Barbara Taylor Bradford – Secrets from the Past (страница 3)

My mother’s mother, Alice Vasson, and her sister, Dora Clifford, had come in from California to celebrate the twins’ birthdays with us. The two of them were staying at the Carlyle Hotel, but they were mostly at the apartment during the day.

My mother, an only child, nonetheless had a great sense of family, and revelled in such occasions. This made us happy, especially my father, and particularly since my mother wasn’t in the best of health during this period. Being surrounded by those who loved her helped to make her feel better, and she was more radiant and happier than I had seen her for a long time.

My grandmother and great aunt had been instrumental in developing my mother’s career, and, not unnaturally, they couldn’t help boasting a bit, taking bows. They had made her into a megastar, one of the greatest movie stars in the world.

Their tall tales and antics amused my father no end, and made him laugh hilariously; my mother merely smiled, said not a word, her expression benign. And we girls, well, we just listened, once again awestruck, even though we’d heard these yarns before.

I sighed under my breath, remembering my grandmother and great aunt, the roles they had played in our lives, and I thought of their deaths, and the other losses over the last few years …

When someone you love has died, everything changes. Instantly. Nothing can ever be the same again. The world becomes an entirely different place … alien, cold, empty without the presence of that person you love.

When one quarrels with a loved one, there is often a reconciliation, maybe a compromise, or we go our separate ways. If a friend or relative decides to live somewhere else, in another place, it is easy to reach out to them, speak on the phone, send emails or text. In other words, to remain part of their lives is not difficult at all.

Death does not offer that consolation.

Death is the final exit.

Memories. Those are what I had in my heart, abundant memories that would be with me until the day I died. They were founded on reality, on things that actually happened, and so they were true. And because of this, they offered real solace.

My father died eleven months ago. I was in total shock, filled with sorrow, grief and guilt. A terrible guilt that still haunted me at times, guilt because I did not get there in time to tell him how much I loved him, to say goodbye.

I was late because of a missed plane in Afghanistan. Only a paltry few hours too late, but it might as well have been a month or even a year. Too late is exactly that.

When death came, that sly pale rider on his pale horse, he relentlessly snatched his prize and was gone. Suddenly there was nothing. A void. Emptiness. A shattering silence. But inevitably the memories did come back. Very slowly at first, they were nonetheless sure-footed, and they brought a measure of comfort.

The book I had been writing for the last few months was about my father. As I delved into his past, to tell his amazing story, he came alive again. He was quite a guy. That’s what everyone said about him. Quite a guy, they told me, admiration echoing in their voices.

My father, John Thomas Stone, known to everyone everywhere simply as Tommy, was one of the world’s greatest war photographers. Of the same ilk as the famous Robert Capa, who died covering the war in Vietnam when he stepped on a land mine.

Until my father appeared on the scene many years later, there had never been many comparisons to the great Capa. At least, not of the kind my father inspired.

For years Tommy cheated death on the front line, and then, unexpectedly, he died. At home in his own bed, of natural causes – a second heart attack, this one massive. He was gone, just like that, in the flick of an eyelash, without warning. No prior notice given here.

It was the suddenness, the unexpectedness of it that did the worst damage to me. Aftershock. My father, who was given to using military lingo, would have called it blowback, and that’s what it was. Blowback. It felled me.

My mother, Elizabeth Vasson Stone, died four years ago, and I was devastated. I still grieved for her at times, and I would always miss her. Yet my father’s death affected me in a wholly different way. It crippled me for a while.

It could be that my reaction was not the same because my mother had always suffered from poor health, whereas my father was strong and fit. Invincible, to me. That perhaps was the difference. I suppose I thought he would live forever.

My sisters still believed I was our father’s favourite child. Naturally, I’d continued to deny this over the years, reminded them that I was the youngest, and because of this perhaps I was spoilt, even pampered a bit when I was growing up.

Traditionally, there is always a lot of focus on the baby of the family. But despite my comments, I was well aware they were right. I was his favourite.

Not that he ever actually came out and said this, to me or anyone else. He was far too nice to hurt anyone’s feelings. Still, he made it clear in other ways that he favoured me, implied I was his special girl.

He would often remark that I was the most like him in character, had inherited his temperament, many of his quirky ways, and certainly it pleased him that I was the one daughter who had followed in his footsteps, and become a photographer.

I had a camera in my hand when I was old enough to hold one. He taught me everything I knew about photography and, very importantly, how to take care of myself when I was out there working in the dangerous world we live in today.

My father impressed on me that I should look straight ahead, be on the alert and ready for the unexpected. He pointed out that I must keep my eyes peeled in order to spot danger, which could spring up anywhere, especially in a war.

It was from him that I learned how to dodge bullets when we were in the middle of a battle, how to make rapid exits from disaster zones, and seek the best possible shelter when bombs were dropping.

My father was a man the whole world seemed to love. People were immediately drawn to him, smitten, men as well as women, and he was fiercely intelligent and charismatic. My mother said that he gave something of himself to everyone, and that they felt better for having met him.

That he had good looks was immaterial. It was his charm and outsized personality that captivated everyone. Those who worked with him knew how dedicated he was to his job. He feared nothing and no one, plunged into danger whenever it was necessary to get the most powerful images on film. He was also helpful to his colleagues and those who worked with him in the field, a friend to all.

Over the past few months, as I’d done research for my biography of him, I’d talked to a great many people who knew him. Almost all of them told me that there was something truly heroic about Tommy, and I believed they were right.

I idolized my father, but during the course of the week, I had come to understand that I idealized him as well. And yet he was a man, not a god, with plenty of the faults, flaws and frailties all mortals have. In fact, being a larger-than-life character, I was quite certain he had more than most people.

But when I was growing up he was the miracle man to me, the maker of magic who forever took us captive with his charm; brought laughter, fun and excitement to our lives.

I leaned back on the sofa, closed my eyes, listened to the quiet in this tranquil room. And in the inner recesses of my head I heard my own voice, and words I had spoken to my sisters twenty-one years ago. I could hear myself telling them that our father was Superman, a magician, a miracle maker all rolled into one.

I saw Jessica and Cara in my mind’s eye, as they were then, staring back at me as if I was a creature who had just landed from some far-distant planet. Disbelief flickered in two pairs of dark eyes, focused on me so intently.

At the time I was only nine, but I recalled how I suddenly understood that they viewed Tommy differently than I did. That’s why they were puzzled by my words. They couldn’t see inside our father the way I could; they didn’t know the man I knew.

Our mother had been with us that afternoon. She had been seated under the huge umbrella on the terrace of the house in the hills above Nice. She had laughed and nodded, ‘You’re right, Serena. What a clever girl you are, spotting your father’s unique talents.’

The twins had jumped up, laughing, had leapt away in the direction of the swimming pool. They were boisterous, athletic, sports addicted. I was the artistic one; quiet, studious, a bookworm, paying strict attention to every detail of my photographs, like my father.

It was Jessica and Cara who physically resembled Tommy, something that had always irked me. They had inherited his height, his dark hair and warm brown eyes; I didn’t look like him or anyone else in the family. Certainly not my mother, who was very beautiful.

Once my sisters had disappeared and we were alone on the terrace, my mother beckoned me to come and join her. I had flopped down in the chair next to her, and she had poured a glass of lemonade for me. We had talked for a while about my father, the magician, as I called him, and then unexpectedly she had confided a secret … she told me that he had enchanted her, captivated her the moment they met.