Part 4 of a weekly series. We’re back in the East Anglian village where Bronwyn Gosling, and Curt and Norah Finks lived in the 1980s and 1990s. Series concludes on 28 December.
Part 1| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5.
3PM. The bus deposited The Photographer and a few other SLRed twitchers in the East Anglian village. He made his way to the Finks’ cottage, thinking back to their first encounter, when he had found Curt kneeling against a drystone dyke in the Yorkshire Dales.
Approaching the cottage, The Photographer struggled with the Finks’ broken front gate, and edged his way along the slippery mossy path, aware of his precious cargo of camera and lenses.
Moments later he was being shown into the spare room by Norah Finks, and plied with a cup of Darjeeling and a thickly buttered scone. Curt was out, birdwatching.
Easing his way past the gate again, he walked the route that Norah had mapped out, camera safely stowed in the cottage, no use at this time of day. He carried a couple of packs of newly developed photos in his bag in case he had an idle moment. Rounding the corner he saw Finks and another man walking towards him. The taller of the two flashed a smile, waved enthusiastically, and The Photographer found himself arm in arm, marching towards the Red Lion pub.
The three men put in their orders at the bar. The conversation flowed easily, and the orders were repeated twice more.
Evening fell. Finks was snoring in the leather seat by the pub’s fire. Prof Grayling Muir was asking The Photographer about his friend’s Edinburgh Fringe activities. The Canadian academic updated him on the interview that had upset Finks so much, with the mystery of the printed programmes. The Photographer’s ears pricked up.
Reaching for his bag he pulled out the packs of photos. Dimly lit, they were almost all of Curt Finks’ Edinburgh shows that summer, taken over a three-day trip.
Neither man was interested in the tourist photos. Muir had the first look, flicking past those of the performer, lingering instead on the photos of the crowd.
After finishing his drink, The Photographer had a look himself. He turned back to a photo of a tall, thin man who was placing a piece of paper on one of the chairs. Though slightly blurred, it was clear that neighbouring chairs had already been leafleted.
Leafing through the rest, he was in no doubt. He knew that face, right back to school days. But what was he up to? He popped the envelopes back into his pocket and said no more.
GANTOB, reconstructed from discussions with The Photographer, prompted by seeing mention of him in Curt Finks’ diaries 1988, 1989 and 1990.
21 December 2023
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