‘Retro-photography?’ I said with disdain. I glanced over at her. Her hands and face were already smudged with dust from her rummaging. Her voice was all soft and pleading but there was a determined look in her eyes, her lips tight with resolve. I knew that expression. I just had to look at myself in the mirror to see the same image once I had made up my mind to do something. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You might want to start with 1954.’
And so it was that Susan did show some of my photographs to Michael, and Michael loved my so-called retro-photography, agreed to put on a show at his gallery which Susan curated. To my surprise – but not Susan’s – the exhibition was a great success. Fortunately, although my photographs began to take on a life of their own I was still able to lead my own quiet existence in Oxfordshire. As time went by and the past began to form itself into distinct periods of history, my work gained a reputation for portraying a certain era. It was Susan who came up with the term The Lost Generation for the subjects displayed in my work. It was a term that eventually became firmly fixed in the minds of the public. I didn’t mind the recognition my portraits gained as long as people weren’t interested in the person behind the lens.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Jack in a Box
Laura prepared lunch while Jack sat out in her small garden area reading. They hadn’t left the flat for nearly three days, Jack had his luggage sent over from the airport, practically moved in. She had switched off her computer, turned off her mobile, shut her back on the world and opened herself up to him. They made love, slept, ate, read, slept, made love. Jack would meditate for an hour in the morning and again in the evening. Sometimes she sat up in bed and watched him. So peaceful, so self-contained, she had no patience for such things although she envied those who had. They didn’t reflect on the past, they didn’t discuss the future, sometimes when she thought back on their conversations she wondered what they had talked about.
‘What the hell is this?’ Jack was standing by the French windows holding up a drenched and dripping mobile phone.
‘Oh that.’
‘In your carp pond?’
‘A sunken memorial to my previous career.’
‘What?’
‘I was pissed off with Edy’
‘Sure ain’t good for the fish. All those seeping chemicals.’
‘I actually thought they were looking healthier than usual. And they glow in the dark.’
He chuckled as he moved towards the kitchen area, dropped the phone in a bin, kissed her on the cheek. ‘What’s for lunch?’
‘Making a salad. Plus last night’s left-over fish pie. OK?’
Jack nodded, went over and lay down across the sofa. She placed a tomato on the chopping board, began to slice away. Then a red pepper, or bell pepper as Jack would call it. Followed by a courgette or zucchini depending on which side of the Atlantic you were on. She started making up her own lyrics as she hummed away at that old Gershwin song. You say freeway and I say motorway. You say sidewalk and I say pavement. She didn’t want to break the spell but there was a question she needed to ask. No, it was probably better not to. Chop, chop, chop. But she couldn’t keep her life on hold like this forever. Chop, chop, chop. You say jelly, and I say jam. She took the plunge:
‘How long do you think you’ll be staying?’ She had tried to make the question sound casual but she heard the tremor in her voice, that slight inflection at the end of the sentence that had insecurity written all over it.
‘Dunno,’ Jack said, with no more interest than if she had asked if he wanted still or sparkling. ‘What do you think?’
‘What? You’re leaving this up to me?’ Shit, she thought. That’s the spell broken. ‘Actually, I’m sorry I asked. Let’s forget I said anything.’
‘Sure.’
‘Is that it?’
‘You told me to forget what you said.’
She picked up a cucumber, chopped it in half. ‘Fuck you, Jack.’
He hadn’t moved an inch from his sprawl on the sofa. ‘I thought that’s what you were doing?’
‘You know what I mean. All this Buddhist non-attachment shit.’
This time he finally moved, sat up to look at her. ‘Where’s all this coming from?’
She realised she was crying. ‘Oh God, Jack. I just don’t know.’
‘Come over here.’
‘No, you come to me.’
Which he did, put his arms around her while she sobbed into his shoulder. ‘What do you want from me, Jack?’
‘I want what we’ve got now. I think you need to ask yourself what you want from me.’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know. I’m just so happy right now. But I know it has to stop.’
‘I can give you another week, Laura. Then I gotta go back for the Tea Party shoot.’
She drove him up to Scotland, he had never been before. They rented a cottage in the Western Highlands, long walks, wood fires even though it wasn’t that cold, just for the romance of it all. ‘October and November are the best months to be in Scotland,’ she told him. ‘Crisp sunny days and no bloody midges.’ Civilization was a village ten miles away with a shop that stocked most things they needed, a pub whose customers left them alone (probably because they had no idea who they were, the nearest cinema being forty miles away), fresh salmon farmed from a nearby loch, same with the oysters and mussels. No broadband, mobile phone reception patchy, they left the rest of the world behind. She tried to put a kind of glass dome over everything, the place where they were staying, the days they had together, her feelings for Jack, so nothing would expand beyond this precious space and time. It wasn’t easy for her to do, her natural instinct was to try and fast forward, to imagine a future. The situation didn’t seem to trouble Jack at all. Jack was Jack was Jack. That’s what everyone said about him. That’s what she said about him. That’s what she loved about him. And that’s what would probably hurt her in the end too.
It was the close of the day, she sat side by side with him on a wooden bench outside their cottage with its view down to the loch, a glass of white wine in her hand, Jack with a glass of malt, both of them wrapped up cosy in tartan blankets. A scattering of geese flew over the water, disappeared over the hillside, the sky darkening, the occasional ripple in the water.
‘We call this the gloaming,’ she said. ‘Twilight time.’
‘We? I thought you were a London girl through and through.’
‘So I am, Jack. But the name’s Laura Scott. Does that not give you a clue to my roots?’
‘I thought that was your stage name. Seemed too neat to be real.’
‘And what’s Jack Muirhead then? That sounds pretty Scottish to me too.’
‘And so it is. My father’s grandfather came from this fair land.’
‘I’m surprised you never told me that before.’
‘I’m not really into all the genealogy stuff. Anyway, you never mentioned your Scottish ancestry to me either.’
‘That’s the problem with you and me. We never talk about things like that.’
‘Things like what?’
‘I don’t know. Things outside our little bubble. About our past. Our future.’
‘You know me, Laura. I’m a living-in-the-present kind of guy.’
‘That’s the problem.’ She made to get up from their bench but Jack put out a hand, held her back.
‘Stay,’ he said. ‘Stay and we’ll talk.’
She sat back down.
‘What do you want to say?’ he said, swirling his whisky in the glass, his face fading into darkness as the sun set behind him.
‘I don’t have an agenda.’
‘Tell me about the play then.’
‘I’ve already told you what it’s about.’
‘I meant the production.’
‘That’s the hard part.’
‘Yeah. Just you on stage for a couple of hours isn’t going to be enough. Even if the script is fantastic.’
‘I’ve got some ideas though.’
> ‘Like what?”
‘They’re rough.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘Well, I imagine a backdrop plastered with her photographs. Just black and white. I’ll be in black too. And lots of mirrors that will help with the flashbacks. So when Georgie looks back at her past, images of those times will appear in the mirror… but in colour. The young actress, the pilot and so on.’
‘What else?’
‘I was thinking of using mannequins dressed up like her, talking to them, dancing with them. I don’t know, Jack, it’s all new for me this production for the theatre stuff.’
‘I know someone in London who could help you, give you some ideas.’
‘I can’t even afford sound and lighting, never mind my own producer.’
‘You don’t have to hire him. I’ll give him a call. I’m sure he’ll be happy to have a chat with you.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
He reached across, touched her hand, gave her one of those sincere Jack Muirhead looks a million female film fans across three decades would die for. ‘I can give you the money for all of this,’ he said.
‘I know you would.’
‘I’d be happy to support you. You just need to ask.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘It doesn’t have to be a gift. I could make it a loan if that would make you feel better.’
She pulled her eyes away from his gaze. ‘Thank you. But I don’t want a knight in shining armour. I want to do this on my own, Jack.’
Chapter Fifty Four
The Hepburn Archives
Extract from an unpublished memoir
People often tell you that change is important in life. After all, change is the essence of all living things. It is therefore essential to keep challenging yourself, to learn a new language, to travel to different places, to take up a hobby. It is sound advice I’ve tried to follow myself. But as we grow older, routines do become necessary. Perhaps it is because we have figured out what makes us happy, perhaps we need certainty in a constantly shifting world, perhaps we need something to cling on to as death approaches, or perhaps it is simply because we are getting lazy. I certainly had my little schedules that I enjoyed. And one of them was meeting Susan for tea in the village on Thursday afternoons. It was her half-day off, she would take the train back from London to Oxford, then by bus into the village while I would walk down from the house stopping off at Kennedy’s General Store which also hosted the local post office to pick up our mail. On this particular cold day in early winter, Bill Kennedy exchanged the usual pleasantries with me about the weather before handing over our bundle of letters and magazines with an unusual degree of solemnity.
‘Looks like something special there, Georgie,’ he said. ‘From the powers that be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Top of the pile.’
I laid down the bundle on the counter, extracted the first envelope from under the trap of the postal rubber band. I felt the heft of the quality stationery, observed the fancy crest embossed in the corner, my name and address laid out in exquisite handwriting. The powers that be indeed.
I could see Susan from the street, grateful to note she’d managed to bag my favourite table by the window. I still called the place a ‘tearoom’ for that’s how I remember it with its odd assortment of tables, linen cloths, cake stands and floral-patterned tea service. But it had undergone several revamps since I had first come to the village emerging finally as this bright café with its gleaming coffee machine, the management no longer consisting of elderly ladies but a long-haired young man called Leo with his rainbow coloured clothes and a hippy happy attitude. That attitude, however, seemed to preclude the taking away of the original bell which tinkled every time someone entered. Somehow my current anger and irritation succeeded in transferring itself to the ring of this bell for Susan immediately looked up and frowned concern at me as I came in the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘You’ll see,’ I said. But before I even had a chance to sit down, Leo was already at our table, notepad in hand.
‘Black coffee for me,’ Susan said. ‘And the usual pot of Earl Grey.’
‘I’ll have a double espresso,’ I said.
Susan raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Really? You never have coffee.’
‘Well, I want one now.’
Leo nodded with a sort of Jesus-like humility before going off to attend to our order. I pulled off my gloves, hung my coat on the back of the chair.
‘Someone’s in a mood,’ Susan said.
‘Take a look at this.’ I passed over the opened envelope. ‘It seems my past has caught up with me.’
‘Bloody hell. Ten Downing Street. What does the Prime Minister want from you?’
‘Go on. Read the damn thing.’
Letter from the Office of the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, 10 Downing Street, Whitehall – dated 31st October, 1975
Honours – In Confidence
Dear Miss Hepburn
The Prime Minister has asked me to inform you, in the strictest of confidence, that he has it in mind, on the occasion of the forthcoming list of New Year Honours, to submit your name to the Queen with a recommendation that Her Majesty be graciously pleased to approve that an award of a Member of the Order of the British Empire (MBE) be conferred on you in recognition of both your contribution to the realm of arts and culture as well as for your service in the Air Transport Auxiliary during the Second World War. Before doing so, the Prime Minister would be glad to be assured that this would be agreeable to you. I should be grateful if you would let me know by completing the enclosed form and sending it to me by return of post.
Yours faithfully
[Signature]
Private Secretary to the Prime Minister
Susan clapped her hands on finishing her reading. ‘Congratulations. An MBE.’
‘I’m not happy about it.’
‘What do you mean? This is a great honour, Georgie. Recognition for all your fantastic work. Not just as a photographer. But flying with the ATA. How could you not be happy?’
‘I’m not accepting it.’
‘When have you ever been a republican?’
‘I’m neither a royalist nor a republican. I just can’t be bothered with such things.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘I thought you did understand me. I’m a very private person. I just want to be left alone to get on with my work. Once I accept something like this, I’ll be dragged into the public eye. Or even worse – appropriated by the Establishment.’
‘And would that be so terrible?’
‘Yes, it would. It would feel elitist. I don’t want to be part of this private club that binds our business, political and judicial leaders. I don’t think most creative people do. It sets them above their peers.’
‘Lots of artists have accepted honours from our kings and queens.’
‘And many have turned them down.’
‘How would you know something like that? As your letter says, these offers are all made in the strictest of confidence.’
‘That may be so. But I remember when I was over in Hollywood, Doug telling me he’d heard Hitchcock had turned down a gong. Henry Moore also. And Lowry.’
‘Just rumours.’
‘Well, I’m turning it down.’
‘I think you’re being very selfish.’
‘Selfish? Don’t be ridiculous, Susan.’
‘What about me? What about all the work I’ve put into your career. I pushed you into exhibiting your photographs in the first place. Curating everything. All the promotions. Working with publishers on your albums. Don’t you think I deserve some proxy recognition for all that I’ve done for you?’
And it was there I saw it. It’s funny how you can pretend that it doesn’t exist, that the child is the daughter of the mother and that the father has disappeared, his biological function completed. Of course, Max was always ther
e in Susan’s physical appearance but when it came to her character and her nature, I had persuaded myself those were wholly mine. ‘You know, you’re just like…’
‘Just like what? Like who? Tell me.’
I could have just said it there and then. Those words I had often ached to tell. Your father. And I am your mother. But I had made a promise to dear Uncle Richard who was still very much alive, albeit in his doddery nineties. Why upset things now? ‘Nothing. Nobody. It doesn’t matter.’
We settled back into a silence, so unusual for the two of us, as Leo returned with our coffees. Even he refrained from his usual banter such was the obvious tension in the air. Susan sat, staring out of the window, I tried to control my own anger. It felt as though I was back in my little flat in Pimlico, I had just returned from that awful meeting with Hub and Montgomery at the Savoy, and there was Max telling me how I had ruined his career. What was happening now did not possess the same gravity but somehow the issue was the same. My integrity was being challenged for the sake of someone else’s career. Of course, Susan had no idea what was going on. As far as she was concerned, I was just a stubborn old woman.
‘Susan.’
She didn’t flinch, her teeth in a bite of her bottom lip.
I continued. ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I know it might not seem like that sometimes because fame is not something I have courted. But it does really please me that my work is out there in the public domain. And hopefully these photographs will endure long after I’m gone. It’s just that my work – even my time served with the ATA – has never been about me. That’s why this honour confuses me, even threatens me. You have to understand that.’
Susan turned from the window, looked at me with those deep brown eyes of hers. She placed one hand on top of mine. I softened to her touch, looked down at our clasp. ‘You don’t have to accept the honour,’ she said. ‘I really do understand.’
Perhaps she didn’t possess Max’s nature after all.
Chapter Fifty-Five
A Woman of Integrity Page 25
