William Boyd - Sweet Caress

So I ran away from Cleve and New York and his terrifying wife and took off, heading south with Hanna and Constanze. A mistake, another mistake.

I remember Cleve calling the office that week before the march. The teleprinter informed us of the time of the call; the phone rang; the operator connected us and we spoke across, or rather, under the Atlantic. There was a lot of hissing and interference on the line but I could hear his voice distinctly. I waved Faith out of the office, stuck a fingertip in my free ear and listened to my one-time lover’s voice crossing the thousands of miles between us.

‘Everything’s ready,’ I said, all brisk professionalism. ‘We’ve the whole march covered. And I’m going to hire another photographer. I’ll be taking pictures as well. Between the two of us we should get something good.’

‘It’s wonderful to hear your voice, Amory.’

‘I know the other photographer. He’s very competent.’

‘I miss you.’

Why do the simplest most timeworn declarations affect us so?

‘I miss you too,’ I said, clearing my throat, glad he wasn’t in the room with me. ‘But it’s much better this way.’

‘Send me everything you have as soon as possible. You choose and crop the photos. We’re going to do this big piece on fascism in England. Italy, Germany, now England. .’ He paused. ‘When’s the march, again?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘Perfect. We’re going to beat everyone on this. They sound as unpleasant as the Nazis, your blackshirts.’

Well, we shall see on Wednesday, I said, and in close-up. We talked a little more about the practicalities of sending the photographs to the USA and he told me to spare no expense. Motorcycle courier to Southampton, the fastest liner available, and so forth. I assured him I would make every expensive effort and he hung up with a breezy ‘Good luck. Don’t let me down, sweetheart.’

I remember at the weekend going to Sussex, to Beckburrow and finding that Xan was there and, to my surprise, my father. He looked well, though slimmer, and he wore a beret. It was clear that beneath it his head was shaved. Before lunch we went for a stroll around the garden.

‘I’m better now,’ he said, with a wide smile. ‘Cured. I’m home for good.’

‘What happened?’ I said. I still felt odd with him, couldn’t judge his mood and consequently was a little tense. Was this cheery humour genuine or feigned?

‘It’s a wonderful new operation.’

He took off his beret and I saw two round pink scars, like small coins, set just above both his temples, his hair short stubble growing back.

‘They just bore into the skull, you see, from both sides and then cut the fibres, you see, the connections, to the frontal lobes of your brain. It’s amazing. I’ve stopped worrying about everything. Everything. I’m back.’

He opened his arms to me and I stepped into his embrace. He held me tight.

‘Have you forgiven me, my darling?’ he whispered in my ear.

‘Of course, Papa. Of course.’

I remember meeting Lockwood in a pub on Fleet Street, the Dreadnaught. We shook hands, formally, smiling nervously at each other. He had grown a small moustache — it didn’t suit him — and he told me almost instantly that he was engaged to be married. I congratulated him, showing real pleasure, I hoped, and he began to relax.

He said he was working part-time for the Daily Sketch but was hoping for full employment there, soon. I asked him if he’d do some freelance work for Global-Photo-Watch and he said yes, immediately.

‘I love that magazine,’ he said. ‘Better than Time. Better than the Illustrated. ’

‘Wednesday morning, eleven o’clock, Tower of London.’

‘What is it?’

I explained — and added I’d be working as well.

‘But we won’t be seen together,’ I said. ‘And be discreet, keep the camera hidden as much as possible. I’ve heard that the blackshirts don’t like photographers.’

Lockwood thought for a few seconds, smoothing his small moustache with his fingertips.

‘What’re you paying?’

‘Five pounds for the day. Plus ten shillings for every photo we use.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

I went on to tell him the kind of photograph that GPW liked to run but I could see he wasn’t really listening and stopped.

‘I think about you a lot, Amory,’ he said, a little awkwardly. ‘Can’t get you out of my mind, sometimes. Wondering where you are, what you’re up to. .’

‘I’ve been away for a good while,’ I said. ‘After Berlin I went to New York and was even in Mexico.’

‘Ah. The glamorous life.’

‘It wasn’t that glamorous, to be honest.’

He went to the bar to buy another round of drinks and I looked at him standing there — slim, tall, broad-shouldered — and I thought about the times we’d had in his small garret above Greville’s darkroom. And I didn’t feel anything. It’s strange how strong emotions can be so easily diminished as your life continues; how deepest intimacies become commonplace half-recalled memories — such as an exotic holiday you once went on, or a cocktail party where you drank far too much, or winning a race at the school sports day. Nothing stirs any more. My affair with Lockwood had happened and had ended and had become part of the texture and detail of my personal history. I was fond of Lockwood and I knew he was a good photographer — that was what mattered, now.

I remember a letter arriving from Hanna, from Berlin, on the day before the march. She was back from her travels, she said, but she was really writing to me to convey the sad news that Constanze had taken her own life some two months earlier in São Paulo. I was initially shocked and then the shock became surprise and then a kind of understanding. I didn’t know Constanze well but I could see how febrile and overwrought she was and how she clashed with the world. It turned out that the two had quarrelled — ‘it was very bitter’, Hanna wrote — and had split up after almost a year living in Costa Rica. Hanna went east and roved the Caribbean while Constanze headed south for Brazil. The letter accompanied a copy of the book they had somehow managed to compile together before the eruption: Winter in Mexico und Costa Rica: Tagebuch einer Reise. It contained three of my photographs, uncredited. It was my first appearance between hard covers.

Hannelore Hahn, Guadalajara, Mexico, 1934.

ON THE WEDNESDAY MORNING I met Lockwood at Fenchurch Street station, as pre-arranged, at ten o’clock. He showed me the small camera he was using, a Foth Derby. I had my Zeiss Contax that fitted neatly into my handbag. It had rained in the night and the streets were still damp, giving the morning air a raw grey light. I was glad I was wearing my mackintosh and a green felt bowler.

We found a coffee stall and each had a mug of tea.

‘You hungry?’ he said. ‘I fancy one of them cream buns.’

‘Help yourself, Lockwood, please. You’re on unlimited expenses.’

‘Looking forward to this,’ he said, munching away.

‘I think we just have to be extra careful,’ I said. ‘This march hasn’t been announced. The police know, but the details have only been circulated to BUF members. They don’t want any press attention otherwise there’d be posters everywhere.’