Daphne (11 page)

Now, six years later, she was beginning to see that she must try to explain things to him, as a way of making amends; except it was hard to find an opportunity to talk. They were rarely alone in a room together - Kits darted in and out, arranging impromptu games of cricket and croquet, and Tod was always on hand, proffering cups of tea, while Tessa chased after her children and organised the meals, and Flavia sat with Tommy, making soothing small talk. At night, as always, Tommy went to his own bedroom, and though this was partly a relief to Daphne, she was also aware that he was avoiding her; barely able to look at her, let alone initiate a conversation.

Eventually, over two weeks after Tommy's return to Menabilly, she made certain that no one else would be with them on an afternoon stroll, as the rest of the family had gone off to Fowey to watch the summer sailing regatta. The sky was clear, for once, and a light breeze came off the sea, rippling through the trees, so that the leaves seemed to shiver and dance. Daphne took Tommy's hand as they walked slowly across the lawns, towards the view of the headland that they both loved, telling him that she needed to be honest with him. 'I've been going over and over this in my head,' she said, 'and I want you to know that the thing with Gertie was to do with my feelings about my father, not you, do you see?'

But if he saw, he gave no sign of it, just kept looking straight ahead. 'It's terribly important that you understand this, darling,' she said, trying not to falter, 'even though it was ages ago, because it might make sense to you now. I think it was a kind of nervous breakdown, going on inside myself, when I was in a terrible muddle . . .'

She paused, giving him time to answer, or ask questions, but he was just walking blindly forward, slipping his hand out of her clasp, so there was nothing for it but for her to go on, too. 'Because Gertie was so like Gerald, you see, all that gaiety and wit and charm, but with a sadness in the eyes, which was probably why they fell for each other, and they were both like Peter Pan, the kind of people who couldn't really grow old. And I adored her, like I adored Daddy, I couldn't help myself, though I'm not trying to make excuses . . . It was just a silly obsession, and it's gone now, you must see that?'

But it was no good, she couldn't get it straight in her head, and she couldn't make Tommy understand, and why should he, when Daphne couldn't understand it herself? No wonder, then, that he still said nothing, as he came to a sudden halt, though his hands were shaking, like an old man's, and his eyes were fixed on the ground; he would not look at Daphne, nor out towards the headland. 'Darling, shall we go on walking a little further, down to the beach?' she said to him, unable to bear the silence, and he just shook his head.

Since then, they had not walked anywhere together; their routine had not yet resumed, those rambles to the sea through Happy Valley, past the azaleas and rhododendrons, the dog padding at their heels. And though the days were warm, Tommy still seemed frozen, still bound to the Snow Queen, setting himself apart from Daphne, barricaded behind an icy silence. Daphne imagined his affair dragging on, as hers had done with Puxley, the betrayed wife knowing about the infidelity, yet unable to stop it, everything poisonous and rotten, when, like a tumour, it should be cut out, cleanly removed with a surgeon's knife. But nothing was clean or clear now; everything seemed unresolved, uncertain, unending. If this were one of her books, Daphne knew she would bring matters to a head, there would be an escalation of tension, and finally, a bold conclusion; except there was nothing to conclude here, this marriage must go on and on; and she must find a way to endure.

Menabilly,
Par,
Cornwall

5th September 1957

Dear Mr Symington,

Forgive my delay in replying to your last letter, but I have been inundated with visitors, and trying to do my duty as a wife, mother, and grandmother! But I haven't forgotten about Branwell, or your kind offer to sell me some of your library. And I would, indeed, be very interested in this proposal, because as you may have guessed, I do have a tentative idea of writing a book about Branwell.

I was wondering if you might perhaps be able to meet with me in London later this month? Perhaps I could take you to lunch somewhere in Bloomsbury? I am planning to spend a week or two there, working in the Reading Room of the British Museum, and transcribing as much of the manuscripts as is possible in that time. One of the many mysteries that are occupying my thoughts at present is that of Emily's poetry. I have been looking at the various editions, and note that the manuscripts were sourced from scattered sheets of paper that had been sold to American collectors, and others from Charlotte's widower, Arthur Bell Nicholls. But I can see no proof that each of these manuscripts was definitively Emily's work, rather than her brother's. What is really needed, I suppose, is a completely unbiased authority on handwriting that could distinguish between the various members of the Brontë family, without any preconceived opinion.

Of course, I would need to get together enough fresh material on Branwell to make a new book worthwhile. And there are so many questions that I should have to answer in my researches. Why, for example, was he never sent to school? I suspect that he suffered from petit mal, the almost imperceptible form of epilepsy, but I have absolutely no evidence for this, as yet. Who were his close friends, and what was the influence of freemasonry on his life, given his attendance at the local Masonic lodge? I should dearly like to know the details of his time with the Robinson family at Thorp Green; after all, he was there for two years - and Anne for even longer - and yet all we are ever told is the bare rumours of the disgrace accompanying Branwell's dismissal.

Now, I must stop all these musings, and get this letter off to the post. I look forward to hearing from you, and perhaps even meeting you in the near future. Looking at my diary, I see that I would be free to meet you the week after next, if that would suit you.

Yours sincerely,

Newlay Grove, October 1957

The days were shorter now, and Symington was short of breath, he coughed as he unlocked his storerooms or searched through his books, returning to old hiding places, rustling amidst his files. The letters from Daphne du Maurier had sent him back to his manuscripts, but he knew he should not have gone back, that nothing had changed.

'She will learn . . .' he muttered to himself, for Branwell could not be rescued from the maze of incomplete manuscripts, scattered and mutilated by Shorter and Wise; yes, Wise too, it was not only Shorter who had betrayed Branwell and Symington. The pair of them, Shorter and Wise, had profited from Branwell's losses, and as it was Wise who was the expert in forgery, surely it was Wise who had forged first Charlotte's and then Emily's signatures on Branwell's manuscripts, and sold them to rich yet gullible collectors; thinking nothing of it, for he thought nothing of Branwell, nor much of anyone other than himself, the Grand Panjandrum, who had fooled everyone, for such a longtime.

Symington knew that Daphne hoped she would discover something extraordinary; he guessed that she dreamt of proving, at the very least, that Branwell had a hand in Wuthering Heights, as well as writing many of the poems attributed to Emily. Good luck to her, he thought, but only briefly; for he did not wish her well, he did not want her to succeed with Branwell where he had so far failed.

He had not replied to her last letter, which arrived weeks ago; she asked too many questions, and anyway, if anyone was to write a book on Branwell Brontë, it should be himself, not a romantic lady novelist, who knew nothing of scholarly research. And he had time on his hands to write, for Beatrice was rarely at home, but always attending some committee meeting or other, the British Legion, the Women's Voluntary Service, the St John's Ambulance Brigade. 'You'll have to look after yourself,' she said to him, before she sailed from the house, felt hat pinned firmly to her head, brown shoes polished and grey serge coat buttoned up to the collar.

So the slow mornings passed by, and no one called for Symington, only for Beatrice, who was indomitable, uncrushed, and Symington sometimes wondered if he was shrinking, dwindling like the daylight hours. He wished that he had not told Daphne his suspicions about the forged signatures on Branwell's manuscripts in an early rush of enthusiasm, but guessed, also, that she would not be able to proceed any further in her investigations, for Wise was dead, and Symington would keep his mouth shut from now on. That way, she would never know about that strange conversation he had with Wise not long before the old man died, when Symington had told him of his troubles and the lawyers' letters, and Wise had said, 'Well, they're on to both of us now, though we did it for the best, didn't we?'

But why rake over the past? Instead, Symington decided he would rearrange his collections, he would reconsider his cataloguing systems; he must do this, before he could embark on any further research for his book about Branwell, the masterpiece that was waiting for him to breathe air into it, waiting to be brought alive. The book in his mind was perfect, but his cataloguing systems were not, and they demanded his immediate attention.

Which meant he was very busy indeed; he was faced with a deadline of immense proportions, and this is what he told his son, when Douglas telephoned one afternoon, wanting to bring the child, Symington's grandson, for tea. The other boys had moved far away - Donald gone all the way to New Zealand - and Symington couldn't say he greatly missed them, though he felt angry and aggrieved when he thought of his sons, complained to Beatrice that they were insufficiently grateful for all he had done for them. But Douglas went to work for the family bookshop, until it was sold after the war, and now he was a bookbinder in York, so he should understand that there was important literary work to be done, that work must come before pleasure.

'So when shall I bring my little boy for tea?' said Douglas.

'You must talk to your stepmother about that,' said Symington. 'She is in charge of our social arrangements.'

Beatrice wanted to take charge in other ways, too; she'd told him that he must finally dispose of his collection of newspapers and magazines, pamphlets and theatre programmes -thousands and thousands of them, stored in wooden packing cases and cardboard cartons, filling up the boys' old bedrooms. 'It has been hard to find a buyer,' he said to Beatrice.

'Of course it has,' she said, 'no one would want a load of ancient newspapers. Just burn them in the back garden.'

'Beatrice,' he said, the blood rushing to his face, though he tried to speak slowly and clearly, to make her understand the importance of what he was telling her, 'you cannot possibly ask me to do such a thing. This collection is essential for my Brontë bibliography. I must work my way through all of it, in order to ascertain what new material may have come to light. Surely you can understand that?'

'Then why tell me you're trying to sell it?' she said, exasperated. 'You can't have it both ways.'

'You leave me no option,' he said. 'You force me into a corner, instead of supporting my work.'

'Oh, I support you,' she said, her dark eyes narrowing, her jaw more fixed than ever, 'I have always done that.'

Now, there was an uneasy, silent truce between the two of them. Beatrice stopped cleaning his study, and the dust was thickening there, slowly encroaching from the corners of the room, steadily gaining ground. Symington had managed to drag a few of his packing cases out of the bedrooms and into the cellar, but then his back seized up and it was too painful for him to move any more heavy loads. If he winced in front of Beatrice while trying to bend over to pick something up, she turned away, her face expressionless. And at night, she slept on the other side of their big mahogany bed, leaving as much space as possible between the two of them. Symington lay there, dozing fitfully, dreaming of stained and crumpled manuscripts, and he tried to smooth them out, but as his hand moved across the yellowing pages, they crumbled beneath him, turning into dust, and his mouth felt full of dust, and so did his throat, and his eyes.

Sometimes, very early in the morning, just before it was light, he went downstairs to his study, and examined the signatures on his Brontë manuscripts, hoping that he would see everything more clearly. Symington was certain now that Wise had attributed many of Branwell's early Angrian stories to Charlotte, and several of Branwell's poems to Emily, perhaps more; but how was he to prove this to the world, when he could not do so before? And why did he not ask Wise to confess to his forgeries, before he died? Why had he not pressed him for more details, instead of simply staying quiet in that final encounter with Wise? And Symington had gone on defending him, for years and years, his former mentor, and the source of so much of his own collection of manuscripts; as if, in defending Wise, he was also defending himself and his library. Yet in his darkest, most panic-stricken moments - when everyone else was sleeping, and his heart pounded so loudly that he felt a rushing in his ears -Symington feared that his own career had ended with Wise's death and disgrace. He could not find another job after his dismissal as librarian from Leeds University in 1938 when his enemies had conducted a mockery of a trial against him; a private tribunal, they called it, but it was an unjust inquisition. And that wasn't the only injustice, no, there were more, for they had locked him out of the very library that he had established for Lord Brotherton, and that Brotherton had bequeathed to the university, when in truth, it would have been in safer hands with Symington.

At least he had been able to ensure that some of the most precious items of the Brotherton Collection were secure in his house, where they remained, hidden away from the dirty fingers of careless students and fumbling academics, along with those manuscripts he kept safe from the bungling amateurs at the Brontë Society and the Parsonage Museum. Of course, he had been forced to sell some of his collection to an acquisitive American university a decade ago; and very handsomely they had paid, too, agreeing to his asking price of $10,000, which kept Beatrice from grumbling, at least for a time. And the Americans took him seriously - which was, in part, why he had decided to sell to them, for they were very respectful, those representatives from Rutgers University.

Even so, Symington's stomach lurched whenever he thought of Branwell's 'History of Angria' that had gone across the ocean to New Jersey, one of Branwell's most minutely written manuscripts, nine pages of microscopic, indecipherable text. It had defeated Symington for twenty years, remaining almost entirely incomprehensible, despite the hundreds of hours he devoted to it, poring over it with his magnifying glass, ruining his eyes. And it was for that reason, perhaps, that he let it go to America; suddenly feeling that he wanted to be free of it, to abandon Angria, but instead of fleeing it, he banished it as far away as possible from himself, as if it were an island that could be set adrift.

But now Symington did not feel liberated, but bereft and thwarted. For long before Daphne came along, with her own literary ambitions, he'd hoped to prove that Branwell was the author of much of
Wuthering Heights
; yet he had not even been able to prove that the manuscripts of Branwell's best poems were sold off by Wise, with Emily's signature forged upon them, or that Wise had copied Charlotte's signature on to Branwell's Angrian manuscripts, in order to fetch a better price for them.

As for the handwritten notebook of Emily's poems he'd borrowed from that pompous ass, Sir Alfred Law (a man who called himself a collector, using his considerable fortune to snap up Brontë manuscripts, outbidding Symington whenever he could), well, Symington had kept it safe for nearly quarter of a century, to serve as a true comparison with Branwell's writing. No one could possibly accuse him of stealing the notebook of poems - he had simply taken it on loan from Law's collection, to get it copied as a facsimile for the Shakespeare Head edition, and then Law had died in 1939, and to whom, exactly, was Symington supposed to return the notebook, after that?

Since then, other collectors had searched for Emily's notebook for so long, and bewailed its loss so loudly, that Symington could not possibly admit to having it now. And there were further complications, too. If he was to make his case for Branwell, he would need money to pay for scientific analysis of ink and paper, to establish when and how the signatures were faked, and just suppose he did find the funds, somehow, and the investigations proved beyond any doubt that Wise forged Charlotte and Emily's signature on Branwell's papers, then where would that leave Symington? He would be labelled as the owner of a library acquired from a forger and a cheat: Wise's collaborator, when all was said and done. And this would not do, this would not do at all.

So, thought Symington, round and round in circles, there was no escape, no way out of this hard place; he was locked up with his remaining manuscripts, in a limbo of his own making, along with the papery ghosts, and the shadows in the corners of the room.