Where You Belong. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Jake and Clee had been good friends for many years, bonded as American expats, war photographers, and also as winners of the Robert Capa Award. This prize had been established in 1955, just after Capa’s death, by Life magazine and the Overseas Press Club of America, and was awarded for ‘the best photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise’.

      I knew that both men treasured this particular award as their proudest possession, Capa being a God to them, indeed to all of us in the business of being photojournalists covering wars.

      The four of us hung back and spoke for a few moments about Tony and the sadness of the occasion, and then we arranged to make a date for dinner, once we were all in Paris at the same time for more than a couple of days.

      As we began to move again it was Clee who said, ‘We can’t go to the wake afterwards, Jake. Nicky and I have to head back to Paris immediately after the service ends. Are you going?’ He looked from Jake to me.

      I was so taken aback I couldn’t speak.

      Jake cleared his throat, rather nervously I thought, and muttered something I didn’t quite catch. Then he added, ‘We’re in the same situation as you, Clee, we’ve got to get back too. Commitments to meet. But we might drop in for a few minutes, just to pay our respects.’

      Nothing else was said, since the four of us were suddenly being edged forward by the throng pressing in behind us. I held onto Jake’s hand, but in the crush we became separated from Nicky and Clee. And a second or two later we found ourselves being ushered down one of the aisles and into a pew by a church official.

      Once we were seated I grabbed Jake’s arm ferociously, pulled him closer to me and hissed, ‘You never told me anything about a wake.’

      ‘I thought it better not to, at least not until we got here,’ he admitted in a whisper.

      ‘Who’s giving the wake?’ I demanded, but kept my voice low, trying to curb my anger with him.

      ‘Rory and Moira.’ He glanced at me swiftly, and again nervously cleared his throat. ‘I have the distinct feeling we won’t be going, will we, Val?’

      ‘You bet we won’t,’ I snapped. I was livid.

      III

      It was just as well other people came into our pew at this precise moment, because it prevented a continuation of our conversation, which could have easily spiralled out of hand.

      I was furious with Jake for not telling me about the wake before now, not to mention irritated with myself for not anticipating that there would be one.

      Tony, after all, had been Irish; on the other hand, a wake was usually held after a funeral and not a memorial, wasn’t it? But the Irish were the Irish, with their own unique rules and rituals, and apparently a wake today was deemed in order, perhaps because the funeral had been held in Ireland. A wake was an opportunity for family and friends to get together, to comfort each other, to reminisce and remember, and to celebrate the one who had died. I was fully aware I wouldn’t be able to face the gathering. Coming on top of the memorial, it would be too much for me to handle. What I couldn’t understand was why Jake didn’t realize this.

      The sound of organ music echoed through the church, and I glanced around surreptitiously. Here and there amongst the crowd I caught glimpses of familiar faces – of those we had worked with over the last couple of years. There were also any number of famous photographers and journalists, as well as a few celebrities, none of whom I knew, but instantly recognized because of their fame.

      It was an enormous turnout, and Tony would have been gratified and pleased to know that so many friends and members of his profession had come here to remember him, to do him honour today.

      I went on peering about me, hoping to see Rory. I felt quite positive that I would recognize him, since Tony had shown me so many photographs of his son, and of his daughter, Moira. They were nowhere to be seen, yet they had to be here. It struck me then that they would be sitting in the front pew, facing the altar, and that was out of my line of vision.

      I sat back, bowed my head, and tuned myself in to the organ music. It was mournful but oddly soothing. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I was filled with relief that I was keeping my feelings in check. Well, for the moment at least.

      When the organ music stopped I opened my eyes and saw a priest standing in front of the altar. He began to pray for Tony’s soul, and we all knelt to pray with the priest and then we rose automatically and sat in our seats again. The priest continued to speak, this time about Tony and his life and all that he had done with it, and what he had accomplished.

      I took refuge by sinking down into myself, only half listening, absently drifting along with the proceedings, and endeavouring to remain uninvolved. Instinctively, I was scared to be a participant, for fear of making a fool of myself by displaying too much emotion, or weeping. Yet tears had risen to the surface, were rapidly gathering behind my eyes, and I struggled desperately to control myself.

      Soon the priest drew to a close and glided over to one side of the altar, and as if from far, far away a lone choirboy’s voice rang out. It was an extraordinary voice, a high-pitched soprano which seemed to emanate from the very rafters of the church. The voice was so pure, so thrilling, it sent chills down my spine, and I sat up straighter and listened, enraptured.

       ‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

       In the ranks of death you’ll find him.

       His father’s sword he has girded on,

       And his wild harp slung behind him…’

      Hearing the young choirboy singing so beautifully undid me. My mouth began to tremble uncontrollably, and as my face crumpled I covered it with my hand. I shrank into the corner of the pew and discovered that I wasn’t able to quell the tears. They rolled down my cheeks unchecked, slipping out from under my dark glasses and dropping down onto my hand which was clutching the lapel of my jacket.

      Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer, wanting to comfort me. Leaning against him gratefully, I swallowed hard, compressed my lips, and finally managed to get my swimming senses under control. The old ballad came to an end at last, and that lilting soprano was finally silent. I hoped there would not be too much of this kind of thing, because I knew it would be unbearable. The emotional impact was already overwhelming.

      But of course there was more. First Tony’s brother Niall eulogized him; he was followed by Tony’s oldest friend in the business, Eddie Marsden, the photo editor at Tony’s agency, who spoke at length. And, finally, it was Rory who was standing there in the pulpit, looking for all the world like a young Tony, strong and courageous in his grief. He had inherited his handsome father’s Black Irish looks, his mannerisms, and his voice was so similar it was like listening to Tony himself speaking.

      Rory’s words came truly from the heart, were eloquent and moving. He reminded us of Tony’s great charm and his talent as a photographer, of his modesty and his lack of conceit, of his abhorrence of violence, his humanity and his condemnation of the wars he covered. Rory talked of his father’s Irish roots, his love of Ireland and of family. He spoke so lovingly about his father I felt the tears rising in my throat once more.

      Rory went on, ‘He was СКАЧАТЬ