The Photographer's Wife (37 page)

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen him in a
white
suit,” Jonathan says, his voice full of adolescent disdain. “I’ve never seen him dressed up like a
Bee Gee
before.”

“Don’t you dare say that to him!” Barbara warns. “He’s nervous enough as it is. And it’s not white. It’s cream.”

“He’s still gonna look like a Bee Gee,” Jonathan says.

“Please! Just go to school will you? You’ll see him tonight anyway.”

But it’s too late. Tony is clomping down the hallway towards them in brand new thick-soled shoes. “Are you sure I have to wear the tie?” he asks Barbara, tugging at his collar.

Everyone pauses to look at him. A moment frozen around him simply because his clothing is different. It’s a strange, out-of-time sensation.

“I like it!” Sophie declares. “I think you look lovely, Dad.”

Still fiddling with his kipper tie, Tony shoots her a coy grin and a wink. She’s very much a daddy’s girl and he can always count on her for a feel-good comment when he needs one.

Barbara, who has now crossed the room to meet him, agrees. “You look marvellous,” she says, straightening his tie and pushing it a little further into the waistcoat. “You look like a prizewinning photographer.”

“I feel like I’ve been sentenced to death by hanging,” Tony says.

“Now you know how it feels, Dad,” Jonathan, who has to wear school uniform every day, says. He can’t see what the fuss is about.

“I doubt
your
tie gives you much bother. Not the way you wear it around your knees like that.”

“Ties are naff anyway,” Jonathan says, a smile in his voice. “None of the Bee Gees wear ties.”

Barbara shoots Jonathan a glare and he grins defiantly at her.

“Yes, but I’m not in the Bee Gees, am I?” Tony says. “I’m not going on
Top of The Pops
. I’m going on a bleeding arts program.”

“OK,” Barbara says. “That’s enough. Jon, go to school. Right now! It’s almost eight-thirty!”

Jonathan stands, picks up his sports bag and jive-walks across the room to his father. He gives him an exaggerated once-over, then says, “You’s the man, pop,” before – humming
Stayin’ Alive
in a silly, high voice – he strides, hips swaying, down the hallway.

“Cheeky little git,” Tony says, once the front door has closed.

“He’s fourteen, Tony. They’re all like that at fourteen.”

“Will
I
be like that at fourteen?” Sophie asks.

“No,” Tony says. “You’ll be an angel at fourteen, just like now. You’ll be an angel forever.” He looks at Barbara again. “It is too much though, isn’t it? I should have got the blue one.”

“No, really, you look perfect. We watched
Aquarius
together last week. You saw how they were dressed.

Tony feels scared and all of his fear is being focussed on the stupid suit. But knowing the cause of his fear isn’t enough to actually ease it. He looks at Sophie who is still staring adoringly up at him from the breakfast table. “What do you think, pumpkin?” he asks.

“Can you walk me to school?” she replies. “I want everyone to see how handsome and famous you are.” Which is of course the exact perfect thing for her to have said.

“I’d love to, but I can’t, sweetheart,” Tony says, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to be in Wembley by ten.”

“Please?”

“We
could
walk her to school and then carry on to Hackney station,” Barbara suggests. In truth, she too wants to make the most of Tony today. She too wants to be seen with her husband in the suit, wants to bask in a little of his prizewinning glory.

“Alright,” Tony says. “But we’d better get a move on.”

Sophie has crossed the room and picked up her father’s camera. “Can I take a photo of you?” she asks.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Just the one, then,” he says. “Do you remember how?”

“Of course I do,” Sophie says, removing the cover.

Once Tony has swept Sophie up in his arms at the school-gates, twirled her around (and at eight years old, this is getting difficult) then released her into the noisy throng, Barbara links her arm through his and they head towards the station.

“I still feel stupid dressed like this,” Tony says, despite feeling a little flattered by the admiring glances of passers by. “I look like I’m going to a wedding. I look like I’m going to
my
bleeding wedding.”

“You need to worry less about how you look and think more about what you’re going to say. Because believe me, you’ll
look
perfect.”

“And what the hell
am
I going to say?” he asks. “You know how I hate all that arty-farty bollocks.”

“Well don’t say
that
. But really, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“So tell me, Mr Marsden,” Tony says in a mocking TV voice. “What is this photo
about?
Which of your deepest desires were you trying to express?”

“Just stop. You’ll be
fine!”

“But they’re going to want a load of nonsense,” Tony says. “And I’m no good at all that spiel. You know I’m not.”

“Tony! Stop it!” Barbara says, squeezing his arm. “You’re getting yourself in a tizzy for nothing. You’ve already won the prize. Everyone already thinks you’re the bee’s knees. That’s why they invited you on.”

“It’s easy enough for you to say. You’re not about to face the Spanish Inquisition on national telly.”

“Can’t you say they’re just photos?” Barbara says. “Say they’re photos and they’re meant to be looked at, not talked about.”

Tony snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. That’ll go down well.”

***

Barbara carries the final dish, a plate of Stilton stuffed celery, into the dining room. She pushes the devilled eggs to one side and repositions the tray of mini-quiches so that she can fit the celery onto the table. She stands back and appraises the spread, then sighs with satisfaction. It looks perfect.

“Mum, it’s playing!” – Jonathan’s voice, calling from the lounge.

Next, Sophie appears in the doorway. “Mum!” she says, urgently. “They’re playing the tape. Come on!”

Barbara walks through to the lounge, now almost too crowded for her to enter. Neighbours have squashed onto the sofa and Tony’s friends from his old photography class are seated cross legged on the floor. There are new people too, people Tony apparently knows well but who Barbara has never met before: two journalists from the
Mirror
, a painter, a poet, a cook… Everyone is drinking. Everyone is smoking. And a vague, sweet smell in the air makes Barbara think that they aren’t only smoking cigarettes. Really the place looks like an ashram but Barbara is determined to remain relaxed. She’s determined to fit in and have a little fun for once.

Dave, who has brought his Betamax player along, is lying outstretched and onscreen the generic to
Aquarius
is playing. Sophie, who knows the words to the theme tune
The Age of Aquarius,
is singing along.

Malcolm is still talking. “Incredible really that that’s all on that cartridge thing,” he is saying. “When did they show this?”

“Sunday night,” Tony says. “Half-past ten.”

“And you just recorded it from the telly?”

“Dave did,” Tony says.

“Shhh!” Sophie tells them and everyone is glad that she has been the one to silence them.

On screen, Peter Hall is introducing the program.

Tonight we’ll be talking to Steve Leber, the co-producer of a new musical called Beatlemania and Anthony Marsden, who is the first person ever to be named photo journalist of the year twice in a row. But first we have Wolfgang Büld who has made a full length documentary about London’s punk movement. Hello Wolfgang!

Hello.

So first of all, am I right in calling punk a movement? Or would it be more accurate to call punk a fashion?

“We could go and get some food maybe,” Malcolm says. “I only really want to see our Tony here.”

“I can fast forward it to the Tony bit if you want,” Dave says, his finger hovering over one of the chrome levers of the video recorder.

“Can you?”

“Of course,” Dave says. “You can do all sorts with these.” He presses the lever and the on-screen image speeds up.

“That’s funny,” Sophie says. “I like it when it’s faster.”

“Can we get one of these, Mum?” Jonathan asks.

“A video recorder? No. They cost a fortune, don’t they Dave?”

“This one’s rented,” Dave says. “But yes, they cost
hundreds
to buy.”

“There!” Jonathan, who has been avidly watching the television set, is pointing and on-screen, Tony is wobbling from side to side – gesticulating at triple speed.

Dave rewinds then forward winds repeatedly until, finally finding the right spot, he freezes the image.

“You took your tie off,” Jonathan comments.

“It was boiling,” Tony says. “The lights… I was sweating like a pig.”

Barbara sighs. With his shirt collar spread out over the lapels of his three piece suit, he really
does
look like one of the Bee Gees, and that hadn’t been the look they’d been aiming for.

“Ready?” Dave asks. Absolute silence falls upon the room. People even stop chewing the peanuts in their mouths.

“It’s a shame you don’t have a colour set,” Malcolm says, prompting another round of shushing noises.

Finally Dave releases the button and the screen is filled with Tony looking uncomfortable, then a series of his prizewinning photos: a woman on a baked beach, a punk with a mohican climbing onto an Intercity 125 train, a demonstration in front of number 10 Downing Street…

We can see from just a few of your photographs that you have an exceptional sense of composition. Did you learn that in a formal setting or is it a natural gift that you have developed?

Barbara, at the rear of the room, sees Sophie grip Jonathan’s arm as she waits for her father to reply. She wishes that she too had someone to hold on to. She grips the back of an armchair instead.

It’s more… natural, really.

A few seconds of silence follow. The interviewer is clearly waiting for Tony to elaborate, and eventually he does.

I mean, I never went to art school or anything. I just like taking photographs.

Splendid! And what’s your motivation? Where do you get your
drive?
Take this photo…

He flashes the beach photo at the camera.

Is it a comment on modern society? Are all these baked bodies there to tell us something about leisure in the modern sense?

Onscreen, Tony coughs and scratches his neck. He pulls a face as if he is perhaps suffocating. Finally he speaks and everyone in the lounge resumes breathing.

I… I… Look, I get a bit sick of all this talk about art to be honest. Art, and I mean visual art obviously, well, it’s meant to be looked at, isn’t it? If people want talk they can listen to the radio or read a book.

Peter Hall is visibly peeved.

Or watch television, ha ha. I’m sure that our viewers are watching in the hope that you’ll
talk
to us about your prize-winning photographs, after all.

Yes. But I’m not a television host, am I? I’m a photographer. So I’d rather people just looked at my work. That’s the point of photography. It’s literal. A camera is, to me, like a butter knife, cutting through reality and saving it in slices for later. What the photo means is whatever the person looking at it thinks it means. Visual art is visual. That’s the whole point of it. It’s there to be looked at, not to be explained. So why don’t
you
look at my photo and tell me what
you
think it’s about. That’s far more interesting to me than what I think it’s about.

Indeed. Well, one thing we can all agree on is that we all enjoy your stunning photographs. So congratulations on your prize.

Thank-you.

The camera zooms back onto Peter Hall’s face. He looks flustered.

Now long before the punk movement, another musical event took London by storm. Beatlemania. A new musical opening in the West End next week
…

“You can stop it there,” Tony says. “That’s it. Some bird had dragged me off the set by then.”

Dave presses the button.

"What do you think?” Tony asks. “Did I get away with it?”

“You were brilliant,” Malcolm says. “The perfect anti-hero. A man of the people! They’re going to
love
you.”

***

Barbara regretfully leaves the calm of the dining room and forces herself to return to the fray. She feels uncomfortable and self conscious but holding the plate helps. Having a purpose enables her to forget the mechanics of putting one foot in front of another, enables her to forget, almost, the many challenges involved in breathing.

In the lounge, there are twice as many people as before – strictly standing room only.

Jonathan is playing records on the new music centre (Barbara has told him that he can play anything except the Bee Gees), and people are drinking and shouting above the music. A couple of people are smoking joints and a few are beginning to move their hips to Elton John and Kiki Dee’s
Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.

Barbara passes once around the room with her plate of mini-quiches, then returns, like a diver coming up for air, to the safe haven of the dining room where she pours herself a larger than usual glass of sherry and downs it in one. It seems to work for everyone else. Why not her?

When she returns to the lounge, she finds Diane standing in the doorway. “Wow!” Diane says, almost having to shout to be heard over the music. “This is some party!”

“Yes! I didn’t even know you were coming! Celery stick?”

Diane glances at the plate with disdain, as if perhaps Barbara has gone completely mad, which in this instant she perceives that she may well have. “Of course you don’t want a celery stick!” she says.

Diane shrugs and takes one from the plate. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll have a celery stick. Let’s go crazy!”