Les Rosbifs

Ah, the south of France...

The sophistication. The culture. The cuisine...

Imagine that it's the early 1980s and you are a bona fide member of the chattering classes. In the days before you had children, you wouldn't have thought twice about blowing a month's wages on a few nights at the Hotel de Ville, but times have changed. Jane is no longer working and the mortgage on your five-bedroom house in an 'up and coming' part of Balham has made a dent on your disposable income, so sacrifices have to be made.

Once, camping would have been an anathema to both of you, but now that Christopher and Emily are at kindergarten, you wonder if it wouldn't be rather fun to have an al fresco holiday. Not camping of course, but Le Camping.

One day in late July, you load up the Volvo (making sure that there's enough room to to bring back a few bottles of plonk for Tim and Amanda) and begin the long trek to the spiritual home of the cognoscenti: Provence.

The journey ends 36 hours later, just as the light is failing, in an idyllic rural setting where the air smells of pine needles and olive groves. It has been a long drive, but you are now certain that it was worth it. Exhausted but happy, you unload the basics and enjoy the sleep of the just.

The next morning you wake up and realise that you have neighbours. Like you, they are English, but...

In their Hillman Hunter, your neighbours have followed a similar trajectory, stopping en route to enjoy the delights of Paris:

But you sense that their tastes are different to yours and after hearing the same Kagagoogoo song for the seventh time, you decide to ask Yves about moving to a quieter part of the site. He'll understand - "Ah, oui, les rosbifs. Mon dieu!"

In the meantime, Dot, Ray, Kevin and Gary are having the time of their lives, although the boys have an unfortunate habit of clutching their genitals whenever a photo is taken:

Dot didn't want to come here. She would have rather gone to the usual place in Sandy Bay, but Ray had some funny ideas about the south of France and now that she's here, Dot reluctantly concedes that she's having 'a bit of a laugh'.

Although holidaying with three males is no picnic. The mess in the morning...

I'd love to know the real narrative behind these photos. They appeared at work last week and my first impression was one of disappointment - just a collection of blurry, Kodak Instamatic snaps. But then curiosity took over. Where did these people come from and what were their real names? What made them choose the south of France? Are they all still alive now?

Before long I was making up my own narrative, imagining them leaving somewhere a bit grim, like Luton, vicariously enjoying their excitement at seeing the blue skies of Provence for the first time. But that's probably all nonsense.

In the digital age, albums will no longer fall into the hands of strangers. Photos will either disappear into the ether or exist in the purgatory of cyberspace, forgotten and unvisited.

I think it's time to have a proper album again.

A Manchester Family

Today's collection of photos come from a huge haul - the largest I've seen - that appeared on my desk late on Friday afternoon. I've barely scratched the surface, but the following images are the ones that made an immediate impression.

It will take time to trawl through the contents. So far, all I know is that the family in these pictures lived in a council house in Manchester. They may also have had an Irish connection, as there are lots of photos of rugged scenery and priests:




This photo would be entirely unremarkable, if it wasn't for the fact that the man looks as he is emerging from a hole in the ground.

It's a novelty to see anyone on a scooter these days, particularly an older woman. But in my childhood, I remember several local mums and grannies beeping at me as they whizzed past, with several bags of shopping precariously balanced at the back.

An idyllic scene. Would a scooter holiday be feasible on today's congested roads, with juggernauts and 4x4s rushing past?

Is she really grabbing the seagull by the foot?

I'm fairly certain that the seagull-assaulting scooterist is an older incarnation of the girl of the middle.

I had no idea that flat caps were so big in the north - literally. In my family photos, even the poorest men usually wore hats, but caps were obviously de rigeur in this part of the world.

I rather like this woman's tea cosy-style hat (I shall refrain from passing comment about anyone else in the picture).

The caravan holiday: outdoor loos, gas lighting and a communal water pump. A far cry from today's caravans, with their en suite bedrooms, satellite televisions and electric ovens.


There are many photos of holidays in the British Isles, but also a few from more exotic locations like Gozo:


Out of the hundreds of black and white photos in the collection, this one stood out: a lovely portrait, beautifully lit and composed.

I also like the 'staged' pose in this photo.

I though that rowing was supposed to be a pleasurable activity, but the grim expressions on these people's faces suggests that they've just had a terrible row (as in rhymes with cow).

These photos could end up being the visual equivalent of Derek's diaries - there are several boxes worth, including a number of letters. As usual, they were almost thrown in the skip. Many of the pictures are quite commonplace, but as I hope this selection has shown, even the most ordinary lives have something remarkable about them.

The Wind of Change

I've no idea why, but during the last couple of weeks I've been inundated with photographs. The Victorian albums can be sold, but the rest usually end up in the bin, so I like having the opportunity to give some of these images a new life on the internet.

The following photos all come from an album that begins in 1940 and covers a period of roughly 20 years. As you will see, it is possible to construct some sort of loose narrative from the images:

1940. Judging by the trees in the background, this picture was taken either around the time or after the "miracle" of Dunkirk. As you can see, the British Army has been reduced to a ramshackle unit of ten soldiers, using equipment from World War One. In spite of this, the morale appears to have been high.

1942 and the Army is in a much stronger position, with smart new uniforms and modern weapons. It is time for the Empire to strike back:

This is the French Algerian entry for the 'Boring Postcards' competition. By now, Allied troops have driven the Germans out of North Africa and are preparing to launch the first invasion of mainland Europe.


A group shot taken in Rome, with St Peter's looming in the background. I'm not sure who the dodgy-looking civilian in the centre of the front row is, but perhaps he had 'local connections'.


A postcard from Fascist Italy. There are quite a few cards in the album and I like the idea that in the midst of this great chaos and upheaval, soldiers could still pop into a giornalaio and buy a few scenic views to send to the folks back home.

Peacetime. This is the earliest colour image I've come across and it resisted all of my attempts in Photoshop to achieve a more natural hue.

1946 and we are now in India, during the final days of the Raj. It looks like a good life, for some at least:

"Himalayas 1946"

The last few pages of the album feature scenes from different parts of the British Empire, including several years in different parts of Africa.

"Picnic off Gold Coast road (note teddy bear drinking gin) 16 Nov 52"

"On Bukit Lambak near Kluanc 800 feet up near microwave station"

Looking at the evidence - postcards, letters and photographs of their homes in Britain - these people didn't come from a moneyed, well-educated background, but enjoyed a remarkable standard of living. During their days in Nigeria, Ghana and Malaysia, they enjoyed huge houses with servants, fine weather and exotic locations. In Britain, the best they could hope for was a cramped suburban semi.

When the "Wind of Change" bought a swift end to the British Empire, these people must have returned home with heavy hearts.

Ordinary Lives

As much as I love working with books, it is the paraphernalia that comes with them which really excites me. Hidden in a novel that is trying to encapsulate the human condition, I often find a photograph or note which manages to say more in a simple image or sentence than most authors could achieve in 200 pages.

That's not a slur against writers. It's more about authenticity and intent. Photograph albums tell us so much and so little at the same time. The albums lie, in that they create a completey false impression of lives lived in perpetual happiness and sunshine, but each photo is unintentionally revealing. Behind the smiles and blue skies, there is a subtext: this is what I want my life to be.

The gulf between the people we'd like to be and who we actually are is pure Richard Yates.

Last week I came across a family's photo album, which had probably arrived at our warehouse because it was book-shaped.

The album is the story of this woman, who was a keen dog breeder:

At some point in the late 1940s, she marries a man who shares her passion for dogs and they move here:

This bungalow is typical of the poor quality, jerry-built housing that flourished in Britain until more rigorous planning legislation was introduced. Today it is next to some dog kennels. Perhaps the husband and wife were responsible for establishing their home and the kennels.

From the photo album, it is clear that dogs were almost their whole life:


Indeed, over half of the the album consists of photos of dogs. But in between breeding dogs, the couple managed to find the time to have two children: a boy and a girl. Here is their young daughter in the late 1960s:

And here is their son:


There is no discernible chronology to the album. Events in the daughter's life - graduation, marriage and the birth of a child - are presented in a random order and both children are eclipsed by the numerous photos from dog shows:

The woman and her husband must have been well-known figures in the dog breeding world and many of the photos are official portraits from shows, where they had won first prize.

Were they a happy family? Aside from the fact that the dogs seem to take centre stage in the album, there is nothing unusual about the photos of family gatherings and boating holidays. These are ordinary people who seem at ease with themelves.

But then I turned the page and saw this:

On the same page, there is a photograph of a gravestone. It is their son's.

Another newspaper cutting reads: "Our dearest son and brother died after much suffering. You were so very brave and were greatly missed."

The album ends here. There are no more pictures of dog shows or boating holidays. As far as I can tell, the couple lived for many years after their son's death, but they chose to end their album with this photo:

I had been complacently flicking through the album, enjoying the 1960s fashions and scenes from dog shows. Nothing prepared me for the shock of the final page.

I went back through the album, and photographs that had once appeared rather comical now seemed terribly poignant. These innocent, smiling faces had no idea what was in store for them.