The opening was announced in the local paper, a small advert framed with a heavy black border and written in a bold gothic font: ‘WANTED: Photographer’s Assistant – not for the squeamish; interest in the occult preferred; applications in writing to Roland Delacroix Esq.’ I hadn’t been out of work for long, just a couple of weeks, when I stumbled upon the advert (I’ll leave it to you to decide whether or not this was merely a fortuitous coincidence). I was half-reading the job pages over a cup of thin coffee in a Turkish café close to where I was staying, trying to fill time and shake off a hangover. A couple of bar jobs, a receptionist position at the new gym, volunteers needed to help old dears with their weekly shop: a wealth of opportunity.

Then I saw it. At first I thought it was a joke, some gimmicky piece of advertising dreamed up by a local amdram group; then I focused on the name and something stirred. Roland Delacroix… I let the syllables play on my tongue and lips while I drank a second cup of coffee which I’d been shamed into buying by the owner’s wife’s constant attention. I had an uncle called Roland, a great uncle on my mother’s side if we’re going to get technical, but his last name was Jones: a big, bald man with a nervous stammer. Sold used cars. Wouldn’t know a lens from a tripod.

And then I remembered where I’d seen it.

Now, if your high-street is anything like mine, or any small town high-street across the country, it will be filled with familiar brands, your banks and your burger chains, but it may also contain a few curiosities, such as the ladies’ dress shop which displays proudly the same drab fashions year after year seemingly without any patronage, or maybe a shop which sells trophies, just trophies, you know the type, the ones handed out to school kids on sports day or to the winners of the local bowling league (lawn, of course, not ten pin).

Delacroix’s was one of those places. The shop was double-fronted and located at the quiet end of the street, with faded green signage and burnt gold lettering which was now, many years after its application, barely legible. The window display only hinted at the business within: a small selection of non-fiction books with no obviously discernible connection to each other, their covers dulled and obscured by a layer of dust; an antique ivory-coloured phrenology bust; and, several framed black and white or sepia tinted photographs of subjects with their eyes closed. I didn’t know it at the time, but these were Victorian death photographs, pictures taken of the recently deceased to be treasured by those who went on living. Memento mori. I’d never seen anyone enter or leave the shop. Delacroix’s had nothing to hold the interest of your everyday high-street window-shopper and, as a result, went unheeded by the town’s inhabitants.  

I was surprised to learn that a photographer worked behind Delacroix’s faded façade and I was intrigued by the job. As for the vague requirements set out in the advert, I’d never been the squeamish type; while other girls at school threw their hands up in disgust at the prospect of dissecting frogs or fainted at the sight of the nurse and her needle, I was resilient. My father’s daughter. And hardened by the experience of growing up with three older brothers. And, I confess, I had a rather naive interest in the occult. I once spent an entire school summer holiday devouring the occult section of my local library. Poltergeists, spontaneous human combustion, telekinesis: I was a little obsessed. My father was, understandably, concerned, but, hey, it was only a phase. Harmless, really. Any reading’s good reading. However, any cursory interest that I may have had in the supernatural when I was fourteen does not excuse what followed, that I had by continuing down this path I somehow waived my human right to say ‘whatthefuckgetmeoutofhere’. No excuse; no waiver.

Don’t get me wrong, the prospect of being a “Photographer’s Assistant” was interesting, but I had no long-term interest in being anyone’s sidekick, I was no man’s Debbie McGee. I was ambitious: I wanted my own studio, to make my own name. But I needed the experience. So I applied. There was no postal address for applications, so I put my covering letter and a bundle of prints into a brown envelope marked for the attention of R Delacroix Esq. and posted it through the letterbox of the shop door. The door was locked, but I stood outside for a while, hoping that someone would part the heavy drapes and retrieve my package. After ten minutes I gave up and went home.

A couple of weeks past and I’d almost forgotten about the job when I received a letter in the post. The envelope was delicate, like folded parchment, and my name and address were hand-written in a neat, cursive script. Inside was Delacroix’s reply:

“Dear Ms. Chamberlain,

I’d like to thank you for your interest in the role of my assistant. I hadn’t anticipated that anyone so young or, for that matter, female would apply for the position, but your prints show some promise (albeit immature) and, on that basis, I’m prepared to grant you an interview. Please attend the emporium promptly at the hour of 8:00 a.m. on Saturday 8th June. Light refreshment will be provided.

Yours faithfully,

Roland Delacroix Esq.”

Let’s just say that my response was animated. But the sad fact was that this interview was the best opportunity that I’d had in a long time, so I decided to go.