William Boyd - Sweet Caress

‘Do you know any famous artists? Politicians, people of standing in society?’

‘Ah. . No.’

‘Then plead guilty, Miss Clay. Pay the fine. Promise never to exhibit these photographs again in England.’

‘What’ll happen to my photographs?’

‘They’ll be destroyed.’

‘But that’s so unfair, Mr Lowther!’

‘Do call me Arthur. Millicent talked about you all the time. I feel I’ve known you for years.’

‘It’s so unfair, Arthur. . These are photographs of. . of documentary evidence. This is how people live — in Berlin. All I’ve done is show the world the truth about people’s lives.’

‘I believe you, Amory — if I may,’ he said with manifest sincerity. ‘But you managed to cause mighty offence to the Daily Express , which is why we’re in this stew. You’ll save much time and money — not to mention stress and strain — if you do what I suggest.’ He went on to outline the case he’d make to the magistrate: my youth, my zeal, the fact that the gallery was a club — all this would help when it came to the fine — that would be somewhere between £20 and £50, he estimated.

I sat there thinking about the options ahead of me and realised that there was nothing I could do, realistically. The Grösze and Greene adventure was over.

On Tuesday week I sat behind Arthur Lowther in the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court as he informed the magistrate, Sir Pellman Dulverton, that his client, Miss Amory Clay, wished to plead guilty to the charge of obscenity and apologised unreservedly to the court. I was fined £30 and ordered never to show my ‘disgusting images’ to the British public ever again. Sir Pellman Dulverton — a pale, impassive, bespectacled man with a small bristling moustache — called me a foolish and misguided young woman and he hoped I had learned a valuable lesson. I kept my head down and nodded — demure, chastened.

Arthur Lowther and I stood outside the court on Bow Street and each smoked a cigarette — no pipe, I was glad to see.

‘It seems like an awful defeat, I know,’ Arthur said, ‘but in a week you’ll have practically forgotten about it and in a month it’ll have vanished from your life entirely. You don’t want something like this dragging on forever, casting a cloud over every waking moment of your existence.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said. ‘I just have to think of it that way, I suppose. Try not to be bitter.’ I was looking around for Greville, who had promised to come and lend moral support, but there was no sign of him.

‘Might I ask you to dinner one evening, Amory?’ Arthur Lowther asked, a blush rougeing his sunken cheeks. ‘We can commiserate and celebrate. And I’d like to get to know you better. Not have to talk about “obscenity” all the time.’ He managed one of his rare transforming smiles.

I said, yes, by all means, not having a ready excuse available, and gave him my card. I was grateful to him, after all, and his fee had been surprisingly modest. I was going to have to borrow more money from Greville to pay my fine. Arthur hailed a passing cab.

‘Heading back to the office. Can I drop you anywhere?’

I said no thanks, I had an appointment, so we shook hands and I strode off to the Underground. I had suddenly realised, now my photographs had been destroyed by the court, that I had to make sure my negatives were safe.

I found Greville in the Falkland Court mews darkroom with Bruno, both wearing white coats over their suits as they were about to start developing. Greville apologised for missing the court case — some earl’s daughter had announced her engagement and wanted her photograph taken immediately.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You didn’t miss anything — it was all over in minutes. I just want to pick up my negatives.’

‘What negatives?’

‘Of my Berlin photographs.’

‘Bruno, dear, could you just pop back to the flat and fetch my briefcase?’

When Bruno left on his errand, Greville turned to me and I could see instantly that his fretful, twitchy mood had returned in full force.

‘Darling,’ he said. ‘The negatives were seized. I told you.’

‘Seized? No you didn’t tell me anything about that.’

‘I’m sure I did. That evening after the gallery was closed. I’m convinced I told you. That same police inspector who raided the gallery called round and demanded them.’

I felt a kind of draining inside me, as if my blood was being sucked out of my body.

‘But, Greville, why did you tell him you had them? You could have — I don’t know — made up any old story. You could have said I had them.’

‘Very easy for you to say, Amory, dear one. But you weren’t standing facing an inspector and two ghastly enormous police constables in your own drawing room.’ He took off his white coat and threw it in a corner. ‘They said they were going to search everywhere. Most aggressive.’

I looked at Greville as he fished in his pockets for a cigarette and felt a sudden heaviness of heart. The old expression was absolutely correct — I felt as if my heart suddenly hung heavier in its cavity in my chest, and I knew that something had ended between the two of us and I suspected that we were both instantly aware of the fact. Nothing would be the same ever again. I exhaled.

‘So, they took the negatives as well,’ I said, soberly, upset.

‘What could I do? I had to give them something. They’d have turned the place upside down.’ He closed his eyes and smoothed his smooth hair down and said, still with his eyes closed, ‘There’s only so much scandal a career can take, Amory. I’m associated with you. I can’t let it go on. People will—’

‘It’s all right,’ I interrupted, flatly. ‘I understand.’

‘I did keep the contact sheets. At least there’s a record of sorts.’

He felt guilty, I knew, as he looked them out and handed them to me in a stiff-backed brown envelope. Then he wrote me out a cheque for the fine — he insisted. I was still in his debt, however angry and frustrated I was.

‘Well, it sort of worked,’ he said with an apologetic half-smile. ‘At least everyone knows your name, now.’

‘Oh, yes. The vile, depraved, immoral Amory Clay. . It was your idea, Greville, not mine,’ I added, a little petulantly, I admit.

‘Well, the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley, as the poet said. Could have worked a treat.’

Then Bruno returned with Greville’s briefcase and so I made my farewells. We kissed at the door and Greville mentioned that there was some grand ball coming up in Yorkshire that he’d need extra help for, if I were interested. He’d telephone with the details — might be amusing. Lively crowd. It was a gesture, a pretence that life would continue as it had before, but we both knew, I think, that the old feeling, the old camaraderie, had gone. I made the mistake, as I walked away down the mews, of turning and waving goodbye with the envelope containing my contact sheets — the only extant record of Berlin bei Nacht in the world. I’m sure he thought it was my parting shot.

Three nights later at a dull restaurant in Kensington (the Huntsman’s Halt), over brandies and coffee, Arthur Lowther took my hand and asked me, a catch in his voice, to become his wife. After I had succeeded in masking my total shock I said no, as politely as I was able to manage: no I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible, I’m terribly sorry, no, and left as swiftly as I could.

Back in my flat in Fulham I sat staring at the three contact sheets of my Berlin photographs, my mind veering erratically between the first proposal of marriage I’d received and the technical problems arising from the use of a rostrum camera with sufficient magnification to take a good photograph of a tiny ungraded photograph, when the telephone rang. I had an awful feeling it would be Arthur encouraging me to take my time, not to rush to a decision. Bracing myself, I picked up the receiver.