by Anna Larner
“And I’m thinking that’s awesome.”
Georgina laughed.
“I miss you.” Molly didn’t care if that sounded needy—she simply couldn’t end the call without saying it.
“Me too.”
“See you tomorrow night then.”
“Yes, I’ll text with times. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” Molly heard the phone signal drop. “I love you,” she whispered, entrusting her words to the confidence of her softly beating heart.
Chapter Thirty-one
Georgina’s train pulled in to Leicester at just after four. She had given up on work at about midday, just as she’d given up on sleep the night before.
For a few hours earlier the searching first light of dawn had seeped into her London apartment, ebbing up the walls like an insidious tide. She had felt such relief to be packing to be with Molly again and to see her smile and to hear her laughter and to feel her close.
She had thought that work would help see her through the day, but it seemed that nothing could distract from the many questions that ate away at her concentration. Why on earth would her father write to her mother, the woman he hated, and gift her the portrait of Josephine? Was it not the very painting he had held, protective, in his arms after they rowed, just before she left for good? And why didn’t he warn her that he had done this and that her mother would likely return spectre-like into Georgina’s life? Georgina’s heartbeat began to gather pace. Her skin prickled with the rising heat of irritation and her muscles tensed and gripped with fury.
She texted Molly. In town early. Meet you in the foyer about five? Food at mine? Without waiting for the reply she hurried out of the station. She knew where her anger was taking her. For she had questions she needed to ask, even if the answers would always be out of reach.
She could hear the bells of her destination ring out. As she approached the city’s cathedral she could see people spilling out from its main door. A service had obviously ended and the priest stood in the doorway with his white cassock billowing about his calves. He was shaking hands with each member of the congregation as they filed past, hoping no doubt that his earnest farewells would encourage a return visit.
Georgina found the side entrance and sought out the quiet corner where brass plaques glinted with the sheen of polish and formality.
“Father how could you?” Georgina whispered. She lightly placed her fingertips to smudge the surface of a plaque that read, In memory of George Wright, 1955–2017, barrister of this parish, who faithfully served this community for thirty-two years in the noble pursuit of justice and truth.
Truth. Georgina shook her head. It seemed to her now such a duplicitous word with so many angles and so many shades that it remained entirely illusive. And justice. There was nothing just about life, certainly not if Georgina’s mother could march back into hers with such ease. And where was her father’s faithfulness to her?
Georgina pressed harder into the metal with her fingers whitening at their tips. “Why?” Why would he do something that would inevitably bring her mother back into her life when her leaving had brought such pain? How could he betray her? “I put you first. I risked losing Molly for you.”
As she dropped her hand, another plaque caught her attention. It was carved in stone and hung half shaded in the darkness of the corner. She stared hard at it as she read, This tablet is erected to the beloved and blessed memory of William Wright, barrister and loyal servant of the law, born 1803 died 1875, by his devoted wife Josephine, parishioner of this church.
Georgina had seen this plaque before and had casually noted that it was a relative and that her father was remembered in a place of his heritage. But now the plaque had a whole new meaning, and as she reread the inscription it felt as if the edges of each word grazed her heart. The beloved memory of a devoted wife? Georgina’s already simmering anger bubbled up to boil indignant in her blood. Where did that leave Edith? Was she that easy to forget?
26th December 1833
St. Martin’s Church, Leicester
Charles Brancaster held his daughter’s hand, tighter in truth than was necessary, for she was his only daughter and giving her away felt like a loss of almost unbearable degree. It was ridiculous because he greatly admired William, and a better son-in-law he could not have imagined. A more kind man he could not have wished for Josephine. If only she were happier, and if only he felt that this was the day that all she had been was leading to. It should have been her beginning—then why did it feel like an end? Why did she hang her head beneath her veil?
“Look tall, my darling.” Charles squeezed gently at Josephine’s slim gloved hand. “Today is the beginning of a most wonderful chapter and your mother and I could not be prouder.”
“Thank you, Father,” Josephine said, with a voice that lacked the conviction of her words. “I will be right in a moment.”
Charles wished there was someone who in that moment could help. He instinctively looked for Edith. Where was the familiar frame of the wriggling young woman he had known since a child who could not sit still or walk like a lady? She always made him smile. Edith would know what to say, but she was not there. He remembered now that the last time he had seen her, she was walking with her mother in the street, and she gave her apologies but was unable to attend. He’d wondered for some time if there had been a disagreement between Edith and his daughter discernible by the noticeable absence of Edith from their lives. They were taking a break from writing together, Josephine had said. He thought it might have something to do with Josephine meeting William. But what would he know? And it did not feel like his place to ask.
The congregation stood and the organist began to play. William turned and glanced behind him with the glint in his eyes of emotion caught in the candlelight.
Josephine lifted her head as one who bravely faces that which they fear most. “I am ready.”
It was Charles who found his feet reluctant to move forward. He wanted to say, I am not, but he would not default in his duty and walked Josephine slowly towards the altar, each step a peculiar anguish towards his daughter’s fate.
Releasing Josephine’s hand into William’s, he quickly looked away knowing that William would now see the tears beneath the veil and feel her sadness at his side.
He felt some relief to hear William whisper, “I love you,” and Josephine solemnly reply “I know.”
The heavy oak main door closing followed by the soft swishing of a cassock reminded Georgina to check the time. It was just before five.
* * *
Molly stood on the promenade outside the museum wrapped up and rubbing her hands together waiting excitedly for Georgina. She was looking towards the station, and Georgina was practically beside her before she turned with a start. “Where’d you come from?” Molly placed her hand against her heart.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Have you been waiting long?” Georgina glanced at Fred who was leaning down to lock the sliding glass doors. “You’d think they’d let you wait inside. You look freezing.” She reached out and softly touched Molly’s cheek.
“I was too excited to see you to wait inside.” Molly wrapped her arms around Georgina, squeezing her tight. “I suspect however I may now be part snowman.”
Georgina laughed.
“I had this mad notion,” Molly confessed, “that I would run up the promenade into your arms.”
Georgina pressed Molly into her. “And I ruined it.”
“No.” Molly released her hold sensing a sadness in Georgina’s tone. She shook her head. “In fact my glasses always steam up when I run, so I’d probably miss you altogether and end up hugging some random person, you know, like in the Specsavers advert.” Georgina laughed again. “Do you fancy Pizza Express? Emphasis on the express. I forgot to mention that art club is at seven. Sorry. But as soon as it’s over, I’ll rejoin you. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
Molly slipped her arm into Georgina’s, snuggling cl
ose again as they walked the few hundred yards to the restaurant. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too. I’ve been thinking about everything. About the painting, about my mother, about Edith, us…”
Us? Molly held her breath.
“And the thing is, I’m sorry I didn’t say yes to speaking to my mother.”
“That’s okay. You have reasons. I get that.”
“It’s not okay.”
Molly stopped walking. She gazed at Georgina, trying to guess from her expression what she might say next.
“It’s not okay that I’m letting you down again by letting my parents’ toxic drama affect me so deeply.”
“Georgina—”
“I should be putting you first and not just because I…” Georgina paused.
Molly swallowed. Because you…?
“Because you’ve been right all along.”
“I have?”
“I’ve just been to St. Martin’s to tell my father off for inviting my mother back into my life. As you may remember, he has this plaque there. Anyway there’s another plaque dedicated to William Wright by Josephine. She’s described as his devoted wife and the plaque records her beloved memory of him. It is just like the gravestone. Edith has been totally forgotten.”
Molly shivered. “How about we chat it through over a glass of red?”
“How about two glasses?”
“How about drunk in charge of art club?”
“Oh, right.”
“Come on. Let’s go in and you can tell me more.”
“I think we got here just in time.” Georgina looked around as reserved notices were placed on the tables around them.
“So you were saying about the plaque?”
“Oh, Molly, I felt so cross about Edith, angry for her. And then I thought about her painting, that it was so symbolic of her feelings for Josephine and of their love. It struck me that the painting is in every way Edith’s plaque that deserves to be displayed in memory of them. And then I thought about you, and how you’d always known how important it was, and how you’d stuck up for the painting, risking everything. And how bad I feel for not sticking up for her with you.”
“But you have—the whole reason there’s a display for Edith at all is because of you. It’s not your fault that your mother—”
“I’m going to speak to her.”
“You are?”
Georgina nodded, taking a large mouthful of wine.
“That’s awesome.” Molly reached out, placing her hand over Georgina’s. “Thank you. But only do it if you’re sure and if you’re doing it for you.”
Georgina nodded. “How about I do it for us?”
“For us?” Joy bubbled in Molly exploding into laughter. “Yep, that works for me.” Molly raised her glass. “So a toast. Here’s to fighting for Edith and the really large bowls of spaghetti coming our way.”
Georgina’s face seemed to relax with relief as she raised her glass to Molly’s. “To Edith and spaghetti.”
A silence fell over their table while they devoured their supper. Sucking up a last flick of pasta, Molly said, “I meant to say your mum’s at the Belmont, but only for tonight.”
Georgina wiped at her mouth with a napkin. “The Belmont?”
“Yes.” Molly added hesitantly, “She’s goes back to Paris tomorrow.”
Georgina drew in a deep breath. “Okay. That’s settled then. I’ll go to her while you’re at art club. Meet me back at my father’s place?”
“Deal.”
They lingered over coffees until it was nearing seven.
“I best go over. I’ve got to open up the side door and set up. Will you be okay? If you like, we can always go together to see her first thing.”
“To be honest, I’ll lose my bottle if I don’t go now, and I don’t want you dragged into things any more than you have been. It’s not fair.”
“I don’t mind.” Molly left money on the silver tray with the bill. “My treat.”
“Thanks. But you should mind, you know. We should just be enjoying each other, planning cinema trips or holidays, just normal stuff.”
Molly nodded. “Yeah, eating in Pizza Express is not normal at all. Freaky.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Anyway, those things can wait.” Molly stood and pulled on her coat. “My students, however, cannot. Walk me over?”
“Sure.” Georgina walked Molly back to the museum. Unsurprisingly she seemed to drag her feet and had gone quite pale.
Molly reluctantly let go of Georgina’s arm. “Good luck then.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The lights from the Belmont Hotel’s conservatory illuminated the promenade in blocks of gaudy yellow light that cast the moon in eerie contrast, stark and haunting, white-grey in the dark winter sky. The Belmont Hotel had a faded Victorian grandeur to it which lent a mood of formality tempered by the soft easing of age.
Georgina climbed the short run of steps shaded at their top by a small stone portico. She hesitated at the door, holding it just open. The warm air from the hotel’s reception blew perfumed against her cheeks.
It was not too late to turn around and would be entirely forgivable to say to Molly that her mother had left early and that they had missed each other, no doubt only by minutes, and that it was a sign that it wasn’t meant to be. But she couldn’t lie to Molly and look her in the eye and see the disappointment quickly retracted so as not to make Georgina feel bad. No. She wanted to see Molly’s face shine with pride and her eyes light up with admiration, the warmth of her smile melting Georgina’s heart.
She took a deep breath and adjusted the cuffs of her coat, and tucked her hair behind her ear. She lifted her chin and said under her breath, “You can do this. Just think about Molly. Just Molly.”
“Good evening, madam. How can I help?” The receptionist beamed an empty smile at Georgina.
“Good evening. I would like to speak with one of your guests, please, Lydia Wright.”
“Let me see. Yes, I have a Lydia Wright. Is she expecting you?”
Was her mother expecting her? That was the very question. Was she honestly expecting that Georgina would break a habit of a lifetime and engage in conversation? Listen to her attempts to make excuses for herself? But then her mother still believed in cursed hope, didn’t she. So maybe she was. “I don’t know. I mean, no.”
“One moment, I will try her room for you.”
Georgina turned away from the receptionist and leaned against the desk facing the conservatory and the diners taking coffee after their meals.
“I’m sorry, madam. There’s no reply. Can I leave a message for you?”
“No. Thank you anyway.” Georgina expected to feel relief, but instead she felt strangely peculiar and upset at the thought of her emotions wasted. At least she wouldn’t have to lie to Molly. She walked back down the steps, pausing to tighten her belt around her waist. It had begun to rain and droplets fell in dark spots on the pathway ahead.
She stepped out onto the promenade, stopping to allow a bike to whoosh past with its tyres spraying a swirl of rain at her feet. She pulled her collar up and glanced to check for any more cyclists, and as she did so a figure caught her eye. A woman in the conservatory had stood and was staring out right at Georgina.
Georgina turned away and continued walking, and then a voice called out her name and she could hear feet splashing after her.
“Georgina. Please, wait.”
Georgina turned around slowly.
Her mother was scowling up at the night sky as if holding it responsible for everything. “This damned British weather. Always so wet. Won’t you come inside? Please. After all, you have made it this far. Yes?”
Georgina gave a guarded nod, determined not to betray an ounce of feeling.
“I need a cigarette. Before we go in.” Her mother slipped a thin silver cigarette case from her pocket and squinted towards a shelter. “There.”
Georgina stood with her moth
er under the wooden shelter with her height sheltering her mother from the worst of the night. She watched the blue haze of cigarette smoke drift down the promenade.
“Thank you for seeing me,” her mother said. “I feared you might not come.”
Georgina remained silent. She was here to listen for as long as she could stand to, and then she would firmly request that her mother lend the painting for Edith’s display. And she would make it clear that she considered her mother’s actions deplorable. And then she would leave.
“I’ve sat waiting in that chair for most of today.” Her mother nodded towards the corner seat in the conservatory. “There were so many people who looked like you from a distance because I so wanted them to be you. I even called out and banged on the glass at one poor soul. How I must have looked.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “Turns out only you really look like you.”
“I’m surprised you can recognize me, Mother. I mean, what would you have done if it weren’t for Evelyn’s introductory speech that night identifying me? Asked around? Have you seen my daughter Georgina? She was that young girl I left without giving a damn eighteen years ago.” Georgina hadn’t wanted to be cruel, but the bitterness was so overwhelming it forced out the hate from her heart.
Her mother took another deep drag, holding the smoke and then blowing it away in one long slow wisp. “There is no point, is there, in me speaking if you are unable to listen, if all you can hear are your words condemning me.” She threw up her arm. “No point. I thought I might have been talking to an adult. Someone mature enough to understand that the world is made of many shades of grey. That none of us is perfect. None of us. But it seems you have not grown up.”
“What do you know of my growing up? You were not around. Remember?”
Her mother pointed to her heart. “I was with you.”
Georgina stabbed with her forefinger at her own heart in reply. “I was twelve.”
“Yes, and I have counted every day I have not been with you.”
