Echoes From a Distant Land (40 page)

Fiona rang Emerald to discuss their plans to go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse on Saturday night.

‘Why don't I pick you up? Mummy has let me have our chauffeur for the occasion,' said Fiona.

‘Great. What time?'

‘I'll say seven-thirty. That way we can practise a few steps at Clarice's before we go. Oh, and Miriam's coming too.'

‘That's brilliant. I'll bring “The Bumble Boogie” and “Twelfth Street Rag” — they're my new ones I mentioned yesterday.'

‘Why don't you stay the night with us at Clarice's?' Fiona asked. ‘It could be fun.'

‘I did mention it to Mother: she flatly refused. I think she's still recovering from the ordeal of letting me go to Henley.'

‘Pity. But speaking of Henley … Do you remember that funny-looking chap with the fair hair that we met with Laurence's friends?'

‘Oh … do you mean Raph?'

Raph and his passionate speeches had surfaced from Emerald's memory at odd times over the weeks since Henley. She could no longer hear her stepfather's blistering attacks on
Clement-bloody-Attlee
and the
welfare-bloody-state
without Raph coming to mind.

Fiona's mention of him made her regret she'd not made an effort to contact him before leaving Henley. She wondered if it was his extremism that interested her, for he was certainly not the type of man she'd normally find attractive. With no way to make contact, she had decided to simply put him from her mind.

‘Yes, Raph. Well, I heard from Laurence that he's gone to New York,' Fiona said.

‘Oh, how nice for him.'

‘To stay with his brother,' Fiona continued, relishing the gossip. ‘Apparently, he's very well established on Wall Street.'

‘Raph?'

‘No, his brother, of course. Wasn't Raph interested in art, or photography, or something like that?' Fiona asked, probing.

‘I'm sure I have no idea,' Emerald said.

 

‘I think I'd rather study photography than watercolours,' Emerald said to her mother later.

‘Photography?' Dana asked. ‘Whatever for? It's a very plebeian hobby, don't you think?'

‘Not at all. I went to a groovy photographic exhibition a couple of months ago.'

Her mother winced. ‘Must you use those frightful expressions?'

‘And I don't think I'll bother with the Red Cross any more.'

Dana sighed. ‘Do you think you'll ever know what you want, Emerald?'

Emerald thought about the question for a moment.

‘Yes, actually, I already do,' she said. ‘I'd like to learn to be a photographer so I can become a photojournalist.'

‘A photojournalist? What in heaven's name is a photojournalist?'

‘It's the latest thing. I read about it in
Harper's Bazaar
last month. Some of these photojournalists are quite famous, recording history with their cameras.'

‘It sounds very American to me, dear.'

‘It is. That is, I think it is. At least that's where the best photojournalists work. Which brings me to another idea I had.'

Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?'

‘I should like to go to New York to study properly.'

Instead of scoffing as Emerald had expected, her mother looked at her rather oddly then, to her surprise, gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. It wasn't the outright agreement Emerald might have hoped for, but the nod meant she would consider it and, if satisfied it was a good idea, discuss it with Papa.

Having only just thought of the idea herself, Emerald was suddenly immensely excited by the prospect.

 

Emerald again checked her dress, spinning in front of the mirror to see the printed taffeta bounce on the layers of tulle. A floaty lilac chiffon stole draped across her shoulders, picking out the lily of the valley pattern on her dress, and a strand of her mother's Mikimoto pearls demurely set off her décolletage. She was ready for the dance.

It was already seven-thirty — the agreed time. She couldn't wait to tell Fiona and the girls about her plans to go to New York to study photography. It was only a matter of time, and the sooner the better. She had no idea how she'd locate Raph, but she would find a way. Fiona's brother was obviously in touch.

She still hadn't made up her mind about her earrings and decided to ask her mother's opinion. She made her way down the stairs while struggling to get the clip onto her earlobe. When she looked up, Dana was down in the hall, staring up at her.

‘Mother, what is it?'

‘Nothing, darling. Just marvelling at how you've grown. And changed. When did you say Fiona will arrive?'

‘Actually, she's supposed to be here already.'

The doorbell sounded.

‘Oh, that must be her,' Emerald said. ‘I'll get it.'

She swung the door open to find Fiona standing in the entryway in obvious distress. She wasn't even dressed for the Palais de Danse.

‘Fiona! What is it? Is something wrong?'

‘The night's been cancelled.'

‘What?' Emerald said. ‘Whatever for?'

‘Emerald?' Her mother's voice trilled from behind her in the hall. ‘Emerald, what are you thinking? Leaving the poor girl on the doorstep.' She joined Emerald at the door. ‘Fiona, do come in. Oh … are you unwell, dear?'

Fiona sniffed into her lacy handkerchief and stepped past them into the hall.

‘No, I'm all right,' she said. ‘Really.'

Dana led them into the drawing room, where Fiona sat daintily on the edge of a large Georgian chair, her handkerchief crushed in her fist.

Emerald's instinct told her that Fiona's news should be saved till they were alone, but in the face of her obvious distress, and feeling powerless to intervene, she allowed her mother to take charge.

There was a long moment in which no one spoke.

‘What is it, dear?' Dana offered by way of encouragement.

Fiona sniffed into her handkerchief; Emerald would later recall that she wore what romantic novelists might call a brave smile.

‘I'm … I'm going to have a baby,' she said.

 

Dana lay sleepless that night, mulling over the issues surrounding Fiona's pregnancy. She had wrapped the poor girl in her arms when she heard her news, knowing more than anyone how she would be feeling. Dana did and said all she could to reassure her and to advise that the future was not so bad as she might be imagining. She did her best to prepare the girl for the reproachful, even heartless advice her family might give her. She might be accused of bringing shame on them. In her presence they would discuss her as if she wasn't there. They might discuss various solutions. Some would insist the boy face his responsibilities and marry her. Others would say it was best to keep the matter quiet. Fiona could take a long holiday and have the baby offered up for adoption. Perhaps she would be told to have an abortion. Having long regretted her choice to seek an abortion when she was in a similar situation, Dana gently implied that it would be natural for Fiona to feel secret relief if this decision were made for her. Of course, she needn't do any such thing, if she was prepared for the sacrifices — and rewards — that continuing her pregnancy would entail.

She and Emerald had bundled Fiona back into her car with offers of moral support when the time came to tell her parents the truth. The girl had looked far less tragic by then, but Dana felt dreadfully sorry for her nevertheless.

What kept Dana awake now though was that Emerald's friends were not nearly as sheltered as she had been led to believe. Fiona was her daughter's closest companion. If she wasn't safe, then neither was Emerald.

She knew that Oswald loved Emerald very much, but he was a very conservative person and demanded decorum from members of his family. If Emerald disgraced him, she would never achieve the heights that Dana hoped she would. The Middlebridge empire would pass to others.

She made her decision. She was not prepared to bet her daughter's future on the chance that she might behave differently from Fiona. Her only option was to take Emerald away from her friends. With Emerald's new interest in photography, it was likely that Oswald would agree to her going to New York to pursue it. And there would be no need for him to know Dana's reasons.

September 1951 — Emerald in New York!
ran the headlines in her head. She couldn't believe she was there: it all seemed like a script straight out of Hollywood.

The Statue of Liberty, Times Square, the Met. She'd been in a whirl since arriving, leaving her mother exhausted by her increasingly frantic pace.

‘Emerald, no,' Dana said. ‘I've had enough. You said the Empire State Building would be the last stop today.'

‘But
Mother-r-r
, there's this smashing photographic exhibition I simply must see.'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘And I still haven't signed on for my workshop in photojournalism.'

‘Photojournalism! I still really don't know what that is. Anyway, I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow.'

Emerald flushed. ‘Applications close today.'

Dana sighed. ‘Oh, Emerald. My feet are killing me.'

‘You said you wanted to visit NYU — well, that's where I enrol, and the exhibition is in the same neighbourhood.'

‘No, I'm sorry. I need to rest before the opera. If you must go, you may go yourself. I'm going back to the hotel.'

Emerald tried to look disappointed.

‘You have taxi fare,' Dana added. ‘Just give the driver the name of the hotel, the Algonquin, and —'

‘
Mother!
'

‘Yes, Emerald. You're almost twenty. But this is New York City.'

‘Is it
really
?'

‘Don't be brazen.'

Emerald kissed her mother. ‘Thank you, Mummy,' she said, and spun on her heel, pleased to be on her own at last. They'd been in
New York for a week and Emerald had scarcely had a moment to herself.

‘And don't be too late,' her mother called after her.

Emerald skipped down the stairs of the subway and proudly found her way to New York University without the need to ask for assistance.

By the time she'd completed her application for the course, it was too late to do justice to the exhibition in Washington Square, but as she was leaving, she found a small exhibition described as
a retrospective
in an adjoining room in the university.

It was an example of some early photography by Ira Ketterman — an alumnus and past benefactor of the university. The pictures were taken in Africa; and Emerald, her interest in Africa recently piqued, was drawn to investigate.

Even a beginner like Emerald could appreciate the photographer's keen eye. His antelopes and zebras had real movement as they crossed the grasslands in clouds of swirling dust, and his birds appeared snap-frozen in flight. In his photos of African dancers, she could almost hear again the flute and drums of the African musicians at the pub in Henley. And Ira Ketterman had an empathetic eye for people's emotions. His monochrome study of a handsome young black native was done with such tenderness it almost brought tears to her eyes. He had caught both the young man's wistful innocence and his obvious fascination with the science he was witnessing.

She was suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour, and hurried back to the hotel, but the old photographs remained foremost in her mind during the long evening at the opera.

 

It was clear that her mother was not the least interested in photography, so a few days later, Emerald again tackled the streets of New York alone.

Washington Square Park was crowded with exhibits tied or clipped to makeshift boards.

Most of the photographers were students at NYU; they were pleased to talk — especially to a foreigner — about their work. What remained of the day slipped away, and she'd seen only half of the exhibits. She hurried along the lines to catch a glimpse of what remained as the students started packing up their work.

A young man with a shock of fair hair was bent over a box, packing his work. Emerald stopped. He had lost his moustache, but it was definitely Raph.

He was absorbed in his task and didn't notice her standing, waiting for him to see her. Her heart thumped. What if he didn't recognise her? What if he did, and wasn't interested? Her face still flushed when she recalled throwing herself at him and being rejected.

Raph stood and flicked his hair — now longer that she remembered it — from his face. He glanced at her, held her eyes for an instant, and then resumed rummaging in the box.

Emerald wanted to just die, or to shrivel up, or to flee, but her mortification rooted her to the spot. Then she noticed his small smile and a moment later he stood.

‘Miss Emerald Eyes,' he said, grinning now. ‘My, my. What are you doing in New York?'

‘I … I'm here with my … that is, I'm visiting. I mean, I'm here for the season.'

She could have bitten her tongue for mention of the social season.

‘Oh … the season,' he said raising his eyebrows emphatically. But he smiled again. To her relief he passed up the chance to tease her. ‘It's good to see you,' he said instead.

He moved towards her and lightly touched her arm. Then he kissed her cheek.

She was disappointed, but wasn't sure what else she could have expected.

‘It's good to see you too, Raph. How do you like New York?'

He shrugged. ‘Same old capitalist shit as home in England. Worse, in some ways.' He appeared reflective, then shrugged again. ‘But what about you? When did you arrive? What are you doing?'

‘Oh, I've been here a week or so. All a little boring, don't you think? My mother insists on doing the rounds of the tourist attractions.' She rolled her eyes.

‘Ah, I'm glad you have a chaperone. New York is full of evil temptations.'

She smiled with him. ‘My mother is too busy touring the sights to worry about me. I'd rather get involved with the arts. Exhibitions like this one. But I missed seeing your work.'

He turned to the packed boxes. ‘You did. All packed away.'

He looked at her and she had the almost irresistible urge to pat her hair into place or adjust the collar of her blouse.

‘I have a buddy with a pick-up who'll be here soon to help me take this away. If you like, I can show you my work later.'

‘I'd like that.'

He thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what … why don't you join me on Thursday? Most of us are attending a rally.' He indicated the students in the park. ‘We could make our point to the powers that be, then I'll show you my work.'

‘A rally?'

‘Yeah. A protest against the new set of labour laws that this fucking government is about to inflict on their workers.'

Emerald knew he was putting her to some kind of test. She didn't flinch at his language, but a public protest against the government was another thing.

‘Where is it?'

‘We meet there at the arch at two, then we march all the way down Broadway to Times Square.'

He was grinning, daring her to accept. She wasn't going to let him win the bluff.

‘So, what you're saying is … wear comfortable shoes.'

‘You'll come?'

‘Sounds wonderful.'

‘Until Thursday, then.' He kissed her on the cheek.

‘I'll be there.'

 

The tiered lecture room was almost full. Emerald arrived just as the lecturer began to speak and found a seat near the top row.

‘Photojournalism,' he began, ‘is a new art form and is distinguished from other forms of photography by the following attributes.'

As he began to scrawl his notes on the blackboard, Emerald looked around her classmates. Most were quite young, no more than her age, with a few grey heads scattered among them. Everyone was taking notes. Emerald pulled a sheet of paper from her handbag and began to copy from the board.

Timeliness, objectivity and newsworthiness
, she scribbled.

She learned that photojournalism was not as new as she had thought. It had been recognised as a separate section of photography for a hundred years, but it wasn't until printing processes improved and the enabling technologies of the 35mm camera and flash photography arrived that photojournalism became such a part of news reporting.

Emerald was pleased she'd not skimped on her equipment. She'd bought a Ferrania Condor with a coated 50mm lens and built-in flash synchronisation in London for almost twenty pounds. It was money well spent if she was to sell her work, which was her ambition. The final section of the lecture on commercial opportunities was therefore of particular interest to her. She noted the names of the big magazines willing to pay for journalistic photography.

In his inspirational concluding remarks the lecturer described the qualities of a good photojournalist: ‘You must first and foremost be a reporter, able to sniff out a story and make an instant decision to snap the shot. This means you must always carry your equipment with you, though you may be out in bad weather, crushed in crowds or even exposed to physical danger. The true photojournalist is always on the lookout for a story.'

Emerald filed out of the lecture theatre with her classmates, filled with enthusiasm. She couldn't wait to test her ability to find a story and capture it on film. It occurred to her that she had a perfect opportunity in the student demonstration the following day. What better way to test her skills?

 

She arrived at the Washington Square Arch just after two o'clock to find a mass of young people surrounding it. There were maybe five hundred or a thousand people there, all of them animated and noisy, many carrying placards. She had no idea how she would find Raph. Then she heard him. He stood on the plinth beside George Washington, holding on to the marble elbow, telling the crowd that they mustn't be intimidated by the police presence.

‘We have every right to march,' he bellowed.

A roar of approval went up.

‘And we will!'

He climbed down, and the next speaker took his place, imploring the crowd to show solidarity by marching to Times Square.

She met Raph at the foot of the arch.

‘Emerald,' he said, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her firmly on the lips. ‘Isn't this great?'

Breathless, she spluttered that it was.

‘We'll show these bastards that they can't stop the workers,' he added. ‘What's that for?'

‘I'm going to take some photographs,' she said, proudly brandishing her Ferrania Condor.

‘What for?'

‘If I get something good, I'll sell it.'

He looked confused.

‘To a newspaper or magazine,' she added. ‘I've decided to become a photojournalist.'

He burst out laughing.

‘Are you kidding? To be a journalist of any kind you've got to have some experience of life. Real life, not a day at the Henley Regatta, or at Royal Ascot.'

‘Well, that's what you say, mister big-time photographer.' She put on a brave face, but his derision hurt. ‘Everyone has to make a start, and mine is today.'

He stopped laughing. Although she didn't feel she'd convinced him of her sincerity, she was pleased she'd spoken out.

The crowd surged towards Fifth Avenue.

‘C'mon,' he said, and dragged her by the hand.

By strength of numbers, the students brushed aside the thin line of police facing the arch. They had clearly underestimated the size of the rally.

The happy throng marched down Fifth Avenue and at 23rd Street were joined by a few hundred more who had gathered in Madison Square. These were older men carrying banners of the various trades unions. They were singing stirring songs about workers united and red revolution. It seemed to Emerald that once the marchers had defied the police confrontation back at Washington Square and nobody was arrested, it vindicated their cause. A euphoric camaraderie was in the air. Emerald wanted to hug everyone, even the crusty old wharf labourers coming in from Madison Square. She smiled at the imagined expression on her mother's face if she could see her now. Then she remembered her camera and began to snap photos at random.

Someone in overalls thrust a pocket-sized bottle of whisky at Raph, who was shouting to the bemused pedestrians and making rude gestures to drivers who planted their hands on car horns to sound their disapproval of the disruption.

Raph befriended a young black man among the unionists, and was soon chatting excitedly with him, sharing the bottle. Emerald was on the other side of Raph, unable to hear much of the conversation as she snapped her pictures.

Raph turned to her. ‘Emerald, meet Jelani. Jelani, this is Emerald.'

He had a handsome face and a pleasant smile. His accent was neither American nor British. She asked him where he came from.

‘Kenya,' he said above the noise of the crowd. ‘I am here on a study tour with the Longshoremen's Union.'

He passed her the whisky and, in the spirit of solidarity, Emerald took a swig. She almost choked. The fumes threatened to burst from her mouth in a fireball, but she held her breath until the burning sensation passed and she could risk speaking again.

She caught snippets of his story in the din. He was on a study tour. He had arrived a week earlier. He was a member of a union in
Nairobi. He conveyed all his information in the slightly awed voice of the newcomer to New York. He reminded Emerald of herself. It was an odd feeling, but she felt that she and this left-wing, black African unionist had something in common.

As they came to the corner of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, a solid wall of blue uniforms awaited them, spreading from sidewalk to sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder.

The rally stalled, shifted and changed shape as the battle-hardened union leaders at its head sized up the opposition.

The officer in charge read the Riot Act and ordered the crowd to disburse.

‘
The fuck we will!
' shouted someone behind Emerald, and the crowd, roaring their defiance, pressed forwards.

Later, Emerald remembered the mêlée that immediately followed the defiant call from the unionist: the flurry of batons and the placards raised as weapons; a mounted policeman — appearing from nowhere — forcing his frightened animal into the crowd; the horse, cutting a swathe through everyone, towering above her. A section of the crowd fell, or were pushed down, but she remained among the protesters and joined in the shouted oaths and swearing. During all of this, she couldn't remember taking photographs, but someone came from the other side of the police lines, shoved a business card into her hands and shouted that he might be interested in taking a look at what she had, and then was lost in the crowd.