Daphne (21 page)

'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 least 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,

Newlay Grove, July 1959

'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!'

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.

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.

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.