Daphne

by Justine Picardie

  Daphne was aware that Peter was struggling with his own book - an edited edition of an enormous trove of family letters and history. 'The family morgue,' he called it, bitterly, and she found her mind drifting towards her cousin, as the hours passed by in the writing hut, wondering how he was getting on. But Daphne tried to concentrate only on Branwell, who had suffered himself, after all, dogged by misery and brought down further by drink, like Gerald; no, stop now, stop thinking about Gerald, this was not about him . . .

  She knew from previous experience that her own horrors must be kept well away from here; held at bay with hard work and strict routine. Sometimes, she thought of telephoning Peter - of asking his advice, of confiding more in him, about Tommy, about the Snow Queen, about everything. But Peter had his own problems; he was constantly worried about money, she knew, though it was an uncomfortable topic of conversation between them, given her own wealth. And she wondered if the real root of his melancholy had less to do with his present circumstances than those of the past, that must have been coming close again as he delved further into the family morgue.

  But if Daphne was honest with herself - and she was trying very hard to be, to see more clearly than she might once have done - then the real truth of her recent avoidance of Peter was that his offices were in Great Russell Street, across the road from the British Museum, and the very knowledge of his proximity to the scene of her disgrace (yes, disgrace, there was no other word for it) made her feel increasingly uncomfortable; indeed, it was so troubling that she was struggling to keep it out of her head. And still, she kept returning to it. Might Peter have seen her, meeting the Snow Queen in the forecourt of the British Museum, a little less than two years ago? And did he also see her, running from the scene, pursued by a man in a trilby hat? And if he had been witness to these events, what would he make of them?

  The more that Daphne tried not to think about this, the more persistent the thought became, until at last, she buried her face in her hands, closing her eyes to everything, which only made matters worse, for then she could see the scene more vividly, played out on an endless loop in her head. 'There's nothing for it,' she said out loud, 'I'll have to speak to Peter.' And she made her way back to the house, hoping that it would be empty, so that there was no possibility of anyone overhearing her phone call.

  Once inside, Daphne went to the long wood-panelled passageway where the telephone squatted on a small table, surrounded by forlorn raincoats hanging on rusty hooks, forgotten boots and a child's bicycle. There was a small mirror hanging above the telephone, but she turned her head away from it, and looked up Peter's telephone number in her address book. 'Museum 3946,' she said, under her breath, forcing herself not to read anything sinister into the random configuration of numbers. She dialled the number, half-hoping that there would be no answer, but a secretary answered, and then Peter was on the line.

  'Daphne,' he said, 'how splendid to hear from you.' But he was surprised, she could hear it in his voice; for this was not her usual time to speak to him, it was a break from routine, an unswerving timetable that incorporated telephone calls to family and friends on specific evenings, and never during office hours on a weekday, unless in times of crisis.

  'I'm sorry to disturb you at work,' she said, 'but I'm feeling rather doom-laden. I've discovered I'm up against another woman - it turns out I have a rival . . .' Daphne paused, remembering the feeling she had in London last month, at Sloane Square tube station, on her way from the flat, when she'd been standing close to the edge of the platform, and had suddenly thought how easy it would be to jump in front of the next train; how easy it would be not to be; just one last step, and then she could stop trying, stop everything . . . But now, as then, she pulled back from the brink; for she could not imagine how to find the words to tell Peter about her encounter with the Snow Queen, however close it had been to him. 'Have you heard of Winifred Gerin?' she continued. 'Well, it's most unfortunate, but she's my rival for Branwell's affections.'

  'I did happen to notice that piece in the TLS,' said Peter. 'But try not to worry, your biography will be far better than Miss Gerin's, and anyway, I'm sure there's room for more than one book about Branwell Brontë, given that everyone has ignored him until now.'

  'That's not what Victor says,' replied Daphne. 'He informed me, rather unhelpfully, that my efforts to revive Branwell would come to nothing if Miss Gerin gets there first. Poor Branwell, on the verge of being brought back to life, and then killed again . . .'

  'Take no notice of Victor,' said Peter. 'And if he doesn't want the book, I do. You know I'd be delighted to publish it.'

  'Oh, that would cause a terrible fuss,' said Daphne. 'Victor's terribly possessive - or at least he would be if he discovered that another man was interested in me. I shall just have to get a move on with the writing, and beat my rival to it.'

  'That's the spirit,' said Peter. 'Just think of Uncle Jim, turning out his plays, churning out the novels, writing like there was no tomorrow . . .'

  They said their goodbyes, and made a date for another lunch in London in September, and a tentative arrangement for Peter to visit Menabilly before the summer was over. Then Daphne returned to the writing hut, determined to be determined. But somehow, Peter's final phrase had lodged itself in her head. What might it mean, wondered Daphne, to write like there was no tomorrow? And where could the lack of a future lead her? Might it be a better place than here?

  Menabilly,

  Par,

  Cornwall

  27th June 1959

  Dear Mr Symington,

  Much gloom down here in Cornwall, despite the sunny weather, after reading the news in the latest edition of the TLS, which doubtless has already come to your attention, though I enclose a copy for you here, just in case you hadn't seen it.

  I have written to Miss Gerin, saying that I am sure there is room for both of us in Branwell's life. But to be frank, I am feeling despondent about her forthcoming biography. Her latest book has been very well reviewed across all the papers - a whole page in the Illustrated London News! -and it has been hailed as the definitive life of Anne Brontë It has received much more notice than the other rival biography of Anne, which was published a month before Miss Gerin's and subsequently sunk without trace. Certainly, Miss Gerin has had a succès d'estime, though I would think her book will also sell well.

  What is giving me further cause for concern is that I am sure Miss Gerin will get every sort of backing from the Brontë Society, as well as the London critics. She has placed herself on the map as a biographer, and any forthcoming book of hers will be met with interest and sympathy. We have to remember that although my novels are what is known as popular, I am not a critic's favourite. Indeed, I am generally dismissed with a sneer as a best-seller, and either reviewed badly, or not at all. So should our two biographies of Branwell be published at the same time, and appear to rival each other, I would come off second best, I have no illusions about that!

  Added to my problems is the fact that Miss Gerin lives in Yorkshire - in Haworth, no less - so she will go over the local ground very thoroughly; indeed, has probably already done so while researching her Anne biography.

  What I do have on my side, however, is your expertise, and, hopefully, some original manuscripts not available to Miss Gerin. I am much encouraged to hear that you were able to pay a discreet visit to the Brontë Parsonage Museum over the Bank Holiday weekend, and I trust that you took my advice and tipped the museum caretaker, Mr Mitchell? I am also delighted that you were able to borrow various of Branwell's manuscripts from the Parsonage, and send them off to the printers in Leeds to be copied as facsimiles. Do you know when you might be able to get these to me? As you can imagine, I am awaiting their arrival with more than a little anxiety.

  You will understand, I am sure, that now that we are up against a rival, there is no time to lose. I expect Miss G is whizzing around Haworth in a car, making all sorts of enquiries, while I am stuck here at my desk in Menabilly. Still, at le
ast Mr Mitchell appears to be prepared to help us, and it looks as if you will have to turn detective if we are to gather more material and information. By the way, if you have a moment, would you ask Mr Mitchell to let you see the Reverend Brontë's medical textbook, which as far as I know is still kept in the Parsonage? The last time I went to Haworth, several years ago, I was able to look at it, and the Reverend Brontë had scribbled all sorts of notes on certain of the pages - it is a medical dictionary, and his handwritten notes, as far as I can recall, appeared alongside the entries for nightmares, delirium tremens, and epilepsy. If my memory is correct, then his annotations may turn out to be rather significant. It might also prove my theory that Branwell suffered from the minor form of epilepsy known as petit mal, which could account for why his father did not send him away to school.

  So sorry to hear about your wife's arthritis! It is a wretched thing. Perhaps you and your wife are like myself and my husband, in that when one of us is up, the other is down. At the moment I am in good health, but my husband is less robust. However, these things will pass, and I hope to be able to come to Yorkshire before the summer is over.

  No more for now. Good hunting!

  Yours sincerely,

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Newlay Grove, July 1959

  Symington was overwhelmed this morning; astonished and as close to jubilance as he could remember, having read his name in print in the Times Literary Supplement for the first time in a quarter of a century. 'Listen to this, my dear,' he said to Beatrice, waving his copy at her like a victory flag. 'A letter from Daphne du Maurier to the TLS, about her Branwell research, with a very kind reference to myself. She says, "I realise that living at Haworth as she does, Miss Gerin is happier placed than I am"—'

  'Who is Miss Gerin?' Beatrice said, interrupting him, as she cleared the breakfast crockery from the dining room table.

  'Miss Gerin,' he said, still too exhilarated to be irritable, 'you know, that woman in Haworth who is writing biographies of all the Brontës, and it's Branwell's turn now, poor devil, she's got her sights on him. So Daphne and I are up against her in a race to be out first. Hence this letter: "I realise that living at Haworth as she does, Miss Gerin is happier placed than I am, and with one Branwell biography 'under her belt', as the saying goes, it would be foolish of me to attempt to cover identical ground. I am, however, the lucky possessor of the Brontë library of Mr J. Alex Symington, editor and compiler, with the late T. J. Wise, of the incomparable Shakespeare Head edition of the Brontë Works, Lives and Letters, and long correspondence with Mr Symington over the past years has confirmed my opinion that Branwell Brontë and his work - most of it untranscribed - have been too long neglected. I believe that both Miss Gerin and myself can help to remedy this fact, and if we approach our subject in different ways, with possibly our views of Branwell as a boy and young man widely opposed, surely the reading public may be interested enough to buy both our books when they eventually appear? I am sure neither Miss Gerin nor myself is aware of any sense of rivalry; rather we see ourselves as students engaged in the same passionate research." Well, what do you make of that, Beatrice? You are in the presence of an incomparable editor, the catalyst for passionate research!'

  'Very nice, dear,' Beatrice said, 'but don't overexcite yourself. You don't want another fall, and you're not to start moving those old boxes again.' Then she was gone again, to one of her interminable meetings of the Women's Institute, and as the day wore on, Symington was beginning to feel crestfallen, even cheated. The Times Literary Supplement had printed Daphne's letter beneath a headline: LITERARY REDUNDANCY, and Symington was assailed by a sudden suspicion that this might be a veiled message to himself. For perhaps he had, in a sense, been made redundant by Miss du Maurier and Miss Gerin, who would both be publishing their biographies on Branwell, while he would not, for he had been reduced to a lowly assistant to Daphne, no more than that, when all was said and done. And the longer that Symington thought about this, the more it struck him as being monstrously unfair. Soon, a black mood had descended upon him, clouding everything, overshadowing his earlier jubilance, and he found himself picking over the memory of his enforced redundancies from the Brontë Parsonage Museum and Leeds University, of the many humiliations heaped upon him, and the disappointments that ensued.

  At last, after several hours of wretchedness, Symington decided to write a letter to Miss du Maurier, who had been pestering him for the copies of Branwell's manuscripts that he borrowed from the Brontë Parsonage six or seven weeks ago. No one else knew that he had taken these - not even Mr Mitchell, the museum custodian who had given him access to the library when it was closed to the public on a Sunday, and left him to his own devices. Mitchell wasn't a bad sort; he'd been there since the museum opened in 1928, and respected the fact that Symington was a Freemason, like himself; like Lord Brotherton, and Branwell, come to that. Not that Symington ever got out to lodge meetings these days, but the connections came in useful, nevertheless, at least where Mitchell was concerned. 'Best to stick together, old chap,' he'd said to Mitchell, as he gave the masonic handshake upon arriving at the Parsonage.

  As for the matter of the facsimile copies of Branwell's manuscripts: well, he muttered to himself, let Daphne wait a little longer. He would tell her that a printers' strike was causing lengthy delays in the copying process; after all, patience was a virtue (a lesson worth learning for a rich and famous lady novelist). He paused, and then was seized by a stream of ideas that he must set down in a letter to Daphne.

  Dear Miss du Maurier,

  Thank you for your kindness in mentioning me in your letter to the Times Literary Supplement, which I read today with great interest. It has set me thinking, because after all, 'Literary Redundancy' is not new. It started with the early scholars of the Greek and Latin Classics, followed from the Continental Universities to Oxford and Cambridge. Then the writers of the Bible, Shakespeare, the early English dramatists, and with the rise of other universities, the concentrated work on English writers followed, until the end of the last century with the Victorians and Pre-Raphaelites, the increase of students and work for them to do - the Brownings, Rossetti, Swinburne, and many other individual writers including the Brontës have been a constant source of redundancy.

  He put his pen down, for his head was throbbing, and he was feeling increasingly confused; unsure of what it was he was trying to explain in his letter to Daphne. 'Concentrate, Symington,' he said to himself, but concentration had been difficult, ever since he had slipped on a garden path, three weeks ago, in the twilight, whilst trying to carry a carton of Branwell's manuscripts from the house to his wooden shed beyond the overgrown orchard. Where, exactly, was that box, he wondered now? It contained the borrowed manuscripts from the Parsonage; he had an idea they would be safer in the shed that night, though once in the garden, he had felt uncertain; had stopped, put the carton down again, then tried to lift it, and lost his grip.

  He picked up his pen again, and continued with the letter to Daphne.

  You will be wondering Why no news from me during the past two or three weeks? The printers' strike still holds up the replicas of Branwell's manuscripts, whilst my own activities were cut short about three weeks ago. My wife had gone to a meeting of the Old People's Welfare Committee. I sauntered of into the garden, and trying to stoop and pick up a carton on the garden path, fell fill-length, receiving a nasty cut over the right eye. Lying there two and a half hours until I was found unconscious at 10.30 p.m. However, I seem to have rallied to action and will be 'on the job' during the next few days!

  There had been some embarrassment after the fall, the details of which did not need to be disclosed to Daphne. Beatrice had accused him of falling down dead-drunk, having found an empty whisky bottle in his study, and claimed she could smell the alcohol fumes on his breath. 'You weren't knocked unconscious,' she'd hissed at him, 'you'd drunk yourself into a stupor that evening, while I was out.'

  The throbbing in his head was getting
worse now, and he longed for a small sip of whisky to dull the pain; but there was none to be had, for Beatrice watched him too carefully while she was in the house, and even when she was out, Symington had no money to go and buy new supplies of drink.

  Which reminded him of his predicament. He would have to sell something - not everything - to Daphne. And this thought, at least, cheered him a little; for despite her claims in the Times Literary Supplement that she was possessed of his library, he knew better. She had a fraction, just a fraction of it; she pored over the detritus, while he retained the jewels. So who was the literary redundancy, now? 'Not me,' murmured Symington, closing his eyes, for the room was spinning, 'not me . . .'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Hampstead, June

  Rachel arrived very early this morning, as we'd arranged, and I was already waiting in the hallway, ready to run down the steps from the front door, hoping that the neighbours would still be sleeping. And perhaps she guessed what I was thinking as I slipped into the passenger seat, for she said, 'Don't worry, no one will be witness to our dawn eloping,' and though she laughed as she spoke, I could not stop myself blushing, silently cursing my gauche embarrassment, and my hopeless naïveté, for I had no witty rejoinder or clever repartee.

  She was wearing a scarlet silk wrap dress, with smooth bare legs and high-heeled strappy leather sandals that showed off her beautifully painted red toenails. All of which might sound absurd for a trip to Yorkshire, but she looked entirely at ease; somehow more herself than anyone else I'd ever met. Sitting beside her, in my faded jeans and navy T-shirt and plimsolls, I felt like a badly dressed schoolgirl, with nothing interesting to say for myself, and I wondered if she was regretting bringing me along for the ride. But she must have taken pity on me, as she drove us out of London in her hired car, very fast, while the sun rose higher in the sky, because she made no more jokes, and took care not to mention Paul. Instead, she asked me to tell her everything I knew about Mr Symington, so I did, glad to be able to unravel the story that had been getting tangled in my head.