The Photograph (19 page)

Right now, as she pulls out to overtake a Golf, she is reminded that Nick’s car is still sitting outside the house. Does he propose to remove it at some point, or not? If not, she must get rid of it. But in order to find out his intentions she would have to speak to him, and she is not yet ready thus to expose herself.

And then there is Kath. Kath seems to be with her all the time, these days. Sometimes she is in the wings, as it were, but ready to invade at any moment—a constant preoccupation. At other times she steps center stage, as she did today, aged four, or twelve, or in some adult incarnation. And these last versions of Kath give Elaine trouble, these adult versions: Was this before the day of the photograph, or after? Was this when she and Nick were having their affair, if that was what it was, or not? There is now an innocent Kath, and one who behaved inexplicably. Why? Why
Nick
?

There were so many men, over the years. Before Glyn. When Kath turned up, there was frequently some suitor in tow: “Oh . . . this is James.” Or Bruce, or Harry, or whoever. And “suitor” is somehow the word that springs to mind. Not “lover.” They were always supplicants, these men, on probation. Did she sleep with them? Not always, Elaine feels. Perhaps not that often. They were followers—that old below-stairs term is neat—and when they followed too assiduously Kath disengaged herself. Next time she came, there would be no man, or a different one. And in all that time, she never looked twice at Nick, Elaine is sure of that. She treated him with casual familiarity; he was just someone who was always around—brother-in-law, Polly’s father.

She came for Polly, as much as for anyone, thinks Elaine. And suddenly she sees Kath approaching along the maternity ward, the day Polly was born. Kath is carrying a cornucopia of blue sweet peas, she is joyous, at each bed that she passes heads swivel to eye her. Polly is in a crib at Elaine’s side. “Oh—” says Kath. She leans over the crib; she is very still, absolutely intent; there is something in her eyes that startles Elaine. “Oh . . . you.” She looks at Elaine: “Could I hold her?”

Elaine lifts Polly from the crib; she puts her into Kath’s arms. And Polly opens her eyes, her tiny crumpled face comes alive. For a moment she and Kath seem locked in intimacy.

Elaine reaches out. “I’ll take her,” she says. “She’s due for a feed.”

Kath and Polly were always as thick as thieves. And, yes, I was sometimes jealous. Kath descending like the fairy godmother. Polly going on about Kath says this, Kath does that. Kath was everything I wasn’t, it seemed.

Is that what Nick felt too?

This thought flies in as Elaine is on the home straight, almost at her own door. It contaminates the relief that she always feels at the end of a demanding day, with an inviting, unsullied evening ahead. And this is not what is supposed to happen; Nick is gone, she must not allow such considerations.

But there of course is his car, another thorn. Elaine hurries into the house and sets about the routine inspection of letters, faxes, voice mail, the kitchen blackboard. This nicely disposes of any intrusive thoughts. She is on track once more, busy with client queries, requests, the daily quota requiring her attention. Polly has rung, sounding fraught; Nick has not, which is a bonus. Her publisher looks forward to their session together tomorrow, and has some exciting work to show her by a new young photographer. The blackboard points out that the weather forecast for the weekend is excellent and hence that visitor attendance will be high; Jim proposes enlisting a nephew to help with the car parking. Pam too has noted the likelihood of high visitor numbers and has been potting up hellebore seedlings and some cuttings from the greenhouse—hardy fuchsias and penstemons—in expectation of heavy demand on the plant-sales area.

Elaine sits in the conservatory with the paperwork on her lap and a glass of wine in hand. Another beautiful evening—
Euphorbia griffithii
glowing ruby-red in the late sunshine, the ornamental grasses shimmering. The sight of these induces reflections on the volatility of taste where gardening is concerned. Nowadays, people do not much care for pampas grass (because people like me tell them that they should not, she thinks . . . ); once, it was all the rage. Now, we prefer
Stipa
and
Miscanthus
. The dictation of fashion, of course, but such fickleness invites you to wonder about the whole concept of beauty. A large subject. Elaine plans to include discussion of gardening foibles in the book that is currently at the planning stage; clearly, a glossy publication of this kind is no place for an in-depth review of aesthetics—her concern will have to be strictly limited—but right now she finds her thoughts drifting from plants to people. Knowing as they do so that once again Kath is moving in.

Kath was defined by her looks; she was immediately noticed. Would that have been so a hundred years ago? Two hundred? Elaine thinks of Victorian faces, of eighteenth-century beauties. Are there abiding aspects to a woman’s charm—certain proportions, a particular quality of eye, of mouth? With Kath, it was the entire package—not just a face, but her stance, her movements. Even I could see that, thinks Elaine, and I’d been seeing her since she was—well, since she stepped out of childhood and became this surprising new person. She remembers that fifteen-year-old Kath had seemed suddenly like a stranger. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she had said one day, to Elaine. “Is something wrong?” And then—puzzled—“People keep doing it.” She hadn’t known, back then, genuinely had not known.

And later? Later, she knew. Well, she knew in theory, but it was something she pushed aside, turned away from. Even when Elaine was at her most grudging, she would never have accused Kath of vanity.

She hears Kath. Kath is not speaking to her, but to someone else; this is an overheard conversation. “It’s no big deal,” Kath says. And now the other half of the conversation comes floating up—what the other person had said. “What’s it like to be so incredibly attractive?” The other person is not a man; this is a woman, asking out of genuine interest and curiosity. And Kath replies thus; she is not being evasive, or arch—the reply is as genuine as the question.

When was this? Where? Who? Elaine has not heard this exchange before, or, if she has, she has not paid attention to it. Now, she wants to know more. It seems to her that this took place at the old house, at some gathering, one of those many occasions when there was a crowd of people for Sunday lunch, or one of those impromptu book launches that Nick used to organize. Who is this other woman? She does not really matter, but her anonymity is irritating. She seems to be a relative stranger—perhaps someone meeting Kath for the first time, striking up an acquaintance that day. The question could be taken as presumptuous, intrusive; but Kath is apparently not offended. She gives her honest answer.

And what was I doing? wonders Elaine. She imagines the scene—the kitchen full of people, herself moving to and fro with plates, food. Yes, that would be it—she passes Kath and the woman, and picks up this fragment, which hangs on to this day, as such things do. Why that snatch, rather than some other? It had caught her attention, presumably: the directness of the query, the oddity of Kath’s reply. “No big deal.” What does that mean? That her looks meant nothing to her, or did nothing for her?

The paperwork has been set aside. Elaine sits staring out into the garden, seeing Kath. Is that what I always wondered myself? How it was to be Kath? To be in possession of that guarantee of instant attention and interest? But of course I never asked her. We never talked like that. I was her sister, but probably knew her less well than her friends did. I never cared for that kind of heart-to-heart stuff; I’m not cut out for intimacy.

And as she thinks this, Elaine finds other Kaths crowding in. These Kaths are not clear and precise, they do not say anything that she can hear, they are not doing anything in particular; they are somewhere very deep and far, they swarm like souls in purgatory, disturbing in their silent reproach. Child Kaths are mixed with grown Kaths, so that the effect is of some composite being who is everything at once, no longer artificially confined to a specific moment in time—no longer ten years old, or twenty, or thirty, but all of those. This is a hydra-headed Kath, who is nevertheless entirely convincing; a multiple Kath who is the continuous, changing person who was there through all of Elaine’s life, all that she can remember, and then suddenly was not. This Kath is not happy; these Kaths are not the brimming, busy Kaths of life, but mute witnesses to something unspoken. There is this abiding sense of appeal: “Talk to me. . . .” Does she hear this? “Be
nice
to me. . . .”

Unsettled, Elaine drives these Kaths away. She sweeps up her papers and goes through into the kitchen to fix herself a meal. She puts a quiche to heat in the oven, sets about making a salad. There is some Stilton, and wholemeal biscuits. She lays a place at the table, and as she takes down one of the old Provençal plates from the dresser, there is a small seismic heave of memory and she knows when it was that Kath replied thus to the question from that woman, because the same woman had commented on the plates: “I’ve got some like that. You must have been to Aix.” And Elaine hears herself say, “No. Heal’s in Tottenham Court Road, I’m afraid.” Furthermore, she knows now that the woman was the wife of the author of a book being celebrated that day, some recent find of Nick’s, a man who was the last word on pub signs. Elaine does not give a damn about either the man or his wife, but she is suddenly interested in when this took place, because a further seismic jolt has told her that this was just after the time Kath was ill. She had vanished, in the way that she did, and then one day was on the phone: “I’ve been ill. I’m fine now. Can I come on Sunday?” And this illness was never defined. “Nothing much,” says Kath. “All done with now.” And Elaine knows that she never probed, never asked further.

Young Kath, that was. Well, quite young Kath. Twenty-something Kath. When, exactly? This arbitrary memory is now disturbing Elaine; it has brought with it uneasy glimpses of other matters. She wants to push it away, shelve it—but there is also a maddening compulsion to nail it more precisely. Nick would know. Nick remembers all his past publications, he cherishes them to this day. She turns to Nick to say, “That pub-sign book . . . when did you do that series?”

But Nick is not there, and for a moment she is startled, confronting the empty kitchen.

 
The proposal for Elaine’s new book lies on her editor’s desk, all three pages of it. A skimpy thing, thinks Elaine, eyeing it as Helen picks it up, puts it down, continues to enthuse. Helen Connor knows little about gardening, but she knows all that there is to be known about the production of a lavish publication that will sell nicely up and down the land, rich with illustration and sealed with the stamp of Elaine’s marketable name. Right now, she is handing Elaine a sheaf of photographs—wonders of light and shade, depth, detail, composition. This young man is a genius, he’ll do the most amazing job, I’m really keen to use him, what do you think?

Elaine thinks that if she is not careful this book is going to become the vehicle for some adventurous photography. What she has in mind is text, substantial text, supported by constructive and appropriate illustration. She wants to extend her range in this book, to move away from design and plantsmanship into discussion of garden fads and fashions, the social significance of gardening practice, gardens as icons, and indicators. She is bored with telling people how to create a bog garden, or cope with shade, or use challenging color combinations. She has shot her bolt on such matters. She is more interested now in what she has seen and learned over the years of looking at other people’s gardens, and wondering why they do what they do. She has done with the practicalities of gardening and wants to consider theory.

Helen is making all the required noises of enthusiasm, but it is evident also that theory has her running scared. Her solution is to temper things with sumptuous presentation—the quality, style, and quantity of the photographs will persuade the reader that this is a standard work. Their gardens will profit if this lies about on their coffee tables.

Elaine knows quite well that she has a bargaining counter. There are other publishing houses out there. Maybe it will have to come to that, but there would be certain inconveniences involved; she will go as far as is possible with negotiation. So she and Helen will be engaged now in a delicate skirmish, neither of them prepared to concede all, both unwilling to part company, each privately considering some gestures of compromise.

Two hours later, Elaine emerges from the publisher’s offices. She is neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. She will not be looking for a new publisher, but she has had to curtail her proposed text, give up a potentially rewarding chapter (“It’s going to get a bit
wordy
, don’t you think?” says Helen). Helen has been persuaded to pull some proposed full-page-spread photographs in favor of a more subdued and relevant approach. Elaine can see that she will have to fight her corner throughout the production process, but the book has yet to be written. For the moment, she can relax on that front; she is reasonably content with the outcome of this meeting. Though she will mark up a few reservations where Helen Connor is concerned.

Elaine has in mind a quick foray to the Royal Horticultural Society’s fortnightly show in Vincent Square before heading for home, but first she needs a break. She buys some coffee and heads for a nearby Bloomsbury square. Only when she is sitting there on a bench, amid the patrolling pigeons and the great presiding plane trees, does the place become resonant. She and Kath were here once.

She hears herself: “I’m not your mother.” And she hears Kath. “I know,” says Kath. “I haven’t got one anymore.”

Kath is eighteen; Elaine is twenty-four, and a working woman. Today she sees and hears the occasion as though at the end of some time tunnel. The leafy presence of the square is stronger than the two of them; she does not know how they looked, what they wore, but she remembers that even as they talked she was noting the plane trees, with their splayed elephantine feet and their peeling bark. The trees are exactly the same today; thirty-six years is a mere trifle to them. She picks up an echo of that distant self, eyeing the trees and talking to Kath—a distant, muffled voice declaring that, yes, exactly, they are on their own now, they are
grown-up
, for heaven’s sake, and Kath must face up to this, must buckle to. . . . Words to that effect.