Page 6 of Little Wing
Dougie regretted the impatience he felt at his father; in future he would answer the phone. In fact, he would call his dad before he had recourse to phone him again. He’d do so tonight. He bought his ticket and walked down the escalator saying sorry, sorry, sorry to everyone his bags knocked against on the way.
The studio today wasn’t a studio but a warehouse. It was bland yet airy and therefore perfect for the assignment. Dougie had shot there a few times and when he arrived he noted all the models for the job crammed together and realized the days ahead would be long. There were three staff – but he hadn’t worked with any of them before. Two blokes who looked bored already and a young woman who seemed bewildered as to why she was even there.
‘Hey, I’m Dougie.’ He shook hands with everyone. ‘I’ll just get set up, then.’ He was relieved they made no motion to help. From experience, he knew it would be easier if he just cracked on. He hung and unrolled the swathe of white paper, rigged up the lights and softbox, positioned the reflector and tripod, set out his lenses and checked his battery packs. The silence was awkward so he whistled slightly tunelessly through his teeth. God, Suze had hated him doing that.
‘Let’s start with Belinda, Babs, Bernadette, Bella, Briony, Beth and—’ He regarded the three assistants and couldn’t tell whether they were nonplussed or just naturally gormless. ‘I’m referring to the brooms, guys. Let’s have the brooms, please.’
And it did cross Dougie’s mind that this was where his photography degree had taken him, this was where his career was at; the arse-end of Colliers Wood, photographing tools and gubbins for an agricultural trade catalogue. When he had graduated all those years ago, he’d envisaged a life behind a Leica taking portraits, documenting faces the world over. Now, however, he was photographing powder-coated steel sheep hurdles and water bowsers. This commission meant a week here and then two weeks on the road: Derbyshire, Carlisle and Peterborough, photographing goods produced by smaller companies for inclusion in the catalogue. This week, though, was to be all about brooms, wheelbarrows, pitchforks and shovels and what looked like a multitude of aluminium hooks, bolts and prongs.
‘Mate, meet Bella and Babs.’ One of the staff had brought the brooms to him, holding them upside down so the heads were close to his own. ‘Stunners – bit bristly, but stunners.’
And Dougie laughed.
‘I’m Stevo,’ said the man. He was overweight, bald, and there were intriguing gaps between all of his teeth.
The man’s face intrigued him. In a glance, Dougie thought, I wish I could take your portrait. He thought, I love your broken nose – it’s like it’s being slowly sucked into your face. He thought, there’s a story behind it and I’m pretty sure it’s not rugby. But then he thought, I cannot photograph you.
Inanimate objects for work. Sometimes derelict buildings and lonely landscapes for pleasure. But not people, really, and never portraits these days. These days, Dougie denied himself from looking in too much detail at faces. It used to be that, when he looked at a face through the lens, he felt he could see beyond the surface details and straight into the human condition. But with Daisy, he hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t seen the pain. And then it was too late and she was gone. He couldn’t risk it ever again – the seeing but not seeing.
Dougie left most of the equipment at the warehouse, taking only his cameras with him, but still he ached as though he’d done a day on a building site. He did wonder whether he should have driven. He hated the Tube but he hated sitting in heavy traffic even more and his car was prone to overheating. He ought to go to the gym – stretch it out, run it off – but it would be late by the time he was home and he was tired. He ought to cook something wholesome – lunch had been sandwiches, crisps and chocolate from a garage – but he was seduced by the vinegary wafts from Oh My Cod so he bought fish and chips and mushy peas and ate them off his lap as soon as he got in. He showered, inspected the silent march of grey in his hair. Suze had often said he should cut his hair short, but he’d always liked his waves and kinks – currently, though, it was way too long. Look – enough for a ponytail. He laughed at himself and called himself a twat, but he kept the elastic band in place and mooched about his flat in boxers and a T-shirt and put off calling his dad.
Phoning his dad always felt loaded. He left it another hour. As he listened to the phone ring 700 miles away, his eyes were drawn to the old framed map his parents had given him when he’d left to do his degree. The map that his great-grandfather had drawn by hand; black India ink now faded to brown, meticulous detail on thick cartridge paper now yellowed. Don’t forget – they’d said without saying it – don’t forget where we are, don’t forget where you are from. Dougie looked at the place names, the coastline, the mountains, the land torn and strewn. His great-grandfather’s handwriting. Their island, their home. It was almost a year since he had last been there. Homesickness for his childhood as much as the place itself gripped him.
‘Gordon Munro. Hello?’
And hearing his father’s voice tightened a knot so acutely that Dougie couldn’t answer.
‘Hello!’ His father was shouting – like he was calling out to someone on the other side of the dunes.
‘Da.’
‘Douglas?’
Delight and surprise.
‘Yeah, Dad – it’s me. I’m sorry I’ve been – you know—’
‘Aye, son – aye. You’re busy. I know. I know.’
‘How are you?’ Dougie concentrated on lightening his voice.
‘Oh now, can’t complain – been a bit bitter, but nothing that we wouldn’t know about.’
Dougie knew what bitter could be. The gale-great wind that screamed at you and sliced at your skin like a blade. The rain that lashed you like a beating. Days and days of it.
‘Snow?’
‘Just a flindrikin. How’s that big life down there, then, Douglas? How’s all that London?’
Dougie laughed but gently. ‘It’s fine, aye. Really great. It’s busy – I’m working a lot.’ He paused, waited to see if his father wanted to respond. Dougie pushed on. ‘How’s Ben, he’s well, is he?’
‘Oh aye – curled up at my feet right here – not getting any younger, but life in him yet.’
They’d always had dogs. They were always called Ben. This Ben Dougie did not know so well.
‘I will come back – maybe in a month or so. You know – it’s just with work and—’ And Dougie’s empty promises and lame excuses rang out around his flat like a kicked can.
Gordon waited a beat. ‘These days you say “back” – do you hear it? You say “back” not “home”.’
