The photographer proceeds to set up his camera near to the window. Mrs. Smythe bares her teeth in what I suppose is a smile and holds still. But Mr. Allen isn't ready yet. He sits down at the table and drapes a black cloth over the box and his head and shoulders. There's a sound of clinking glass and a strong smell of ether fills the room.
Mrs. Smythe is growing restive. "Young man, are you going to be much longer? I have a very important appointment with the Ambassador and I don't want to be late."
The black cloth convulses and the photographer emerges from his darkroom, red-faced, with tears streaming from his eyes from the chemicals. "Not long now," he gasps and plunges under the cloth again. He appears holding a plate of glass by its edges, which he slides into the camera.
He is ready at last. But his sitter isn't. Bored with waiting Mrs. Smythe has tipped the contents of her purse into her lap and is busy sorting through them.
"Um—" Mr. Allen looks round helplessly.
Mr. Sneed is talking to Weeks by the door. Eliza has been going round persuading everyone to take off their caps and doing her best to smooth our hair with a comb. Seeing the photographer's discomfort, she comes forward.
"Um—can you tell the—rr—lady to hold still. It'll only take ten seconds or so."
Her eyes dance. "You could tell her yourself, you know." But she relents, gets Mrs. Smythe arranged, and the photograph is taken.
More activity under the black cloth of the box follows and finally Mr. Allen emerges with the plate and places it on the table.
"Is that the photograph?" Eliza seizes the plate.
"Well, yes—but—"
"She's got a black face!"
I press forward with some of the other patients to see. A hubbub of comment breaks out, above which Mrs. Smythe is strident. "Disgraceful. He has made a mockery of me. A treasonable offence, I shouldn't wonder."
Mr. Allen snatches the plate from Eliza, clutching it protectively to his chest. "This is the negative. I haven't finished processing it yet." Sweat has broken out on his brow and he mops at it with a large spotted handkerchief.
Weeks comes to his rescue, shooing us back and the process of capturing our images proceeds.
I wish I could see what he was doing in his box. I would like to know how it works. We never had our photographs taken at home. Perhaps Mamma thought it was frivolous or a waste of money.
One Christmas—it seems a long time ago but it can't have been—Aunt Phyllis sent us a leather case that opened like a concertina, containing six photographs: single portraits of herself, Uncle Bertram, William, Grace, Maud, and one of the whole family sitting in the garden. In this, Maud was blurred—she must have moved—and Grace's face was in shadow. But in the single portrait, Grace was herself, so vivid and alive, my pulse raced every time I looked at it. I wanted to take out the photograph and keep it for myself, but Mamma would have noticed it was missing.
Remembering it now, my heart aches.
Grace, Grace ... what are you doing? Do you know where I am? Do you ever think of me?
I shake my head at my own foolishness. Of course she won't be thinking of me. Her life is full. No room for thoughts of me in it. And perhaps it's best, that she doesn't think of me at all, rather than think of me and shudder.
"Miss!" Eliza is calling me. It's my turn.
The photographer has grown bolder. He comes up to me and tilts my head slightly. His fingers are stained yellow and smell of chemicals. "Keep looking straight ahead. Hold still."
I stare at the eye of the camera, keeping still. But the next moment there's a commotion over on the other side of the room and I turn my head to look. It's Beatrice Hill. Weeks must have just wheeled her in. She's staring at the photographer, her body rigid, her face chalk-white and she's uttering a high-pitched wail that sends shivers down my spine.
For a moment everyone in the room is frozen into stillness, staring.
Then Weeks bends over Beatrice and speaks to her, but the wailing doesn't stop. Mr. Sneed says something to Weeks, who seizes the chair and wheels it from the room. The sound echoes down the corridor, grows fainter, ceases.
In the day room the silence is broken by Mr. Sneed, who clears his throat and assuming a jovial smile, says to the photographer, "Nothing to worry about. Carry on, my good man."
For a moment it appears Mr. Allen will not be able to carry on, his hands are shaking so much as he carries the plate with my image on it over to the table. He dives under his tent and there is a crash of bottles falling.
I haven't moved from the seat. What was it that made Beatrice so distressed? I haven't had a chance to see her again. I must try, even if I only manage to see her once before I go. She seems so vulnerable, I want to help her. I can't do anything for her, but perhaps talking to me would comfort her.
Eliza's hand is on my elbow. "Come on, Miss, it's Mrs. Thorpe's turn." As if she can read my mind, she says quietly in my ear, "Weeks has this afternoon off. And Roberts is on duty."
After lunch, the room still smells of chemicals, but the photographer has departed. Roberts is poring over our photographs, laid out on the table, and she looks up as we enter.
"Come and see, Eliza," she squawks. "Frights, ain't they!"