Daphne (26 page)

I gasped, and stood still, holding my breath, as if even the softest of sounds would alert the inhabitants of the house to my presence, or the house itself, which seemed to be breathing, too. Everything was quiet and still, until something came crashing out of the trees, and I ran from the path, heart pounding, to hide myself in the undergrowth. The crashing had lasted for only a few seconds, and then I saw what had been making all the noise, it was just a pair of pheasants, running down the path together, looking as startled as me. For a moment, I thought I should run after them, and catch up with Paul and try to make everything right between us. But I didn't, I just sat down in a small gap between the rhododendrons, waiting for something, I don't know what. But there was nothing, just the silent house, and the sighing in the trees, and after a while, that was enough, that was all I needed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Menabilly, October 1959

Daphne woke with a sense of rising anxiety, curdling her stomach, coming up into her throat, sour and corrosive. She forced herself to get out of bed, to stick to her routine, a quick breakfast, and then straight to her desk in the writing hut, until lunch. But when she sat there, surrounded by the mounting piles of paper ± the newly prepared transcripts of Branwell's manuscripts from her diligent researchers at the British Museum; the opaque letters from Mr Symington ± she felt even more panicky. She knew she must start writing her book ± she must win the race and publish ahead of Miss Gerin ± but she felt overwhelmed by her research, and Branwell seemed even more elusive than before, slipping out of her fingers in these disordered piles of paper.

She had taken an extra sleeping pill last night - she felt she must sleep, she would gomad if she lay awake, night after night - but even so, she was plagued by nightmares, in which the BrontëÈ manuscripts crumbled away in her hands. And as they fell to pieces, dissolving into dust and ashes, the Snow Queen watched her, and laughed. 'You don't have the right touch,' she said to Daphne, and her face was cold, even as she smiled. 'You never did. Does the phrase "deathly prose" mean anything to you? You know what I am referring to, don't you?'

'Tommy doesn't love you any more,' whispered Daphne in the dream, but her voice was barely audible and she could feel the Snow Queen's icy breath, making her hands freeze, her mind grind to a halt; and she could not write, she could not think straight, she was like the boy in the fairy tale, caught in the Snow Queen's grip, imprisoned inside an ice palace, trying to solve an impossible problem, a Chinese puzzle with no solution.

In the daytime, the dream receded a little, but not enough; and she felt furious with Tommy, though not openly, for the doctors had reiterated that he must be in a calm environment if he was to recover from his breakdowns. Daphne tried to smile at him, tried to sound soothing, like a mother nursing a sick child. But when she was alone - when she escaped to her writing hut, between mealtimes - she seethed, knowing that he was still drinking, hiding his bottles from her in the cupboard of a disused bathroom, on the far side of the house; hiding everything, his letters from the Snow Queen, and his treacherous love for her. And it was in these moments, too, that Daphne's rage mingled with fear, when she was tormented by the suspicion that the Snow Queen had got the best of Tommy - his charming urbanity, his wit and intelligence -while Daphne was left with the dregs, the broken bits and pieces of himself that he brought home to be put back together again. Except Daphne did not know how to make her broken husband whole, he was as insoluble a problem as Branwell; and when they sat together at lunch today, she felt a kind of icy contempt for him, or a numb emptiness, as if she was beyond caring, as if in his weakness, he could no longer touch her.

'I'm thinking of taking the boat out this afternoon, if the weather holds,' he said to her, when the maid cleared away the dishes. 'I don't suppose you'd care to join me?'

She looked at him - dabbing his mouth with a napkin, fastidious in his habits, as usual, yet furtive, somehow, almost dog-like - and wanted to say, 'Why would I want to join you, when I know you'll be desperate for a drink, and your hands won't be steady on the tiller until you have one, and then you'll be tipsy and belligerent.' But she simply smiled and said, 'That sounds lovely, darling, but I'm still trying to make headway with the book . . .'

As for Branwell: well, what a fool he was, like Tommy, drinking too much and thrashing around in life, lurching from crisis to crisis, weeping like a little boy when it all got too much for him. Daphne had just about given up on him as a writer of unrecognised genius, at least when it came to his juvenilia, so it didn't matter whether or not Symington was right in his allegations that Charlotte's signature had been forged on Branwell's Angrian manuscripts. The question was inconsequential, surely, because the stories were far too childish for anyone to really care about who wrote them. And the transcripts of Branwell's prose manuscripts at the British Museum had turned out to be equally useless, hardly worth quoting from in a biography, because they would do nothing but befuddle and bore a reader.

So why bother with Branwell, she asked herself, at the beginning of every day in the writing hut? It was too late to turn back, she replied, writing down the words as a message to herself in her notebook. She must not give way to her rival, Winifred Gerin; it would be too humiliating, and anyway, there might still be secrets to unearth. So she forced herself onwards, drawing up a chronology of Branwell's life, sending letters to anyone who might have a scrap of information about him.

But she could not give up, she must keep going, for the idea of abandoning her book was even worse than the prospect of writing it. To step aside now would be a final admission of defeat, and then what would she do with herself? So there was nothing for it but to strain every nerve, to dig deeper into her reserves of determination and ambition, and hope that Branwell's story would emerge from the papers that surrounded her in the hut, the white drifts of them, rustling in the draughts from the window.

'Don't look out of the window,' Daphne told herself, but she could not help it, her eyes returning always to the view, almost hidden by the trees, of the sea; the silvery expanse of it beyond the headland, darkening toward the horizon, a thin grey line with a distant sailing boat against it, and then the water merging with the sky.

This was Rebecca's place, of course - the woods and the sea, the blurring lines of leaves and sand and water - but one afternoon, as the autumn mist turned into dusk, and Daphne's eyes were aching from the manuscripts, she looked out of the window, and saw not Rebecca, but another girl, a younger one, almost hidden in the undergrowth. Daphne stared intently, rubbing at the obscuring condensation on the window, trying to identify the trespasser, but then the shadowy figure was gone, disappeared as if she had never existed. Daphne wondered if she had imagined the girl, or perhaps she was another ghost, mingling with all the others that flitted around Menabilly, before disappearing again, like migrant birds.

But Rebecca's ghost was going nowhere; she remained right here, sighing into Daphne's ears, or tapping her fingers on the windows of the hut, and she seemed to bring others with her, nameless presences, lost causes, hopeless cases.

'
Go away
,' said Daphne, as she attempted to write, trying to drown out Rebecca's tapping fingers with her own at the typewriter, 'leave me alone.'

But Rebecca just laughed. 'Leave you alone?' she whispered. 'Why, that would be leaving myself.'

Menabilly,
Par,
Cornwall

10th November 1959

Dear Mr Symington,

Here is a cheque for your expenses at Haworth. Thank you so much for your note. I do hope you feel better soon. There's nothing like being out of sorts for getting one down.

I have just checked up on Mrs Gaskell's statement that Branwell's pockets were found stuffed with letters from Mrs Robinson after he died. This is completely refuted by Leyland, through the testimony of the servant at the Parsonage, Martha Brown, who said 'there were a number of letters found, but
all
from a
gentleman
of Branwell's acquaintance who happened to be living near the place of his former employment with the Robinsons.'

Now, if only we could track down this gentleman! Though not a word to Miss G! Annoyingly, I have to report that she is ahead of us with the Robinsons. I wrote off for the second time last week, trying to trace the present members of the family, and got a reply two days ago, a bit stiff, from a Canon Cuthbert, one of the descendants, telling me that Miss Gerin had visited them a month ago!
Infuriating
. If my poor husband had not been so unwell all summer, I should have been there in September. How funny if Miss G and I had clashed on the doorstep! However, I will write a very polite letter back to his Reverence, but whether I get any information out of him is doubtful. He has no doubt spilt it all to Miss G.

Nevertheless, I have got one coup. Having slowly - but steadily - worked my way through the old Brontë Society Journals, I came across an interesting article about the curate at Haworth, who was there between 1837 and 1839 and lodged in a haunted house in Haworth. He knew the Brontë family very well, of course, but was a particular friend of Branwell's, and persuaded B. to stay a night with him in his room to experience the ghostly presence. Branwell had previously scoffed at the story, but after sleeping in the old-fashioned bed, which heaved up and down in the night, he was convinced of the ghost's activities. No doubt he told the story the next day to his sisters, with graphic descriptions -and what a seed of an idea for Mr Lockwood's haunting when he spent the night in Cathy's old room at Wuthering Heights!

Which brings me to my much-delayed visit to Haworth -because at long last, I think that I will be able to come to Yorkshire at the end of November or very early December. I plan to spend some time at the Brotherton Collection in Leeds, and if it is convenient for you, I also hope to call on you at your house, and see the wonders of your library. And perhaps you could come and lunch with me in Leeds, as well? Then I will go over to Haworth to meet Mr Mitchell, and study Branwell's manuscripts at the Parsonage. I am quite sure that there are many fascinating manuscripts of his tucked away there, which no one has shown the slightest bit of interest in (apart from ourselves, of course). An old mitten worn by Charlotte has always been considered of greater value to the public interest than half a dozen sketches or notes by Branwell.

Now, very much
entre nous
, but when I get up to Haworth, where do you think is the best place to stay? Is it possible to stay at the Black Bull? Last time I went, several years ago, I stayed at the Brontë Guest House, and though very pleasant, it was rather confined, and a bit chilly, with a tiny sitting room where one sat with the other guests rather on top of each other. It is possible that one would feel a bit less confined at the Black Bull, and it does have those colourful connections with Branwell as the scene for his drinking sessions. On the other hand, the people were extremely kind at the Guest House, and did not intrude in any way, whereas when I went for a drink at the Black Bull on my last visit, it got round almost at once that I was there, and the attention, though kindly meant, was a bit of an embarrassment. The thing is, when I am working, I like to feel quite anonymous, like any student, and just be left to get quietly on with what I am doing.

Perhaps Mr Mitchell might be able to advise on these matters? If you see or write to him, could you tell him that you know I will make it worth his while if he can show me certain items in the museum which may not be on view?

Yours sincerely,

Newlay Grove, November 1959

Symington was feeling increasingly besieged, though he was torn between wanting to be left alone, and craving contact with those whose advances he had so far rejected. Several letters had arrived this month from Daphne, confirming that she was, at last, coming to Yorkshire at the beginning of December, and was keen to meet him at his house, where she would doubtless bombard him with more unanswerable questions. The thought of such an encounter exhausted Symington - it was as tiring a prospect as a visit from one of his sons or grandchildren, all of whom he had been keeping at a distance. But Daphne was unstoppable; she was rather like Beatrice, he had come to believe - at least as indomitable, once she had a fixed idea in her head.

And then there was the young American graduate, a Mr Mattheisen, currently studying in Leeds and pursuing what he delicately referred to as 'the remainder of your collection', on behalf of Rutgers University. Mr Mattheisen was always courteous when he telephoned, but also persistent, though Symington had believed (until this morning, anyway) that he retained the upper hand over the young American. Mattheisen had come to the house twice in the last month, but Symington would not allow him to examine his collection; simply withdrawing the most tantalising-looking manuscripts contained in the forty unlabelled boxes that lined one wall of his study, and showing them briefly to Mattheisen, before putting them safely back again.

In the end, though, Beatrice intervened. 'You've got to get rid of those boxes before we move house in the new year,' she said, 'and Lord knows, if someone will pay you good money for them, then take it. It's bad enough having to leave this house because we can't pay the bills, but at least we'll have a little extra to tide us over, and anyway, there'll be no room for your boxes in a smaller house.' Symington found it hard to believe that she would actually force him to sell the house -his house; his castle; she had no right to make him leave this enclave - but he hoped that striking a profitable deal with Rutgers might keep Beatrice quiet, at least for a while. Not that he had any intention of selling everything; Emily's notebook of poems, for example, could not possibly go to Rutgers, there would be far too many questions asked about its provenance, and where he had acquired it. But there was no harm in letting the Americans buy the minor material -the pamphlets and newsprint, and a few less important manuscripts that had nothing to do with the Brontës. Everything else - Branwell's manuscripts, Emily's poems - was safely hidden away in the recesses of the attic.

And so Mr Mattheisen had arrived at the house this morning, along with another young man from Leeds University, a student, who was to help with the loading of the boxes into his car. Symington watched as the pair took the cartons from his shelves in the study, piling them in the hallway, ready to be ferried to the car; and suddenly, he felt overcome with panic. Could he have been mistaken, and allowed any of Branwell's manuscripts into one of these boxes? How could he be completely certain of their contents? Even though he had gone through them last week, perhaps his checks had not been sufficiently thorough, for the briefest loss of concentration might have proved catastrophic. Could he, in fact, trust himself?

'Just wait a moment,' he said to Mattheisen, opening up one of the boxes, trying to keep his voice and hands steady. 'I think there may be nothing but duplicates or photostats in this carton. I might as well keep them, given that they can be of no use or value to you.'

Mattheisen stepped forward to stop him, tried to take the box out of Symington's hands, and an unseemly tussle ensued, Symington feeling the heat rising in his face, as he struggled with the younger man. 'This is completely absurd,' said Mattheisen after a minute or so, looking suddenly disgusted, pulling away and raising his hands, as if in defeat. 'Do you want to sell the collection or not? And is it even yours to sell? Your reputation at the Brotherton Library seems somewhat blemished, from what I hear in the university common room.'

'How dare you!' Symington said, and ordered the two men out of his house, so angry that he would have pushed them to the door, were it not for the fact that his arms were still firmly clasped around the box. As they left, embarrassed and empty-handed, Symington felt triumphant, as if he had defended his house from marauders. But this afternoon, waiting for Beatrice's imminent return home from her Woman's Institute meeting, he was becoming more and more uncertain about how to explain the events of the morning. The piles of boxes remained in the hall - he felt too weak to move them - and the cheque for £750 that should have been in his hands by now was still in Mattheisen's pocket. Beatrice's rage, he feared, would be immense, if she discovered the details of what had happened today.

And so, as he sat in his study, listening for her key in the front door, he was desperately trying to come up with a story that would satisfy Beatrice. He considered telling her that Mattheisen had never turned up, but what if one of the neighbours spied the unfamiliar car parked outside this morning, and the arrival of the two young men? Perhaps it would be better to stick to the truth: that Mattheisen had been insulting, and Symington had told him to leave. He ran through the conversations over and over in his mind - the one that he had already had with Mattheisen, and the one that he would have with Beatrice. After a time (how long? The cursed day seemed to be going on for ever) he began to feel confused about who had said what, and to whom, and his confusion was mingled with rage and regret; until at last, sitting in the twilight, the lights out, the fire turned to cold ashes in the grate, Symington found himself weeping. He was unable to understand quite why; he had not cried for as long as he could remember; even when Elsie died, he did not shed a tear, he had felt too frozen and numb with shock, and rage, too, at the unfairness of it all. Suddenly Symington heard his dead mother's voice in his head, sharp and cold as it had been in her lifetime. 'You're a good for nothing, Alex,' she said, 'and a whiner, and a cheat.'

He looked up, startled, almost expecting to see her in the shadowy corner of his study. 'You didn't complain when I invited you to the opening of the Brotherton Library at the university,' he muttered. 'You said how proud you were of me that day, when the Archbishop was there, and the Princess Royal and the Duchess of Devonshire, and all the other fine ladies.'

Archbishop of Canterbury made a speech, and afterwards it was broadcast on the BBC, and Symington had copied down a phrase that had struck him at the time, and that he remembered still. 'The treasures of the Brotherton Collection,' said the Archbishop, 'are an abiding reminder that there are things whose value cannot be measured by their practical utility -the imponderable things of truth and beauty.'

The imponderable things of truth and beauty: Symington said the words to himself again now, like a prayer. But they had not kept him safe all those years ago; he had been fired just a few months after the opening, the locks to the doors were changed overnight, and he arrived for work to discover the library bolted against him, its very creator, barred from the things of truth and beauty that he had so painstakingly gathered. After that, door after door had closed to him: he'd applied for dozens of jobs as a librarian, but had been turned down by everyone, rejected without so much as an interview, until at last he had stopped trying; tried to stop thinking about the dwindling of beauty and truth.

Then the war came, and he'd felt useful, for a little while, helping out at a regional office of the Ministry of Food, but that had come to nothing, too, and he had found himself spending more and more time at home, while Beatrice busied herself with her charities and committees. Whenever anyone asked what he was working on, which was seldom, he would explain that he was writing a book about Branwell Brontë; though when he had suggested this to Blackwell's, the publishers of his Shakespeare Head editions of the Brontës, they sent him a dispiriting rejection letter, saying that they could see no market for what they termed 'the most marginal of writers', and Symington had been stricken by this phrase, wondering whether it was referring to him or Branwell, or both of them?

'You always thought you were too good to go into the family business,' said his mother; and this time her voice seemed to come not from inside his head, but whispering into his right ear, which was hurting now, as painful as when she had seized it and shaken him when he was a child.

'I am a writer of books, not a seller of them,' he said, into the darkness.

'Your books never sold,' said his mother's voice. 'No one wanted to buy them. And who can blame them? Who would want to read the story of a wastrel's life, written by another wastrel?'

'If you're referring to Branwell Brontë,' he said, 'my biography of him remains unwritten.'

His mother was silent, but Symington imagined her scorn. She had wanted him to take over the family bookselling business after his father had died in 1934, but he'd been dismissive at the time, saying he was far too busy to run the shop, he was still working on his edition of the collected works of the Brontës. 'That'll not pay your bills,' she had snapped. 'You need to be selling books, not spending your days with your nose stuck in all those old papers and wearing your eyes out, too. What makes you think you were born to write books, anyway? My father was a printer, and your father was a bookseller - both of them honest men doing honest jobs, not too big for their boots, like you . . .'

Symington swallowed hard, choking back a sob, and reached for the flask of whisky in the top right-hand drawer of his desk. He was cold, chilled to the bone and shivering. He sipped the drink, but it did not still the trembling in his hands, and there was a pain in his chest, his heart was hurting. 'Is my heart broken?' he whispered, but no one answered, and no one heard his words.