And he’s a mumbler, a swallower of words. Despite spending the last six years in a perfectly nice part of Berkshire, he speaks in a bored cockney drawl because God forbid anyone should think his father has done well or worked hard, God forbid anyone should think that he’s comfortable and cared for and loved, loved equally by both of his parents even if he only seems to desire and require the attentions of one.
In short, my son makes me feel like his step-father.
I have had some experience of unrequited love in the past and that was no picnic, I can tell you. But the unrequited love of one’s only living offspring has its own particular slow acid burn.
But now the train had finally begun to move, and Albie had switched the fearless truth-telling eye of his camera lens from his untied laces to the walls of the tunnels under east London, because you can never have enough pictures of dirty concrete.
‘I hope you’re going to take lots of pictures of the Eiffel Tower, Egg,’ I said, in an affectionate, teasing tone. ‘Me and your mother standing in front with our thumbs up?’ We demonstrated. ‘Or — another tip — I can put my hand out flat like this, so it looks like I’m holding it …’
‘That’s not photography, that’s
My son was soon to study photography on a three-year course which we were financing and although my wife, who knew about these things, insisted that he had talent, an ‘eye’, the fact of it filled me with an anxiety that I fought daily to suppress. At one point he had been intending to study theatre — theatre! — and at least I had managed to nip that in the bud, but now it was photography, the latest of a long series of temporary passions — ‘street art’, skateboarding, DJ-ing, drumming — the abandoned detritus of which cluttered cellar, attic and garage, alongside the optimistic chemistry set that I had bought and he had tossed aside, the hopeful microscope that had never been unpacked, the dusty box that offered an opportunity to ‘Grow Your Own Crystals!’
But there was no denying his enthusiasm. Albie with a camera was something to see, crouching and contorting his long body into a question mark as if playing the role of ‘photographer’. Sometimes he fired off frames at arm’s length, in what I believe is called ‘gangster style’, sometimes on tiptoe, back arched like a toreador. Initially I made the mistake of standing and grinning when the camera was produced, but soon realised that he wouldn’t actually press the shutter until I’d stepped out of the frame. In fact, in all the thousands of shots that he had taken, many of them loving portraits of his mother — her eyes, her smile — alongside his usual repertoire of wet cardboard boxes and badgers hit by cars, etc., there was not a single photograph of me. Not of my face, anyway, just an extreme close-up of the back of my hand, black and white in heavy contrast, part of a college project that I later discovered was called ‘Waste/Decay’.
Albie’s passion for photography had been the cause of tension in other ways. I had a printer in my office, a top-of-the-range colour model whose features included glacial speed and shocking running costs. Consequently, I was more than a little annoyed to return from work one day and hear the printer grinding away. Irritably, I examined the top print of a sizeable pile of 8x10s. It seemed to be a high-contrast, minutely detailed black-and-white print of some kind of dark moss and only when I peered more closely did I realise that this was in fact a photograph of a naked female form, shot in profile so to speak. I dropped the photograph, then gingerly examined the shot beneath. In washed-out black and white, it might have passed for some sort of snowy mountain range, were it not for the pale dimpled nipple that crowned the peak. Meanwhile, a third image was rumbling its way out of the machine and from the section that was visible, there seemed every chance that buttocks were emerging.
I called Connie in. ‘Have you seen Albie?’
‘He’s in his room. Why?’
I held up the photographs and predictably, her response was to clasp her hand to her mouth and laugh. ‘Oh, Egg. What
‘Why can’t he just photograph someone’s
‘Because he’s a seventeen-year-old boy, Douglas. This is what they do.’
‘I didn’t. I photographed wildlife. Birds and squirrels and iron-age forts.’
‘Which is why you’re a biochemist and he’s a photographer.’
‘I wouldn’t mind so much, but does he have any idea how much the cartridges cost for this thing?’
Connie, meanwhile, was peering closely at the buttocks. ‘My money’s on Roxanne Sweet.’ She held the photograph to the light. ‘I think they’re rather good. Of course he’s pinched it all off Bill Brandt, but they’re not bad.’
‘Our son, the pornographer.’
