with every step. I reached him, and he set off again, more slowly.
“Adam, don't say you're an idiot,” I said. “If anyone's an idiot, it's me. Actually, I came to apologise.”
“Hmm?” Adam spotted someone he knew and waved at them. “What on earth for?”
“Last night. I was pissed off. When you kept saying the whole thing was just normal. I mean, I know that's what the police thought, but I didn't want to hear it from you. I wa
s upset. I never even thanked you for taking the day off to go down there with me.”
Adam stopped again and looked at me silently. He chuckled. “Harry, you're too polite, that's your problem. I'm a politician, remember? My hide is the envy of rhinos everywhere.” He was lying, of course, but I knew from past experience that there was no point in pressing it. He steered me down the halls of regional government towards the world outside.
“It should be me apologising,” he said. “A day like that, and there's me trying to get you to think about her as though she was a complete stranger. You'd've had every right to give me a bloody nose.” He pointed towards a flight of stairs, and we clattered down them towards the marbled lobby. “Isn't that true, Malcolm?” he called to the security man in the lobby. “Politicians. Insensitive. Talk too much, never pay attention.”
The man looked up and grinned as his name was mentioned. By then we were past him and on our way out of the building. “Whatever you say, Mr. Yates,” he called back. “Night-night.” He raised a hand. Adam had the knack of being popular with everyone. I'd long ago given up being jealous.
He waited for me again on the pavement. We leaned against the wall. “So... would another beer do you good?” he asked dubiously. “Hair of the dog?”
I laughed, as gently as I could, to avoid jolting my throbbing head.
“Hmph... shame. Ah, well,” he said. There was sympathetic laughter in his eyes. He thought for a moment. “Okay. In that case, listen.” He took a deep breath, and stared across the street while he spoke. “You're my friend. You know that. So whatever you say or do, just remember, even when I'm being pompous or insensitive, I care, okay? You're unhappy, and until you're sorted I'm here for you. Whatever it takes, I'll help. Scream and shout at me, fine. Need a chauffeur, fine. Anything. I'll freely admit, I'm not entirely convinced there's a mystery anywhere in this—but I'll help you check it out anyway. Because it's not me who's hurting, and it's not me who needs convincing.”
“Ads—”
He held up a hand. “Friends. Like I said before. It's what they're for. You'd do the same.” He grinned shyly. “At least, after all these years, I bloody well hope you would.”
He knew I would—and I knew he would, too. In any other circumstances I wouldn't have needed his reassurances that he cared, but until the day before, I'd have sworn Verity would come to me if anything was troubling her. Today was different. Today I was vulnerable. Today was a good day to be reminded that I was not alone.
“Sure about that beer?” Adam urged. “Do you good.”
“Best go home,” I muttered. “But thanks. Seriously, Ads.”
He smiled. And for that brief moment, I could almost have believed in the future. Almost.
CHAPTER 7
“AH, COME ON, Verity.”
She lowered her head and looked sideways at me through her fringe. “I'm not coming, no.”
I was excited to be off. I was scampering about in the alley down the side of the house, restlessly tapping the wall with my foot, swivelling and tapping the fence, pacing back to tap the wall. It had taken me less than a week to decide I would show her the treehouse, but I did not want to tell her where I was taking her, I wanted it to be a surprise.
“You'll love it,” I said hopefully.
“Why should I trust you?” She was pouting.
What did trust have to do with it? What did she think I was going to do? I was hardly going to jump on her the moment we were out of sight of the village although... I was thirteen, she had just turned twelve and, to me, she was ravishing. I had dreams about her, and I enjoyed them. Part of it was that she was unattainable. She was coquettish, wild, she played hard (impossible) to get. But the idea that she might not trust me was baffling—I had hardly even dared let our arms brush. The treehouse was just a great place to muck around.
“Ah, go on, Verity...”
The summer had changed for me. I was having fun. I had stopped being aware of my self-imposed misery or the sluggish tick of passing days. Each morning she would be waiting in my garden, head cocked sideways, her thin knees hugged up under her dress; if she wasn't, I would sneak through the hedge and wait for her. Hot days slid by.
The Great Sling worked brilliantly. It didn't once get the ball into the crook of the tree because the ball never lodged even when it was on target. But who cared? We graduated quickly from targeting the tree to competing for distance and height, launching the ball from one garden to the other. Our targets were clumps of flowers, wheelbarrows and the like. Aiming blind over the hedge was part of the fun.
“Come on, Verity, it's brilliant, this place—you'll see.”
“Daddy won't let me.”
“Don't tell him,” I shrugged.
She said nothing, but she bit her lip. “I had an idea for the sling,” she said eventually.
“It's a treehouse,” I blurted. “It's just a treehouse. In Wytham Woods.”
“But you're not allowed in there.” Verity looked at me sharply. That had caught her interest.
“That's why it's secret. I haven't told anyone else about it, not ever.” I added, bolshily, “It was going to be a surprise.”
“What sort of a treehouse?”
“You'll see.”
She looked at me suspiciously. But she kicked the wall in time to my lazy rhythm, then the fence, and then the wall. I grinned at her, and her eyes creased and her cheeks dimpled.
We went on our bikes. The shadows had left her face even before the village was behind us. When we got to the hill down to the woods, she stuck out both legs sideways and rattled ever faster down the rutted track. Her hair bounced in the wind, shot sparks of sunlight, and she screamed with happy abandon.
*
The treehouse was about fifteen feet up in the arms of an immense hornbeam. Great branches, three or four feet thick, swept outwards from the vast trunk, ancient and rimed with mossy green. They spread twelve or more feet horizontally, before reaching ponderously upwards. Thinner branches drooped still further out, and down again towards the ground. The tree stood alone: no younger trees had grown in its shade. Its crown was unreachable, out of sight high above the wood's canopy. The tree was old and wise, and I liked to think it was glad of our company.
You could climb onto the lower limbs by shinning up one of the smaller branches that stooped towards the ground. Getting round on to the big branch while dangling fifteen feet above the ground was a challenge, but not impossible. And only once you were up there could you see it.
It was almost invisible from the ground. It rested on the second layer of branches, which were as thick as the ones immediately below, and offset, so that they filled the gaps between them, so that if you looked up from the bole of the tree, you saw a dense mass of radiating branches and very little of what was above them. That was why the treehouse was so hard to spot. You might glimpse it if you knew to look—but why would anyone look? This was private property. It belonged to Oxford University, and was strictly off-limits to all but a select handful of university officials. The people who came to the woods weren't the types to build treehouses—or to seek them out. A groundsman patrolled the area occasionally, but he was looking for poachers, not concealed wooden platforms. I had only found it myself because I climbed the tree for the hell of it—again, something neither distinguished academics nor game wardens were famous for.
Who made it? I have no idea. The boards were already powdered green when I found it, although the wood had not yet rotted. I never did discover whose dream we had taken over, but even today I am grateful to them. It was a simple platform jutting perhaps two or three feet out from the trunk, and forming a semicircle. It ran a little more than halfway round the trunk. From where we had climbed up, it curved away to the right.
Verity climbed up first. “Wow,” she breathed, and I could imagine her large eyes, wide and sparkling, her mouth open just a little, her delicate teeth. She was standing on the branch without holding on, knees grazed and greened and her blue dress
stained by the climb. She had taken off her shoes and socks, and she held them idly in one hand. I could imagine the rough feel of the bark beneath her bony feet. “Oh... this is brilliant, Harry.” It took me a moment or two to respond. I was below her, and transfixed by the fact that I could see up her skirt.
“Told you you'd like it.” I wriggled round the branch to stand behind her.
“Yeah,” she said, in a long sigh. “Wow...”
I took off my own shoes, carefully gripping the branch with my spare hand. She almost skipped along it. “Oh, wow.” She clambered up on to the platform. I followed, and set my shoes down next to hers. We walked round the semicircle to where the boards appeared to sink into the flank of a vast branch. When she turned to me there was wonder in her eyes. We sat side by side with our backs against the gnarled bark, feet stretched out towards the edge, and looked out into a dizzying cage of leaf-light. Tremendous spars of wood leaped out to buttress the green wall that sealed our universe from the world outside. I remember the comfort of being there, knowing that we need say nothing. For a small while we held hands, and then we released them—let it mean whatever it meant. The air was full of the scent of dry wood, and the chatter of the leaves. This was the place that would make the summer magical.
*
It wasn't long before Verity took over. Not content with the treehouse as it was, she wanted to improve it. Within a week she had made the place thoroughly hers.
First, there was her insistence that no treehouse was complete without a swing. She scavenged a good length of hemp rope from old John Taylor, who repaired cars in a mire of greasy filth he called a yard—and who also owned the best orchard for miles around, which Verity and I regularly plundered. Goodness knows how she got the rope out of him; she wouldn't tell. He was a mean old sod. I can't imagine him ever doing anything out of the kindness of his dark and oily heart. But Verity had a way with her—her determination and innocence were hard to resist.
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