Peter Robinson - Gallows View

"Who's this?" Sandra whispered to Harriet while the speaker paused to sip from the glass of water on the table in front of him.

"A man called Terry Whigham. He does a lot of pictures for the local tourist board-calendars, that kind of thing. What do you think?" It wasn't anything new to Sandra, but she had more or less dragged poor Harriet into the Camera Club in the first place, and she felt that she owed it to her not to sound too smug.

"Interesting," she answered, covering her mouth like a schoolgirl talking in class. "He puts it very well."

"I think so, too," Harriet agreed. "I mean, it all seems so obvious, but you don't think about it till an expert points it out, do you?"

"So the next time you're faced with Pen-y-Ghent, Skiddaw or Helvellyn," Terry Whigham continued, "consider a few simple strategies. One obvious trick is to get something in the foreground to give a sense of scale. It's hard to achieve the feeling of immensity you get when you look at a mountain in a four-by-five color print, but a human figure, an old barn or a particularly interesting tree in the foreground will add the perspective you need.

"You can also be a bit more adventurous and let textures draw the viewer in. A rising slope of scree or a field full of buttercups will lead the eye to the craggy fells beyond. And don't be slaves to the sun, either. Mist-shrouded peaks or cloud shadows on hillsides can produce some very interesting effects if you get your exposure right, and a few fluffy white clouds pep up a bright blue sky no end."

After this, the lights went down and Terry Whigham showed some of his favorite slides to illustrate the points he had made. They were good, Sandra recognized that, but they also lacked the spark, the personal signature, that she liked to get into her own photographs, even at the expense of well-proven rules.

Harriet was a newcomer to the art, but so far she had shown a sharp eye for a photograph, even if her technique still had a long way to go. Sandra had met her at a dreadful coffee morning organized by a neighbor, Selena Harcourt, and the two had hit it off instantly. In London, Sandra had never been short of lively company, but in the North the people had seemed cold and distant until Harriet came along, with her pixieish features, her slight frame and her deep sense of compassion. Sandra wasn't going to let her go.

When the slide show was over and Terry Whigham left the dais to a smattering of applause, the club secretary made announcements about the next meeting and the forthcoming excursion to Swaledale, then coffee and biscuits were served. As usual, Sandra, Harriet, Robin Allott and Norman Chester, all preferring stronger refreshments, adjourned to The Mile Post across the road.

Sandra found herself sitting between Harriet and Robin, a young college teacher just getting over his divorce. Opposite sat Norman Chester, who always seemed more interested in the scientific process than the photographs themselves. Normally, such an oddly assorted group would never have come together, but they were united in the need for a real drink-especially after a longish lecture-and in their dislike for Fred Barton, the stiff, halitoxic club secretary, a strict Methodist who would no more set foot in a pub than he would brush the dandruff off the shoulders of his dark blue suit.

"What's it to be, then?" Norman asked, clapping his hands and beaming at everyone. They ordered, and a few minutes later he returned with the drinks on a tray. After the usual around of commentary on the evening's offering-most of it, this time, favorable to Terry Whigham, who would no doubt by now be suffering through Barton's fawning proximity or Jack Tatum's condescending sycophancy-Robin and Norman began to argue about the use of color balance filters, while Sandra and Harriet discussed local crime.

"I suppose you've heard from Alan about the latest incident?" Harriet said.

"Incident? What incident?"

"You know, the fellow who goes around climbing drainpipes and watching women get undressed." Sandra laughed. "Yes, it's difficult to know what to call him, isn't it. 'Voyeur' sounds so romantic and 'Peeping Tom' sounds so Daily Mirrorish. Let's just call him the peeper, the one who peeps."

"So you have heard?"

"Yes, last night. But how do you know about it?"

"It was on the radio this afternoon. Local radio. They did an interview with Dorothy Wycombe-you know, the one who made all the fuss about hiring policies in local government."

"I know of her. What did she have to say?"

"Oh, just the usual. What you'd expect. Said it was tantamount to an act of rape and the police couldn't be bothered to make much of an effort because it only affected women."

"Christ," Sandra said, fumbling for a cigarette. "That woman makes me mad. She's not that stupid, surely? I've respected the way she's dealt with a lot of things so far, but this time…"

"Don't you think you're only getting upset because Alan's involved?" Harriet suggested. "I mean, that makes it personal, doesn't it?"

"In a way," Sandra admitted. "But it also puts me on the inside, and I know that he cares and that he's doing the best he can, just as much as he would for any other case."

"What about Jim Hatchley?"

Sandra snorted. "As far as I know they're keeping Hatchley as far away from the business as possible. Oh, Alan gets along with him well enough now they've both broken each other in, so to speak. But the man's a boor. They surely didn't let him talk to the press?"

"Oh no. At least not as far as I know. No names were mentioned. She just made it sound as if all the police were sexual deviants."

"Well that's a typical attitude, isn't it? Did she call them the 'pigs,' too?"

Harriet laughed. "Not exactly."

"What do you think of this business, anyway?"

"I don't really know. I've thought about what… what I would feel like if he watched me. It gives me the shivers. It's like someone going through your most private memories. You'd feel soiled, used."

"It gives me the creeps, too," said Sandra, suddenly aware that the others had finished their own conversations and were listening in with interest.

"But, you know," Harriet went on slowly, embarrassed by the larger audience, "I do feel sorry for him in a way. I mean, he'd have to be very unhappy to go around doing that, very frustrated. I do think it's a bit sad, don't you?" Sandra laughed and put her hand on Harriet's arm. "Harriet Slade," she said, "I'm sure you feel sorry for Margaret Thatcher every time another thousand people lose their jobs."

"Have you never thought that we're most likely to find the culprit among ourselves?" Norman suggested. "That he's probably a member of the club? Everyone's a voyeur, you know," he announced, pushing back a lock of limp, dark hair from his pale forehead. "Especially us. Photographers."

"True enough," Sandra agreed, "but we don't spy on people, do we?"

"What about candids?" Norman replied. "I've done it often enough myself-shoot from the hip when you think they're not looking."

"Women undressing?"

"Good Lord, no! Tramps asleep on park benches, old men chatting on a bridge, courting couples sunbathing."

"It really is a kind of spying, though, isn't it?" Robin cut in.

"But it's not the same," Norman argued. "You're not invading someone's privacy when they're in a public place like a park or a beach, are you? It's not as if they think they're alone in their own bedrooms. And anyway, you're doing it for an artistic purpose, not just for a sexual thrill."

"I'm not always sure there's much of a difference," Robin said. "Besides, it was you who suggested it."

"Suggested what?"

"That it might be a member of the club-that we're all voyeurs." Norman colored and reached for his drink. "I did, didn't I? Perhaps it wasn't a very funny remark."