36

After Sally had left, Ewan’s ears were aching with tension from the restraint he’d had to exercise. He felt Lucifer’s pushing demands against his neck, but as he attempted to fondle him, the cat twisted and leapt away. He gritted his teeth, berating himself for his weakness. It must have been obvious to Sally that his emotional reaction was much more than a mere therapist. As a fellow grief counsellor, she was trained to recognise signs, so what explanation could he offer if she tried to draw out his feelings further tonight? Her natural duty was to counsel, and wasn’t this what he craved?

The imprint of her fingers remained on his head, and an irrational thought jerked through him. That he should run after her, call her, make her return, allow himself to collapse and reveal himself, as surely he had to for the sake of his future sanity. Her Madonna’s arms would hold him and her cool hands would massage his bursting head. Why did he see himself kneeling at her feet and kissing the smooth skin of her ankles? Fearful of madness, he forced his mind to swing to the higher plane of suffering and denial to which all priests are conditioned.

With gritty resolve he folded his hands together and prepared to continue his odyssey, noticing the smooth, white indentation on the finger that had held his ring. Its skin was shedding like a snake’s.

15th December 1982

As directed, Ewan arrived on time at Jacob Poznanski’s studio. Alma Terrace was one of the many narrow side-streets that made up the congested area of South Hackney, and the entrance to number nine was an archway, fronted by a high pair of rusting iron gates. He lifted a stiff latch, pushed his way in and found himself in the scruffy courtyard of a seemingly derelict warehouse. It was built of dull, yellowy London brick, blackened by the polluted air of steam trains, factory chimneys and exhaust fumes since its Victorian inception. Roof water ran down a drainpipe, straight out onto some green-slimed cobbles, and a precarious looking fire escape hung ominously onto the side of a fifty-foot wall. He looked up to see a row of sad, cold pigeons, puffed to the size of chickens, clinging to the gutters.

With no signs of occupation, and with all the window panes either cracked or cobwebbed, he was sure he’d come to the wrong place. But then he noticed a standard bell push, positioned beneath a small painted notice board: Jacob Poznanski. Photographic Studio.

He hovered, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, suddenly realising the extent of his commitment. This whole thing was a folly; a bizarre derangement he had no moral right to be contemplating. A lurch of diffidence shook his body, but as his fingertip hovered over the smooth plastic button, he was compelled to press. He gave it one short pulse, hoping perhaps that the bell was faulty. That he could truthfully say he’d turned up, but having got no answer, had left.

Jacob immediately appeared at the top of the fire escape. ‘Up here, my dear boy,’ he called out. ‘In the penthouse suite.’

Once Ewan had climbed to the top of the wobbly metal staircase, Jacob led him into an echoing, high-walled space that measured perhaps sixty feet in each direction. Clearly, it had undergone an extensive conversion. The smooth walls and ceiling were painted with bright white emulsion, the floor was covered with shiny black vinyl, and on one side – the north-facing side – a wholly glazed wall afforded a far-reaching view of the green-swarded London Fields. Jacob introduced him to two young men who were busy setting up the shoot. Max, his technician, and Gary, an artistic assistant.

‘This is David. A young friend of mine who has never been involved in the madhouse of photography before.’

The two men smiled and said a friendly, ‘Hi, David,’ and although they’d obviously been told that the model coming had a cleft-lip repair, they looked at him as most people did: a split second too long, followed by a dropping of the eyes and a turning away.

‘Right, gentlemen,’ Jacob announced. ‘What I’ve got in mind is purely a work of art. The crucifix is in place and the wind and rain will be provided by high-tech equipment.’ He laughed. ‘A hairdryer and a plastic spray bottle of water. David, your own jeans are too new for the effect I want to portray, so I’ve acquired some old worn ones for you to wear. Your boots are just fine. I want your upper body naked apart from…’ He lowered his voice. ‘Did you remember to bring the collar?’ Ewan nodded. Jacob then turned to his assistants.

‘We are going to create David as the modern-day Christ. The boots will need some paste to dirty them up, he is to wear a dog collar around the neck and on the brow the barbed wire crown Gary has made. I want the jeans to have a low waist with a tight crotch and thigh. In this picture I wish to create a tableau of beauty, virtue and piety but by Christ this guy could shag his arse off if he weren’t dying.’

Once Ewan was dressed to order, Gary examined his arms and finger-pulled his long hair into various positions. ‘Jacob, do you agree to shaving of arms only?’ he asked. ‘His chest hair is excellent and upper body very beautiful. Skin quality is quite flawless. Beard stubble can be untouched, but I might tidy the neck up a bit.’

Jacob stepped back and thought carefully. ‘Fine to leave stubble and to tidy up neck, but otherwise disagree. Shave off all visible body hair and rub in baby oil. No make-up at all on the face, and absolutely no hair gel or lacquer. I want the so-called rain to run off the tips of his hair and trickle down his chest. With oil on skin it will run like tears.’

The Crucifixion cross had been borrowed from a theatre company production of Jesus Christ, Super Star, so all restraining shackles had been proved safe. Shaven and oiled, Ewan mounted by stepladder and was manipulated into position. Concealed clips were attached to his jeans, the heel of a boot was placed on a hidden platform and his flopped, manacled hands were able to rest on discreet spurs. But, despite this element of safety, it was a scary and uncomfortable position that required a great deal of his own strength and concentration to maintain.

After Polaroids were taken, the three men debated and argued technicalities amongst themselves. With all dissent resolved, Jacob began, with great energy and deliberation, giving precise instructions as to how he wanted to involve both artificial and natural lighting. Spotlights went on and spotlights went off. Blinds went down and blinds went up. The team worked with balletic precision, involving diverse angles, several reels of film and numerous changes of camera. After ten minutes, Ewan was beginning to tire and feared he might slip.

‘Please, Jacob,’ he called. ‘I’m exhausted. May I come down for a rest?’

‘The more exhausted you look the better,’ Jacob called up to him. ‘I am selfish old sod. Just one more reel and then we have lunch break, yes?’

Eventually shooting stopped, and Ewan was helped down, but his body was as stiff and cold as an effigy in a church. While Max disappeared to the dark room with the shot reels, Gary passed him a candlewick bedspread to wrap himself in and led him to sit before a two-bar electric fire. ‘Get warmed up, David. I’ll nip out and get us all some sandwiches, but perhaps this morning I should ask for loaves and fishes?’

Jacob laid his cameras down and walked over, rubbing his hands together. ‘We have done good work, but I think your neck will be stiff and sore. Let me ease your muscles.’ He moved to stand behind Ewan’s chair and his fingers began to stretch and knead. ‘You are very beautiful young man, Ewan, or perhaps I should really call you David. Looking at your body I think only of Michelangelo’s David. The perfection of Renaissance man. The models that the master used for both painting and sculpture were labouring men, you see. Not lazy sons of merchants or fat cats. Builders and stonemasons with tight muscles and sinews. They led physical lives. They worked hard, using the strength of their bodies to earn their livings, such as their livings were. In those days the priests would have been very fat and flabby.’ He leaned forward and kissed Ewan’s bare shoulder.

Ewan instantly recoiled and shot forward with shock. ‘Don’t be so shy, dear flower,’ Jacob continued. ‘What does the big book say about hiding lights under bushels? My light shines like the sun out of my big bushel. I feel huge passion for you.’

‘I’m not… I’m not what you think I am,’ said Ewan.

‘I know that you are priest, and I guess that you are virgin?’

‘Yes, but I’m not gay.’

‘Ah! Then if you know you are not gay, you must know that you are straight?’

‘Yes. I know that, but I’ve chosen to lead a celibate life.’

‘Is it because of your looks? Your lip? Do you think women will not want to kiss you or sleep with you?’

Ewan flushed and fumbled for words – for the right words – feeling a sense of fury. Why did he always have to explain himself to people? ‘I’ve chosen the life of a priest because I love God and I want to be his disciple, and I can try to do so much good in the world. It’s my life. I’ve the right to choose and I’ve chosen.’

Jacob moved round and sank down heavily on a scruffy chair beside him. ‘Forgive me, please. You have humbled me to shame. My behaviour was disgraceful. Can we shake hands? I promise I behave myself now.’

‘Of course,’ replied Ewan. ‘I extend to you the love of God.’ The two men shook hands and Jacob leaned back in the chair. ‘The right to choose your life’s path in this country is your birthright, and I sometimes forget how lucky I am to be here. I am refugee, you see. Polish Jew. My father was a doctor and we lived in a small town near Warsaw. We had big house, fine furniture, large garden and servants. One day I had been out with our old gardener to pick up wood for our fires – a regular treat I greatly enjoyed, as we would travel the surrounding area with a pony and trap, and stop to have our bread and cheese under the watery sun. On that day, when he brought me home, the house had been wrecked. Ripped through as if by bomb. My parents, my two brothers and my sister had all disappeared. I was only five years old, but I remember that scene as if it were yesterday. They had been taken away to death camps, like thousands of others. After that, I stayed with the old gardener and his wife.’ He shrugged. ‘They had no choice but to look after me.’

Ewan, with immediate sympathy for Jacob’s suffering, was compelled to hear more of his terrifying story. ‘Please, tell me more. Much more. How did you survive?’

‘There’s not much more to tell. No, of course that is not true. There is much, much more, but my short story is that the three of us were taken soon afterwards to the Jewish ghetto in Warsaw. The old couple quickly grew weak and ill, and were unable to care for me, so I joined up with a large group of other abandoned children. We were like feral dogs, keeping ourselves alive by scratching and begging, hanging on to anyone who could take us in. By the time the war ended we had had very little adult care or education. We were bordering on little savages, but we learned to look out for each other and love each other. I was rescued by a British charity and brought to UK in 1945 when I was ten. I was adopted by Anglican family, the Wakefields. They took me to their lovely country house and gave me privileged life. Private education, holidays, horses, and the same love and attention they gave to their natural children. I was absorbed into their lives as if I was an ingredient in a cake, and indeed, when the cake was baked, there I was. Jack Wakefield. New English boy. Ewan, never could I be an English boy, so out of respect to my roots I work under my birth name of Poznanski. My Wakefield family is proud of me, but they accept me for what I am. They know I still belong to Poland.’

‘Have you ever been back there to look for your family?’

‘Once, about ten years ago, but in my heart I knew that searching for them was madness. I managed to find the place where our small town had been, but it was wholly changed and there was nothing left of the community. Our house had stood alone, surrounded by forestation and fields, but the area had been razed and was part of huge factory complex. All records had disappeared, and what chance did I have of finding anyone who knew us?’ He raised his arms to demonstrate hopelessness. ‘We were Jews, my dear. In the war, if a Polish Jew was not herded away to be killed, he did the smart thing and ran away. Things being as they are, I’ve no chance of ever finding out their fate.’

‘But things are changing for Poland today.’

‘True. Today there is a real wind of change in my country. The Pope and Walesa are doing everything they can to cry freedom, but you note that these men are Catholics. Poland has a great Catholic tradition, and I thank my God for them, but the history that hangs over me and my people is a closed door.’

Jacob then shut his eyes and began to sing in a strange language; a song that sounded like a lullaby, even though his voice was a deep, bass baritone. He sang three verses, and then opened his eyes. ‘You see. Still word perfect and still exquisite words. ‘Rozhinkes Mit Mandlen. Raisins and Almonds. In the temple corner sits a widowed daughter of Zion, rocking her only son. She sings, “ Someday you will trade in raisins and almonds… that will be your calling. Sleep now, little one, sleep.” I can still remember my Mamush holding me on her knee and singing that little song, and then she used to hug me tight and say, “ Ikh hob dikh lib.” Yiddish for “I love you.”’ He then jumped up out of the chair and his voice strengthened. ‘That is it. That is enough of Jacob and his broken heart. We will have good strong coffee now, my friend.’ He turned and walked over to a table that held a kettle, mugs and a cafetière. ‘Ewan, the prison of my sexuality means I will never have my own child on my knee, which is a tragedy for me. You, my dear boy, have the good fortune to have those joys and rewards of life if you choose, but you would rather join a prison too. One day you will find that love and passion shouts out to you, and you won’t be able to shout back.’

Ewan pulled the bedspread tighter around his shoulders, recalling the sad strains of Jacob’s singing. From the shadows his own five-year-old self began to scramble up onto his own mammy’s knee. ‘Mind your sandals, darlin’. Those sharp old buckles will ladder my best nylons.’ Her skirt felt rough and tweedy against his bare legs, but she smelled of flowers and her long silver-blonde hair brushed his cheek. Ewan could never understand why he then said the words he did. To tell a complete stranger something he’d never discussed with anyone else, other than the few brief exchanges he’d had with his adoptive mother. But the words blurted out.

‘Jacob, I too was adopted. I was only five years old, but I too remember my mother’s knee and her closeness.’

Jacob returned without the coffee, Ewan rose and the two men clasped hands. ‘We will talk,’ Ewan said. ‘I intend to make my career in bereavement counselling. My old school, Waldringhythe Abbey, has just been refurbished. I’ve known the Bishop since I was a child, and I’ve asked if I can be appointed as chaplain and set up a grief-counselling centre. Jacob, I’m studying hard. Philosophy, psychology, counselling skills and the physical effects of grief, but in order to qualify I’ve got to produce a portfolio of cases. Will you be a case for me?’

Jacob laughed. A loud giant’s roar that Ewan would come to know as so much a part of Jacob’s personality. ‘Everyone who knows me says I am suitable case for treatment. I will be pleased to be suitable case for you.’ He then cocked his head and winked. ‘The fire escape is rattling. Here comes my bagel.’

After lunch the photo shoot continued, but this time, to take his mind off the pain of his stretched muscles, Ewan too began to sing. A song he recalled his mammy singing to him when she put him to bed at night.

‘Heavenly shades of night are falling, it’s Twilight Time.’