“Am I very late?” Molly wrestled free of her coat and squinted at the office clock through the mist of her steamed-up glasses.
“Well, let’s put it this way, you’re not very on time. Was it Daisy May again?” Fran asked with a tone that suggested she already knew the answer.
“It’s not her fault. She’s just not at her best, first thing.”
“You need to get rid of her.”
Molly took off her glasses and glared at her colleague. “Fran Godfrey. How can you say that?”
“And how can you own a car that won’t start in the morning, hates the cold, not to mention the wet, shudders at the merest suggestion of speed, and stalls at the hint of a hill?”
“Well, I find your remarks uncalled for and bordering on disloyal.”
The strip light above their heads fizzed and flickered. Molly climbed with a wobble onto her chair, took off her shoe, and banged the end of the light fixture, which gave a last fizz before returning the room to its headachy ambiance.
She dropped down to the floor with a sigh. “Daisy May, I feel sure, would speak very highly of you. If she could speak, obviously.”
“Obviously. The reason that car and I know each other so well is that I’ve spent more time than is decent pushing her backside. How long have you worked here?”
“Oh, let me think.” Molly proceeded to silently count on her fingers. “Seven months. You know, it seems like longer.”
“Seven months. And how many times have I had to push your car?”
Molly shrugged. “Once or twice maybe.”
“Four times. And in case it had somehow escaped your notice, I am not in the first flush of youth and such exertions are not only ungainly, but they are decidedly inadvisable.”
Molly winced with guilt at the memory of Fran, legs apart, bracing herself against the rear end of her vintage Mini. “Of course. And it goes without saying that Daisy May more than sympathizes and is very grateful for your assistance.” Molly rifled through the files and folders on her desk. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen my notes for the funding meeting? I’m certain I left them right here by my pencil pot.” Her heart sank as a sickening flashback called to mind the image of the papers resting underneath a jar of peanut butter on her kitchen table. Bugger.
Fran shook her head. “Sorry, no, and speaking of grateful, Molly Goode, Daisy May’s not the only one who should be thanking me. Evelyn was in here ten minutes ago asking for you.”
“What? Oh no, we were meant to meet before the meeting. I’ve no time to print my notes out again.”
Molly rummaged in the bin, picking through used teabags and browning apple cores for the last but one version of her notes. She flattened out the screwed-up ball of pages and brushed away the hole-punched paper circles that clung to the tea-stained sheets. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her”—Fran looked up and smiled sympathetically—“that you were probably held up by your work in the storeroom.”
“Storeroom. Excellent. Thank you. I owe you big time.” Molly took a deep breath. “Right.” She looked at the door and then at Fran.
“What now?” Fran asked, her eyes raised wearily at Molly.
“Was she in a good mood by any chance? Or was her neck all prickly pink?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t keep her waiting any longer.”
“That bad? Right.”
“Go!” Fran pointed to the door. “Oh, and Molly. Remember to impress upon them that the renovated annex would be the perfect venue for our community space. It’ll be a real push in the right direction.”
“Will do. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
Molly hurried along the first floor corridor that led from the windowless office she shared with Fran to Evelyn’s suite of rooms resplendent in oak panelling and bathed in the soft caress of natural light.
The length of the corridor always seemed to shift, shrinking and expanding to fit the moment. If Molly was late, like this morning, it felt like miles. If she had reason to want to drag out her arrival, she always seemed to arrive at Evelyn’s door with alarming speed. The polished brass nameplate which read Ms. Evelyn Fox, Director never ceased to fill her with dread.
“Morning, Molly.” The efficient voice of Evelyn’s secretary Marianne had a comforting familiarly to it. She was the first person Molly had met when interviewing for her post as Curator of Fine Arts. It felt like yesterday that she had stood at Evelyn’s door mustering the courage to knock.
Molly glanced across to Marianne seated neatly behind her computer in her immaculate office. “Morning. I’m a little behind. Is Evelyn in?”
Marianne shook her head. “She’s in the conference room. The chairman arrived early.”
“He did?” Crap.
Molly stared for a moment at the closed conference room door. She could just make out the dull hum of discussion and then Evelyn’s joyless laughter that always, like her smile, seemed to end too abruptly.
Molly counted to three in her head before knocking politely and entering on command.
“Molly, wonderful. Please join us.” Evelyn’s words welcomed Molly, while her piercing eyes held the pointed question, Molly was sure, of her lateness. “And, of course, you’ve met Mark before.”
“Yes, indeed. Good morning, Mr. Drew.” Molly held out her hand and the chairman of the museum’s trustees shook it in a perfunctory way that spoke of his disinterest in her. Molly couldn’t decide whether his lack of interest was because she was not important enough to cause him concern or not glamorous enough to trigger his arousal. She suspected it might be both.
Evelyn gestured for Molly to take a seat opposite her at the large oval table.
“Mark, Molly has been bringing together ideas to develop the museum’s reach.” Evelyn’s focus returned to note making. “Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Molly cleared her throat and tapped her notes together against the table in readiness to read out her thoughts. At once a flutter of tiny white paper circles drifted across the table to rest at Evelyn’s pen. One paper dot caught the air from God knows where and settled on the chairman’s tie. It would have been a joyful moment had it been a wedding.
Molly quickly flattened her notes against the table. Oh my God. Keep going. “The Heritage Lottery Fund has been very supportive of initiatives which promote diversity. In February each year, for example, museums nationwide participate in LGBT history month—”
Evelyn raised her pen just slightly in the air. The signal was clear: she was about to speak and that meant Molly was not.
Evelyn lifted her glasses away from her face and fixed her gaze beyond Molly. Molly resisted the urge to turn to look where she was looking. “Granted, it was organized before your appointment, but if you remember, Molly, we hosted a most stimulating talk this last February on the plays of Joe Orton. We couldn’t be more committed to celebrating L”—she replaced her glasses and checked her notes—“GBT history month.”
You couldn’t? “That’s wonderful to hear,” Molly said, not intending to sound so surprised. “And yes, I remember the talk, it was great.” Why had she been so nervous? For clearly here they were as one voice, one vision. “So then I would like to suggest that we place even more emphasis on this special month and really embrace the opportunity to reach out. I propose that we apply for funding to delve into our collections and work to discover—and indeed uncover—forgotten histories. And not just LGBT histories but all minority histories and give voice to those voices as yet unheard in our museum. I’m very keen to see us become a symbol, a flag bearer, if you will, for diversity. A place where all communities can see themselves reflected—”
Evelyn raised her pen again. “Thank you, Molly. Leading the way is something this museum takes great pride in.”
The chairman nodded almost as if he was personally accepting the praise for everyone else’s efforts.
“But, sadly, we often find ourselves bound by limited resources. Our aspirations clipped. The collections team are working day and night to meet the accreditation backlogs. At the end of the day it’s a question of balance.”
Molly’s heart sank. But then what about if she trimmed her plans? “Of course, I understand. Then perhaps we can invite the LGBT community, which is very vibrant here in Leicester, to create an exhibition highlighting their life experiences, their memories. They could even choose to express themselves through art or simply talking. Fran, I know, is keen to capture oral histories, and to hear people’s voices in an exhibition is always so thrilling and emotive. I would be happy to lead this—”
“I’m glad you brought up the subject of your time.”
You are? Molly could sense herself being drawn off track.
“Going forward I need your full attention to return to the Wright Foundation bequest. There have been developments.” Evelyn glanced at the chairman whose own attention seemed to have been drawn by opening the biscuit for his coffee. “Mark, would you find an update of progress with this particular bequest helpful?”
The chairman looked up with a start. “Yes.”
Evelyn widened her eyes at Molly. “Would you mind?”
“Oh, of course.” Molly turned to the page in her notes headed Benefactors and Funders. “Where shall I—”
“From the beginning.”
“Right. The”—Molly cleared her throat—“Wright Foundation have been supporting museums and education projects for many years—”
Evelyn raised a finger and looked at the chairman. “To be precise, the foundation was established in 1888 by the philanthropist and social campaigner Josephine Wright with the express purpose of promoting the endeavours of institutions of art and learning.” She returned her focus to Molly. “Please remember, details are always important.”
Molly’s cheeks stung. How did Evelyn always manage to humiliate her so effortlessly? “Yes, of course.” Molly gripped her notes. “Sadly, its head for the last thirty-two years, George Wright, passed away in March of this year. This is of course a great loss, as George Wright was an unstinting supporter of this museum.”
Evelyn leaned forward. “George contacted me in August of last year. He confirmed his intention to transfer his personal art collection to the Wright Foundation with the express purpose of also gifting the foundation’s fine art to this museum.” Evelyn stabbed her finger into her notebook with the words to this museum.
The chairman released a low, satisfied grumble.
Evelyn sat yet further forward in her seat. “George was at pains to tell me that the foundation’s collection was small. I was to understand that the foundation is primarily a monetary fund and has tended to discourage offers to it of artworks. And not only that, he said when they have received artworks they have immediately gifted them on to a museum. I have to admit I wondered at this point what we were being offered. Can I pour you some more coffee, Mark?”
The chairman sat up a little in his seat, offering his cup, which Evelyn filled while she continued, “Nonetheless, over the generations a select few of the great and the good of Leicester have slipped through the net, so to speak, and gifted to the foundation the work of celebrated artists to ease their tax burdens. Thank God for death duties—they are without question a museum’s best friend. The foundation has held on to these works, and they have been loaned out to national institutions. That is, until now. I will just say this: Auguste Rodin, John Piper, Paul Nash, and Vanessa Bell. A select but notable collection of international significance, and to acquire it is quite the coup.”
As if newly revived, the chairman said, “Yes, this was excellent news. The trustees were impressed that the museum had been chosen as the recipient of such a gift.”
“To be truthful,” Evelyn said, “I think George felt rather let down to discover that those national institutions who had works loaned to them by the foundation had stored them, as much as they’d displayed them. I promised to fulfil his express wish to keep the foundation’s collection together and accessible at all times to the public. He was of course much relieved. And despite his failing health and the tiresome paperwork, the necessary bequest forms to this museum were completed and signed.” Evelyn’s triumphant glow faded to a look of concern. “Six months have now passed since George’s death, and we are in possession of nearly all the foundation’s items, and yet George’s art collection remains in place in his house. Isn’t that so?” Evelyn looked at Molly.
“Yes, we are just waiting for Rodin’s Little Eve to come from the Tate.”
“Honestly, they are gripping that poor sculpture so tightly I would not be surprised if she arrives with fingerprints on her behind. And talking of gripping—and I do not mean to be unsympathetic at her time of grief—but George’s daughter seems intent on dragging her heels with the handover of the bequeathed pieces from the house. How many are we expecting?”
“In the house there are, let me see…” Molly counted down the list in her notes with the tip of her pencil. “Four paintings, one work in pencil, one bust, three pieces of early Staffordshire porcelain, and two photographs. So that’s…”
Evelyn let out a withering sigh. “Eleven. Out of?”
“A bequest of fifteen works in total.”
“I even sent a follow-up note after the funeral repeating my condolences and assuring her of our best intentions with regard to her father’s bequest in the hope that this might prompt matters. Nothing.” Evelyn took another sip of coffee. “However, this brings me to the development in question. I heard yesterday that grant of probate was completed early last week on George Wright’s estate, so the work to distribute his assets and settle matters once and for all can begin. This is excellent news, as I really feared we might be looking at next year. My earnest hope is that this stirs Georgina Wright into action, or at least into visibility. I do not think she has visited Leicester since her father’s funeral, let alone stepped into this museum. Could you open a window, Molly, and let some air in?”
Molly opened the window directly behind them and stood for a moment in the relief of the breeze.
“And that is not all I find unsettling.” Evelyn rubbed at her brow. “There is a general sense of disquiet with regard to Georgina taking over as head of the foundation.”
As she returned to her seat Molly heard herself say, “Why, is she dodgy?”
“What? No. She’s a banker from London who has made no secret of her disinterest in all things art. It would not surprise me if George feared her selling his collection to the highest bidder. And as for her intentions for the foundation itself and the impact to museums…” Evelyn raised her hands in a Who knows? gesture.
The chairman intervened, “I understand what you’re saying, Evelyn. On the odd occasions I’ve met Georgina Wright, I’ve found her…how shall I put it…non-committal on museum matters.”
Evelyn drained the last of her coffee and rested the cup with a determined knock against its saucer. “So we need a plan. A plan that will invest Georgina in the museum so she will think of us first when it comes to future funding.”
Evelyn drummed her fingertips on the table as the chairman brushed at his tie.
Molly tentatively suggested, “We could have a dedicated temporary exhibition of the foundation’s bequest. Fran could even prepare a short history of the foundation. We could invite Georgina—”
Pushing her chair back, Evelyn began to pace the room. “Yes, of course. That’s it. I had thought to disperse the bequest throughout the museum, but this is better. The key is to show her that we are ready and waiting to display her father’s collection and fulfil his last wish. This will flush her out from London and oblige her to hurry along in handing over the final pieces. But we need more than a temporary display—we need something substantial and, ideally, enduring.” Evelyn stood stiff as if a solution had possessed her like the devil. “We need a dedicated space, and I can’t think of a more prestigious and forward-thinking use of the annex. We need a name. The Wright Room has the authority we are seeking. We need a date for the opening. I’m thinking the beginning of December. And perhaps most importantly we need a dedicated individual to bring everything to fruition. And by fruition, I mean someone who will impress and guide and remind Georgina Wright that not only are we the foundation’s chosen museum, but we are also the natural choice for any future foundation funding.”
Evelyn and the chairman turned in unison to look at Molly.
“Yes, we are looking to you, Molly. We have every faith and trust in you. Your assistance with this initiative will be vital. Vital.” Evelyn glanced at her watch. “More coffee, Mark. And another biscuit, perhaps?”
You are? It is? “That’s…thank you,” Molly said. “Just one thing. Did you say the annex?”
Evelyn placed a hand on her flushing neck. “I really rather hoped you were listening. Yes. The annex.”
“It’s just, well, I don’t think that will be possible. You see, there is an expectation that the annex is already reserved for community use. Fran—”
Evelyn shook her head. “Fran, more than anyone, understands the difficult choices a museum has to make. Thank you for your time this morning. We won’t keep you any longer. Let’s meet again in a day or so to take the plan further.”
Evelyn turned away. The discussion was clearly concluded.
Molly left the meeting and stood in the corridor with her back to the closed conference room door. The low rumble of the chairman’s voice and Evelyn’s hollow laughter carried on without her.
“You okay, Molly?” Marianne placed Bourbon biscuits on a plate. “Here, have a biscuit.”
“No, thank you.” In that moment Molly had completely lost her appetite. She had surely let Fran down. What’s more, was she about to let down the entire museum by failing to impress and persuade the elusive Georgina Wright?
* * *
Molly returned to her office, dropped her notes back into the bin where they belonged, and slumped onto Fran’s desk with a heavy sigh.
“You’re sitting on my sandwich.” Fran pushed at Molly’s hip, encouraging her to stand.
“I’ve sat on your lunch? Oh my God, could this day get any worse?” Molly held Fran’s baguette, squishy in her hands. It was now less buoyant baguette and more flatbread and pretty much summed up her morning.
Fran stood with a groan. “Want anything from the cafe?”
Molly looked down, crestfallen, and shook her head.
“I take it the meeting wasn’t exactly a great success.” Fran rested a motherly hand on Molly’s shoulder.
She couldn’t bring herself to mention the annex let alone that she had prompted the idea of a dedicated exhibition in the first place. “Honestly it was chilling to hear them. Everything’s about money or status. I thought museums were for and about the people.”
“You’re sounding more like a social historian every day,” Fran said, with an approving nod. “Although isn’t the art world, your world, all about that—status?”
“Not for me.”
“Good for you.” Fran placed her hands on her hips. “I think we need cake.”
“Have lunch in the square with me?”
“Sorry, no can do, I’ve a shopping list longer than David Attenborough’s career. But I’ll see you later. So what will it be—Victoria sponge or, better still, eclairs?”
Molly mustered a smile. “How about both?”
“Good choice.” Fran turned back at the door. “Do you remember what I said to you when you first started at the museum? That you will always feel disheartened if your approach is to work against them?”
Molly nodded.
“The trick, if there is a trick”—Fran frowned slightly—“is somehow to find a way to achieve what you believe is right but that still delivers for the powers that be.”
“So is this how you handle Evelyn?”
“On my good days, yes. On my bad days, lots of rude words shouted at the top of my lungs in the privacy of the ladies’ loo.”
Molly giggled. “Right. Noted.”
The instant Fran closed the door, Molly was engulfed by images of the chairman with his expression of vacuous power, his mane-like hair swept back, his tie tight against his collar moving with his throat as he spoke. He was confident in a bullish way that suggested at his heart he was insecure. His insecurity made him dangerous, and if she was not mistaken, that was likely the source of his power and influence—not his knowledge, not his experience, but the fragility of his ego, charming when stroked, ferociously defensive when challenged.
Evelyn seemed to be a master at managing him, stroking to calm and cajole. She appealed to his competitive nature by presenting the museum as a place of excellence. A leading institution, indeed. She was the consummate manager of people.
Molly closed her eyes at the image of Evelyn with her pen raised to silence her. Her temper rose. She needed to find a place to shout rude words.
Leaving the frustrations of her meeting behind, she headed to her sanctuary, a small public garden next to the museum. Aptly named Museum Square, the simply designed patch of civic ground was bordered on two sides by parked cars. A collection of benches placed around the inside edge of the square separated the grass from wide borders. A diagonal path, broken up by tree roots, stretched across, splitting halfway along to encircle a large horse chestnut tree. This tree marked the seasons, signalling the changing patterns of the year. In winter, bare and stark against white skies, the tree seemed to shrink, huddled with those brave or crazy enough to stop awhile and sit. In spring, tentative buds relaxed in the welcome return of the first rays of sunshine. In summer, students rested against its weathered waist reading their books, cool in the shade of branches laden with the soft flutter of green leaves. And in autumn, the debris of crushed conkers bashed free from its branches, littering the ground with evidence of battles won and lost and of time passing as the empty husks curled and browned.
She cherished those moments spent sitting on her favourite bench eating her sandwiches, with her lunchbox at her side and with the sprawling horse chestnut her faithful companion.
Basking in the calm stillness of the beautiful September day, she took off her shoes and let the grass brush against the soles of her feet. She lifted her chin to the cloudless sky. The air was changing from the dry sandy notes of summer to the sweet musk of autumn. The leaves above her were fading, and their greens had softened to mossy shades from vibrant lime. Even the midday light beaming through the canopy seemed weaker now, less luminous, its strongest rays falling on another person sitting on another bench, in another square, in another land.
* * *
Georgina Wright stood at the sitting room window of her father’s house. Her thoughts drifted, tangled in the trance-like rhythm of the passers-by hurrying up and down the tree-lined promenade just a few steps from the front door. Her gaze broke free to settle on the square across the way, taking in the many shades of green and the glint upon the iron railings of the changing light of the day.
When she was young she would sit for hours staring out of the long windows, watching the comings and goings. The square had a routine all its own then. First the flushed-face joggers would run along the promenade followed by the pallid sternness of rushing commuters. Then young mums would sit perched on the edge of benches staring anxiously into prams, or the elderly would pause to rest with gnarled hands against the railings, their shopping bags just that bit too heavy yet again. That was twenty years ago, and yet everything and nothing had changed. The promenade was just as busy if not busier.
Standing out distinct from the crowd, a woman caught her eye. She was sitting on a bench staring up into the tree’s canopy with her face bright with wonder. Georgina had seen her before. For she was the beautiful stranger she hadn’t meant to look out for in those last dark weeks of her father’s life. Noticing her wasn’t deliberate, at least not at first—she just seemed to have fallen into the habit of it, as one falls into the habit of many things.
She could even remember the first time she saw her. It was a Friday lunchtime in mid-February. It had started to snow and soft flakes drifting past the window had called her attention to outside. She remembered how she had pressed her hand against the cold glass as if to catch the flakes that were dissolving against the windowpane, melting in the grey-white light of the winter day. She had looked out to the square across the way, empty but for one woman who stood with her arms out wide, her face tipped to the sky. She had watched, entranced, as the stranger proceeded to brush a bench free of snow and then sat eating her lunch, as if the hazy winter sun had mustered in that moment the strength of summer.
Georgina looked away. That was the same day she’d arrived to find her father’s doctor at his bedside. How sorry the pale-faced clinician was to tell her that it was only a matter of weeks before she would likely lose her father. Never had a day felt bleaker and never had a person seemed so out of place.
Her heart ached. How long would the memory of him hurt so much? It had already seemed too long. But she would be brave, as always. Routine had definitely helped. Visiting her father most weekends following his diagnosis, arriving from London on a Friday lunchtime to help with matters that required weekday hours had worked, hadn’t it? She’d even sought a familiar comfort by sleeping in her childhood bedroom as if she’d never been away. And now while she settled her father’s estate, she would repeat a similar routine. She would start by taking this coming week off work and basing herself here to kick-start matters. That was her plan, if she had a plan at all, other than to make it through her grief somehow.
Looking back, it felt like the beautiful woman was there just for Georgina, sitting on the same bench in the square eating her sandwiches. She had been her light in the darkness, constant and reassuring with her presence.
And today, on the brink of autumn, nearly six months on after her father’s death, there she was again. Georgina stared at the imprint of daisies on the woman’s sundress, watching as they seemed to glow in the last rays of the year’s sunshine. The woman’s bare feet had slipped from sandals and the curls of her auburn hair fell onto her shoulders, setting off the cream of her pale skin. Georgina’s gaze fell absently to the woman’s neck, her throat tilted to the sky…
The woman suddenly glanced across to where Georgina stood at the window. Georgina stepped quickly back to stand shaded, unnoticed in the centre of her father’s sitting room. Her heart pounded. She felt exposed. It was not like Georgina to stare. At least not usually. People rarely held her attention. She would try to engage in polite conversation should the situation demand it but they would lose her not much beyond their first brag of achievement or their grumble about that day’s irritation.
Did people find her cold? Did they wonder at how different she was to her father, who always seemed so graceful and composed? Without effort he would find the right words to say at the perfect moment. There was warmth and an energy behind his eyes that flickered like a smile as he spoke.
Tears threatened and stung. She sought out her father’s armchair and brushed at the faded arms, the leather softened and worn to a light shade of brown where sleeve and hand had rubbed. She gazed at the seat cushion, flattened where her father had sat. It was as if he had just left the room, and if she pressed her hand against the cushion she would feel it warm.
Was that his voice, his feet against the tiled floor? She glanced across at the door that led from the sitting room to the hall, holding her breath, imagining in that instant that she would see his frame appear in the doorway, tall, slender, imposing.
A hot tear gathered at the corner of her mouth. Georgina brushed it away. She would not cry. What use were tears, after all? They never seemed to help.
She willed herself to focus on something.
The faint rings of tea stain on the coaster on the side table caught her attention. When she visited from London, they would drink tea and talk for hours. He would ask her about her work, keen to hear about the latest economic tool to revive the weary fortunes of UK companies. What else had they talked about? Their conversation rarely strayed from work. They both enjoyed what they did, for work was not just their job but their purpose and focus. The law for him was not just his profession, not just empty rules, but structure, definition, the very politics and agency of life. Neither she nor her father dwelled on the fact that their work had become their world to the exclusion of everything and everyone. It was their choice, wasn’t it? Feelings were incidental, passing, and superficial. Work was substance, material, tangible, and real.
Georgina turned back to the window and risked a final look to the woman bathing in the sun. She had struck up conversation with a homeless man, or he had struck up conversation with her, either way she was pouring him a drink from her flask and offering her sandwich. Georgina was taken with her generosity, this act of compassion. Beautiful and kind then. The woman then packed up her things and walked away in the direction of the museum.
Georgina was surprised to feel the pinch of loss at her leaving. How could you miss a stranger? And how long could she ignore the echoes of emptiness in her busy life?