by Katie Khan
Isaac opens his mouth, but then his phone chirrups, interrupting. He looks down at the screen. ‘That’s the curator from the gallery – she says we can start to head back.’
‘Good,’ Thea says. ‘Because if the last half hour has told us anything, it’s that you’re bad at apologies, and it’s the Unknown Woman we need to track down.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Isaac says genuinely, taking one last look at the shrine-like tribute to Isaac Newton’s single-mindedness. ‘But you do have “a strength of mind almost divine”.’
Thea shrugs. ‘Perhaps. And if I really did jump back …’
‘Then the painting will give us the proof. Come on.’ Isaac proffers Thea a hand, and they stand for a fraction of a moment too long, holding each other’s hands in the colourful light of the Abbey.
‘Can we get lunch first?’ Thea says, eyeing the place where their hands touched before dropping hers casually to her side. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
Thirteen
The lunch rush is over and the greasy spoon almost empty when Thea and Isaac enter. The girl behind the counter looks at them as though they’re mad when they ask first about lunch, and then about breakfast. ‘It’s past lunchtime,’ she says.
‘I’ll have a fried breakfast, please,’ Thea repeats politely.
‘Give me a fry-up, too,’ Isaac says, ‘with all the trimmings.’
‘I thought you didn’t eat bacon –’ Thea is puzzled – ‘or sausages. And you don’t like mushrooms. Not a fan of beans, if I recall.’
Isaac grimaces, then shrugs his shoulders. ‘An egg roll would be very nice,’ he amends, watching the waitress tut as she scratches through the writing on her notepad with a cheap biro.
‘Lapsed, have you?’ Thea asks him as they take a seat, moving sticky condiments into the middle of the shiny gingham tablecloth.
‘It’s easy to eat kosher in New York,’ Isaac says, ‘but everywhere else, I just … try my best.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Plus, bacon tastes incredible. I mean, really incredible. I’m a bad Jew. Don’t tell my mum.’ He makes a rueful face and she doesn’t laugh, knowing how he hates to lose discipline in any way that could hurt his mother.
She’s curious, though. ‘When your family moved to the UK, did they change their name?’
‘Yes,’ Isaac says. ‘They removed an S from Mendelssohn, because British people kept spelling it wrong and it was boring to keep correcting them. So we became “Mendelsohn”.’
‘Really?’
‘A token gesture. My great-uncle changed his surname to “Mendel”. But it didn’t matter – everyone knew they were German Jews, and hated them for it, anyway.’
Thea is shocked. ‘I’m sure they didn’t.’
‘Back then, they did. Some people were extraordinarily kind and generous, but not all. They knew we’d been through something awful, but having neighbours who didn’t speak the language, with different customs, was … inconvenient. We were a burden.’
Thea is contemplative as she watches the rain tap against the glass of the cafe window. ‘But you’re just as English as I am,’ she says. ‘Maybe even a bit American.’
‘What can I say? I’ve gorged on American culture.’
She puts a hand over her face. ‘Do you like it?’
‘New York? Yes. I have some good friends.’
‘As good as me?’ she says.
He doesn’t hesitate. ‘No.’
She hides her smile as their afternoon breakfast arrives. ‘I meant to say – thanks for the pizza.’
‘Did you eat it? Good, isn’t it? Told you.’ He laughs.
‘Soon I’ll be—’
‘As fat as me? I know.’
‘No,’ she says, confused. ‘I was going to say “a pizza connoisseur”. You’re not fat.’ Thea leans back out of the way as the waitress puts their plates on the table.
‘I know,’ he says, looking at her strangely. ‘But last time you said … Never mind.’
Isaac’s phone vibrates on the table with a FaceTime call from Urvisha.
‘I’m not going to tell her what we’re doing, yet,’ Isaac says quickly. ‘Not until we have a proper lead – or proof.’
‘Makes sense,’ Thea says as he accepts the call.
‘Hi, Visha.’
‘Ayo says Thea’s in London with you,’ she says.
Isaac pans round the greasy spoon, zooming in on Thea’s fry-up.
‘Nice,’ Urvisha says. ‘Did you have any luck with Rosy’s brother?’
‘I put an update in the group message – no, unfortunately Edward hasn’t heard from her this week.’
‘Oh. When are you both coming back? We’re trying something here—’
Ayo pops up in the background behind Urvisha, and Thea can see they’re in the farmhouse kitchen, the dated splashback tiles just in view. ‘Any luck tracking Rosy in history?’ Ayo says, hopefully.
‘We’re working on it, Isaac says.’
‘Can we call you later?’ Thea says, putting a forkful of bacon in her mouth. ‘My food’s getting cold.’
‘Make sure you do,’ Urvisha replies. ‘It’s important.’
The video call disconnects and Isaac blinks, putting the phone down.
‘Do you know what they’re working on?’ she asks, just as Isaac stuffs the egg roll into his mouth. He gestures at his face apologetically, chewing thoroughly before finally speaking.
‘I would imagine they’re looking into the science of your prismatic booth. Tell me, when you broke down your theory at the kitchen table, was that the first time they’d heard parts of it?’
She shrugs, cutting another piece of bacon and dipping it in baked bean juice. ‘They’d heard variations of the concept before.’
‘But it was the first time –’ Isaac swallows another chunk of bread – ‘they’d heard about the importance of the prism itself. Am I right?’
Thea looks up, pulling a glass prism the size of a pencil sharpener from her pocket and putting it on the table next to the ketchup. She tilts it so it catches the light, miniature spectrums floating across the table, one illuminating Thea’s cheek.
‘Is that a special one?’
She looks at it appraisingly, cupping it in her hand. ‘Not especially. I tried this one before Rosy’s leap, with no results.’
‘Have you used a different crystal each time?’
‘Yes.’ She turns it over. ‘When I first started, I used basic glass prisms, but they did nothing. Then I tried glass with lead oxide in the mix, which is what makes the difference between plain glass –’ she flicks the side of her cheap water glass on the table, which responds with a deadened ding – ‘and crystal.’ She flicks the prism and it rings out with a satisfying ting which echoes for much longer.
Isaac wipes his hands with a paper napkin and pushes his plate away, finished. ‘Which would you have used for your own jump?’
‘I don’t know.’ She puts the prism back in her pocket. ‘There are so many.’
‘You don’t have a list? How terribly un-Thea.’
She shrugs. ‘After using plain glass, then lead oxide crystal like this, I’ve been trying optic crystal – which is what they use in the Hubble Telescope. Optic crystal is more expensive; the ophthalmic glass is heated to such a high temperature, it has almost no flaws or bubbles at all.’ She puts her knife and fork together, also done. ‘Isaac, do you really think I went back in time?’
‘Not until we have more evidence.’ He stands, waving thanks to the girl behind the counter. ‘What can I say? Your desire for hard proof is contagious.’
The National Portrait Gallery is busier when they return, the foyer discernibly louder than when Thea and Isaac were there earlier in the day. They feel a wave of institutional fatigue that often hits during a day’s sightseeing, hearing once again the echo chamber of all high-ceilinged grand buildings, which give off a similar resonance, whatever their function – art galleries, abbeys, museums. Bedraggled parents haul uniforme
d children along as the pair move quickly out the way, past the signs declaring ‘Open Late Thursdays and Fridays’, and duck into the gift shop.
‘Where are we meeting the curator?’ Thea asks.
‘She’s coming to find us – I said we were here,’ Isaac says, fingering some Tudor-style Christmas decorations the gallery has on sale, a miniature Elizabeth I figurine and the ever-present Tudor rose. ‘Look,’ he says, showing Thea, ‘an Anne Boleyn made from felt. Alas, she still has her head.’
‘Not very festive,’ she says. She looks at the piles of art-related merchandise. ‘Don’t they have anything from the last hundred years?’
Isaac nods at Impressionist printed scarves on the next table but Thea moves instead to a shelf of heavy art books, tilting her head to read the spines.
She stops with delight as she pulls out a book on Barbara Hepworth. ‘Oh my,’ she says, flipping open the cover and thumbing through the pages. ‘I saw one of these in Yorkshire Sculpture Park as a child. My dad—’
She cuts herself short.
‘Go on,’ Isaac says softly.
Thea’s voice catches. ‘My dad took me; I must have been about six. He told me she was the most prominent female artist who’d ever lived. I didn’t remember, until now. Seeing this …’ They stand side by side, turning the pages of the book, looking at artworks combining curved wood and suspension strings, natural ergonomic shapes with geometric lines.
‘They’re beautiful,’ Isaac says.
Thea stops on a full-page print. ‘This one,’ she says quietly.
‘Stringed Figure (Curlew), Version II,’ Isaac reads. They admire the green patinated brass triangle with its folded corners forming wings. But most of all they admire the intersecting strings, the red-brown fishing line held in tension, forming the parabolic profile of the sculpture. ‘A curlew is a bird,’ Isaac says gently, as Thea runs her fingers across the page, tracing the intricate suspended string pattern with the pad of her finger.
Out of the corner of his eye, Isaac sees curator Helen Claassen walk into the gift shop, but he doesn’t interrupt Thea’s reverie.
‘I didn’t remember …’ she says, a child once more at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, her hand tucked inside her father’s.
‘It’s part of the Tate collection,’ he says softly, ‘if one day you’d like to see it again in person. We could go.’
Thea looks up and the kindness she sees in Isaac’s eyes stops her from saying another word. Instead she hugs him, and he brings a hand to her back, enveloping her.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispers in her ear, still holding her in position, and with her head against his shoulder she nods.
‘Thank you.’ Thea notices Helen Claassen walking awkwardly towards them.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Helen says, discomfited. ‘I have the documentation you requested.’
‘Thank you,’ Isaac says, as Thea steps away from him and closes the Hepworth book. ‘That’s brilliant of you.’
Helen pulls out an A4 sheet. ‘This is a facsimile of the sales docket. You can see the gallery stamp and date – see, there, it says 1908 – and here you can read the signature of the seller. An Admiral Joseph Coleman from Edinburgh, Scotland.’
‘Coleman?’ Isaac says, clamping down his excitement as he lifts the printout to his face, desperately deciphering the signature. ‘Like you, Thea.’
Thea peers at the paper. ‘I don’t have an E in my surname.’
‘Names change, mutated by time.’ Isaac looks up, clearly animated despite himself. ‘Thank you,’ he says to Helen Claassen, shaking her hand. ‘Would you mind please explaining to Thea the origin of the Tudor rose, while I just … grab … something?’
While a patronized – and therefore furious – Thea is educated about the combination of the House of York’s white rose with the red rose of the House of Lancaster, Isaac surreptitiously carries the Hepworth book over to the till.
‘Is it a gift?’ the man behind the counter asks, and Isaac nods. ‘Want it gift-wrapped?’
‘A bag’s fine,’ Isaac whispers, quickly hiding the book in his rucksack. He walks back to Thea, waving the copy of the 1908 sales docket. ‘Come on! Time to prove that you, Thea Colman, are related to one Joseph Coleman, former owner of the Portrait of an Unknown Woman.’ He can’t hide his excitement. ‘I think we just found the next step. And I know just where to look.’
Fourteen
They run onto a Tube train at Leicester Square station, laughing breathlessly as the doors start to close, and Thea grabs Isaac’s hand and pulls him into the carriage safely. ‘Made it,’ she says, looking around for a map of the London Underground. ‘Where do we get off?’
‘We change onto the District line at Hammersmith. It will take twenty-nine minutes to get there,’ Isaac says, looking at the app on his phone, knowing she’ll appreciate him not rounding up to thirty. The carriage rattles along and they take a seat, the train picking up passengers as they head west out of central London.
‘You’re sure it will still be open?’ Thea asks, looking at her watch.
‘It’s open until seven – I studied there for part of my dissertation.’
The National Archives in Kew, the official public archive for the UK government, preserves over a thousand years of history in public records. The grounds overlooking the River Thames are beautiful and leafy, a utopia for researchers bound up in the past.
‘Do you have any ID on you?’ Isaac asks as they wait for a District line train – the least reliable of the Tube lines, but at least they’re above ground while they wait. The daylight is fading and the artificial lamps along the platform cause the tracks to glimmer, the wetness from the earlier rain making everything shiny.
Thea looks through her Mary Poppins bag of stuff. ‘I brought my passport,’ she says, and when Isaac looks puzzled: ‘Just in case.’
‘Just in case I was going to abduct you back to New York with me?’
‘Well, you were quite cryptic on the phone. All that “I can’t tell you, I have to show you” – remember?’
‘Fair enough. Any other identification? We need two pieces of ID to get you a reader’s pass.’ He grins. ‘As my assistant.’
Thea looks annoyed. ‘Your assistant? You should be my assistant. Like you said at Westminster Abbey –’ she puts on a supercilious look – ‘this is my project. You’re simply helping me with it.’
Isaac holds his hands up in peace as Thea digs out a wedge of paperwork from the bottom of her bottomless bag, which she’d grabbed as she left the house in Oxford. She roots through it when they’re on the District line train at last. ‘Council tax bill? Bank statement? TV licence?’
‘Any of those,’ Isaac says. They reach Kew Gardens station and together cross the road towards the National Archives.
‘Pretty round here, isn’t it?’ Thea says.
‘Very green.’
Thea doesn’t correct him – that, actually, it’s a commotion of falling leaves in rusty amber and burnt sienna, dirty blondes and khaki browns.
‘I hope Rosy shows up soon,’ she says quietly.
‘Me too.’
‘All this – it is to find her, isn’t it?’ Thea’s voice is desperate.
‘Of course. We’re doing our best.’
Entering the archive, they put their bags and coats into lockers in the cloakroom, carrying only the postcard of the Unknown Woman, the photocopy of the painting’s sales docket from 1908, Thea’s two forms of ID (her passport and bank statement) and their phones, all bundled inside a clear plastic bag for security.
Thea, somewhat uncomfortably, has her photo taken for her reader’s ticket, not deigning to rise to Isaac’s teasing as he tells the registrar that Thea is his research assistant, but whacks him on the arm when she’s presented with a printed pass that says ‘ASSISTANT TO ISAAC MENDELSOHN’ in block capital letters on the front. ‘You idiot,’ she says.
Isaac bites his lip, trying not to laugh. ‘Sorry.’
‘What are we
looking up first? Joseph Coleman’s birth certificate? Or death certificate?’
‘Neither. They don’t keep those here – they’re online.’ She looks at him, bewildered, as Isaac steers them across the second floor into the reading room. ‘We’re here for the Royal Navy service records.’
‘I see. Admiral Joseph Coleman. That’s smart.’
‘Thank you. I have my moments.’ They take a seat at a green-topped desk in the large reading room, a gentle clicking noise tickling the air as people all around type quietly on laptops and grapple with ancient books and records.
At the computer terminal on their bank of desks, Isaac orders up the Registry of Shipping and Seamen: Agreements and Crew Lists. ‘Some of these are going to be the original logbooks,’ he says, ‘and some we’ll have to view on microfiche.’
‘Like spies in an old movie,’ Thea says.
‘Exactly like that. Now, if Admiral Coleman sold the painting in 1908,’ Isaac muses, ‘I’m going to guess he joined the Royal Navy some time before that … shall we guess 1880 to 1900?’ Thea nods, not really sure. This is Isaac’s world, and she’s merely the spectator. ‘There are Series II logbooks for the years 1861 to 1938, so we’ll probably want to start there.’
Screens around the National Archives show the current status of all orders, and when Thea and Isaac’s number is displayed they collect the logbooks from the lockers outside the reading room. They carry the enormous pile back to the wooden desk, and Isaac takes a deep breath.
‘Oh,’ Thea says, moving closer as he lifts the front cover, the starchy dust odour rising from the pages. ‘I love the smell of old books.’
‘I do, too,’ he agrees, ‘but I also love it when crumbly manuscripts are digitized, because then I don’t feel quite so much pressure not to break them.’
‘I thought you didn’t like copies,’ Thea says. ‘Didn’t you say, “A replica can never capture a fraction of the beauty of the real thing”?’
‘Huh,’ he says, huffing. ‘You’re right, and I was wrong – the science behind a photocopy is a beautiful thing, if it helps books like this live another hundred years or so.’