A Place of Hiding

She heard the rustle of the bedclothes as he changed his position. He sighed deeply, welcoming back sleep. She left him to it. Downstairs, she brewed herself a cup of tea in the kitchen, where Peach looked up from her basket by the cooker and Alaska emerged from the larder, where, from the snow-tipped look of him, he doubtless had spent the night on top of a leaking flour bag. Both animals came across the red tiles to Deborah, who stood at the draining board beneath the basement window while her water heated in the electric kettle. She listened to the rain continue to fall on the flagstones of the area just outside the back door. There had been only a brief respite from it during the night, sometime after three, as she lay awake listening not only to the wind and the waves of rainfall hitting the window but also to the committee in her head that was shrilly advising her what to do: with her day, with her life, with her career, and above all with and for Cherokee River. She eyed Peach as Alaska began to saunter back and forth meaningfully between her legs. The dog hated going out in the rain—walkies became carries whenever there was so much as a drop of precipitation—so a walk was out of the question. But a quick dash up into the back garden to do the necessary was completely in order. Peach seemed to read Deborah’s mind, however. The dachshund beat a hasty retreat back into her basket as Alaska began to mew.

“Don’t plan on a lengthy lie-in,” Deborah told the dog, who watched her mournfully, making her eyes go diamond-shaped in that way she had when she wanted to look especially pathetic. “If you don’t go out right now for me, Dad shall take you on a march to the river. You do know that, don’t you?”

Peach seemed willing to risk it. She deliberately lowered her head to her paws and let her eyes sink closed. Deborah said, “Very well,” and shook out the cat’s daily allotment of food, placing it carefully out of the reach of the dog who, she knew, would appropriate it the instant her back was turned, feigned sleep notwithstanding. She made her tea and carried it upstairs, feeling her way in the dark.

It was frigid in the study. She eased the door shut and lit the gas fire. In a folder on one of the bookshelves she’d been assembling a set of small Polaroids that represented what she wanted to photograph next.

She carried this to the desk, where she sat in Simon’s worn leather chair and began to flip through the pictures. She thought about Dorothea Lange and wondered if she herself had what it took to capture in a single face that was the right face one unforgettable image that could define an era.

She had no 1930s dust bowl America whose hopelessness etched itself on the countenance of a nation, though. And to be successful in capturing an image of this, her own age, she knew she would have to think beyond the box that had long been defined by that remarkable aching arid face of a woman, accompanied by her children and a generation of despair. She thought she was up to at least half of the work: the thinking part of it. But she wondered if the rest was what she really wanted to do: spend another twelve months on the street, take another ten or twelve thousand photographs, always attempting to look beyond the mobile-phone-dominated fast-paced world that distorted the truth of what was really there. Even if she managed all that, what would it gain her in the long run? At the moment, she simply didn’t know.

She sighed and placed the pictures on the desk. She wondered not for the first time if China had chosen the wiser path. Commercial photography paid the rent, bought food, and put clothes on one’s body. It didn’t necessarily have to be a soulless endeavour. And despite the fact that Deborah was in the fortunate position of not having to pay the rent, buy the food, or put clothes upon anyone, the very fact of that caused her to want to make a contribution somewhere else. If she wasn’t needed to assist in their economic situation, then at least she could use her talent to contribute to the society in which they lived. But could turning to commercial photography actually do that? she wondered. And what kind of commercial pictures would she take? At least China’s pictures related to her interest in architecture. She’d actually set out to be a photographer of buildings, and professionally doing precisely what she had set out to do was not in any way selling out, not as Deborah would consider herself selling out if she took the easier route and went commercial. And if she did sell out, what on earth would she take pictures of? Toddlers’ birthday parties? Rock stars being released from gaol?

Gaol...Lord. Deborah groaned. She rested her forehead in her hands and closed her eyes. How important was any of this, measured against China’s situation? China, who had been there in Santa Barbara, a caring presence when she needed one most. I’ve seen the two of you together, Debs. If you tell him the truth, he’ll take the next plane back. He’ll want to marry you. He wants to already. But not like this, Deborah had told her. It can’t be like this. So China had made the necessary arrangements. China had taken her to the necessary clinic. Afterwards, China had sat by her bed so when she opened her eyes, the first person she saw was China herself, simply waiting. Then saying, “Hey, girl,” with such an expression of kindness that Deborah thought in the span of her life she would never again have such a friend.

That friendship was a call to action. She could not allow China to believe, any longer than possible, that she was alone. But what to do was the question, because—

A floor board creaked somewhere in the corridor outside the study. Deborah raised her head. Another board creaked. She got up, crossed the room, and pulled open the door.

In the diffused light that came from a lamp still lit outside on the early morning street, Cherokee River was removing his jacket from the radiator, where Deborah had placed it to dry overnight. His intention seemed unmistakable.