Page 100 of Little Wing
‘Well, Nell,’ he said. ‘Maybe another time? If you fancy?’
And Nell looked over to Debbie who’d managed to keep one eye on her, one eye on a customer, and the eyes in the back of her head on the staff, and Nell knew that Debbie would say that the ceramics class could wait.
‘Or maybe later?’ Nell said. And then she told herself to say something else, quickly. ‘I won’t be too long.’ And she told herself to say more. ‘Or maybe come with? Frank doesn’t have many visitors.’
In Frank’s flat, Dougie had been given the seat of honour, the olive-green velvet armchair with the tasselled fringing and the antimacassar, and there he sat in the still of the afternoon watching Nell and Frank and the ritual of the birds. Frank was just as Nell had described too and Dougie told himself that he could learn from her powers of observation. The ability to see things just as they are, thought Dougie, rather than faffing with filters, rather than wondering if it could somehow be bettered or manipulated.
The birds had their walnuts and Nell and Frank came away from the window, their heads haloed by the golden graze of the afternoon sun. How Dougie wanted to say stop! be still! to reach for his camera. His camera was just there, in his satchel by the side of the chair, but Nell and Frank had now moved and their ethereal counterparts had disappeared.
‘You have me to thank,’ Frank said, Zimmering his way up close to Dougie. ‘I was the one who told this young lady to speed-bonny-boat her way to Harris.’
‘I took a plane, Frank.’
‘You’re spoiling the romance,’ he chuckled. ‘Now, young man, young Douglas, you’re a photographer, are you?’
‘That’s one way of putting what I do for a living,’ said Dougie immediately regretting how sardonic that sounded.
‘Come,’ said Frank. ‘Come.’ Dougie stood up and followed Frank’s slow passage over to the corner cabinet. ‘The only thing I can bend these days is the truth,’ Frank said, wheezing at his wit. ‘So if you could please bring me that black photo album down there on the bottom shelf, I’d be grateful.’
Nell helped Frank back into his chair and she and Dougie sat together on the sofa, the album between them. The pages took them into another world, one in which a time and a place long gone were saved for posterity in mesmerizing sepia.
‘My sister Josephine, 1933,’ Frank annotated. ‘There was no vanity in having one’s photograph taken in those days. It was dear – but that’s what we saved up for. We didn’t want snapshots of mundane moments to glance at, we wanted style. We wanted substance. That’s what having one’s picture taken was all about. It was about us, at our best. It gave us an everlasting mirror to look back at who we were. Look at this one!’
‘Frank – that’syou!’
‘Yes – that’s me. Twenty-two years old and off to war.’
‘Look at you!’
‘Handsome devil,’ Frank laughed. ‘Had ’em lining up, I did. That uniform had magic powers, I’m telling you.’
Page after page of faces to be named, lives to be remembered, anecdotes to resurface; Frank’s recollections spun bright colour into the shades of cream and mocha of the old photographs. Dougie was utterly absorbed. Who had photographed these people? Where had they learned their art? What equipment had they had back then? How did they elicit such natural smiles yet such poise, such character, such life in the eyes from such formal poses? The dance between light and shadow, between surface and depth.
‘These are quite something,’ he told Frank. ‘They’re very moving. I find them quite humbling. Who’s this chap?’
‘That’s my big brother, Alfred. Died in Burma. Bless him. Bit of a bugger – but always looked out for me. We were orphans, don’t you know,’ said Frank. ‘And I’d trade in all these photographs for just one of my parents.’
‘I’m just going to get Frank’s meal ready,’ Nell said, walking quietly away.
In the kitchen she set about her usual routine of switching the oven on, emptying the bin, refreshing the water in the kettle, checking what was in the fridge, re-washing the plates and the cutlery as required. She could hear birdsong but wasn’t sure whether it was in her head. She touched her cheek; her hand was cool but her skin was warm. She tuned in to her heartbeat; it was strong, it seemed elevated.
It was good to see Dougie again. More than good. She stood in Frank’s kitchen a while longer with her warm cheek and her strong heart. She thought, listen to your heart, Nell. Listen.
‘Frank,’ said Dougie.
‘Yes, boy.’
‘Could I take your picture?’
‘You want to take it away? The one of me in my uniform? The one of me at the dance? Oh no, I don’t think so.’
‘No – I mean your portrait – to photograph you. Here. Now. I have my camera. May I photograph you?’
Frank looked at Dougie as if he was mad. ‘This old bag of bones, this wrinkled old sack?’
‘I wouldn’t describe you that way.’
‘I’ll probably crack the lens. I’m no longer the handsome lad you see in that book. I don’t know where he’s gone. It seems to me I blinked my eyes and suddenly I’m not twenty-two, I’m eighty-eight.’
