Part Two of the Unfolding Tragedy

Just another assignment. A Tuesday, I think. A Tuesday in January. Bloody cold in that old Manor House. And the car wouldn’t start. Don’t know how I’ll get back. What’s that? No make up? OK. Let’s get on with it. You stand there. By the window. Look out. Look wistful. Can you do bed hair? That’s nice. Sorry it’s so cold. No heating in these old places. Thank God that’s finished. I didn’t like the look of that chair where they put my clothes. Still, too cold for fleas this weather. I hope. He could have given me a lift. The bus is late. Wonder what I’ll have for dinner tonight. Must get some warmer shoes. They say it’s going to snow.

A beautiful woman from the 1960s. A draughty old rectory where rocking horses in the abandoned nursery occasionally begin to move entirely on their own. Dusty windows unopened since The Abdication. Snatches of spidery sound from downstairs where Neville Chamberlain is announcing that Part Two of the tragedy is about to start in the main theatre. A Spitfire roaring overhead. A cold breeze in the churchyard beyond as the ground shifts in anticipation of more untimely deaths. A shudder down the spine of the agency model as she gets dressed, and a hurried exit by the photographer leaving without a word of farewell. Autumn leaves swirling round her feet as she hurries for the bus. A pony and trap passing with a coffin in the back. It is history and it repeats itself in a macabre mosaic across time.

Bien sûr. They met outside the front door of the Old Rectory, a Regency building in need of renovation. He had passed her earlier in his car as she walked up the lane a short distance from the bus stop. He made no reference to that; perhaps he had not noticed her in the fine mist enveloping the landscape. She said nothing either. He said this was unofficial. His mate who worked for the agent handling the sale had lent him the key the previous night. He unlocked the door and led her to a large reception room with dustcovers over the furniture. He extracted a couple of chairs and draped his jacket over one of them. He said he would not take long to set up, and placed his camera on the edge of a large table mostly covered by more dustsheets. He indicated the second chair. ‘You can put your clothes on that,’ he instructed. A small cloud of condensation formed in the air by his face as the words left his mouth. It seemed colder inside than out, she thought. He was precise in directing her in the poses he wanted by the window at the end of the room. They worked quickly as the morning light grew stronger. At one point he said he needed to fetch a reflector from the car. He retrieved his coat and put it round her shoulders. ‘Shan’t be long,’ he told her. She shivered whilst waiting for his return with a flimsy-looking contraption which he quickly put in place. She took off his jacket and replaced it on the chair. He took a few more pictures but by now the cold air on her skin was having an effect beyond her control. He announced he had all he wanted. She got dressed while he packed his stuff away. He restored the two chairs to where they had been underneath the dustsheets and indicated that they should now leave. Outside he locked the door and took an envelope from his coat pocket which he passed to her without a word. In a moment he had started his car and left the grounds. She counted the cash inside the envelope before stuffing it into her handbag. On her walk back to the bus stop she again felt the surface of the badly made road through the worn soles of her shoes. She thought the shoeshop would be open by the time she got back to town. There was a rather nice three-quarter length wool coat in Frobisher’s; maybe she could afford that too.