And Florence said she didn’t like Wilbur because Wilbur used to jump up and scare her and she didn’t want to come. She watched out of the window in our room. Scared, stupid little pig. PIG.
And Pa? Pa was away in London for the night. Ma rang him to tell him. He didn’t even care. Ma didn’t say that, she said, “Oh, Dad is very sad. He says to send his love.” But I know he didn’t. Pa doesn’t love me. He loves Florence, sort of loves Bill, but mainly Florence, because she likes paintings and she’s a really vile little sneak, a swot, and the worst word I can think of and I’m not writing it down.
And Pa doesn’t like me because he thinks I make trouble. I DON’T. I gave him the idea for Wilbur and he just doesn’t care. All these years Wilbur has been with us, our family mainstay and support (I got that in a book about awful lives of kitchen maids in Victorian times), and my family doesn’t care enough to come and watch him be buried, just me and Ma. Pa stole my ideas off me too. He knows what he did, he knows about my stories about Wilbur. And that’s why he’s famous now and he still didn’t come.
It’s not even all of that, it’s that I think Wilbur understood me and I understood him. Because he was shaggy and clumsy (not like me, I’m not like that, I’m very careful about everything) and he was enthusiastic about everything, so sometimes he scared people but he was only being friendly. I think people who don’t understand that about dogs are stupid.
Florence, I am writing your name down on my list I am keeping. I wish you would die. If Wilbur’s dead, you should definitely be dead too.
Florence doesn’t belong here. She’s not even one of us. Look at her. And look at me.
There is a wasps’ nest in our room, underneath the roof. We used to have them when we first moved in, and now they’re back. Last year there was a nest in the barn and Joseph, the gardener, was stung really badly. He had to go to the hospital. I haven’t told anyone about this one. The art of war isn’t Bill’s stupid, stupid plastic gun with the babyish paper cartridges, it is planning.
I lie in bed at night and I can hear them humming in the eaves. It’s the wooden gables they like. Wasps like wood. Sometimes it’s very faint, but sometimes it seems to get louder, as though they will burst out of the back of the nest into my room. It keeps me awake. It scares me, but I like being scared too. I like the rushing feeling. I hate being bored. Really I hate it more than anything else.
I am going to make a list and plan out my life about what I want to do when I grow up. I can’t wait to be a grown-up. I hate being here.
1.I will leave Winterfold, as soon as I can.
2.I will be rich.
3.I will have a husband. No children, I don’t want any children.
4.People will be sorry when they have been horrible to me.
5.I won’t come back, not even to see Ma.
6.I will be famous and everyone will have heard of me and be sorry they weren’t nicer to me.
7.Florence, Verity, other girls at school who are my friends and then annoy me or won’t talk to me anymore, I will pay them back for it.
8.I will have another dog and I will call him Wilbur.
9.I will make everyone see the truth about Florence.
But to do that I have to tell her the truth first of all. What I know . . . how little she knows. You see, yesterday I heard Ma and Pa arguing. In their room. I stood outside listening quite blatantly, as I knew I could quite simply say, “I’m on my way to the bathroom,” if they caught me.
What they said needs some thinking about, as I am not sure I actually entirely understand it.
They don’t argue like they used to when we came here. I think they have got used to this house and us all being here, but I haven’t.
Ma said, “You said, when Florence came, you’d look out for her.”
Pa said, “I am. You need to as well, Em. You said you’d send Daisy away to school if she didn’t start behaving.”
Ma said, “I don’t want to. You of all people should know why.”
That’s exactly what they said, and I know two things. Florence is from somewhere else, and Pa wants to send me away.
I don’t mean to be naughty, it just happens. I get bored, or angry, or I don’t understand something, and then suddenly there’s a broken glass, a smashed blackboard, someone crying. I want to feel remorse but I don’t. Does Pa feel remorse, for Wilbur? Remorse is what Miss Tooth said I should feel when I flushed Verity’s head down the lavatory after school. Verity is a coward, she screamed and cried. I don’t cry. Verity’s mother came to Winterfold and shouted at my mother. She said I wasn’t ever to go to Verity’s house again. I don’t care about that. Verity lives in a nasty house, she doesn’t have color television, and her father smells of BO. I hated going there for tea.
I sit in our room. It’s the corner of the house. I can see Bill and Flo, playing some stupid game with Hadley, the new dog, and Bill’s old swords in the meadow by the Daisy Bank, my Daisy Bank, mine mine. They should have asked me because it’s my place and they’re not allowed to play there, especially now that Wilbur is buried there. Everyone has one place for themselves. That’s my place, my place where I can go. Flo is always in our room when I want to be by myself. She shouldn’t be there too. I can see them there and it makes me very very very very angry. I can see Ma in the garden deadheading the roses, with a scarf in her hair. It’s a pretty scarf.
There’s two more things I know: Hadley is dangerous. His father was destroyed for fighting. He has bitten people before. I don’t like him. They got him when they found out Wilbur was dying.
And I can see the wasps, flying into the eaves. Just casually, one at a time, and they’re building up their nest till there’s more of them, up till one day when they’ll blow the house apart.
I hate it here. I wish I could run away. Ma is always asking me why I don’t feel sorry. It’s not a thing I can feel. I wish I could, I wish I was like them, but I’m not. I have always known it.
Florence
* * *
21 November 2012
Dear Professor Lovell,
It is with great sadness that I write you this letter. But since it has been made clear to me that my position at the British College is under threat, and in the most pernicious of circumstances, I am compelled to act.
My subject is nothing less than the most serious of academic crimes. Plagiarism.
I am writing to set down before you in detail the charge that I bring against our colleague Professor Peter Connolly. Namely that his book The Queen of Beauty: War, Sex, Art, and God in Renaissance Florence (a number one best-seller, translated into fifteen languages) contains whole sections of work written by, but uncredited to, me. I would estimate roughly 75 percent of the book is mine.
Please see the attached, a facsimile of a sample chapter on Medici portraiture with my notes to Professor Connolly written on the page. The original is in a safe place and can be examined by you at any time. My colleague Professor Jim Buxton of the Courtauld Institute is prepared to stand as expert witness should these proceedings come to court. Believe me, it is extremely painful for me even to contemplate betraying the man I once
“FLO? FLORENCE, DON’T you want some tea?”
“I’m just coming!”
“It’s getting cold!”
“Honestly, Mother! I’ll be with you as soon as possible.”
Florence smiled even as she heard herself—she’d be fifty next year, but it was funny how after only a day at home one reverted to type. Arching her back, she waggled her head, feeling the click of several bones in her neck and shoulders. She blinked intensely and stared at the screen, then deleted the last sentence. Then she typed:
I once thought Professor Connolly the finest of men, but he is no more than—
No. Don’t give them anything on paper.
Believe me, Professor Lovell, I raise this accusation re
luctantly. It is only the fact that my job and reputation are being impugned by you and Professor Connolly—
No. Too bitter, sounded like a revenge attack. And she wasn’t bitter, was she?
I look forward to hearing from you. You will see that I am copying this letter to my colleagues at the Courtauld Institute, as well as Professor Connolly’s literary agent and his publishers.
Yours sincerely,
Professor Florence Winter, DPhil (Oxon.)
She saved the document, and opened her e-mails.
It was strange, working at her father’s desk. There were his drawings littering the floor, the walls, scraps of ideas in his shaky hand pinned to the corkboard behind her, yellowing postcards and notes from friends and admirers. There was even a watermarked framed letter from 10 Downing Street; they all knew it off by heart. While the ancient Internet cable grumbled into action, Florence turned round to read it again.
Dear Mr. Winter,
The Prime Minister very much enjoyed your cartoon in yesterday’s Daily News, featuring Daisy and Wilbur throwing eggs at a protester. He is a great admirer of your work and asks me to pass on his very best wishes to you.
Yours, etc.
And then a totally unreadable squiggle beneath. A letter meaning nothing—why had he enjoyed the cartoon? “Bland, bland,” David had said, and he’d had it framed as an aide-mémoire—that was why he did the work, to keep sharp, to stop himself from becoming bland. “Yours, etc.” had become a saying with all of them. A shorthand for glibness.
Coming home this time felt different. She’d e-mailed Daisy last week before she left. Signed it “Yours, etc.” Of course, she hadn’t heard anything back. On the flight, Florence had begun to wonder why she was coming home at all, why she couldn’t have just got out of it. Now that she was here, she knew something was brewing. Her mother was on edge—not that she’d ever confide in Florence. But Pa was so distant, wrapped up in his own thoughts, smiling as he listened to her talk but in a way that made her feel like a little girl again, chattering about something she’d read in a book.
She opened her e-mails, clicking her tongue with disdain at the attempt by one of her students to ask for another extension. No means no, Camilla, Florence typed briskly. I don’t care when ski season starts. I expect the essay in by Friday at the latest. FW and pressed send. In haste, and wanting to be finished, she almost missed the e-mail nestling below it.
From: Daisy Winter
To: Florence Winter
Tue, Nov 20, 2012 at 11:30 PM
Flo,
Thanks for asking but I won’t be coming back for the reunion dinner. It’s complicated. Ma will explain why. Hope all’s good with you in Italy.
D x
Florence’s heart skipped several beats. She peered forward, as if by getting closer to the pixilation on the screen she would glean further information about her sister. Where, why, who? Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
Six years ago, two years before Bill’s wedding, she’d come back. Some fund-raising mission. She could only pay a flying visit to Winterfold, one night. Florence had scrambled to get there; luckily she’d been going to Manchester for a conference anyway. She didn’t know why she was so keen to see her older sister, who’d tormented her throughout their childhood, but she was—curious, was that it? Did she want Daisy’s approval?
And Daisy was impressive when she talked about it—had all the facts to hand about literacy and clean water and female education. She made Florence, as ever, feel rather inadequate. She’d received a medal, though she didn’t really like to talk about it (Martha brought it up). She’d been traveling a little, to see other projects. She said she’d come back for Christmas, hopefully she’d see Cat again?
In the end she couldn’t come back over Christmas, she’d said, because the school was open over New Year. She sent paper lanterns in the post, folded cream and red paper stars with tiny star-shaped holes that let the light through. Martha had hung them in the dining room on Christmas Day and they all drank a toast to Daisy, come good at last. No one said as much, but that was what they thought.
So when she returned that summer, two years later, for Bill and Karen’s wedding, Florence was looking forward to seeing her again, hoping that perhaps things might continue on the same positive footing. She was happier than she’d ever been, her brief affair with Peter Connolly at its height, and for the first time she felt the universe liked her. That she wasn’t the freak everyone said she must be behind her back. Daisy too—she wasn’t the cruel child who Florence sometimes, in her darkest moments, had thought might kill her. She was her sister! Her family! She was wrong, of course.
“Have you had your hair cut since I last saw you, Flo? Don’t think you can have, can you?” she’d said, running a caressing hand through Florence’s strawberry-brown and gray bob so that Florence stepped back in alarm. (She’d forgotten her sister had always had rather invasive body language, hugging people she didn’t know when she was little, stroking the teacher’s arm at the nativity play, clasping Dr. Philips a little too tightly when he bandaged up Florence’s arm after an accident with a frayed swing rope.)
The gulf was too wide for Florence to reach across to her sister. She seemed odd. At breakfast the morning after the wedding, she was restless, shifting in her seat, constantly on the verge of speaking, long skinny fingers spearing holes in the bread roll on her plate. She ate nothing. Their father was due to go into the hospital that day for a long-scheduled knee operation, and when Martha asked whether Florence could drive him in, Florence had had to explain, regretfully, that she’d be leaving after lunch for London, a conference on Piero della Francesca that began that evening. It was Jim Buxton’s conference, and she had to attend. She tried to explain this, to find out if she might see Daisy in London again before she left, but Daisy, with the older sister’s contempt for any achievement of the younger, gave a small laugh.
“You are funny, Flo. Enjoy the conference. Good for you! I’m out of here soon; I won’t see you again. I have to raise some money for actual problems. You know, like wells so people can drink. And drainage so they don’t, you know, die.” She’d blown her a kiss, careless, and got up and left the kitchen, slammed the door of her room, stayed there all day. That was the last time Florence had seen her.
As she stared at Daisy’s e-mail, Florence picked at her fingers, puckering her brow as she reread the e-mail into meaninglessness. It’s complicated.
• • •
“Flo! Your crumpet’s almost cold!” The heavy door swung open and Florence’s head jerked up guiltily. Martha paused on the threshold. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing—nothing! Just—doing some work. Checking e-mails.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed and she plunged her hands into the pockets of the faded blue artist’s smock she wore around the house. “Are you, now? Good-oh.”
“There. Just one more thing.”
Florence pressed delete, and the opening word, “Flo,” collapsed before her eyes as the e-mail was sucked into the virtual trash can. Watching it, Florence was reminded of the plastic crisp packets the three of them used to toast over the campfire, watching them warp and shrink. They used them as tokens, and whoever had the most usually got their way. She remembered trying to explain this to some girl at school. We camp in the woods in summer and we have tokens shrunk from crisp packets. The person with the most tokens given to them by the others in thanks for actions performed gets to be the king or queen for the day.
As with so many aspects of Winter family life, this was met with blank incomprehension by outsiders.
“What are you smiling about?” Martha said. Her voice was light, but Florence thought she looked peculiarly unnatural somehow, leaning against the door and watching her daughter.
“Just thinking about camping in the garden and the shrunken crisp packets.” Florence stood up. “It’s funny,
being back this time. I keep remembering things I’ve forgotten. Maybe . . . maybe it’s winter,” she finished lamely, looking outside at the driving rain. “What a nasty day.”
“Yes, awful. There’s so much water on the road you can’t pass the lane in some places. Even this high up. Joe had dreadful trouble getting here this morning. He had to leave the car outside.”
“Joe?”
“Joe Thorne. He’s the chef who’s doing the catering on Friday and Saturday. He’s awfully nice. Come and meet him and have some tea.” She tucked her arm into her daughter’s. “You’ve been working so hard since you got back here.”
“Yes, well. Something rather strange has come up at the college.”
Martha stopped. “What’s that?”
“A—oh, plagiarism, I’m afraid. It might end up in court,” Florence said. The words sounded fantastical, spoken out loud. She was doing this. Wasn’t she? Would she actually dare to send that letter to George Lovell? Seal it up, post it?
“Court? It’s not anything to do with you, is it?” Martha patted Florence’s hand. “You never needed to steal anything, did you? Look! Florence is here!” she called out as they entered the kitchen.
The kitchen was neater than usual, and Florence looked around and realized it must be the mark of a professional chef. Stacks of canapés in rows were laid out on the countertops amidst the everyday gentle chaos, while Radio 3 blared out slightly too loudly in the corner (Martha was a little deaf, but refused to admit it). Her father sat in his chair doing the crossword, chewing his pencil, one swollen hand resting on his lap.
“Hello, darling,” he said with pleasure as Florence came in. “You finished with the world of academia for today?”
She put her hand on his shoulder and sat down next to him. “Yes. Thanks, Dad, I’m sorry to crowd you out of your study like that. Just a few things I had to . . . get to.”
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