37

16th December 1982

My dear Ewan

Once again I apologise for my selfish behaviour yesterday. I know we have parted friends and I so wish to keep you as a friend, so I must forget how much I am attracted to you. Your offer of talking to me about my yesterdays will be gratefully accepted, even though I’m now a man of forty-seven, and my troubles are deemed to be far behind me. As you know they are not. They are, and forever will be, following my every footstep.

In the post-war world, no one had heard of counselling or emotional support to children such as myself. I was one fucked-up kid. When I was first brought to this country all I remember was strangers whispering amongst themselves in a foreign language and being busy around me. They smiled sweetly, patted me on the head and made noises like sad birds. They scrubbed me clean, they deloused my hair and fed me orange juice and cod liver oil. They offered kindness but it was many years before I recognised it as such. I had no feelings, you see. I had been conditioned not to feel or trust. I so look forward to talking with you, and if it helps me to cope with the theft of my past then our Gods will be as one.

Now. News of the photographs. They are truly exceptional. One above all others is superb, and I think the best thing I have ever produced in my career. This afternoon I have spoken with Fanny, and it is all agreed at The Courier. On Sunday, you, my dear boy, will be my Crucifix Man, but you must not worry that your identity will be revealed. Only Fanny and I know who you really are, and the editors are aware that you are to remain anonymous. That is, until you choose to reveal yourself.

We will see each other soon, yes?

With much love of the purest kind,

Jacob

20th December 1982

Jacob’s pride in his work had not been exaggerated out of conceit. Crucifix Man, as illustrated on the cover of The Courier’s Sunday supplement, was a stunning work of emotion. Shot in the style of a classic Edwardian sepia print, the Christ figure hung as a single spectacle of suffering.

Beneath the rib cage a deep hollow revealed a lean waistline above the low-slung waistband of the Levi’s, and the wide stretch of the arms showed the undulating curves of the shoulder muscles. Against the soft-brown colour wash, minute droplets of water on the torso resembled golden pearls. The body was indeed of great physical beauty, but it was the sheered head that positively drew the eye. Although wet hair obscured all facial features, a wide central gap allowed the viewer to admire the high cutting angle of the cheek-bones. The barbed wire crown was fronted with the CND logo, and from it a dark rivulet of what was intended to be blood ran to the top of the left eyebrow. Above the head a piece of simple white parchment was tacked onto the cross, and hand written with the simple words, ‘Save Us All, Sweet Jesus.’

From the moment The Courier hit the newsstands their office phones were jammed with messages of praise and outrage in equal proportions. The publicity generated was indeed unique, and within twenty-four hours there were global headlines declaring ‘Anger and Praise for Nuke Shock Crucifixion Snap.’ Thus, worldwide, every major newspaper and television news programme featured it as a controversial talking point. From then on the three estates argued its artistic beauty or blatant heresy, and with Christmas imminent a shoal of articles, of both admiration and castigation, appeared. The furore caused was unprecedented, and a mystery began as to the identity of the Christ figure. The Christ figure chose to flee.

3rd January 1983

My dear Ewan

I write to thank you. Could anyone have thought that the immoral, predatory creature that I am could spend ten happy, celibate days in the beautiful isolation of a cottage in Scotland with a priest? The first time for nearly thirty years that I have taken myself away and left my cameras at home.

Can I convey to you the sheer joy of those ten days? Rising in the dark to watch the pale dawn come up over the Atlantic, and then sitting with you, in a perfect companionable silence, to eat porridge and drink strong, sweet tea. Putting on our spiked boots and padded jackets to hike up the hard, frosted hills, and eat our packed lunches. How will I ever forget our afternoons? Sitting like two old men beside an open fire with our drams and a Christmas TV diet of James Bond and The Generation Game. The fun of our Hogmanay evening in the crazy, drunken bar of the McCraigan Hotel, when we told everyone we were father and son. Oh, that you really were my son, Ewan! What pride I would have in you.

All the time we talked and listened to each other, dragging out our fragments of childhood memories with fine tweezers. We talked of Poland and Albania. We puzzled, we gave our opinions, and we sympathised. We commented on our similarities and sank into our own silent thoughts. Perhaps we said many things that, in the cold light of normal life, we have no strength for. When we parted you were contemplating a search for your birth mother. If you do so, then all my support and help is here for you.

I’ve come home a much-changed man. After our time of closeness and bonding, you will now understand what I say, without fear or recoil or disgust. Ewan, I love you. The genuine love for man and woman and man and man is the same. I love you from the tops of my ears to the tips of my toes.

With every scrap of love and affection I can find,

Your Jacob