‘I made it,’ I said proudly, ‘If you like, I’ll knit you one as well. That should give the public a different image of librarians.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it would. So, how can I help you today? Did you have any joy with the parish register? You certainly seem in a very good mood.’
‘I am,’ I chirped happily. ‘I’m in a very good mood. I haven’t felt this cheerful for quite a while. Now, you’re going to love this. I’ve got excellent news with regard to Dorothy. Oh, yes, I’m hot on the trail now. She’s come out of the closet. My daughter found her in the parish register.’
‘Oh, good for her. So it wasn’t the wrong surname then?’
‘No. They put the wrong date on the inscription, not the wrong name. She was who I thought she was and nobody else.’
‘That must have come as a relief.’
‘Oh, it did. I can assure you. It came as a great relief. Yes, it was the wrong year. Dorothy died in 1946.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, ‘I should have thought of that. It’s not unusual for stonemasons to make a mistake with the date.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t the stonemason,’ I replied. ‘It was Peter.’
‘Peter?’
‘Yes, you know: ‘to you the stars, narcissi fields and music.’ Him. Now, I think the headstone went up some time after she died, possibly several years, and, in the interval, he’d forgotten the date. Well, that wouldn’t be unusual, would it? People do get very mixed up about dates. And when you consider, there were a lot of displaced persons around at the time.’
‘Displaced persons?’
‘Yes, just after the War. He could have been taken prisoner and only found out that Dorothy had died when he came home. I imagine that kind of thing happened quite often. My mother was a nurse in the War and she says it did. You’d think they’d gone, and they would suddenly turn up. But not always, of course.’
‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean now. But you’d have thought her husband would have got the correct date, wouldn’t you? Or that a relative would have informed him.’
‘Oh, Peter wasn’t her husband,’ I said. ‘Not unless it was her nickname for him, which I don’t think it was. No, her husband was called Wilfrid.’ Reaching into my pocket, I brought out her Death Certificate and placed it on his desk. ‘There you are, that’s him. He registered her death.’
‘Well, well, your mystery deepens.’
‘Doesn’t it. Of course, I shan’t rest until I’ve found out who Peter was. But, for the time being, it’s Dorothy I’m after. I want to find something she painted and this is where I was hoping you could help because it turns out she was an artist. And that’s another coincidence – although I wouldn’t call myself an artist as such - my house is full of paintings, most of them mine.’
‘Really?’ he appeared puzzled and began scratching his beard. This was not a good sign. Perhaps I had overwhelmed him? I decided to tone it down.
‘Of course, unlike Dorothy,’ I quickly added, ‘I’m not an artist by profession. I’m an astrologer and I teach History in my spare time.’
This seemed to surprise him – or was there something else wrong? For he was now sucking in his cheeks as if digesting something difficult. I hoped I hadn’t erred in mentioning Astrology, which can often elicit strange reactions from people who are otherwise friendly and polite.
‘Is anything the matter?’ I asked.
He hesitated. ‘Well – it’s just that you said she was an artist.’
‘That’s right. She was. Look, there it is: under Occupation, it says, ‘Artist.’
‘Um.’ This time he scratched the tip of his nose. ‘Yes, I can see how you might have missed this.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m surprised they did that as late as forty-six. Oh, well, they obviously did.’
‘Did what?’
‘Cited the husband’s occupation on the wife’s death certificate – not very P.C. is it.’
‘What? Oh, no. She was an artist. Look, it says, ‘Occupation,’ then it says, ‘Wife of Wilfrid Browning,’ yes, but then there’s a gap, and then it says, ‘Artist.’
‘Yes,’ he said patiently. ‘He was an artist. Her occupation, I’m afraid, was, ‘Wife of Wilfrid.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But that’s not an occupation.’
‘It was in those days,’ he replied. ‘Still is, I should think, for a lot of women.’
I groaned, ‘Oh, God, you’re right, aren’t you, and I’ve got it wrong again! I don’t think, that’s my trouble, I just leap straight in. Oh, what an idiot. How stupid can you get? Of course, you’re right. It’s obvious now you’ve pointed it out. My mother will have a field day with this.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself,’ he said kindly. ‘It’s an easy enough mistake to make. But, listen, Dorothy could well have been an artist in her own right too. Shall we have a try?’
But I knew before we set off that we weren’t going to find Dorothy in the Catalogue of Artists. We did, however, find Wilfrid Browning without any difficulty. He had exhibited twice in Oxford before the First World War: at Exeter College in 1911, and again in 1913: ‘the College Chapel,’ and the ‘Rector’s Hall.’
‘Perhaps he was religious,’ I said.
‘I wonder?’ said Martin. ‘It’s rather odd there’s no record of him painting after that. When was the last one, 1913? He could well have been wounded in action.’
‘He could have been,’ I said. ‘But maybe he exhibited somewhere else? They were living in London when she died.’
‘Ah, he may have joined up there.’
‘Or he may not have joined up at all.’
‘I’d have thought that unlikely, wouldn’t you? But while we’re here, shall we have a look? We can certainly try the local regimental records, though if he joined up in London, it’ll be harder. A lot of their records are incomplete.’
‘Why not,’ I said; although since I wasn’t especially interested in Wilfrid’s career, I wasn’t disappointed when we couldn’t find it. Martin, however, had now become quite enthusiastic; and began putting forward various theories to explain why Wilfrid may have stopped painting after World War One, which ranged from losing his sight to losing his spirit.
‘If he was religious,’ he said, ‘as these entries suggest, he may have lost his Faith during the War. Didn’t they say God died on the first day of the Somme?’
‘They did,’ I replied. ‘But Wilfrid was still an artist on Dorothy’s Death Certificate and that was after the Second World War.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. But it would still be interesting, wouldn’t it, to see whether his paintings changed after the First World War. It must have had an impact. You could try some of the London libraries.’
‘I could,’ I agreed. ‘Maybe I’ll do that. It would make a change from burial records.’
As he closed the catalogue, he gave me a sympathetic look. ‘You’re really disappointed by this, aren’t you?’
‘Am I? I don’t know. I suppose I am. She didn’t have a very good death, you see, so I was hoping she’d have had a wonderful life; painting and doing what she loved, because I have this feeling she didn’t have any children.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘She may still have had a wonderful life.’
‘Well, I hope so.’
‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘we’re not busy at the moment; I’ll give you a hand. There should be a record of their marriage.’
I didn’t reply at once. I wasn’t interested in their marriage - although I was becoming mildly interested in my lack of interest in their marriage.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ I said.
‘It’ll give you her maiden name,’ he added.
At this, I perked up, ‘Oh, of course. But won’t it be difficult? I don’t want to waste any more of your time.’
‘No, no. It’s no trouble and I know a short cut.’
Happily, this meant I didn’t have to spend hour
s ploughing through the Index. Martin found the announcement of their marriage in the Newspaper Archive within the space of ten minutes.
On August 14th 1926, at St. Giles Church: Wilfrid George; only son of Mr and Mrs C. Browning married Dorothy Margaret, only daughter of Mrs Carter and Mr G. Baker deceased.
‘Well, that’s interesting,’ I said, ‘That’s not the church where’s she’s buried. She must have moved at some point. Well, thank you very much, Martin, you’ve been a great help.’
Informed, now, of her maiden name, it didn’t take me long to locate the record of her birth. It didn’t surprise me – and this was the highlight of my afternoon – to discover that Dorothy’s had been a summer birth. Although I did not yet have the exact date (her birth had been registered in the September Quarter) I felt sure that she had been a Leo: proud, noble, steadfast and warm. A little managerial, perhaps, with a slight tendency to interfere in the lives of others; but, overall, well-meaning.
On my way home from the library, I called in at my allotment, picked the last of the season’s sunflowers, and took them down to Dorothy’s grave.
‘You were a Leo, weren’t you, Dorothy. A sunny, creative Leo, born to shine. You were a Leo yet you married an artist. Now, I find that very interesting. Did you shine for yourself, or for someone else?’
When I was a child, I shone for my father. I shone because my father was blinded in the War and it was my job to cheer him up. After all, as my grandmother told me, I was, his ‘Little Eyes.’
And I loved this name. I loved my job. I felt proud. It was an honour. How I loved to walk out with my father, leading him by the hand. More than anything in the world, I wanted to bring my father out of the darkness; and so I carefully concealed from him anything I knew would disturb him. He had suffered enough. He must never suffer again, and especially not through me. So I went round him as a small child shining: always cheerful, always sunny.
I would give him the pictures I painted. And he would run his hands across the surface. ‘Ah, yes,’ he would say, ‘You have really captured the sunrise. You have really captured the light.’
Oh, yes, I loved my job. And I loved my father. He was a generous man. ‘I have every confidence in you,’ he always said.
But when he died, I knew that I had failed. I was his ‘Little Eyes’ but I didn’t see it coming. He died alone and afraid.
Oh, but we are in this chapter under the benevolent and warming rays of the Sun: we really ought to close on a cheerful note.
But it wasn’t a cheerful summer. Bill was marrying his twin. My mother suffered a further stroke.
Try. Try harder.
Well, we did have a week with my cousin in the Pyrenees. Trouble was, my skin got worse. The heat didn’t help.
Keep at it. We are going to end this chapter on a cheerful note. It doesn’t have to be brilliant. What about Dorothy? You said you thought she was a Leo, so was she?
Well, yes, but I didn’t find that out until later.
Never mind. Include it now.
All right then. Yes, she was. I was right. And her Leo Sun conjoined my Ascendant. She had seen me that day in the churchyard, recognised something in me. I didn’t know what, but I did know: it was meant to be.
The Moon
The Sun was in Libra, the Moon in Virgo, and Uranus in Aquarius ascended on Thursday, the 7th of October, when Eleanor, on her thirteenth birthday, opened what she took to be another greetings card only to pull out Dorothy’s Birth Certificate instead. ‘That’s a bit much,’ she said. ‘I was hoping for some vouchers from Uncle Dan. Oh.’
Alerted by her sudden change of tone, I paused en route to the kitchen with my shopping and gave her a quizzical look.
‘You’re not going to like this, Mum. Maybe you should sit down.’
‘Sit down – whatever for?’
‘It’s Dorothy – she was born in Bill’s road.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe it, let me see.’
She was right, of course. ‘Oh, my God.’ I fell back into the armchair, dropping my shopping and dislodging a sleeping cat.
Rising from the floor, she gathered up her cards and rescued the cat. ‘Oh, come on Mum,’ she said. ‘Look on the bright side. She could have been born in Bill’s house and then she would have had to spend the Afterlife cleaning.’ And with that pithy remark, she retired to her bedroom, leaving me to recover my equilibrium alone - and prepare the Birthday Tea.
Just as I was putting the finishing touches to the trifle, the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of her friends; shortly followed by my oldest friend, Joanna, who’d driven up from London bearing gifts. ‘Where is she? Where’s the Birthday Girl?’ She called out whereupon Eleanor and her little troop of girlfriends tumbled downstairs to receive their treats then ran back up again.
‘We’ve got another Birthday Girl in here, Jo,’ I said, beckoning her into the kitchen where I brought her up to date with my news as we laid out the spread and drank tea.
‘Well, I don’t know what to make of it, Gwen,’ she said, covering the sandwiches with cling film. ‘The whole thing’s extremely strange.’
‘You can say that again,’ I replied, popping another pizza into the oven.
‘Could there be another road in Oxford with the same name?’
‘Unfortunately, no. Dorothy’s got Bill for a neighbour whether she likes it or not. Yes, of all the yellow-bricked, Victorian villas she could have chosen, why did she have to choose the one opposite his? Well, of course, this means I can’t go and make my pilgrimage now to her Birthplace in case I bump into Them.’
Wiping out the fruit bowl, she began filling it with crisps. ‘I suppose you could always go during the night – or in disguise. You could wear a false moustache and the opera cloak you got from the Oxfam shop.’
‘I could,’ I laughed. ‘Yes, that would give the neighbours something to worry about. But no. I don’t want to risk seeing them again, Jo. It’s too much. Dorothy’s Birthplace will have to wait.’
‘So, how long for do you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I imagine I’ll feel better after they’re married. That’ll put the seal on things - make it more real.’
‘You still think that’s going to happen?’
‘I should think so. I know you don’t.’
‘No, it never works between twins, I don’t think. They fall in love with themselves in a kind of sleep; and when they wake up, they start finding fault with one another. And when that happens – with Bill and his twin – that’s when you’ll need to be ready, stronger in yourself and clearer about what you want.’
Opening the fridge, I brought out the cheesecake and gave it a tap with the back of a spoon.
‘Well, it wouldn’t do you any harm now, would it,’ she continued, ‘to think about what you need. Would you want him back after this?’
‘I haven’t been thinking along those lines because I don’t think it’s going to happen.’
‘Ah, so you do want him back.’
At times like this, I wondered whether Joanna might have Scorpio Ascendant. Her appearance suggested the Moon rising with Venus in Virgo: she had warm brown eyes, a heart-shaped face and olive skin; yet she could be very penetrating – and persistent.
‘You really have got to think about what you want, you know, Gwen, because it’s not going to work out between Bill and his missing twin. Oh, it was all very well in the summer, while he was out there having fun, but he won’t want a free spirit when the nights draw further in, he’ll want apple crumble and his washing done. Can’t see a free spirit doing that can you? He doesn’t need a twin, Bill, actually, he needs a wealthy patron. Yes, maybe we can find him one before he turns up on your doorstep with his laundry. Unless you want him back, of course.’
I looked up at the calendar on my kitchen wall; the image, a forest of maple trees shedding their leaves. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I want, Jo, to be honest. I do miss him, but I really don’t think he’ll be back, even if it doesn’t work out
with his twin. He wasn’t happy with me, remember. I pushed him away, he said; and I didn’t see him. Well, maybe I didn’t.’
‘You foresaw him,’ she said after a while. ‘Saw what he might be. We all do it.’
After she had gone - and the girls, tucked up in sleeping bags, watched a video in the front room - I went into my cupboard under the stairs and brought out his photograph.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Bill,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure that I didn’t see you, really. There were lots of things I saw in you and loved. Your sense of humour, of course, which is second to none; your intelligence, and interest in things being fair. So, oh, I don’t know.’
Yet, I knew there had been some truth in what he’d said, for if I had seen him clearly, I wouldn’t have spent so much time trying to fathom him out. Returning his photograph, I next brought out his Speculative Horoscope, recalling the investigation I had mounted in my attempt to find his correct time of birth, even suggesting that his younger sister might try hypnosis.
Much as I liked her, I’d felt especially frustrated with Lynne, because she had taken up Astrology in her youth and had actually drawn up his chart, but couldn’t remember the first thing about it, apart from: it ‘described him rather well.’ She had then said she had come to doubt it because their mother had been somewhat absent-minded, and couldn’t remember whether the original time she had given had been the correct one after all. Could it have been lunchtime, or teatime? She had the feeling there was a meal involved. But then again, it could have been breakfast or supper or a late evening snack. At one point, she had a feeling for Gemini. Aha, I thought, the twins. But shortly afterwards, she’d changed her mind. In the end, I had decided I would have to rectify the chart.
Now, this is a long and complicated procedure, which involves matching planetary alignments to the key events in a person’s life. It also involves some difficult Maths which, at the best of times, I do not enjoy. The hardest part, of course, is getting people to tell you the truth about their key events; and given Bill’s scepticism of Astrology, not to mention his somewhat secretive nature, I hadn’t expected too much success on this front. Nevertheless, I’d employed all my powers of persuasion.
To You The Stars Page 5