Thelma lent her authority to the invitations, though they sometimes made it necessary for her to talk to neighbours, an activity she detested. But she had as little as possible to do with the girls as soon as they had crossed the threshold of 29 Rosington Road. Among themselves, Stanley and Thelma referred to the girls as ‘LVs’, which stood for ‘Little Visitors’.
The proceedings usually opened with tea around the kitchen table. This would be much more lavish than usual. There would be lemonade or Coca-Cola, chocolate biscuits and cake.
‘Ah, tea.’ Stanley would bunch up his pale cheeks in a smile. ‘Splendid. I’m as hungry as a hunter.’
During the meal Thelma spoke only when necessary, though as usual she would eat greedily and rapidly. Afterwards Thelma and Eddie cleared away while Stanley took the LV down to the basement, closing the door behind them. Eddie and Thelma carried on with their lives as normal, as though Stanley and a little girl were not in the basement looking at a dolls’ house. When it was time for the LV to go home, Thelma and Eddie often walked her back to her parents, usually in silence, leaving Stanley behind.
If all had gone well, there would be other visits. Then Stanley would introduce the subject of his second hobby, photography. As ever, he was meticulously careful in his handling of the parents. Would they mind if he took a few photographs of their daughter? She was very photogenic. There was a national competition coming up, and Stanley would like – with the parents’ agreement, of course – to submit a photograph of her. Perhaps the parents would like copies of the photograph for themselves?
It was after Alison moved away that Stanley Grace first asked Eddie into the basement when one of the little visitors was there.
‘I’d like a two-headed shot in the big chair,’ he explained to the space between Thelma and Eddie. ‘Could be rather effective, with one fair head and one dark.’
Eddie was excited; he was also pleased because he interpreted the invitation as a sign that he had somehow earned his father’s approval. The LV in question was Jenny Wren.
He remembered that first afternoon with great clarity, though as so often with memories it was difficult to know whether the clarity was real or apparent. He and Jenny Wren had been too shy to talk much to each other, and in any case, the two-year age gap between them was at that time a significant barrier. His father posed them in the low Victorian armchair, which was large enough to hold both children, their bodies squeezed together from knee to shoulder. He arranged their limbs, deftly tweaking a leg here, draping an arm there. The camera was already mounted on its tripod.
‘Now try and relax,’ Stanley told them. ‘Pretend you’re brother and sister. Or very special friends. Lean your head on Jenny’s shoulder, Eddie. That’s it, Jenny Wren: give Eddie a nice big smile. Watch the birdie now.’ His father squinted through the viewfinder. ‘Smile.’
The shutter clicked. Jenny Wren’s breath smelled sweetly of chocolate. Her dress had ridden up almost to the top of her thighs. The rough fabric of the upholstery rubbed against Eddie’s bare skin and made him want to scratch. He remembered the musty smell of the chair, the essence of a long and weary life.
‘And again, children.’ Click. ‘Very good. Now hitch your legs up a bit, Jenny Wren: lovely.’ Click. ‘Now, Eddie, let’s pretend you’re kissing Jenny Wren’s cheek. No, not like that: look up at her, into her eyes.’ Click. ‘Now let’s have some with just you, Jenny Wren. How about a chocolate first?’
It wasn’t all photographs. Stanley encouraged them to examine the dolls’ house. He allowed Jenny Wren to push her doll Sandy about the rooms and sit her in the chairs and lie her on the beds, even though Sandy was far too large for the house and Jenny Wren’s movements were so poorly coordinated that the fragile furniture was constantly in danger. The children helped themselves from the large box of chocolates. Eddie ate so many that he felt sick. At last it was time for Jenny Wren to go home.
‘You can come again next weekend, if you like.’
Jenny Wren nodded, with her mouth stuffed with chocolate and her eyes on the dolls’ house.
‘By that time I’ll have developed the films. Tell Mummy and Daddy I’ll give you some photos to take home for them.’
Next weekend the photographs were ready. There were more chocolates, more posing, more games with the dolls’ house. Stanley took some of his special artistic photographs, which involved the children taking off some of their clothes. Next weekend it was very warm, one of those early autumn days which until the evening mimic the heat of summer. At Stanley’s suggestion the children took off all their clothes.
‘All artists’ models pose without their clothes. I expect you already knew that. And I dare say neither of you would say no to a little extra pocket money, eh? Well, famous artists always pay their models. So I suppose I shall have to pay you. But this is our secret, all right? That’s very important. Our secret.’
After taking the photographs he suggested that they played a game until it was time to go home. It was so hot that he decided to take off his clothes himself.
‘You won’t mind, will you, Jenny Wren? I know Eddie won’t. He’s seen me in the buff enough times. All part of our secret, eh?’
So it continued, first with Jenny Wren and later with others. The children who excited Stanley’s artistic sensibilities were always girls. Even as a child, Eddie was aware that he was of secondary importance. In the photographs and in the games his role was not much more significant than that of the Victorian armchair. His father’s attention was always on the girl, never on him. As time went by, the invitations to the basement became rarer and rarer.
Once Eddie had reached puberty, his father did not want him there at all. On one occasion he plucked up his courage and knocked on the basement door. He was fourteen, and his father was about to photograph the latest LV, a girl called Rachel with light-brown hair, wary eyes and a freckled face. His father’s feet clumped slowly up the stairs. The key turned in the lock and the door opened.
‘Yes?’
‘I wondered if I could –’ Eddie looked past his father into the basement: the camera was on its tripod; Rachel was fiddling with the dolls’ house. ‘You know – like I used to.’
Stanley stared down at him, his face moon-like. ‘Better not. Nothing personal. But for child photography you have to get the atmosphere just right.’
‘Yes.’ Eddie backed away, hot and ashamed. ‘I see that.’
‘Young children are more artistic.’ Stanley rarely missed an opportunity to stress that his photography was driven by a high, aesthetic purpose. ‘Ask any sculptor from the Classical world.’ At this point he glanced behind him, down into the basement, as if expecting to see Phidias nodding approval from the Victorian armchair, or Praxiteles leaning on the workbench by the window and smiling encouragement. Instead, Stanley looked at Rachel, who was pretending to be absorbed in the dolls’ house. ‘Children are so plastic.’
As a very young child Eddie had admired Stanley and wanted to please him. Then his father had become a fact of life like the weather – neither good nor bad in itself, but liable to vary in its effects on Eddie. Then, with Stanley’s lecture on the aesthetics of his hobby, came the moment of revelation: that Eddie hated his father, and had in fact done so for some time.
The strength of Eddie’s hatred took him unawares and had a number of consequences. Some of these were trivial: he used to spit discreetly in his father’s tea, for example, and once he took one of his father’s shoes and pressed the heel into a dog turd on the pavement. Other consequences were more far-reaching, and affected Eddie rather than his father. It was Stanley’s fault, in a manner of speaking, that Eddie became a teacher, and Eddie never forgave him for that.
In his final year at school, Eddie told his father that he thought he might like to be an archaeologist.