by Anna Larner
Edith guided Josephine to the floor and her dress soaked up the drips of paint expanding in wet circles of colour. She untied the ribbons of soft corset, releasing a gasp from Josephine to escape into the evening air.
“I hate that I need you so.” Josephine’s words, sharp with pain, cut at her lips to speak.
“And I hate your words. They wound me, and one day”—Edith slipped her hands underneath Josephine’s skirt—“they will end my life more surer than a knife or gun or burning pyre.”
Josephine let out a cry as Edith found the place which spoke more clearly than words could ever do.
“Are you finished?” The archive assistant arrived to fidget at her side.
“Yes, thank you.” Molly managed a tired half smile. “What time is it?”
The assistant gathered the papers together. “Seven thirty.”
“Right.” Molly reached for her things, casting a last look at the scrapbook that held fast within its pages, tight-lipped, a secret passion that history with all its casual omissions had complicitly kept.
Chapter Eleven
Molly sat at her kitchen table poking spaghetti bolognese around her plate. She was finding it hard to focus on her tea, in fact, on anything other than Edith. She kept imagining how hard it would have been to love another woman at that time. To feel obliged to hide true love underneath the pretence of romantic friendship or passionate comradeship. How narrow your choices, if they felt like choices at all.
What would Georgina think of her findings? When should she tell her? She looked at her watch. It was nine o’clock. Was it too late to send an email?
The tang of the ragu sauce tingled at her mouth. Georgina wouldn’t be obliged to reply tonight, would she? Molly reached across for her laptop and opened her email. She scrolled down to their correspondence from just over a fortnight ago and hovered her cursor over Georgina’s name. It brought up the empty outline of a person. Molly felt a twinge of disappointment that she could not see Georgina’s face. When had she started to need to see her face? This was not good. She must keep a grip on her feelings before she embarrassed herself and everyone else.
Keep it professional. Taking a deep breath she began to type.
Dear Georgina,
As agreed, I have returned to the records office and conducted further research of archives related to both Edith Hewitt and Josephine Wright. I am pleased to inform you that I have been able to identify the painter of Josephine’s portrait as Edith Hewitt. A number of preliminary sketches for the work were found within a scrapbook. I was further able to corroborate Edith as the artist by a passage in a logbook entry.
I am really pleased to give you this news and I look forward to discussing this and other matters on Friday.
With kind regards,
Molly
Molly reread the words to ensure they spoke of detached professionalism. With a final check, she pressed send. Her heart fluttered with the thought of Georgina reading her message and thinking of her, if only for the briefest of moments. Oh, for God’s sake. That’s enough. She’d done what she needed to do, and Georgina would likely not even respond, as she was seeing her in a few days anyway.
Molly stared at the inbox. She hit refresh. Nothing. She waited another minute and pressed refresh again. Still nothing.
Standing with a self-recriminating shake of the head, she firmly shut the laptop with the same determination as someone keeping a lid on something wild that might escape.
She picked up her dinner plate and went to the sink, where she filled a bowl with soapy water. “Yeah, it’s official you’re the saddest loser—”
Her phone beeped from deep within her bag. She turned off the tap. It was a work email notification. She looked at her laptop. She had intended to count to one hundred but barely managed five before she rushed back to her seat and opened her mail.
That’s great news. Thanks! G
Molly looked at the brief reply. There was no Hi Molly. Look forward to seeing you Friday, Molly. I really fancy you, how about a date, Molly? Nope. And why would there be? She pushed the chair from under her, grabbed a wine glass, and reached into the fridge for a bottle of Sauvignon blanc. She’d just turned off the kitchen light to head into the sitting room to drown her irrational disappointment in something trashy on the television when her phone beeped again and her laptop screen lit up.
Molly peered back into the kitchen and glared at the screen suspiciously. Nope, she would not look. It was not from Georgina. Was it? No, of course it wasn’t. She’d given her reply. Hadn’t she?
Molly glanced into the sitting room and then back at the laptop. Oh, for goodness’ sake, just look.
Molly sat at the kitchen table in the dark. She blinked several times at the message she’d received.
May I ask a favour? Friday is looking horrendous and it is unlikely that I’ll make it back to Leicester until late evening. I checked the RO’s website and they are open Saturday mornings. Would there be any chance at all that we could meet then? I would love to see the sketches and talk more. Completely understand of course if this is asking too much.
She would love to talk more? It would be specifically about the matter in hand though, right? Yes, and then their conversation no doubt would turn from the painting to the Wright room. And then that conversation in time would be complete. There would be no more reason for them to meet and nothing else to be said.
How could replying to an email make her feel so happy and yet so sad?
Dear Georgina,
Yes, Saturday should be fine. Would ten thirty suit? And shall I meet you there?
Molly
Molly quickly pressed send this time, resisting the urge to second-guess every word.
Georgina’s reply was pretty much instant: Yes. Great!
Instant and brief.
Should she reply? But there was nothing left to be said. The plan had been made. In the light from her laptop, Molly rummaged in her bag for her diary and found her pencil and marked Georgina Wright RO 10.30am in Saturday’s entry.
She sat back in her chair tapping at the diary’s page and staring at the hypnotic blink of the cursor. Mists of daydreams about Saturday drifted in to cloud the reality of the moment. Georgina would be waiting outside the records office, and Molly would rush up to her and hug her and say I’ve missed you. And Georgina’s reply would be a kiss. A perfect kiss from perfect lips…
The tap dripped a series of short plinks into the washing-up bowl, rudely bringing Molly back to the here and now. She looked down at her diary to find that she had doodled a heart around Georgina’s name.
Chapter Twelve
“Molly, do you have a moment?” Evelyn stood in the doorway of the Victorian gallery and watched as Molly’s school group filed out past her. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your time with us today, everyone,” Evelyn said, her fixed smile flitting from one child’s head to another. The teacher, who had spent the entire class chatting to her colleague, gave a sheepish nod in response.
“Yes, of course,” Molly said. “How can I help?” Molly had the thirty seconds that crossing the room gave her to try to decide what Evelyn wanted to talk about. She desperately tried to remember what she had planned to say if Evelyn tackled her on the painting, when a young girl from the class came rushing up to her. “Hello again,” Molly said. “Jude, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded and blushed. “Here.” She thrust a small plain brown gift bag towards Molly.
“Oh.” Molly took the bag and peered in to find a small red stone in the shape of a heart. “Thank you. But I’m not sure—”
“I think you’re awesome.” It looked for all the world like the girl wanted to say so much more as she stood fixed in the tight grip of admiration. Before Molly could say anything the girl ran off.
“It seems you have an admirer.” Evelyn gave a wry smile.
“Poor thing. Crushes are so crushing aren’t they? I remember I had a crush on my art teacher. She could do no wrong in my eyes. Come to
think of it, she’s probably the reason I became a curator.”
“Molly.” Evelyn’s voice bristled with impatience.
“Oh yes, I’m sorry. You wanted to ask me something.”
“Walk with me.” Without waiting, Evelyn left the room.
Every encounter Molly had with Evelyn seemed to be filled with mystery and, therefore, trepidation. Every conversation felt loaded with something other than the simple matter at hand.
Molly hurried after Evelyn, catching her up at reception.
“Fred, do you have the keys to the annex?” Evelyn nodded regally at an elderly couple who were sitting on the foyer’s bench. “I do hope you can join us at our lunchtime concert tomorrow,” Evelyn said, with a smile of almost pious agony. There was no doubt that Evelyn could turn it on.
Molly waved a quick goodbye to them as she fell into step with Evelyn.
“There has been a development with the Wright room. I wanted to update you.” Evelyn’s tone gave nothing away.
“A development?”
“Yes.” They had reached the annex, and Evelyn unlocked the entrance doors, flinging them back with effortless aplomb.
The room smelled strongly of paint and freshly cut wood. Wedgwood-blue walls offset with ivory picture rails lent the room an imperial grandeur. Slate-grey benches had been pushed temporarily aside to allow for the honey-coloured varnishing of newly laid hardwood floors. Wow.
Molly had been in the annex less than a week ago, and it had been an empty space of plaster walls and concrete floors. Did this mean that Evelyn had heard from Georgina? Was it full steam ahead? But then surely Evelyn would have said. No. If the room was ready, that was extra pressure on Georgina, wasn’t it? Of course. Evelyn was a woman on a mission—that much was clear.
“The room’s beautiful.” Molly went to the French doors and pressed her hand against the paper sheets taped to the glass, protecting the room from prying eyes. “May I ask, does this mean…”
Evelyn was distracted by an errant paint drip of blue on the white skirting, before her attention turned to other hazards. “I’ve ordered blinds in addition to the UV light protector film for the windows and doors. Thoughts please, on other measures.”
“Yes to blinds. Sensible for both security and environmental control.” Molly spun around. “Of course, we’ll need to monitor the space to get a sense of humidity, temperature, and so forth. With three outside walls and so much glazing, as the seasons change there’s a chance we may need a dehumidifier.”
“Good. Investigate and action, please. Anything else?”
“We’ll need to look at security and insurance. We will need plinths for the sculptures and possibly glass cabinets to keep the porcelain protected.”
“Good. I agree. There is nothing more hazardous than fine bone china in the vicinity of a visitor’s elbow. So where were we?”
“You were about to tell me of a development?”
“That’s right. I spoke with Georgina Wright this morning, and she updated me about the meeting you had together on Monday.”
Molly’s legs went instantly weak. She squeezed out, “Monday?”
“Really it’s like having a conversation with a parrot. Yes, Monday. Georgina said that she was pleased to have had the opportunity to talk with you, and that she was happy with our plans for a dedicated room for the foundation’s bequest. Your conversation had been so helpful it seems that it even inspired her own choice of name for the room.”
“That’s great.”
“No, Molly. It’s not great. The name the Wright room had a certain…clarity of vision. One collection, one purpose, one exclusive experience.”
Molly wasn’t about to ask what name change Georgina might have requested.
Evelyn shook her head. “The Wright Community Room and Gallery lacks…status. It makes me wonder what it was about your conversation that made Georgina come up with that alternative.”
No way. The Wright Community Room and Gallery. Georgina had listened to her? And more than that, she’d heard her. She’d felt it and sensed it and seen it in Georgina’s eyes and in her voice. And it seemed that she’d respected her ideas to such an extent that she’d acted on them. Wow.
Evelyn clearly gave up waiting for Molly’s explanation. “I have no concept now for the space. If it’s mixed purpose…” The phrase mixed purpose caused Evelyn to suck her cheeks in as if sucking on a lemon. “I do not appreciate surprises. Is that clear?” And with a glare that chilled Molly to the bone, Evelyn left.
Molly slumped to the floor.
“Why does Evelyn look like she’s chewing on a wasp?” Fran stood at the door of the annex with her hands on her hips, casting an unmistakably suspicious glance around the room. “So this is the Wright room then?”
“Well—”
“I managed to pin Evelyn down yesterday—sadly only metaphorically—and she was obliged to admit the necessity for a change of focus, as she put it, for the annex.”
“Fran—”
“I absolutely hate that I like the room.”
“It looks great, doesn’t it? I honestly think that the Wright Community Room and Gallery is going to be awesome.”
“What?”
“Yep. Name change.” Molly leaped to her feet, rushed to Fran, and gave her a hug.
“For goodness’ sake, let go of me. And tell me everything.” Fran gingerly took a seat on a newly painted bench. “Come sit.”
“Actually I have two awesome pieces of news.”
“Excellent. Start with the name change.”
“Okay. Well, obviously, you know about Monday’s meeting and that I spoke to Georgina about the need for the museum to do more for equality and diversity et cetera.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“Well, this morning Georgina spoke to Evelyn and confirmed that she was happy with the idea of a Wright room. What’s more, she said that chatting with me had inspired her to come up with the revised name. She listened to me Fran. She really listened.”
“And I’m really impressed. What a classy thing to do—but then her father was like that. I am now very excited about your other news.”
“I know who painted Josephine’s portrait.”
“No—so you found this out last night?”
“Yes. It’s Edith Hewitt.”
“Edith? So Georgina’s hunch was spot on?”
“Yep. You see, I requested Josephine’s archive alongside Edith’s. I found sketches for the portrait all but hidden away in the scrapbook, and then an entry in a logbook made a direct and explicitly passionate reference to Edith painting Josephine. I know there’s still an element of speculation perhaps, but the room for doubt is far less. Edith was the artist and her lover.”
“What a twenty-four hours.” Fran stood and examined her skirt for paint. “Does Georgina know?”
“I emailed her last night to provide her with an update and she asked if we could meet again at the records office for her to see the sketches. So we’re meeting there Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“Yes. Don’t look at me like that. It was her idea.”
“So Evelyn’s sour face was because you told her you were carrying on researching the painting with Georgina?”
“Not exactly. That was the name change. Before you say anything, I know there’s a lot at stake.”
“I’ve said everything I care to on the matter.” Fran gestured for them to head back to their office. “I can’t help seeing that your unconventional methods are achieving results.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s just…don’t let the cost of those achievements be at the expense of your heart.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
Chapter Thirteen
Georgina was uncharacteristically late. Molly had received an email about an hour earlier to say that Georgina had been held up but was on her way. She’d replied, No problem, thanks for letting me know. She’d done her best not to reveal in her email any hint of disappoin
tment. After all, what was it that Evelyn had said—Give nothing away of your emotions.
Molly leaned against the bus stop outside the records office, casting her eye up and down the busy street. She checked her watch. It was ten forty. Her nerves tingled with excitement. Her meeting with Georgina had all the qualities of a date. She had spent last night mithering about what to wear. In the end she had settled on her denim pinafore dress accompanied by a light blue blazer and finished off with a bright pink neck scarf. She wanted her meeting with Georgina to feel as relaxed as they had been together in Daisy May. Moreover she wanted Georgina to smile at her the way she had done then. And she wanted to make Georgina laugh again, to see her face light up with joy.
But Georgina was late. She fought back the memory of the many times her ex had kept her waiting standing awkwardly outside restaurants or at parties where she knew no one, or worse still at home all dressed up sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the text that said, Delayed at work, meet you there? It was always work—every time. Work came first and Molly, well, was expected to understand. But all she understood was that she hadn’t mattered.
A cool breeze nipped at her cheeks and the dust from the street whipped and stung against her legs. She looked at the warm glow of lights emanating from the records office. If she was sensible, she would go in and begin her work. After all she wanted to have the opportunity to check the parish registers. She glanced one last time in the direction of town before turning away with a heavy heart and her head warning her to take care.
She pulled off her scarf and slipped her jacket from her shoulders to rest on the seat back of the same chair at the same long desk. She glanced quickly around the reading room. Nearly all of the tables were occupied with stern-faced people, heads bent in concentration. And she must concentrate too.