Free The Photograph by Penelope Lively Page A

concentration, a restlessness. It is apparently an effort for him to give a rundown of his latest project, a reticence which is unusual. So what is afoot? Maybe he is about to remarry and considers it proper to tell a former sister-in-law in a formal manner? Perhaps he has been elevated to the peerage—well, he is a prominent academic, occasionally outspoken on public issues. Possibly—here Elaine’s interest is sparked—possibly he has some professional scheme requiring garden-history expertise, as he did . . . back then. If that were so, one might well find oneself available. All the rage, these days—lost gardens. Prime-time television and all that. No bad thing to become involved.
    The waiter returns. Choices are made, the meal is ordered. “Nick sends greetings,” says Elaine.
    Glyn becomes busy with his napkin. He butters a roll. “And how’s business, Elaine? Lots of work?”
    “All I want.”
    “Good, good. You’re a fortunate woman. You embellish the landscape and get paid for it. As opposed to those of us who fritter away a lifetime asking questions about it.”
    “You too get paid,” says Elaine.
    “True.” He reaches across the table, pats her hand. “I’m glad things are going well. You deserve it. You’re a worker, always were.”
    Glyn is a physical-contact man. An arm-round-the-shoulders man, a hand-on-your-elbow man. The pat reminds her of that: his mode of emphasis.
    “I’m certainly not complaining. Only when it comes to the more perverse clients.”
    “Ah, that’s a hazard of the trade. Capability Brown had plenty to say about his. Repton too. Dealing with patronizing eighteenth-century aristocrats. Bear in mind that it is they who will vanish without trace. Your creations will outlast the merchant bankers or whoever they are that plague you.”
    He continues along these lines as the first course arrives. He talks of some stately-home magnate who had a lake dug and then didn’t care for the effect and had the lot filled in again. He moves on to cite instances of vast expenditure on historic garden creation. Elaine had forgotten his compendious resources, that capacity to conjure up facts, figures, anecdotes. Compelling enough, in its way, but there is the hint, just now, of a routine.
    Glyn is treading water. He would like to get on with the matter in hand, his mind is on that and on nothing else, but good manners would seem to insist that the niceties are observed. A period of general chat. A decent interval of white noise.
    “Fascinating,” says Elaine. “What a mine of information you are, Glyn—I’d forgotten. I’m flattered at being lumped in with Repton and Brown. Can’t say I’ve dug any lakes lately, but perhaps my day will come.”
    Glyn plows on. This is conversation, of a kind: comments are made, opinions exchanged, occasionally there is glancing reference to some past shared experience. Plates are taken away; more food arrives. Now, thinks Glyn. In two minutes, when she’s finished eating.
    Elaine is talking of Polly. Glyn stares at her, trying to focus. The daughter. That’s right, the daughter. “—Web designer,” Elaine is saying. Glyn inclines his head, all interest.
    “Do you know what a Web designer is?”
    Glyn spreads his hands, defeated.
    Elaine puts her knife and fork together, dabs her mouth with her napkin. “Actually,” she says, “I don’t think you heard a word of that, did you?” She gives him a long, speculative look. “Come on, unload. I’ve got a feeling we’re not here just to chat, are we?”
    “Ah . . .” Glyn pushes his plate to one side. Right, here goes. Suddenly, he feels once more in control, back on course. Some questions will be answered. He reaches into his pocket. “Actually, you’re right, Elaine.”
    Elaine sees and hears that this is something of another order. This is not marriage, or ennoblement, or garden history. She feels a creep of disquiet.
    Glyn is holding something out to her. She takes the photograph.