The Photograph

  A sandwich lunch in the kitchen with Sonia and Nick (“The thing about the technology, sweetie, is that in a couple of years it’s paid for itself, in terms of cost efficiency”). By now Elaine was watching the clock; she planned to catch a train to London. In the early evening there was the reception and press launch of the new wing of an art gallery, for which she had designed a courtyard garden, and before that she intended to visit the Royal Horticultural Society’s Lindley Library, in pursuit of information about an extinguished Edwardian garden of which she had once seen photos, which might prove inspirational for her current project.

  Nick drove her to the station. He had given up on the matter of the computer; both he and Elaine knew that he would return to the subject and that Elaine would probably have to concede, and provide the money, given that he was indisputably in tune with contemporary thinking on this matter. Well, the thing could be set against tax. At the station, he dithered for a moment with the thought of coming with her, tempted by the notion of the champagne extravaganza at the art gallery, and then decided he couldn’t be bothered. He would pick her up when she got back.

  At the library, Elaine was instantly immersed in her search, absorbed with catalogues and a growing pile of books. An hour later, breaking off to take stock, she realized that she had forgotten to ask Sonia to get together and dispatch some papers needed urgently by the accountants. Not too late to get her before she left at the end of the afternoon.

  Elaine found a public phone, got through to Sonia, sorted things out. Sonia reported on a call from a client: “Oh, your sister rang too.”

  Back with the books, Elaine filed this away; she could ring Kath when she got home. Or tomorrow. The afternoon was nearly gone; the gallery Festschrift loomed.

  The press photographers were gratifyingly attentive to the courtyard garden. And indeed it did her credit, a vibrant floodlit oasis at the heart of the austere quadrangle of the gallery. She received compliments from an assortment of strangers. There were several indications of possible future commissions. She took a close look at the garden, which she had checked out only a few days before anyway, decided that a cordyline was wrongly sited and made a note to get it moved. After forty minutes she left to catch the train.

  Nick was not at the station. She waited, irritated, until the car came sweeping in ten minutes later: “Sorry, sorry, I forgot the time—”

  During the course of this day Elaine thought about Kath three times—but “thought” is not the right word for that involuntary process whereby a person surfaces in the mind of another. Rather, she experienced Kath. As she planted the trees, the worm tumbling from a spadeful of earth brought a sudden glimmer of Kath as a small child, crouched intent over a flowerbed, crying,

  “Look, look! A thing—” Not thought so much as consciousness. Later, in London, a woman glimpsed through the window of a bus had Kath’s stance, her shape, and briefly Kath flowed in again—a concept, not deliberate thought—and was chased away almost at once by consideration of how to find an account of this half-remembered garden in the library.

  After the phone call to Sonia she did indeed home in upon Kath. Kath occupied her full attention for . . . a minute, perhaps longer. It was several weeks since Kath had last rung. There had been talk of a visit, which did not happen: “Maybe I’ll come over next Sunday. Depends what Glyn’s up to. I’ll let you know.” But there had been no subsequent call, and Elaine had been mildly irritated: typical Kath. She intended to phone, but the days had piled up, and the call was never made. But she would make it now—this evening, once she got home.

  It was a quarter to nine when they reached the house. Elaine put the oven on to heat the remains of a casserole. Then she went to the telephone.

  There was no reply from Kath’s number. No answerphone, either, but Kath seldom remembered to put it on. Glyn also out, presumably.

  The casserole was eaten. Elaine read the paper, joined Nick to watch the news. She had a bath. She was drying herself when she heard the ringing phone; it stopped—Nick must have picked it up downstairs. She came into the bedroom and heard him call: “It’s Glyn—for you.” She went over to the bedside phone.

  Glyn said, without announcing himself, without preliminary: “I’ve got to tell you something terrible.” And at once she knew. Not how, or why—but what. Kath.

  Elaine was going to take a bit of persuading, that was clear. But Nick felt reasonably confident. If he went about it the right way—calm, businesslike, knowledgeable—she would eventually capitulate. Yes, these things were quite pricey, but it wasn’t going to break the bank—not the way Elaine was pulling it in these days, and all credit to her.

  Fired by these considerations, he drove into town after he had dropped Elaine at the station, to do some reconnaissance on the different makes. He spent an hour in a big office-supplies place, where the twitching screens were a bit intimidating, and he could not understand a word of the sales talk. Never mind, he’d get his head round it all soon enough.

  Back at the house, he made himself a cup of tea and took one to Sonia. It was nearly four now, so there was no point in getting down to anything today. He settled himself in the conservatory with the tea and a book. At one point he went back to the kitchen to forage for a snack, feeling peckish. Sonia was on the phone as he passed her door; she held the receiver aside to say, “Kath, for Elaine. Do you want to—?”

  He shook his head. Not that there was any problem with Kath since . . . since that time. Absolutely not. Everything was always quite normal and natural. Just they both sort of avoided any one-to-one situation.

  He got hooked on a TV program, and was a tad late meeting Elaine’s train.

  Judiciously, he made no further mention of the computer. Elaine was in a good mood, quietly chuffed from the praise apparently lavished on her art-gallery garden. They ate a companionable meal, watched the box for a bit; she went up to have a bath.

  Glyn’s voice on the phone was terse: “I need to speak to Elaine.” Nick called up to her from the bottom of the stairs. He returned to the sitting room, decided he’d had enough of this program, switched off the television. He wandered around for a few minutes putting out lights, and then went up. When he came into the bedroom Elaine was standing with the receiver still in her hand, and an expression on her face that he had never seen before, a look that gave him a jolt of wild unease.

  Polly was a working woman. She was twenty-two years old, she had a degree, an overdraft, three credit cards, and a studio flat in Stoke Newington. Her feet were planted firmly on the bottom rung of the Prudential Insurance Company, which might not turn out to be the best place to have put them, but it would do for now, while she sniffed the air, took stock.

  And so, that day, she had breezed through her work, which was not exacting—not exacting enough, indeed; she had socialized usefully with colleagues, she had conducted an interesting flirtation over the photocopier with a guy from the sales department. In her lunch hour she had bought a pair of expensive shoes without which she could not live for a moment longer. After work she had met up with an old friend from college and had luxuriated in an extended gossip over a pizza.

  She had been occupied, intermittently interested, she had been stimulated, entertained, uplifted by the flirtation and the shoes; at one point she had walked amid the city lights, the bustle, the energy, and had experienced a surge of well-being. If asked, she would probably have said that she had been happy that day. She had once or twice been irritated, she had remembered the overdraft with compunction when buying the shoes, she had had a flicker of envy for the friend, who was in the throes of an ecstatic love affair. None of these add up to unhappiness.

  When Polly looked into that day—Kath’s day—she knew that she was staring at something far beyond her experience, beyond even her conception of experience. Kath, that day, had visited some terrible place that Polly found unimaginable. Kath—so intimately known, so familiar, so . . . well, in a way so ordinary, except of course ordinary she was no
t.

  Polly realized that she had never known someone die. Someone close, someone in your life. And she was incredulous—not so much grief-stricken as in a state of incredulity. No, no . . . this could not be. Impossible. Not Kath. There must be some absurd mistake.

  When eventually she knew that there was not, all she could think was: But where has she gone? Where is she? Where, where? She imagined some great dark void, and Kath out there in it, helplessly drifting, unreachable.

  He mourned Kath. He read the letter, which told him little, the bare facts—when, where, how. But not, of course, why. He read, and then he put the letter down and was filled with sadness. He had not seen or spoken to Kath for years, but he realized that there had always been a sort of quiet satisfaction in knowing that she was out there, somewhere. And now she was not.

  He did not wonder why; he did not want to know why. He saw—dimly, inexplicably—that in some disturbing way what had happened was heralded, that there had always been something troubled about Kath, something that set her apart. Behind and beyond her looks, her manner, there had been some dark malaise. But nobody ever saw it, back then, he thought. All you saw was her face.

  Mary Packard

  Mary Packard watches each of her visitors as they arrive: The car pulling up in the lane outside her gate, the driver getting out, looking around, checking that this seems to be the right place. Coming up the front garden path between the lavender bushes towards the cottage door, while Mary observes from the window of her studio to one side. She will emerge when the visitor puts a hand on the knocker: “Hi,” she will say. “I’m in here.”

  To Glyn Peters, to Elaine, to Oliver—whose other name she always used to forget, and still does. Not all at once, of course: separately, spread out over the course of several weeks, this curious little epidemic of arrivals, each preceded by a phone call—brief and purposeful (Glyn), diffident but determined (Elaine), equivocal (Oliver). After the first, she had no longer been surprised by the others.

  Mary’s studio is a converted dairy, detached from the cottage: cool in summer, cold in winter, whitewashed walls, tiled floor, large strategic window that floods the room with light. There is a sink, and a great cluttered table, and the clay and the wheel and shelves of finished pots. Mary’s work is displayed in galleries and craft centers; it is expensive. It seems astonishing that those poised shapes can have arisen from the dumpy, glistening mound of clay. Kath used to say: “Can I just sit and watch?” She would be over there, on the old cane chair—a silent, companionable presence.

  Mary is short, compact, sturdy. She seems to have more in common with the clay than with the elegant reincarnations that she conjures from it. Today, years on from the time when Kath was often here, her cropped dark wiry hair is badger-gray. She is alone; various men have come and gone, which is fine by her. The man of the day at the Roman Villa is so effectively gone that she has to hunt around for an image of him, when Elaine makes some reference : “Oh, he’s someone I’m not in touch with anymore,” she says.

  This is a woman who is self-sufficient. Which does not imply egotism, or complacency, or indifference to others; just, she is one of those rare and perhaps blessed souls who are able to make their way through life without the need to be shored up by companionship, or dependents, or love.

  Mary has both received and given love; but when love is not around she is able to do without. She is childless, and takes pleasure in children; she acknowledges that perhaps she has missed out on something significant there, but sees no point in dwelling on the matter. She is astute, she is generous, she is warm; she is also gifted with the power of detachment.

  People have always eddied around Mary, recognizing some strength that they cannot identify. Or that most cannot identify. Some have had a shot: “You’ve got ice in your heart,” said one man. He was wrong; not ice within, but armory without. Mary has a sound shell into which to retreat; those less well equipped are inclined to hover near her, like scuttling crustacean claws in search of a safe haven. Mary accumulates lame ducks, hangers-on, some of whom have been men who had to be gently dislodged when the level of dependency became ominous. Sometimes there have been studio apprentices, girls whose need was not so much to learn how to throw a pot as how to live. Which is something that cannot be taught, as Mary has come to realize. Nowadays there is no one enjoying official waif or stray status, just various people who turn up on a regular basis—friends for whom Mary has been the reassuring backstop, and an assortment of needy neighbors and local connections.

  Mary dispenses brisk sympathy, wry advice which is not always heard as such, coffee, cheap wine, and her spare bed. She listens well—the kind of uncommitted listening that induces a sense of catharsis. Those who have leaned on Mary for a while are left feeling cleansed, relieved; their problems look a bit more manageable, as though set in perspective. In fact, Mary has indicated little and said less. Sometimes, her own thoughts would surprise and dismay those who bend her ear. She cannot help feeling a certain impatience with the way in which people allow themselves to be dragged through the fires of hell by others. At the same time, she recognizes that her own immunity is unusual. Since this state is not one that she can transmit to anyone else, all she can do is hear their tales of woe, and reserve judgment. This restraint is quite hard for her at times, when she hears another saga of betrayal from some apprentice who brought the whole thing upon herself, in Mary’s view—couldn’t she see that the guy was stringing her along? Or when a neighbor’s tale of financial woe reveals a subtext of feckless outlay. Mary herself lives frugally, and always has. Those who conspicuously consume must accept that they may be consumed, she thinks—but says nowt. People who pour out their woes to others require commiseration, not admonition.

  Mary met Kath at a craft fair long ago. Kath was manning a friend’s stall; Mary looked across and saw this exquisite woman behind a display of fired-enamel dishes and a rank of mesmerized customers. The run on enamel was phenomenal. Mary came over to chat; they took a lunch break together. Mary said, “Would you care to sell pots next time?” They beamed at each other, each recognizing an unexpected confederate. “I am your exact opposite,” Mary would remark, idly, at some other time, much later. “Yes,” says Kath. “That’s the whole point. But really I want to be you. Swap?” Spoken as a joke, but in fact not a joke at all.

  They were a conspiracy, a tacit alliance. Weeks and months might go by without contact, and then they would resume the association as though they had parted yesterday. Phone calls were elliptical, each knowing how the other would react. “Why aren’t you a man?” said Kath. “Or why can’t we be gay? Then that would be me all sorted out.” If any of her men met Mary they shied away, sensing some sort of competition that they could not match. Kath never asked what Mary thought of this man, or of that; she would just say, eventually, “He was no go, of course.” And they would talk of something else. She was blithely agreeable to Mary’s occasional lovers; when they were gone she would say, “Poor him. But he wouldn’t do. And you don’t even need him, do you?”

  Over the years, they were close, yet also far apart—separate lives linked only by the crucial semaphore of friendship. Kath observed the lame ducks, the hangers-on, alert to their status; but when such people were around Mary she was at her warmest, her most friendly. Once, when they were alone after a succession of such importunates, she said, “Am I like that? Come on, you can be honest.” And Mary had said, “You never could be. Whatever happens to you, that’s impossible.”

  She knew what happened, from time to time. Not always. On occasion, she knew from Kath’s shuttered look; she saw that beneath the surface gaiety something darkly thrashed. She knew also not to ask. She saw Kath as in perpetual flight from inquiry, from scrutiny; whatever it was that went on there could only be glimpsed. But once in a while she would learn in full: “Sorry about this,” Kath would say. “But I need to dump on someone, and it seems to be you. Actually, there is only you.”

  Glyn Peters and Mar
y Packard circled one another like suspicious dogs. On the first occasion that they met, Mary felt her own rictus of welcome to be more like bared fangs. Why him? she was thinking. Why this one? Why now? She had noted Kath’s state of tension. She saw Glyn as some kind of opportunist marauder, a sexual freebooter. When Kath told her—when she announced, “Actually, I’m going to marry him”—Mary had said, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  Kath went suddenly still. She looked away. “Oh no,” she said. “Oh, dear me, no.” There was a silence. Then Kath spoke again—a small, quiet voice: “I think he loves me.” Mary could find nothing to say.

  And so, on this day so much later, when Mary watches Glyn get out of his car, look around, open the gate, and walk up her garden path, she sees a man who carries baggage—the baggage of all those years. He is freighted with her own initial mistrust—mistrust which gave way eventually to tolerance. She sees a man she once disliked, and then got used to, because there was no alternative and he was by then an unavoidable feature of her friend’s life. She sees a man she sparred with on occasion, a man she thought too ready with an opinion, a man inclined to talk everyone else into the ground. She is startled to see that this man is now an older man, and then remembers her own grizzled head. All the same, he is palpably the same man, and all around him there float other times, and other people. He brings Kath; he brings Kath’s voice saying, Glyn this, Glyn that, Glyn’s away for a few days so I’m going to play hooky and come to see you, right? He brings that house of theirs in Melchester, which Mary seldom visited and always found in some way a house without a heart, a house in which two people came and went but in which they somehow did not live. He brings Elaine and Nick and their place—gatherings in that crowded kitchen, Kath with Polly dancing attendance, Elaine dishing up food to a dozen people, Nick on a roll about some project, Oliver whatsit hanging about at the edge. He brings . . .