country, and Dylan’s older sister Alison, after ‘the most God-awful divorce’, as she described it to me, was trying to figure out her place in life, travelling and taking photos for a book she was planning. Cole’s wife Rhonda dedicated her time to volunteering and being a mum.
Despite their clear advantages – the apparent wealth and freedom with which they were able to live their lives – they seemed very down to earth. Maybe it was because of Mairi, who clearly kept a tight rein on them, scolding them with a look if any of them said something out of turn.
As they all talked, I watched Dylan at times. He could be playful and charming like his father, but I could see a hint of the serious intent his mother possessed. I thought of what he’d said earlier – ‘You’re beautiful’ – and realised he was simply stating what he thought, as his mother seemed to do. There really was nothing seedy about it.
‘Where’s your next shoot, Gwyneth?’ Oscar asked me.
‘Iceland. There’s a beach there made of ice where seals like to flock. It’s in the southeast on the Jökulsárlón glacial lagoon.’
‘I know it,’ Oscar said with a smile. ‘In fact, the first lodge Dylan ever worked on is based an hour or so away in Kirkjubæjarklaustur.’
Dylan looked up, eyes alight. ‘God, I loved working on that place.’
I smiled at his enthusiasm. Maybe he did enjoy his job?
‘How did you get into making documentaries, Gwyneth?’ Cole asked.
‘I had a mentor, Reginald Carlisle.’
‘That man’s a legend,’ Oscar said. ‘In fact, I have his book upstairs.’
Surprise registered on Mairi’s face. ‘He passed away a few months ago, didn’t he?’
I nodded. It still hurt to think of it, holding his frail hand as his ninety-year-old body finally gave in.
Mairi fixed me with her dark gaze. ‘He clearly meant a lot to you.’
Dylan watched me, the whole table silent.
‘He did,’ I whispered.
I thought back to the first time I met Reg. Some of the wildlife documentary-makers at the hotel I worked at would talk of one particular man with reverent awe. I looked out for him and eventually discovered who he was, a man in his sixties who would always be the first down for breakfast at 6.30am. He barely said a word and would often be reading a wildlife book, hardly looking up as I served him his breakfast, thick silver eyebrows knitted in concentration.
One day, while I was at the library borrowing one of the books I’d seen him read, I was shocked to find one with his face on the back. In the Deep Alaskan Winter by Reginald Carlisle. It turned out he was one of the pioneers of wildlife filming, a legend in the documentary-making community. I read that book every night, disappearing into the beautiful but savage Alaskan landscape he described, a landscape that nearly claimed his life when he was trapped in heavy snow there for two weeks while making a series for the BBC.
When I saw him again, I placed the book on his table as he ate breakfast. He paused from his reading, his blue eyes rising to examine my face.
‘I was wondering if you could sign it?’ I said, trying to keep the stammer from my voice. The truth was, he’d become a hero of sorts to me. Other teenagers were into John, Paul, George and Ringo, but my rockstar was a wildlife documentary-maker. No wonder the other girls at the hotel didn’t talk to me!
Reg opened the book and after a brief pause, scribbled on it before snapping it shut and handing it back without a word, his attention quickly returned to the book he was reading. Only when I got back to my little room in the hotel’s attic that night did I see what he’d written.
Next time, buy a book instead of stealing one from a library.
The next morning, as I poured him his tea, I battled over whether to talk to him again. ‘I didn’t steal the book,’ I eventually managed in a small voice.
He gave me a silent look.
‘I extended the loan,’ I continued.
‘Then gave it to me to desecrate.’
I dipped my chin to my chest. ‘I know. I’d buy a copy except—’
‘You’re a poor waitress. How old are you anyway?’
‘Sixteen,’ I lied. Truth was, I was fifteen, just. And while it was fine to work at that age, my aunt didn’t like me broadcasting it. ‘I don’t get paid much.’
‘So? I used to be like you once, didn’t have two pennies to rub together,’ he said, fire in his eyes. ‘But I did something about it. And you can too if you set your mind to it.’
The next day was a rest day. I got one day off a week and usually spent it walking around London alone, visiting the free museums and attractions. But that day, I pulled on my hand-me-down winter coat and stomped out into the cold armed with a wood-effect Filmo camera I’d ‘borrowed’ off a documentary-maker. He’d been so distracted drinking the night before he didn’t notice me sneak it from his side. I was planning to return it to him when I finished. Well, to the hotel’s lost property anyway, in the hope he’d mention its loss to reception. Sure, I felt slightly guilty. But at least he’d get it back. There were many things in my fifteen years I’d loved and lost, never to be seen again.
The night before, I’d barely got any sleep, playing with the damn thing and trying to figure out how it worked until I finally cracked it at 3am.
As I stepped out of the hotel with it in my bag, I thought of the techniques Reg had mentioned in his book:
Shoot tight. Zoom in on a stabbing hoof. A pecking beak. Two stark wide eyes. These shots can be used to create a story in the editing room.
Get down to the animal’s level, even if it means lying in dirt on your belly.
Film with the sunlight on your back if you want to see the animal’s true colours.
I must have looked a right sight that morning, lying belly down on London’s grimy paths, camera pointing out towards the Thames as I filmed a grey heron diving into water. Or lying on a bench and looking up to the sky to film pigeons in flight. Of course, I wished I was in Alaska instead, filming polar bears, but this would need to do. As I made my way back to the hotel, I walked with my head held high despite the grime all over my skirt. This was the most exciting thing I’d done since leaving home.
I found Reg seated at his usual spot in the hotel’s restaurant at lunch, sipping tea as he read another book. I don’t think he recognised me at first without my black and white waitress uniform on, my long hair down when it was usually up.
I nervously placed the camera on his table. ‘I set my mind to some filming, like you advised.’
‘I did, did I?’ He looked down at the camera, face expressionless. ‘Where did you get this camera? Looks a lot like the one Gerald over there has lost,’ he said, gesturing towards the cameraman I’d borrowed it from who was talking frantically to the reception desk.
I
