by Leo McNeir
“That’s more like it. Any company would pay a premium to get hold of stuff like that. No-one could blame you for –”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“I don’t believe –” A voice in the background. Beth was distracted. “Here’s our taxi. Time to go. Marnie, don’t do anything precipitate. Seeya!”
Marnie arrived back at the flat to find a man and a woman on the doorstep. The woman was about Marnie’s age, petite, with auburn hair and a laptop bag slung over her shoulder. The man was tall, balding, fortyish, with square glasses. He introduced himself as Don Stephens.
“And you’ve brought a colleague from the museum?”
“Not actually.” The woman thrust a business card at Marnie. “I'm Ginny Lang, Guardian features. I had a tip-off and er … Hope you don’t mind.”
Marnie told her story and gave them the guided tour. The curator pored over the drawings, muttering to himself. The journalist typed notes on her laptop at high speed.
“What do you plan to do with the material now?” Her fingers were poised ready to pounce on the keyboard.
The curator looked up from the drawings. Marnie had a sudden fear he was about to announce that the documents were reproductions. He cleared his throat.
“These seem to be the original drawings and papers of William Jessop.”
Ginny Lang hit the keys. “How important are they, in your opinion?”
Don Stephens paused before replying, aware that anything he said today could be in the newspapers tomorrow.
“I think – or rather I believe – we have reason to conclude that these drawings, subject to verification by other independent experts, could eventually prove to be the ones that have not been seen since the beginning of the last century. If that is the case, and of course it is yet to be established beyond reasonable doubt, but if it is, then these drawings add considerably to our knowledge of the work of Jessop. They could in turn lead to a reassessment of the relative importance of the man himself and some of his contemporaries. Major reputations could have to be re-evaluated in the light of this find.”
A snappy soundbite, Marnie thought. The journalist pecked rapidly at her keyboard.
50
Fame
Marnie jogged down to the kiosk to get the Guardian at six o’clock on Thursday morning. The story made the Home News section under the headline:
Lost Treasure of Forgotten Genius
Exclusive
The phone was ringing when she opened the front door. She wondered if the call was a hoax.
“Did you say the Today programme, Radio Four?”
“That’s right. We’ve read about the documents bequeathed to you and we’d like to do an interview … this morning.”
“You want me to come to Broadcasting House?”
“We’re sending a radio car to Little Venice to do a feature. Could you meet it there? We’ll get a taxi to pick you up.”
Marnie declined the offer and drove to Little Venice. Pulling into a parking slot, she found she had no change for the meter. The BBC radio car was conspicuous with tall antennae on the roof and a young woman – who looked about fourteen – in black trouser suit and carrying a clipboard, lurking beside it. She met Marnie and opened the car door. Inside, the sound engineer gave her headphones and a microphone and checked levels.
“So, Marnie, have you done this kind of thing before?”
“No.”
“It’s quite straightforward. Just speak normally without raising your voice, like on the phone. Keep your answers brief and to the point and avoid technical jargon.”
He went over the details of the story and spoke by phone to the producer. In the background the programme was playing quietly on the car radio. They waited for several minutes. At one point her mind went blank and she had no idea what she would say or even why she was there.
She became aware of a voice beside her.
“Marnie, I said we’re on after this next item. Three minutes to go. You’re on peak time.”
Marnie’s stomach turned over. “Fine.” A lie.
“You're not nervous are you?”
“No.” Another lie.
She sat and waited during those long three minutes, aware only that a traffic warden was walking steadily along the line of parked cars. The sound engineer tapped her arm and raised a finger. She concentrated and listened to the anchorman loud and clear in her headphones.
And now, one of those rare stories that dreams are made of. An extraordinary find of priceless drawings has been made as the result of a bequest from an old eccentric who died last week, leaving his treasure to a friend. That friend is now in our radio car in Little Venice, at least I hope she is. Marnie Walker. Good morning.
The interviewer made it easy for her, like a friendly chat. He asked just the right questions to let Marnie tell her story. For her part, she kept to the essentials without embellishment, and the interview seemed to be over almost before it had started.
Thank you for being with us, Mrs Walker. And the result of that great act of generosity will be on view in a few months’ time for all to see at the National Canal Museum. Now Sue … is the weather going to be generous to us today?
And that was it. Marnie removed the headphones and rapidly climbed out. The traffic warden had reached her car and was just taking out his pen.
Marnie called out. “It's okay, I'm just going.”
The warden looked at her and then at the radio car covered with BBC logos and the aerials on the roof.
“Sorry, love, I didn't know I was going to book a celebrity.”
“You're not.”
“You mean you aren't a celebrity?”
“I mean you're not going to book me.”
Twenty minutes later, as Marnie walked into the foyer at Everett, Parker Associates, the new receptionist jumped to her feet. “Marnie! The TV news have been on the phone for you.” Her eyes were dancing with excitement as she thrust the message forward.
Marnie took it, thanked her and walked casually towards the office. She just reached the door when the receptionist called after her.
“Marnie, it's the Telegraph. Liza Crawford, features editor, on the phone. Shall I put her through to your desk?”
“Er, no. Take a message. I'll call back. I have to work out how to deal with this.”
Faye Summers caught up with Marnie, grinning.
“Hey, Marnie. Would you believe I’ve just heard the new girl on the switchboard telling a caller you were – and I quote – in conference at this moment in time!”
They winced in unison. “I heard you on the car radio. I could hardly believe my ears.”
“Was it all right?”
“Yeah, great. When you’re ready could we have a chat about the Willards project … or even a conference?”
They both hooted and Marnie pushed open the door to the design group office. A cheer went up from the team. Laughter was heard in the building again. It felt like business was back to normal.
In the afternoon Marnie was working on the Willards designs when the phone rang.
“Sorry, Marnie, I know we’re holding all calls, but there’s a woman on the line who says she’s your sister, just flown in from Boston.”
Marnie agreed to take the call. “Welcome home, Beth.”
“Thanks. It’s great to be here … in your wonderful country. How come I got the third degree from the switchboard operator?”
“You did well to penetrate my security shield.”
“I told her I knew your agent.”
“She must’ve thought you were Spielberg.”
“What a surprise, Marnie. Paul opened the Guardian at the airport and there you were. We got home, turned on the radio and people were talking about you. I come back to find my kid sister’s famous!”
“Yeah … for fifteen minutes, as Andy Warhol said.”
Beth became serious. “So you're giving the drawings away?”
“I'm just lending them to the museum.”
>
“Marnie, they’re going to create a new gallery for them. That sounds pretty permanent.”
“It's the right thing to do. Also it may have helped save my job.”
“That sounds like the right thing to do. And it's being named after the old guy?”
“Yep, the Peter William Gibson Collection. They were his drawings. Look, Beth, I'd better get on. We've got a lot on here.”
“I know, and Spielberg’s probably hanging on for you.”
“Biting his fingernails, I expect. Come round tonight for supper.”
“Great. You can tell us about your trip on the boat, though I expect you've got it out of your system by now.”
In the background Marnie became aware of the faint chugging of a diesel engine reaching her through the open window. A thousand images flooded into her mind from her travels on Sally Ann. A boat cruised slowly past.
“Out of my system? I wouldn't put it quite like that …”
Epilogue
The cemetery seemed deserted when Marnie arrived in the late afternoon. A gravedigger directed her to the corner where Old Peter lay buried. She walked slowly past the rows of headstones, the last resting places of the famous and the obscure, the loved and the forgotten. When she found the grave, the sun was slanting from low in the sky, picking out the fading colours on the wreaths that covered it in profusion. Beyond the plot, Marnie could see the railings close to the place where she had first met Dolly.
She lay the wreath by the simple wooden cross at the head of the old man’s grave. Bending forward, the breath caught in her throat and warm tears pricked her eyes. She looked over her shoulder to be sure she was alone.
“Hallo, Old Peter.” She had never called him by name before. “Thank you for your letter and your bequest.” She swallowed. The rest of her words had to be unspoken. “I’ve done the right thing. I know you’d be pleased, you are pleased.” She took a deep breath, looked towards the railings and saw the water shining between the bushes on the bank.
“Thanks to you, the history books will have to be rewritten. Things will never be the same again.” She smiled. “Thanks to you … and Sally Ann, neither will I.”
If you enjoyed Sally Ann’s Summer check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.
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About the author
When not writing novels, he is a linguist and lexicographer. As director of The European Language Initiative he compiled and edited twelve dictionaries in fifteen languages, including English, since the first one was published by Cassell in 1993.
They include the official dictionaries of the National Assembly for Wales (English and Welsh), the Scottish Parliament (English and Gaelic) and a joint project for the Irish Parliament and the Northern Ireland Assembly (English and Irish).
For the record, the others are specialist dictionaries in Basque, Catalan, Danish, Dutch, French, German, Greek, Irish, Italian, Portuguese, Russian, Scottish Gaelic, Spanish and Welsh.
Leo and his wife, cookery writer Cassandra McNeir, live in a 300 year-old cottage in Northamptonshire.
www.leomcneir.com/
