They weren’t familiar park visitors, but a couple with a specific purpose, laden down with camera equipment. They unpacked carefully, without the swift expertise of a professional photographer and his model, working on the clock. Years ago, we went to Japan on our honeymoon, and the girl’s outfit was something I’d seen before in Tokyo – a pink and white frilly knee-length crinoline, flailing with ribbons. In Harajuku, it used to be called Lolita-style, and the girls parade up and down competitively. In this country, I don’t suppose anyone has dressed like that since Bubbles Rothermere died.
The only sign of embarrassment was that they would not catch anyone’s eye. I was in my stout tweed; Greta in her tiny waxed coat; we sat on a chilly bench and watched with unabashed fascination. It was a bright day, but pretty cold. A reflective parasol was unpacked; a tripod; a spotlight; a huge Leica and an array of lenses. The patient girl stood in the middle of a south London park and put on her practised, blissful face. She must have been freezing, but she was radiant, and the cold wind was shaking the long grove of cherry trees. The blossom would appear to be floating all round her. It was going to be a ravishing set of photographs, you could see. I popped my woolly gloves back on.
The cherry blossom in Battersea Park draws half of Japanese London south of the river, regular as Lent, every year. There are about 60 cherry trees in a double line, cutting the big field diagonally in two, as well as odd patches of threes and fours in the rest of the park.
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