We left Greville’s apartment and went round to the mews behind the building, where the studio and the darkroom was, to find Lockwood Mower, Greville’s apprentice, loading the backdrops, the lights, the tripods and the leather cases containing the heavy plate cameras — the Dallmeyer Reflex and the Busch Portrait — and belting them securely on the luggage rack at the rear of the motor.
‘You look a proper film star, Miss Clay,’ Lockwood said. I gave a demure little stage-bow. Lockwood was a tall, burly lad, about my age, I suppose, with tar-black hair and a very dark complexion, as if he were a gypsy or very heavily suntanned, like a Mediterranean sailor or olive-picker. His even features were spoiled by a slightly undershot jaw and the fact that his eyes were set a little too far apart. He looked both pugnacious and somewhat surprised, ‘like a boxer who’s just received bad news’ was how I’d described him to Greville, who found that very amusing.
Lockwood was softly spoken and diligent and I’d noticed, in the weeks I’d been working with Greville, how Greville relied on him more and more. Lockwood did not have to blend in. He would rig up the room set aside to be used as an impromptu studio in whatever house or venue we happened to be working in and stay there. Tonight he was in his usual outfit: a black three-piece serge suit, navy blue flannel shirt and cerise tie. He had begun to copy Greville by putting some sort of pomade in his hair and there was always a pungent odour of cheap cologne about him.
Greville and I sat in the back seat and Lockwood took the wheel.
‘Allons-y, mes braves,’ Greville said and we set off. I felt a little boil of excitement in my stomach as we pulled on to Kensington High Street and headed to Mayfair. Off on a job — as if we were going on a mission of some kind — ready to storm the redoubts of high society.
Greville took out his cigarette case and offered it to me. I selected a cigarette and he lit it, before lighting his own.
‘Who’s this for, tonight?’ I asked, blowing smoke at the car roof. ‘The Illustrated?’
‘Beau Monde.’
‘Oh, dear, Tatler will be cross with you.’
‘Good,’ he smiled at me. ‘We’ve got some real scalps tonight. I might need you to ferret them out.’
‘My pleasure.’
I sat back in my seat as we drove up Knightsbridge. I had always thought it highly likely that I should fall in love with my uncle — and once I had gone to work for him that likelihood became irresistible, as far as I was concerned. To sit beside him like this, smoking a cigarette, our elbows touching as we were driven to Lady Cremlaine’s party, seemed the very apogee of bliss. We were already partners, working together, and I knew how much he liked me, how fond he was of me — he kept on saying it — it could only be a matter of time.
I checked that everything was ready. Lockwood had set up in a ground-floor reception room off the hall. Lights rigged, backdrop in place — hanging in carefully arranged folds from its frame — assorted potted plants carefully positioned, and the two big cameras on their wooden tripods, lenses receiving a final polish from Lockwood’s lint-free duster.
‘All shipshape, Miss Clay. Who’s up first?’
I looked at my list. ‘The Honourable Miss Edith Medcalf. Is she important? Have we done her before?’
‘Not by me. Maybe Mr Reade-Hill knows her.’
‘I’ll ask our hostess.’
I found the Hon. Miss Medcalf — a lumpy-faced and offhand youngish woman reputedly in her late twenties, but who appeared much older (her dress looked like it had been run up from a pair of discarded curtains). She was one of those people who wouldn’t age: she’d look the same at twenty-five or sixty-five. She turned out to be very pleased with herself and her new engagement ring and I delivered her to Lockwood. Then I went in search of Greville. He had to be there to take the photograph even though all that was involved was a few seconds’ chit-chat and a click of the shutter release. Lockwood and I had done all the work, but society ladies wanted Greville Reade-Hill to take their photographs, not his niece or, heaven forbid, his apprentice.
I swept back upstairs to the ballroom where a sizeable dance band was playing ‘Ain’t She Sweet’ and on the wide landing outside I saw Greville chatting to a diminutive slim man and two women in billowing lace. I sidled round to catch Greville’s eye; he spotted me, excused himself and came over.
‘Miss Medcalf awaits,’ I said.
He handed me another list of names.
‘Track this lot down,’ he said. ‘We should be out of here within an hour.’
‘Who was that little chap you were talking to? I thought I recognised him.’
‘That “little chap” is the Prince of Wales. Our future king.’
I looked round but he’d gone.
‘Second thoughts,’ Greville said, ‘I’d better chase after him. You snap Miss Medcalf. Then I’ll find Lady Foster-Porter.’
‘Me?’
‘I think you’re more than ready to open the batting,’ he said, and gave me a swift kiss on the cheek.
Miss Medcalf was not at all pleased to discover that her photograph was to be taken by Miss Amory Clay and initially refused, demanding Greville’s presence.
‘He’s with the Prince of Wales,’ I said, and that both calmed and impressed her but she strode off after the photo had been taken without a word of farewell or thanks.
The Hon. Miss Edith Medcalf at Lady Cremlaine’s ball, 1927.
‘Charming,’ Lockwood said. ‘Glass of champagne, Miss Clay? I snaffled a bottle from downstairs.’ Lockwood poured us both a glass, we toasted my first ‘society’ photograph and I then went in search of the Countess of Rackham and the Marchesa Lucrezia Barberini.
Greville was right, we had nabbed our trophies in just over an hour and Lockwood drove me and the equipment back to Falkland Court. Greville was following later, continuing his wooing of the prince — a royal photograph would put him squarely in the elite and ensure a consequent rise in fees and clients. He’d already taken Prince Aly Kahn and was after Mrs Dudley Ward and Marmaduke Furness. The Prince of Wales would unlock many doors.
Lockwood pulled up outside the mews and began to unpack the motor — he lived in a small room under the roof with a tiny dormer window — while I made sure all the film and plates were properly stored and safe and returned to the flat. Greville’s apartment was on the top floor of a large mansion block just behind the High Street and from the drawing-room windows there was a good view of Kensington Gardens and the palace. Greville’s bedroom, dressing room, bathroom and study took up most of the rest of the space. I was in the maid’s quarters behind the kitchen — a little room with a WC and a basin in a cupboard — but otherwise I had the run of the flat. I had painted the walls of my room emerald green and had hung red sackcloth curtains at the small window. I’d had some of my photographs framed and hung on the wall (‘Xan, Flying’, ‘Boy with Bat and Hat’ and ‘Running Boy’), laid a second-hand Persian rug on the floor and a patchwork quilt on the bed. There was too much colour and too much busyness for such a small room but I felt snug and secure. I was living in London — and Falkland Court was my first home away from Beckburrow — and I was earning a living (seven shillings and sixpence a day) — and I was going out to parties with all the swells at least three times a week if not four.
I slipped out of my smart dress and hung it in the cupboard, putting on my new ‘Zemana’ — house pyjamas — with its floral appliqués. I wandered through to the drawing room, poured myself a small brandy and soda and lit a cigarette, waiting for Greville to return.