The True Story of Maddie Bright

by Mary-Rose MacColl

  ‘That sounds like a plot for a romance,’ I said.

  ‘Not really, no,’ she said. ‘I … It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ I said. ‘We’re writers! So is he Rochester to your Jane, or Heathcliff to your Cathy?’

  ‘Rupert? Heathcliff?’ she said, as if I’d suggested he was a peacock. ‘No, no, no. He’s Edgar. No, not Edgar. St John. He’s St John not Rochester. Can’t bend.’ She sighed. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  She looked upset.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He seems so kind, and so sad.’

  ‘He is kind,’ she said. ‘Rupert is kind to a fault. And he is sad.’

  She sighed heavily, looked away from me, out into the black night. ‘Rupert and I fell in love,’ she said, looking back at me. ‘But it wasn’t enough.’

  ‘What do you mean? Enough for what?’

  ‘It wasn’t enough to cleanse me.’

  From Autumn Leaves by M.A. Bright:

  France, 1918

  ‘Will you walk with me?’ he said.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be over here. This is the drivers’ quarters. Some of the women don’t like your type.’

  ‘What’s my type?’

  ‘Male.’

  ‘I see. There’s not much I can do about that.’

  ‘You can leave,’ she said, but she was smiling. There was a tooth, on the left, a little crooked.

  ‘I knew you’d look fetching in that coat up close.’

  It was early Sunday morning. She was wearing her goatskin. Miss Ivens had ordered them for the drivers in the second winter. She didn’t care what it looked like. On those frigid nights, it was a relief to be warm.

  ‘From a distance, I took you for a bear, a Russian one,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure I like that,’ she said. ‘And I don’t know why it has to be Russian.’

  ‘Standing on its back legs. Or perhaps a centaur rather than a bear.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled shyly. ‘Please, will you walk with me?’

  The look on his face. There was something uncomplicated about him, something altogether good, she thought.

  She could tell him about complication; complication that would knit his brow more or less permanently. But instead she smiled and said, ‘Yes, let’s walk.’

  She wanted uncomplicated, she thought to herself. But it wouldn’t be fair on him. He was a gentleman. She knew that much. She was never going to be with a gentleman. She’d been spoiled for that. It was the perfect word, spoiled. It was what happened to rotten fruit.

  He had survived. Against all odds, he had survived, and he had her to thank for it.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said.

  ‘I need time to muster up my courage,’ he said.

  ‘Is the muster worth waiting for?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes. It’s the quiet ones who have wisdom.’

  ‘That makes no sense,’ she said.

  They walked across the abbey grounds in silence, towards the village. There was a mist low on the ground, although the sun would soon burn it off and already the chill was lifting.

  They came to the edge of the forest. ‘How do you think the trees work out where they should stop?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How come the forest is always this big?’ He gestured with his arm, the one that wasn’t injured. ‘And we are in the forest or out of the forest. There’s no partly forested.’

  ‘I suppose it’s soil that changes,’ she said.

  ‘I never thought of that. I thought it was an intelligence that only trees have. They know how to live in a community.’

  She laughed. ‘I think I prefer your version.’

  She picked up a twig. ‘Last year, there was a craze among the French soldiers to make bracelets out of pine needles. They wove them together and gave them to the nurses and drivers. They’d sing songs to us. It was rather sweet. Perhaps the trees here do know how to live in community. You may be right,’ she said.

  She looked across at him. ‘Have you rounded up your courage?’

  ‘I have,’ he said, turning to face her. He tilted his head, shaking it lightly. He held up his left hand, the injured one. She wanted to tell him to be careful. He smiled. ‘You saved my life. I don’t know how to repay you.’

  He was stuttering. He wanted to punch himself.

  She didn’t seem to notice. ‘I drove you here,’ she said. ‘Miss Ivens saved your life, or Henry. I think Dr Henry did your surgery. I didn’t even know how ill you were until we got here.’

  ‘Still, you were supposed to leave me there.’

  ‘I was,’ she said.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not very good at doing as I’m told. That’s the first thing.’ She had a flash of memory then, her stepfather the last time, the time she screamed as soon as he came into the room.

  She still doesn’t know where that scream came from, how she managed it.

  Her mother was at the door then. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘A nightmare,’ she told her mother while looking at her stepfather. ‘I had a nightmare. I don’t want those nightmares anymore.’

  Her mother looked at her stepfather, said nothing. Nothing.

  ‘And if I’m perfectly honest, I liked you,’ she said to him now, putting thoughts of the past away.

  ‘So if you hadn’t liked me, you’d have left me there?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ she said.

  ‘I like you too,’ he said.

  ‘But that’s because I saved your life. You are beholden to me.’

  ‘No,’ he said, serious now. ‘I want to tell you this. Since we met, there hasn’t been anything else on my mind but you.’ He flexed his jaw. He must get these words out.

  ‘No,’ she said, putting a finger to his lips. ‘We mustn’t talk like this. We mustn’t.’ She could smell the soap on his skin. ‘There is nothing there.’

  ‘In you?’ he said, incredulous. ‘You feel nothing for me?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Yes. Nothing like that. I feel you were a soldier who was wounded and I drove you to the hospital, which is my job. Your feelings are perfectly understandable but they’re really nothing to do with me. You are grateful. Be grateful to Miss Ivens. She established Royaumont. Be grateful to Dr Henry. She saved your arm.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But now, you must talk about other things.’ Her voice was strained; she could hear it.

  Other things? He had thought of nothing else but her, the way her hair fell forward onto her face when she bent down to him, the way she spoke, the sweet smell of her breath.

  He’d found out what he could from the nurses. Most of them wouldn’t talk to him, but there was one who’d been her friend. She’s the life of the party, the nurse said. Always up for a good time. You’ll have trouble with that one, mark my words.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll stop the talk, if you tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Nothing to tell,’ she said. ‘Nothing you’d want to hear about anyway.’

  THIRTEEN

  London, 1997

  AFTER THE LUNCH WITH FINIAN INGLIS, VICTORIA TOOK a cab back to her flat and threw some clothes into an overnight bag. There were still no photographers outside, she was relieved to see.

  Victoria had no blouses ironed and Martha was sleeping on her favourite jacket in the bathroom. Victoria had meant to take it to the cleaners. Now cat hair was added to a red wine stain. Maybe cat urine as well, she thought when she picked up the jacket.

  Victoria couldn’t chastise Martha, a rescue cat with difficulties the Royal Society vet said were probably caused by early traumatic experiences. They were the reason she played at three in the morning on the bed, toileted just about anywhere but in the litter, and slept on Victoria’s favourite clothes during the day if Victoria left them on the floor.

  They’d been together for three years now and Martha was improving, Victoria told herself
. At any rate, she was family so that was that.

  Victoria took the waiting cab to Claire’s flat in Peckham on the way to Waterloo.

  ‘Flying visit,’ she said when Claire answered the door, knowing a flying visit to Claire was almost impossible. Her friend was wearing track pants—the kind, if they’d ever seen an actual track, had long since retired—and a fuchsia t-shirt. She had baby Max in her arms.

  Claire’s husband, Tony, who was finishing his PhD in politics and caring for the kids while Claire established her PR business, was nowhere to be seen. This was not unusual, Victoria knew.

  Claire put Max on a mat on the floor while Victoria made tea.

  ‘Fuck,’ Claire said when she came back in. ‘Jordan’s sandwich.’ She opened the toaster and took out something black. ‘Baked beans and cheese with pineapple, his favourite. Do you think it’s salvageable?’

  Victoria shook her head. She wasn’t sure if Claire was serious. You wouldn’t feed what was on the spatula to a dog.

  ‘You’re right. Jordan, honey!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll do your sandwich a bit later. That’s the end of the pineapple anyway so it will be something else.’

  ‘I’m going to Paris,’ Victoria said. ‘Can I borrow your black jacket?’

  ‘Sure,’ Claire said. ‘Oh, hang on, mine’s got vomit on it.’

  ‘Damn,’ Victoria said. ‘Mine’s covered in Martha hair. ‘I’ll just have to be colour-blind and wear my brown.’

  Claire sat down. ‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? I’ve been crying all morning on and off. It’s just thrown me completely. I told Tony to go to uni. I couldn’t face work today. Poor you.’

  ‘Why?’ Victoria said.

  ‘What do you write? Everything just confirms the view that we did this.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Victoria said. ‘Did we?’

  After the Panorama interview the year before, Claire had said she thought they’d cornered Diana, that the family were threatening to take the children from her and she didn’t know what else to do. While most of Victoria’s colleagues decided that interview was the end for Diana, Claire said it was desperate. She said the royal family were like the mafia, only worse. ‘It’s all about how things look, not how they are.

  ‘What did you do?’ Claire said then. At first Victoria thought she was talking about Diana, how she had contributed to Diana’s death, and she was about to mention the story she’d written all those years ago, when Claire leaned across and touched Victoria’s cheek.

  ‘Oh, that. I fell last night. I tried some cover stick. Didn’t work, obviously.’

  ‘No,’ Claire said. ‘I’m really sorry I haven’t called lately.’ She waved a hand at the kitchen, which was still a mess from dinner the night before, overlaid with breakfast. ‘It’s the bolognese years.’

  Victoria looked over at her friend, bit her lip. ‘I …’ She had the strongest urge to cry. She held it back.

  Claire sat down. ‘What is it, Victoria?’

  ‘We’re engaged.’

  ‘Engaged! Oh, wow, that was fast. Ben?’

  Victoria laughed. ‘Yes. I don’t have a list.’

  ‘No, it’s just sudden.’

  ‘I was planning on telling you. I just …’

  Victoria did start crying then, one of those messy noisy sobs that comes out whether you like it or not.

  ‘What’s the matter, love?’ Claire leaned over and took her hand. ‘Are you thinking you don’t want—’

  Just then Jordan came in from the lounge and asked for his sandwich. Victoria managed to compose herself. ‘Hey, Jordy.’

  ‘Hi, Victoria,’ the little boy said. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘In a minute, sweetie,’ Claire said. ‘Go put the telly on, will you? I think it’s The Flintstones.’ She looked at her friend. ‘Desperate times!’

  Jordan toddled off.

  ‘What is it, Victoria?’ Claire asked.

  ‘I don’t even know. I’m just upset and anxious and, until today, it’s been every day outside the flat.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘It’s Ben. The papers. They all want pictures of him, and me. They chased me down the street on my way to work one morning last week. I felt like a criminal. I didn’t even look to see if they ran the pic. I suppose they won’t bother now, with Diana filling pages, but that will pass and they’ll be back, won’t they?’

  ‘Yes, you could probably see it coming,’ Claire said. ‘I saw a shot of the two of you somewhere. You looked great, if that helps.’ She smiled weakly.

  ‘Ben says we have to get out in front, tell them we’re engaged, control the story.’ She sniffed.

  Claire thought about this. ‘He’s probably not wrong about that in one way. It doesn’t look like you’ll have the option of privacy.’

  ‘Why not?’ Victoria said.

  ‘He’s a big deal,’ Claire said. ‘Who knows why?’ She paused. ‘But you’re engaged, and happy about that?’

  Victoria didn’t respond.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She wiped her eyes, made herself smile. ‘Nothing. Just stress.’

  ‘You know, you don’t have to get married,’ Claire said. ‘You know that, right?’

  She nodded, smiled tightly. ‘The thing is, we’re everywhere together,’ Victoria said. ‘It’s six months. I’m now Ben Winter’s girlfriend.’

  ‘So? Do you think it would help if you went back and saw the psychologist?’

  ‘I like strong women,’ Victoria said.

  Claire laughed.

  Just then the baby cried and Claire said, ‘Give me a minute. Sorry.’

  When she came back, the baby on her breast, Jordan asking for his sandwich again, Victoria apologised for barging in. ‘It was really just the jacket. Ignore all the other stuff. I have to go or I’ll miss my train. Love you.’

  ‘I’ll call you tonight,’ Claire said as she was leaving, still looking concerned.

  Victoria knew Claire probably wouldn’t call; she had too much on her plate as it was. Victoria shouldn’t be burdening her further. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Paris!’ She did her best to smile, and left.

  Victoria checked in with Ewan before she boarded the train at Waterloo. People were gathering at the palaces, he said, leaving flowers. Ewan didn’t make a wisecrack as he normally might have. ‘The city’s really quiet,’ he said. ‘It’s almost like a great darkness is coming down on the world, like evil has been done. You don’t think the family …’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘They’re the royal family. You’re starting to sound like Claire.’

  ‘They’d have means,’ he said. ‘It’s what Danny reckons. He reckons they bumped her off. And they had cause. She was so much trouble for them.’

  ‘Ewan, I need you to be normal,’ Victoria said. ‘Meredith can cry and Claire can tell me they’re the mafia. But I need you to stay Ewan, the Scottish republican bastard I know and love. I’m about to go under the channel.’

  He laughed. ‘The tunnel,’ he said in a ghostly voice.

  ‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Look, I really don’t know what I’ll write. I’ll call from Paris. But I don’t feel I’m the person for this.’

  ‘You’re perfect for this,’ he said.

  ‘No one could do it justice,’ she said.

  ‘No one else,’ he said. ‘When you’re on, Victoria, there’s no one better.’

  She sighed. ‘Thank you for saying that but I’m not on much lately.’

  He ignored what she’d said. ‘Harry wants you to go to the hospital when you get there,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the name. It’s where … the body. Mark will pick you up. He’s already sent some shots back but there’s nothing for the magazine that I can see. I want something that won’t date. I think the hospital might work, depending what you write.’

  ‘Will you look at whatever I do tonight before you give it to Harry?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But where’s your brash confidence, Victoria? You usually eat stories like this.’r />
  ‘I don’t know. I think this one’s different.’

  ‘I suppose. Anyway, we’ll get through. Oh, Ben called.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No, nothing. He just didn’t know you were in Paris. I might have mucked things up.’

  ‘That’s okay. I haven’t had time to call him.’

  Ewan didn’t say anything.

  ‘Hey, before you go?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The lunch with Finian Inglis,’ she said. ‘You think it might be real?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. It’s almost too odd to be made up.’

  ‘I thought that too. Fin’s a good guy. Maybe not savvy, like I am, but a good guy.’

  ‘You’re not savvy.’

  ‘No. It was probably a figure of speech.’

  ‘He wants me to go to Australia.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he says you’re paying the airfare.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Great story, if it’s true. Imagine the shots of this fossil who wrote Autumn Leaves. And is it autobiographical? Did he have an affair in World War I? If so, who was the woman? Is she alive? What’s the new book like? Is it as good, or better? There are so many angles.’

  ‘It’s not a he. M.A. Bright is a woman.’

  ‘Really? I’d have sworn he was a he.’

  ‘That’s what Finian said anyway. Ewan, wouldn’t you normally go yourself to check this out?’

  ‘Maybe. But Bright didn’t ask for me. She asked for you.’

  As the train began to move, Victoria stared straight ahead, repeating a mantra in her head: I am not afraid of the tunnel. I am not afraid of the tunnel. Fear rose up and swallowed her mantra whole. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe.

  Ewan had said Mark Staple would be there to meet her. He was a good photographer, but what would he shoot in Paris? Victoria wondered. The site of the crash? Maybe that was what people would want. It was five years since Victoria had worked on a straight news story and what constituted news had changed so much. News is whatever readers say it is, Harry Knight had said when they’d debated whether to run the tapes of the telephone call between Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles. ‘And you can’t tell me you weren’t curious to know what they said to one another in private. It’s fucking news.’