William Boyd - Sweet Caress

Gaines smiled apologetically too, and then glanced again at my card.

‘I was also told a permission fee of two hundred dollars had been agreed. Sorry,’ I said and handed over an envelope containing $200. It was an old trick: cash usually overcomes the camera-shy. Gaines took out the money and riffled through the notes, $20 bills — I could see he was more interested now. I took the opportunity to turn and look around me. A dozen or so people had gathered, curious. All young, unkempt, grubby-looking. No sign of Blythe or anyone that looked like Jeff Bellamont.

‘I’m afraid it’s not convenient today,’ Gaines said, smiling broadly. His smile revealed poor teeth with visible gaps and one incisor was black. The handsome, fit man revealed the malnourished youth when he smiled. ‘Where are you staying? Close by?’

‘The San Carlos Motel in Glenbrook.’ I would have preferred not to tell him but there was no alternative.

‘Well, if it’s OK with you, I’d suggest you go back to your motel and we’ll call you when we’re good and ready.’

‘Yes, of course. I apologise if there’s been a mix-up but, as I said, I’m just the photographer.’

‘Yes, sure, I know what it’s like. Carry out those orders,’ he said. ‘And, by the way, would you mind telling me the name of your editor? You understand — I have to be a little careful.’

‘Mr Cleveland Finzi.’

‘I have to talk to my friends here — see if it’s something we’re prepared to consider — but I promise I’ll give you a call in the next twenty-four hours.’

I climbed back into my car and drove away from Willow Ranch, my hands sweaty on the steering wheel. I felt a tremble of high tension in my body but also a curious sense that — however strange the set-up at Willow Ranch was — it didn’t seem sinister. Perhaps, it struck me, Blythe was indeed safe and well, just as she had said.

Tayborn Gaines. Willow Ranch, Line Lake, California, 1968.

One day went by, then two. I spent a lot of time in my room waiting and hoping for Gaines to phone, not wanting to miss him. I went for a stroll on the morning of the third day, a Wednesday, and when I returned the receptionist told me that a Mr Gaines had called and it would be convenient for me to call on him at 4 p.m.

I prepared another envelope with $200 — just in case more financial incentive might help — but I drove back out to Willow Ranch with low expectations. Maybe Bellamont and Blythe had moved on and Gaines was just using this for what he thought would be an opportunity for more publicity. But there was no log across the track and no one in the VW Combi, nor any parched vegetables set out on the stall. I drove warily under the ‘NONE SO BLIND’ archway and parked outside the saloon again where a young guy with mutton-chop whiskers was waiting and led me into the purple bungalow.

He left me alone in what passed for the sitting room. The walls had once been white but were now smirched and foxed like old parchment with that greasy handled sheen you find on much-thumbed banknotes. There were four stained and sagging mattresses pushed back against the wall and the worn emerald-green carpet made quiet sucking noises as I shifted about nervously. There was that incipient smell again of neglect: dampness, smoke, body odour. I was reminded of Blythe’s room in Notting Hill.

Then Gaines pushed open the door and came in. He was wearing an olive drab field jacket with a grey T-shirt on beneath it and faded denim jeans. Over the left breast pocket ‘US ARMY’ was written, but over the right — where his name, ‘GAINES’, should have been — was a paler patch, as if it had been ripped off. As he shook my hand I noted the insignia on his shoulder: an embroidered red square containing a blue circle with AA curved into the diameter.

‘Eighty-Second Airborne,’ I said. ‘All American.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Third Brigade.’

‘I was with some of you boys just a few weeks ago. That’s how I know.’

‘I’ve got nothing against the division,’ he said, evenly. ‘They just shouldn’t be in this corrupt war.’

‘So I noticed,’ I said.

‘I hate this game, war,’ he said. ‘Decided I didn’t want to play it no more. So I moved to Willow Ranch. All like-minded folks seeking clarity are welcome.’

‘Would you let me take some photographs?’

‘I’m afraid not. We had a vote and you lost.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘But before you go, I’d like you to meet someone.’ He turned and called out. ‘Honey? You there?’

We waited a moment and then Blythe walked into the room.

I felt a bolus of vomit rise in my throat. She looked very thin, her hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, almost down to her waist, lank and heavy. Her eyes were tired and she had a freckling of pink spots at the corners of her mouth. She was wearing a long white T-shirt, almost down to her knees, with the number ‘3’ on it. She had bare feet, filthy bare feet.

‘This is my wife. Mrs Tayborn Gaines.’

‘Hello, Ma,’ Blythe said, calmly. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Hello, darling. Are you all right?’

‘Never been better. I told you.’

‘See, “Lady” Farr,’ Gaines interrupted, sternly, all his polite bonhomie gone, ‘your daughter is happily married to an upstanding American man. I resent your subterfuge, your duplicity. You are free to see Blythe any time you want. Assuming she wants to see you.’

I was hearing a kind of fizzing in my head, a constant effervescence as if my blood had turned to soda. I was, I realised, at a total loss.

‘Do you think I’m so stupid, Lady Farr?’ Gaines went on, almost pleadingly. ‘Do you think I’m so dumb that I can’t make a phone call to Global-Photo-Watch and ask if they’ve got some English lady photographer out on a shoot in California?’

I ignored him.

‘Come home with me, darling,’ I said to Blythe, gently. ‘Everything will be fine. We miss you. Annie sends her love. We want you back home with us.’

‘I’m happy here, Ma. Happy with Tay. I love him, he loves me,’ she said with a small monotone laugh. I suddenly thought she might be drugged in some way. Gaines put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder.

‘You made what our Mexican friends call a cálculo equivocado , Lady Farr-Clay. A real mal paso. You thought there was something wrong going on but you can see there isn’t. We’re a close community here. Self-sufficient as much as we can be. We want nothing to do with the world out there—’ He gestured, widely, grandly, as if taking in the whole of California, the entire United States. ‘This is our world. Willow Ranch. Blythe was looking for it and she found it.’

Blythe opened her arms and I stepped into her embrace. She smelt sweaty, unwashed and her body seemed too thin as I hugged her, all ridged bones and starved muscles. I had the presence of mind to slip the small many-folded square of paper with my room number and the name and address of the motel into her hand. Gaines saw nothing and Blythe didn’t react as her fingers closed around it. I felt a thrill of complicity — all was not lost. I stepped back.

‘May I come back and see you again?’ I asked, failing to keep the tremor from my voice.

‘Of course,’ Gaines said. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

I turned and left the room.

I felt cold, rather than upset. Inert, rather than panicky or angry, as if I hadn’t fully taken in all the complex implications of what I’d seen — or didn’t want to. Back at the San Carlos I called Cole Hardaway and told him I had found Blythe — but I couldn’t see how I could extract her from Willow Ranch and her new life.