Once the farm and its buildings were readied for the winter, Tom turned his attention to the two rooms he had rented from Mrs. MacKenzie. One was to be a studio for customers and the back room would be used for developing photographs. Iain scrubbed walls, floors, and ceilings. Tom watched the boy’s muscles flexing and stretching beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeves. Once he had finished, Tom told him to clean everything a second time, despite his grumbles.
“Everything must be shipshape. Any specks of dust will find their way into the camera. Then we’ll have black spots on the plate ruining the picture.”
Iain made a face but did as he was asked. Tom was keen to set up his business before winter tightened its grip. He scrubbed the windows facing the street, rubbing the smeary surface with crunched-up newspaper soaked in vinegar until the glass gleamed. One side was to display his artistic skills with framed watercolors of forests, farms, and coastline. Above them, he mounted a row of painted miniatures based on sketches of passengers from the ship. His Scottish landscapes had all been stored away even though they might well appeal to immigrants who wanted a memento of home. After all, John Robinson the shipping clerk from Liverpool wouldn’t have the means or leisure for painting expeditions so far from home. When Tom had leafed through his earlier work, his heart lurched when he saw her. Creased but still glowing, her features in tune, tawny curls drifting from under her scarf. What secret lay behind those limpid, wide-spaced eyes? What should he do with the picture? He wondered whether to recreate it as a miniature and display it with the others. Maybe one day she would suddenly appear and recognize herself in the window? He didn’t want to banish her to a dusty drawer after carrying her in his pocket over so many miles, but how could he live in peace if she was there, her gaze following his every movement? He stroked her features before hiding her away among the other rejected sketches, dried and pressed relics from his earlier life.
The other window was to be the modern one, devoted to photography. Here were to be pictures of local homes and workplaces, cabins, farmhouses, and fishing boats. The sort of scenes immigrants might want to send to families back home as a record of their newfound prosperity. Mostly though he displayed portraits. He had asked people to pose for him, fishermen with faces as roughened as the bark of spruce trees, youngsters shining with hope and vitality, and babies with joyous smiles. He winced as he looked at his studies of the ungainly Misses MacKenzie. He had better include them or he would risk offending the family even more. What plain and unprepossessing young women they were! Technically though it was an excellent photograph, sharply delineated and well composed with the maple tree spreading its canopy behind them. Finally he added photographs of Iain that he thought showed an artistic sensibility. He had achieved a blurred effect that added pathos without sentimentality. Emma had told him how popular such studies of street urchins were in England.
Iain was now busy in the workroom dusting down the props they had collected for portrait studies. He had already carried some of them through into the studio. A spindle-legged chair, an occasional table, an elaborate vase in the Chinese style. All items that gave an illusion of civilized comfort to the rough reality of living on the edge of a wilderness. Tom stood back to survey his work. He could hear Iain’s feet shuffling behind him as he manhandled a second load from the workshop. A shout, followed by a crash, made Tom jump.
“What on earth?” He turned to see a cracked picture frame and pottery fragments strewn around the boy’s feet.
“Those things cost me money I can ill afford,” he snapped but Iain took no notice. He pointed at the pictures of himself.
“You can’t put those up.”
“I can do whatever I think right.” Tom was angry, but he glimpsed something fugitive behind Iain’s fury, like the shadow of a deer hiding among the trees. So he drew a deep breath, “What’s wrong?”
“They shame me. I look like a wretch, a stray dog.”
“I wanted to show how you’ve changed from a ragged waif to how you are now. Strong, on the cusp of manhood.”
“Do you think I want folk to pity me?”
“But they won’t. They’re inspiring.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be despised.”
Tom patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll take them down. Get a broom for the rubbish.”
Iain did as he asked while Tom removed the prints, disappointed as they were his best work so far. For a moment he found himself hankering after naval life where men held their tongues, obeyed orders, and kept unruly feelings stowed away.
When he opened for business the next day, Tom was heartened by the interest shown in the small town. Plenty of people trooped into his studio, exclaiming at the displays, especially the photographs and wanting to know how the camera worked. Unfortunately, their interest didn’t extend to spending much money.
Autumn, or fall as they kept reminding him to call it, had roared in with its chilly breath. Tom realized that traveling each day from the farm would be dangerous once there were heavy falls of snow. It would be best if he stayed at the studio while Iain looked after the farm, feeding himself from their stores and any game he could catch. Their neighbors had warned them about how cabin fever could drive a man demented, but Iain was sensible enough to manage.
At least by the coast the snow was cleared enough so that he could venture out if he stuffed himself into so many layers of garments that he moved like a stiff-legged marionette. One December morning he felt restless and went out for a walk along the shore, beyond the wooden warehouses and shacks, along to where the small boats were dragged up on dry land for their winter hibernation. He trudged along feeling dispirited. Everything was a dingy iron gray. The sullen sea where ice was forming a slush on the surface, the snow heavy sky voided of color, and the grubby heaps of cleared snow beside buildings. Hearing running feet behind him he turned to see David, the lad from the shipping office, with a parcel under his arm.
“It’s just arrived from England and I thought you’d want it at once.”
Tom thanked him and grasping the heavy package to his chest, hurried back to the studio. He was sure that everyone in the street would be peering through their windows and speculating about what he was carrying. It was exciting to receive such a weighty parcel. It must be from Emma, his only link to the outside world. He hurried back to his workroom. Inside the box there was something bulky protected by a layer of sacking but he turned his attention first to the envelope lying on top.
Dear Brother,
October, 1862
I was greatly relieved to receive your letter and to know that you arrived safely. I understand your reason for addressing me as an unmarried woman but I was also vexed. What would have happened if Fred had seen it first? He doesn’t know that I met you in Liverpool and it would have been very awkward to have to explain my secrecy. Fortunately he is away from home so often tending to his patients that he would be unlikely to intercept the postman before me and he is too preoccupied to be curious about my activities. Nevertheless, I thought it prudent to give him some information about you as deceits are often uncovered later. I explained that you had left the Navy, suggesting without actually lying, that you had departed of your own accord. He was distracted as he was preparing to leave to attend a confinement.
“I wish him good luck in the colonies,” he said, snapping his bag closed.
“He addressed the letter to Miss Emma Wilson to give the impression that he has a fiancé in England. I believe that he’s being plagued by the unwelcome intentions of two young ladies and wanted to discourage them.”
Fred seemed not to be listening but then he surprised me by looking up sharply.
“Well, I understand his motive but I disapprove of falsehoods. How will he extricate himself when the young lady fails to appear?”
That’s a very good question, I thought but not one I can answer.
Turning to the more congenial subject of photography I hope you will be pleased with the contents of this parcel. At first I thought I would merely recommend the equipment to you and suggest that if you couldn’t obtain it locally you could send to America for it. The Americans are at the forefront of photographic developments. However, I then wondered if the terrible civil war there might disrupt communications with Canada.
After you left I was worried that the advice I gave you about photography was not as helpful as it could have been. I’m an amateur who can please myself and experiment with whatever artistic fancy I choose. You need to earn your living. A few weeks ago, when I was doing some shopping in Leamington Spa, I noticed a new photographic studio had opened. Curiosity drove me inside and I spoke at length with Mr. Ellis the proprietor, under the pretext that I wanted to have some family portraits taken. He showed me examples of very fine portraits, the size of a visiting card, the modern version of the painted miniature, you could say. They were available at a modest cost. I was amazed and asked what sort of camera he used. With a flourish he produced a carte de visite camera with four small lenses. An ingenious sliding mechanism enables you to take eight photographs at once on a single wet plate. These can all be the same pose or you can cover and uncover different lenses to produce a variety of studies. Then they can be cut up and pasted on individual mounts. They became popular in France first and are all the rage here now. I had to smile sweetly while he gave me a lengthy exposition on the principles of photography, delivered at a slow pace suitable for a young child, or a lady. However, this was a small price to pay for acquiring such useful knowledge about this particular camera. I hope that it will bring you good fortune.
With my fondest wishes,
Emma
After reading the letter Tom couldn’t wait to excavate the camera. Its four lenses in their brass surrounds gleamed inside their wooden casing like portholes looking out to a new horizon. Tom had no difficulty in kindling interest among his neighbors. The next day there was a gaggle waiting and stamping their feet outside the door before he opened. By the third day, he had an array of portraits in his window, with a list of prices. He topped them with a sign declaring that these miniature portraits were the height of fashion in London, Edinburgh, and Perth. He chose not to mention their popularity in Paris in case Presbyterian sensibilities considered that information too racy.
Emma was right about the appeal of these small, affordable photographs. They sold well and come the spring thaw more people would arrive from the countryside. I can afford a horse now, he thought, and if I get a mule too for the equipment I could even set myself up as an itinerant photographer, traveling to the more distant communities. That idea cheered him. It wasn’t so different from his surveying days when Captain Otter would send him out from the Porcupine to Highland villages to find out the names of the bays, hills, and beaches.