Crossing the line - 22. A sort of victory

Fitting in Greg’s visit to The Manor might have seemed small fry, but Francis Heyward had taken an interest and was keen to make it happen. So, a few days after the party, I drove down to The Manor and met Dan at the gate. Greg and Len arrived in an elderly Ford Fiesta; we joined them and walked up to the house.

Greg was as unforthcoming as ever, perhaps regretting it all, what he’d let himself in for. It was Len who commented on the house, its ugliness, its size, and he speculated on the kitchens and facilities. Dan proved surprisingly knowledgeable about these, and that kept us going till we ascended the step up to the portico.

A servant let us in, said Mr Heyward would be joining us if we cared to wait in the Staircase Hall. As we crossed the Marble Hall, the Norman James in came in for some comment. Greg’s ‘Fuckin’ Hell’ explosion was almost funny, but he clammed up again, leaving it to Len to comment further. Indeed, seen in natural daylight it did look amazing. The restoration had returned the colours to their original brightness and subtlety, and the young man’s erection was even more in your face, as the cool whites of the hall set off the picture’s glowing colours.

But in the Staircase Hall, Greg came face to face with the six images of his younger self, proudly on display and unashamedly sexual.

“Jesus. I’d no fuckin’ idea.”

“You’ve seen them before?”

“Not like this. Didn’t realise.” He was quiet and I thought that was all he would say. But then he seemed to recover, “It’s not the knob, so much.” Len gave a sort of explosive snort, before Greg continued, “Mind, it’s pretty in your face. But it’s all about the sex. You can tell. He’s captured it all.”

“Do you regret it?” Francis Heyward had emerged unnoticed. He introduced himself, and then continued the conversation.

“Mebbe, not now.”

“But originally?”

Greg glared at Frances Hayward, “Took me time. Lot of time.”, Francis Heyward made to comment but Greg ploughed on, ignoring the man, “The pictures didn’t do me head in. It was sex. Freaked me out. Old git wasn’t bothered.”

“You resented the sex.”

Greg glared at Francis Heyward as if he was an idiot. “I bloody loved it. Couldn’t get enough. But once he’d finished the last one”, Greg pointed to the final image in the sequence with the younger Greg depicted in languorous, post-coital atmosphere, “I was out. Thanks but no thanks.”

“He had his pictures.”

“And didn’t fuckin’ care about me.”

“And now?”

Greg glared at Francis Heyward again, “Folk seeing me knob is OK”, he gave a chortle, “tickles me really. Glad you have the set.”

Francis Heyward looked puzzled, “So, what’s the problem?”

“The old git sold them without telling me. And took advantage.”, Greg looked over at me, “What you said.”

I tried to think what I’d said, “You mean that Donald Mitchell exploited you, to get a better picture?”

“Dead fucking right. Old git.”

“Well…”, Francis Heyward started to speak, but Greg ignored him, switching off from the group, closing down almost.

Len moved towards him, touched his elbow. Greg started and Len made a ‘we’re off’ gesture with his head then turned to Frances Heyward, “We’re very grateful to you for letting us see them, and it’s closed a door on a nasty chapter. But I think that’s it. I don’t think Greg wants anything more do to with them.”

The two turned to go, but Francis Heyward suavely continued, “If you would like some refreshments, then I have a proposition for you.”

Greg gave a sort of grunt; Len shook his head. Francis Heyward however showed himself the arch-manipulator, “It’s just refreshments. I have something to propose, please just listen. Then go.”

Greg gave a short nod.

We walked through to the Long Gallery, a rather subdued group. Francis Heyward led the way, confident as if it was all going swimmingly. Len and Greg seemed in their own world. In the gallery, a table was set up with drinks and a light lunch. Len addressed it with a professional eye, whilst Greg simply stared at the mural, and Francis Heyward continued with his proposition.

“When the Tramshed Gallery showed Mitchell’s pictures, they did so alongside photographs by a talented young contemporary photographer, Mirko.”

Greg stared at Francis Heyward, puzzled as to where this was going, “And?”

“I would like to do the same. With the same model.”

Light dawned on Greg. “Fuckin’ hell, you want me to do photos. What a nerve.” He made to turn, but Len put a hand on his elbow.

“It would be up to you how revealing the pictures were, but...”

It was Len who responded, “Look mate, I don’t know what your game is, but to bring Greg here and then ask him to take his clothes off for art. Again.”

Greg was not happy, “It’s a fuckin’ liberty. It’s just not on.”

Francis Heyward seemed remarkably calm, and you got a sense of how he did business. “I asked Dante and Vaughan to find you because I was genuinely concerned. I am a great lover of Donald Mitchell’s pictures, but I am learning that they come at a cost. A personal, human cost.

“I have also learned, to my own cost, that simply throwing money at something or someone is not usually the best way to solve a problem and may make things worse in the long run.” He had Greg and Len’s attention, now. “I was pleased, relieved that you have made steps towards rebuilding your life. I know of Martin Potter’s achievement in re-inventing the Norton Priory Estate, and I confess that I am intrigued that you have found a niche there. However, it seemed demeaning to simply write you a cheque as a sort of consolation prize.

“The young photographer has a talent for reinventing how we look at nude photographs, in a way that I feel reveals without demeaning or indeed seducing. It would be entirely in your control; you could say no at any point. You can choose to not show the dangly bits, as one of my young friends calls them. And there would be a substantial fee. Plus, the satisfaction of being part of a remarkable project, a contemporary response to Mitchell’s sequence of you. A very different response.

“Of course, the photographic project will go ahead, whatever happens, with a different model, of course. But I felt you might derive some satisfaction in creating your own images, having agency in the project. I am dubious of the tendency to bandy around the word ‘empowering’, but in this case I urge you to consider, as it might well be.”

There was a silence then Greg responded with “Mmm. We decide? What the photos look like.”

Francis Heyward nodded.

“OK then, but Len as well.”

“You want Len to be there?”

“Nah”, Greg’s annoyance was clear, “Photograph me and him.” This caused a reaction in Len, surprised, yes, but perhaps not entirely displeased.

It sounded an intriguing project, and I wondered where on earth the photos were going to go, you certainly couldn’t easily fit them in the Staircase Hall alongside the Mitchells. We ended with a tentative arrangement, and I could see I might end up more involved as Francis Heyward would be away. It wasn’t something that I’d object to. The new project was still a form of exploitation, wasn’t it? But one where the exploited was in some way invited to collaborate in the belief that it empowered. Perhaps it did.

That is, if Greg didn’t back out. At the moment, he seemed on the edge, one hoped on the way to laying a ghost. Perhaps he was. After all, he had stripped for artists for a living, as he’d said there must be plenty of images of his dick all over the country. Again, I felt that Francis Heyward had manipulated things; yes, he was supporting Greg, but Heyward would come away with what one hoped was a striking photo sequence, and one that provided comment on the older paintings.

I felt sufficiently manipulated and guilty about involving Greg that after we left The Manor, I suggested a drink to Greg and Len. Dan joined us briefly; we went to a pub nearby. Well, nearby as the crow-flies, though it was a bit of a drive, but The Pear Tree was a pleasant 1930s building, traditional in style outside and somewhat overdone as a gastro-pub inside, but thankfully there was a quiet drinkers’ area in a lean-to building that, ironically, might be the oldest part of the structure.

The journey had been tense, with Greg and Len conversing in undertones in the back, and us in front trying not to listen. At least, Len conversed, and Greg contributed monosyllables. Once in the pub with our drinks, Len poked Greg in the waist and gave him a clear OK.

Greg pulled a face, “Is the old git, Mitchell, going to be involved?”

“In Francis Heyward’s project?”

“Yeah.”

It wasn’t a question I had anticipated, “Well, the photos are nothing to do with him. I’ve no idea where Francis Heyward plans to display them.”

Dan pulled a face, “Need a good amount of space.”

“I suppose he might sweet-talk Amanda”, I looked at Greg, “at the Tramshed. But Mitchell would only be around if invited, and he showed precious little interest in the show when the two paintings were displayed.”

“He fuckin’ took the money, though, didn’t he.”

Len shrugged, “And Francis Heyward gets what he wants, a nice shiny new artwork to match the Mitchells, Greg now and then.”

“And a fee?”

“Certainly, there’ll be a fee.”

“OK. No handouts, but a decent fee. Unlike the old git. Still have a bone to pick with him but won’t be beholden to Heyward.”

“So, you’ll do it?”

Greg went silent for a bit, “I reckon so. We talked about things coming down, but, like seeing the pictures...” He shook his head, “Brought stuff back.”

Len was looking concerned, “It’d be a good way of finishing it.”

“Yeah. Maybe”, Greg sort of gave himself a shake. “OK. Yeah, I’ll do it”, he smiled at Len. “You OK, mate? You don’t mind?”

Len went a bit pink, “I reckon I’m Ok with stripping off, leastwise I’m keen to give it a go. And I want to support Greg. I was thinking those paintings, they’re not about Greg, as such, they’re more about Greg’s relationship with Mitchell, unseen but we can feel it. It’s more about him and Mitchell. I reckoned the photos would be about us.” I’d shown them some images by the photographer on my phone, and Len had pointed out a couple of them, taken of two men; they had a striking dynamic. Len grinned at me, “Deep thoughts for a baker, eh? Making dough, it gives you time to think. And I reckon folk can cope with seeing me in the nuddy”, he gave a wry smile. “I reckoned if Greg can do it regularly, then I ought to give it a go too. And I won’t be showing me bits, nothing like them pictures!”

“What will you do with the money?”

The two looked at each other and it was Len who answered, “I want to buy the boss, Joe, out of the business. He’s getting bored, now we’re well set up. What we reckoned was if I buy him out and Greg comes in to do the admin. We figure he can do a bit at the studios and a bit with the bakery. The money’ll help, I reckon if I sell me flat and move in with Greg, then we’d have enough to buy Joe out and set the business up proper. The two looked a bit bashful, Len continued, “Greg’s place is a bit small, but we should be OK.”

Greg seemed to start to relax, he leered, “Len’s going to strip off for an artist and he’s going to teach me to be a baker. Reckon that’s a fair exchange.”

Greg got up to go to the loo before we set off; Len leaned over to me.

“It’s different with us. I can’t say how, but it’s different for him. We’re friends, it’s not just about sex. There’s summat else. Greg’s come a long way, but there’s still a way to go. I don’t think he ever thought he’d have a relationship with a guy”, Len shrugged, “So we’re trying, but we’re still on eggshells, but we try.”

When Greg came back from the gents, he looked at each of us, perhaps aware that we’d been talking, perhaps uncomfortable that his relationship with Len was more out in the open. “What he said. And I reckon I’ve got old git Mitchell to thank. There were some terrible, terrible times but if I’d not done that with him, I’d have been shacked up with a girl and doing dodgy things with blokes on the side.”

Greg stood up to go. Len took his hand. I thought that Greg was going to object, but he looked around the pub defiantly, yet no-one seemed to be noticing. They walked out, just two ordinary blokes, walking hand in hand out the pub. Yet it felt like some sort of victory.