inclined to do any physical work!
‘Telephone for Frances,’ sang her mother.
Wondering who it would be, Frances ran to answer it, and was pleased to hear Harry Smithson who took most of her modelling assignment work. Harry had been asked to do some large stills for a window display for the New Year. Harry was a member of the advertising agency she had worked with, but he did a number of private clients’ photographic work as well. He explained that he had tried to contact her earlier but with no success. Her mother had told him that she would be back at the weekend.
‘Sorry it’s not much notice, Frances. It’s mainly summer casual range and they want a country backdrop. We’ll pop up to Victoria Park. I’ve got two other girls as well.’
‘Sounds fun. What do I wear and what time do you want me?’ queried Frances.
She had worked often with Harry and one of his studies of her had won him considerable recognition in his own field. Harry was a professional to his fingertips, and he reeled off the items she was to bring and then gave her explicit directions. As well he told her the fee she would receive, and that certainly was an incentive! She would be pleased to see Harry as he could tell her about her friends at work and he might even mention how John Brooker was getting along.
The morning dawned fine and clear. At ten o’clock Frances drove up Hackthorne Road, past the stone castlelike structure of the Sign of the Takahe, turned sharply and swung up on to the road leading to Victoria Park. She reached the top and parked in the area beside Harry’s van and another car. Immediately she took her gear and headed to the area Harry had mentioned yesterday. She walked across the park, which was practically empty. A gardener was mowing the lawn, the tractor pulling a wide mower behind it. Frances admired his skill as she lightly followed the track past the children’s playground. Normally a hive of active movement, the giant wooden climbing frame, swings and stepping stones stood abandoned, only a mass of angles and lines. She passed a ragged old macrocarpa tree. From one of its sturdy branches hung the tattered remains of a rope for a Tarzan swing. Tantalisingly it was swaying slightly above her head and instinctively she reached for it.
Then she climbed the hill and gazed about. Harry and the other two models were preparing the shots. She waved in recognition and Harry hugged her gleefully. ‘Great to have you along, Frances.’
They chatted with comfortable ease. Frances had worked with the other girls before. One she knew quite well, having worked with her before on numerous occasions. Harry soon started lining up frames and angles and then work started in earnest. In front of them the city of Christchurch lay spilt on the ground from the sweep of the coastline marking the giant estuary in the east to the fiat green paddocks of Halswell in the west.
Instinctively Frances looked towards the towering mountains that met the sky in the north. Her eyes picked out Mount Hutt, its top snow-covered. From this angle she knew exactly where Ian’s farm lay. Lovingly she allowed herself to dream of what it would be like to be loved by Ian, to be cherished and needed.
Harry’s voice penetrated her consciousness. ‘That’s swell, honey, keep that romantic yearning look—hold it, fantastic, baby; right arm up—great, terrific! That’s it! Relax!’
Frances ruefully pulled herself together. She noticed Harry looking at her a trifle oddly, but it wasn’t until the other girls had left and she was helping Harry pack up that they had time to chat.
‘Well, Frances, do tell Harry!'
‘Tell you what?’ she enquired meekly.
‘Who is he? Don’t tell me the rumour about John Brooker and you was true? Is that why you left?’
Frances fielded the questions neatly, diverting attention from John Brooker by saying she was working on a farm and how much she enjoyed the change. Harry realised that Frances was in love,
‘Telephone for Frances,’ sang her mother.
Wondering who it would be, Frances ran to answer it, and was pleased to hear Harry Smithson who took most of her modelling assignment work. Harry had been asked to do some large stills for a window display for the New Year. Harry was a member of the advertising agency she had worked with, but he did a number of private clients’ photographic work as well. He explained that he had tried to contact her earlier but with no success. Her mother had told him that she would be back at the weekend.
‘Sorry it’s not much notice, Frances. It’s mainly summer casual range and they want a country backdrop. We’ll pop up to Victoria Park. I’ve got two other girls as well.’
‘Sounds fun. What do I wear and what time do you want me?’ queried Frances.
She had worked often with Harry and one of his studies of her had won him considerable recognition in his own field. Harry was a professional to his fingertips, and he reeled off the items she was to bring and then gave her explicit directions. As well he told her the fee she would receive, and that certainly was an incentive! She would be pleased to see Harry as he could tell her about her friends at work and he might even mention how John Brooker was getting along.
The morning dawned fine and clear. At ten o’clock Frances drove up Hackthorne Road, past the stone castlelike structure of the Sign of the Takahe, turned sharply and swung up on to the road leading to Victoria Park. She reached the top and parked in the area beside Harry’s van and another car. Immediately she took her gear and headed to the area Harry had mentioned yesterday. She walked across the park, which was practically empty. A gardener was mowing the lawn, the tractor pulling a wide mower behind it. Frances admired his skill as she lightly followed the track past the children’s playground. Normally a hive of active movement, the giant wooden climbing frame, swings and stepping stones stood abandoned, only a mass of angles and lines. She passed a ragged old macrocarpa tree. From one of its sturdy branches hung the tattered remains of a rope for a Tarzan swing. Tantalisingly it was swaying slightly above her head and instinctively she reached for it.
Then she climbed the hill and gazed about. Harry and the other two models were preparing the shots. She waved in recognition and Harry hugged her gleefully. ‘Great to have you along, Frances.’
They chatted with comfortable ease. Frances had worked with the other girls before. One she knew quite well, having worked with her before on numerous occasions. Harry soon started lining up frames and angles and then work started in earnest. In front of them the city of Christchurch lay spilt on the ground from the sweep of the coastline marking the giant estuary in the east to the fiat green paddocks of Halswell in the west.
Instinctively Frances looked towards the towering mountains that met the sky in the north. Her eyes picked out Mount Hutt, its top snow-covered. From this angle she knew exactly where Ian’s farm lay. Lovingly she allowed herself to dream of what it would be like to be loved by Ian, to be cherished and needed.
Harry’s voice penetrated her consciousness. ‘That’s swell, honey, keep that romantic yearning look—hold it, fantastic, baby; right arm up—great, terrific! That’s it! Relax!’
Frances ruefully pulled herself together. She noticed Harry looking at her a trifle oddly, but it wasn’t until the other girls had left and she was helping Harry pack up that they had time to chat.
‘Well, Frances, do tell Harry!'
‘Tell you what?’ she enquired meekly.
‘Who is he? Don’t tell me the rumour about John Brooker and you was true? Is that why you left?’
Frances fielded the questions neatly, diverting attention from John Brooker by saying she was working on a farm and how much she enjoyed the change. Harry realised that Frances was in love,
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