‘We’re alike because we’re both determined – nothing will stop us,’ says Indu standing up. ‘I should be getting back. This will be a lovely cottage once it’s done up. In a nice quiet spot. Which is great if you like the quiet. I like the town.’
30
It never failed to excite him, images emerging from the chemical soup. Seymour carefully lifted the paper from the developing tray, rinsed it and hung up it to dry on the line from which other photographs dangled: so many pictures of his son in his twenties, before he’d been knocked down by the various drug treatments various doctors said would help. The boy found it hard to cope with life; that was all. That was enough.
Seymour was leery of nostalgia. But his body tingled when he saw photos of Julian driving a tractor loaded with hay bales, Julian leaning against the Morgan with his hat at a jaunty angle, Julian playing with Millie the dog they’d together agreed had got just too damn old. It was sad, the day the vet came over to put Millie down. They’d made that decision together, he and Julian, decided it was time to end it. Comes to us all, Seymour said to himself. Don’t talk in clichés, old man, he scolded himself.
So many photographs from the 70s. That boy with the stutter, Simon, his arm around Maggie, the girl with the delicious big bottom. Squashed on the steps of that gypsy wagon, their smiles like sunbursts. Behind them that girl Amy pointing at the camera as if to say, I’ve got your measure. And one of her boyfriend standing in the doorway of a barn, his eyes glazed. What was the oaf’s name? Been smoking with Julian probably.
It wasn’t just the grass that caused Julian’s problems, Seymour thought, shoving the photographs into a drawer. He dipped another sheet of exposure paper into the tray. Smoking marijuana was an innocent enough pastime, fine if you could handle it. Made one a bit dull, perhaps, and prone to raid the biscuit tin. No, it was the chemicals and something in Julian’s make-up that made him vulnerable. An image of Gerald emerging from beneath the developing fluid made Seymour recoil. Full-face to the camera, Gerald’s fingers were resting lightly on his dog’s head, the smoke from his cigarette drifting off as nonchalant as the man who released it, the person Seymour blamed for Julian’s problems.
Was that fair? He asked himself. If Gerald hadn’t circled around his son would things would have been so different?
Seymour dropped the photo as though it smelt putrid.
‘I only give him what he asks for,’ Gerald had said to him once. His voice was not raised: it was Seymour who was yelling. ‘I’ll go now, old man, keep it together now, Seymour. Just bear this in mind. Your son is the problem – not me.’
Seymour could not bear Gerald’s presence any longer.
‘How can you call yourself a friend when you don’t help him?’ he walked menacingly towards Gerald.
‘Everyone has to help themselves, don’t you think?’ Gerald had retorted, mincing backwards down the hall, feigning fear. ‘And you’re never around, old man. Not much help. So keep your cool, eh? Come on Jackson, we’re not wanted here.’ Gerald spun on his heel and left.
When Mrs Morle called him, Seymour was in his London studio photographing a politician. His client, a well-known woman, was highly displeased when Seymour said he must to take the call. In the past few years, having a central London studio where celebrities and stars could be driven in their limos meant much of his work was now taking portraits of the rich and famous. Let no one assume that these people were any less vain or impatient than fashion models.
‘I’ll be right back,’ Seymour promised, and hurried to his office. ‘Look after her, will you?’ he growled at his assistant and shut the door.
An hour later, having flattered the politician and jokingly promised his vote in the forthcoming election, he handed her back to her chauffeur. Grim-faced, he set off for Wyld Farm.
Earlier that day, Mrs Morle had heard an odd sound at her cottage door. It was Julian collapsed in a heap, blood streaming from his head, garbling something about a car. She stepped round him and hurried to Andrew Bishop’s cottage. The man raced off down the lane in his van looking for he didn’t know what while Mrs Morle led an incoherent Julian into the farmhouse study. Pointing at a chair, she telephoned Seymour.
Julian had had an accident, she told Seymour. He was distressed and needed his father. Mention of his father’s name sent Julian spiralling from the room. Mrs Morle asked Seymour if she should take Julian to the hospital or phone the police?
‘No and no!’ he barked. ‘I’m on my way. Just stay with him until I arrive and don’t let him sleep. Find his inhaler!’ Almost shouting, he added: ‘Only if he starts feeling sick or vomits should you take him to A&E. No police.’
In the kitchen she found Julian cowering in the corner and mewling like a tortured cat. The hairs on her arms stiffened. Mrs Morle crouched beside him and though he flinched when she touched his shoulder, he clawed for her hand when she made to stand, trapping her in a most awkward position.
It was ages since Mrs Morle had been so near to the floor. Her muscles protested. Wincing as her knee banged into the flagstone, she twisted onto her side, landing with a bump on her bottom. Places in the kitchen she had never been able to see before came into view: under the settle were scattered crumbs and the torn edge of a cigarette box with what she realised with horror might
