Virginia Woolf in Manhattan E-Book

Maggie Gee

• Herausgeber: Telegram Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

What if Virginia Woolf came back to life in the twenty-first century?Bestselling author Angela Lamb is going through a mid-life crisis. She dumps her irrepressible daughter Gerda at boarding school and flies to New York to pursue her passion for Woolf, whose manuscripts are held in a private collection. When a bedraggled Virginia Woolf herself materialises among the bookshelves and is promptly evicted, Angela, stunned, rushes after her on to the streets of Manhattan. Soon she is chaperoning her troublesome heroine as Virginia tries to understand the internet and scams bookshops with 'rare signed editions'. Then Virginia insists on flying with Angela to Istanbul, where she is surprised by love and steals the show at an International Conference on – Virginia Woolf.Virginia Woolf in Manhattan is a witty and profound novel about female rivalry, friendships, mothers and daughters, and the miraculous possibilities of a second chance at life.

Leseprobe

VIRGINIA WOOLF IN MANHATTAN

ALSO BY MAGGIE GEE

Novels

Dying in Other Words

The Burning Book

Light Years

Grace

Where Are the Snows

Lost Children

The Ice People

The White Family

The Flood

My Cleaner

My Driver

Short Stories

The Blue

Memoir

My Animal Life

MAGGIE GEE

Virginia Woolf

in

Manhattan

TELEGRAM

For Mine Özyurt Kιlιč, with love, and for my friends in Istanbul

PART ONE

London-New York

There is thunder as Angela flies to New York with Virginia Woolf in her handbag, lightning crackling off the wings of the plane.

Bad karma – not that she believes in it. The flight is delayed and the pilot greets them with a warning. ‘We’re expecting a little turbulence today so if the seat belt signs go on, we’d ask you to return to your seats and keep your seat belts fastened …’

Electricity flashing on chemical-rich pools 3.5 billion years ago started life, Angela reads. The power of lightning. She snaps her book closed at once. Life on Earth, it’s called. Death in the air, she’s thinking.

Taxiing, now. Too late to leave the plane.

The passport in her locker says ‘Angela Lamb’. Place of issue, London. Date of birth, 20 May 1966. There are many stamps on its pages, she’s a Frequent Flyer, she should be accustomed to storms.

The contact name at the back is still Edward Kaye, because she doesn’t know how to change it. (In any case, is she ready? They’re married. She’s in her mid-forties. Too late for another child, with another man.) Angela has one child: an only child: Gerda.

Life must have started in lots of different places, she decides as the honeyed arpeggios of the safety film unfurl. Many organelles – was that the word she liked in the book? – many cells, many pools, times, universes, lightning streaking through it all. Strong enough to spiral through billions of years, splitting and changing, unstoppable, playful.

Life! (Is it a waste to marry only once?)

What will life do next? Where are they going?

Angela’s itinerary’s crazy: London-New York-Istanbul. Angela will fly direct from New York to Istanbul, nearly eleven hours. There are easier ways of doing it. Still Angela’s diary is demanding, geography must bend to accommodate her – the curve of the earth is certainly not going to stop her. New York for the New York Public Library, where she will read Woolf’s manuscripts in the private Berg Collection. Then Istanbul to give a paper at a big international Woolf conference, ‘Virginia Woolf in the 21st Century: Cross-cultural and Transformational Approaches’, at Istanbul University. She’s not an academic, not really, she tells people, but yes, she does a few ‘university gigs’, she has an ‘attachment’ (a Visiting Professorship).

Her real work is writing novels. She’s published by Headstone Press, recently subsumed into the gigantic Haslet group, who also make large profits from chopped, reconstituted meat. She’s popular, yes, she’s won prizes including the Iceland Prize, but she craves more: respect. To be counted as literature, which she loves – though she also likes money.

Now she’s picked up, as an alibi for take-off, Virginia Woolf’s ‘Professions for Women’, written in 1931, a human life time ago. It’s a brilliant essay, but she’s reading the same sentence over and over. Something about Woolf’s difficulties with sex and the body. ‘Telling the truth about my own experiences as a body, I do not think I solved. I doubt that any woman has solved it yet …’

Roaring down the runway!

And, as ever, part of Angela thrills to the speed as, at the last moment, the bullet full of people noses up, up, into the air. She’s flying!

And a thought out of nowhere floats across the cabin, light as a mosquito, and lands, invisibly, on her: if I’d met Woolf, if she had met me, on the same loop of the ribbon of spacetime, what would she have thought of me?

Would she have – liked me?

– Would I like her?

Charged with electricity, the thought darts onward.

Around them, around all the silver planes in this part of the air, lying this way and that below the stratosphere like so many unmagnetised iron filings, the weather systems surge, gigantic, careless, throwing off sparks from tremendous anvils fifty thousand feet up. Most jets fly at thirty-five thousand feet, so everyone’s under the cosh. The pilots are not so much tense as alert.

The chief steward of Angela’s flight is chatting to the pretty new flight attendant as she does her checks. He’s stimulated by her frightened eyes with their brown Bambi lashes. ‘There’s no danger from lightning as you know,’ he tells Neela, trying not to look too directly at her breasts. ‘The fuselage acts like a giant Faraday cage.’ Her pupils are blank, unfocused, she has no idea what he’s talking about. ‘If we take a strike, which we won’t, it would exit near the static wicks on the wings.’ ‘Wicks,’ she says, clutching at his words, ‘on the wings,’ and she sets down her pen very carefully. ‘There was something about that in the training sessions,’ but she’s thinking the wicks of candles, burning, blazing, if it happens, I hope I’ll be brave.

Still climbing.

Everyone’s hoping they’ll break into sunlight soon, but they don’t. They continue to shudder through cloud, and the seat belt signs remain on. Outside the window, the streaming greys are uneasy, with distant flickers that may not be flickers at all, they hope, just minute changes of light or viewpoint.

Some haul the Safety Instructions from the pouch in front of them and stare at the cracked plastic with pictures of blank little humans doing the right thing and surviving. It doesn’t show what to do if there’s lightning.

A loud creak and all the video screens come down from the roof of the cabin, stay blank, go back up. Uneasy laughter. It happens again. They laugh less, look around, not long enough to meet other eyes. Have the plane’s electrics gone wrong?

For some reason, Angela is thinking of Edward. Gerda and Edward. They have been the twin pillars of her world, but now it’s all up in the air.

Then the PA crackles into action. ‘Will everyone please remain seated with your seat belts securely fastened.’ The pilot’s voice sounds urgent. ‘We are about to go through a period of turbulence.’

Now the plane starts to jerk like a conker on a string. There’s a loud crack, some enormous force that’s indifferent to them, they are tiny and nothing and someone is sobbing.

All bets are off: Neela screams as the plane falls through space-time: thoughts collide,

Mum told me not to do this job

EdwardGerdalove

Virginia Woolf goes flying through the air

and lands somewhere else entirely

Yes, it’s begun.

1

VIRGINIA

Suddenly there’s time again; & I’m in it.

Plenty of time.

(Is there? – or just a bright gap in the night of unknowing?)

I spent … seven, eight decades … in the dark – a normal lifetime.

And now I am here – am I? Back on the blade of the here & now.

Will I leave any mark when I write? Will this new world read me?

Its unending light, which they all take for granted, cuts orange slats in the blinds of my room at night. Past two, three, four in the morning, the light streams on, and my head strains away like a land-locked sea lion.

I used to live, long ago, in a low quiet house, which had darkness at night & smelled of the garden, lilacs & roses, cut grass, cheroots … Leonard. June nights: him safe in the house nearby. Bats & owls, my brain racing, sometimes, but often calm – knowing I was home. One doesn’t notice how sweet … (Who was it that said ‘Observe perpetually’?)

Somehow I slipped a century. Stones in my pockets weighted me down – I sank, bursting – Then nothing. So many years in the dark. It seems I was not forgotten.

Someone longed for me, here in New York where I never went – someone hungered, and hauled me back up, protesting, yanked me through hedges & gates of dreams, and untidy, sleepy, stunned, I was suddenly half-awake in Manhattan, Virginia Woolf in Manhattan, and it is – can it be, really? – the twenty-first century. You see, I wanted –

ANGELA

I wanted to sound up to date, that was all. Because my Istanbul paper was called ‘Virginia Woolf: A Long Shadow’, and I decided to look at the primary sources. I’d forgotten a lot since I first read her. So I booked a last minute package to New York, where Woolf’s manuscripts are kept.

She did mean so much to me back when I started. Yes, she was a talisman.

Something more fundamental than the paper. Where was my life, and my writing, going? I thought it might help to be close to her.

Perhaps I should begin with my daughter. (V. never had children, of course. There I’ve done better.) Gerda is thirteen. I have kept her alive! And she’s newly away at school. A rather good one, Bendham Abbey, though no-one in my family had ever been to public school before. Hard, very hard for me, sending her away, and Edward protested … don’t think about that. Second term, Gerda would be fine. Mobiles were banned – it’s archaic, but apparently, problems with theft, concentration in lessons. I told her we could email every day …

-ish. So that was fine. In theory.

Of course, I am busy, as I explained to Gerda.

Odd thing – Virginia’s the quintessential English writer – but there they all are, in the New York Public Library, all those famous manuscripts, Orlando, The Waves, To the Lighthouse. In the Berg Collection, the dim red leather comfort of the Berg.

I suppose in the UK I’ve got used to being treated with a certain – not deference, no, but people have been nice to me, since I won the Iceland Prize. And the Apple Martini Prize. My name has become quite well-known. The Apple Martini shifts a lot of books, and actually made me money. Me and Gerda and Edward, that is. Holidays in Egypt, Australia, Jamaica. A new, better house. I’m a success. Success, success, that shiny slippery word, which I hope will never slip away from me.

Once people I met on planes or trains would ask ‘Will I have heard of you?’ and I would say, ‘Probably not.’ But now they say, with a dawning smile, ‘Oh yes, you’re quite famous, aren’t you?’, and ask if I’m going to write about them, and I smile at them politely, thinking ‘Not a chance.’ Then they ask me if I know JK Rowling, and I say ‘I met her at a party once, but really she was talking to Philip Pullman,’ and honestly, they still get quite excited.

I am successful, and I’m still quite young. Though not as young as I used to be.

VIRGINIA

She ran after me as if I were a brigand. Once I saw it was a middle-aged woman, I let myself be caught. But it unsettled me, the way she said my name. Not ‘Mrs Woolf’, ‘Virginia’.

She knew my name.

ANGELA

To be honest, in New York my name means very little. Whereas Virginia Woolf was huge here in her lifetime – New York Herald Tribune No 1 best-seller with The Years, on the cover of Time magazine, etc. And afterwards, she did cast a long shadow.

Growing bigger and deeper in the seventies and eighties as all the other women were eclipsed. On every university women’s studies literature course, first and dead centre: Virginia Woolf and this, Virginia Woolf and that, Virginia Woolf and the also-rans. She’s special, clearly, but all the same – isn’t it just easier to fetishise one person? Then you don’t have to think about the rest.

I’m certainly not jealous.

In her best work, she wrote for everyone. The clarity, the astonishing reach, the perception.

VIRGINIA

When I died I thought I was almost forgotten, gone.

ANGELA

So this is what happened, as I understand it. (Only Gerda will believe me. She stares right through me with those pale blue eyes half-hidden by long thin red-blonde lashes, and then she shivers and hugs herself and says, sing-song, ‘Re-ally, Mummy?’ Gerda was raised on fairytales.)

New York. No pickup at the airport. When I called the hotel to remonstrate, they said there was no record that the plane had landed. Sleepless night, glaring orange hotel sign outside my window. Everything felt frazzled and burnt out. Yet underneath, something itching, energetic.

I slept. And woke: to a new beginning.

A new day, after all, in New York! One of my favourite things, a New York morning. So what if the breakfast room was overcrowded? A fat man shouldered his way out and I nipped into his seat by the window. Sun on my eggs. Outside, the wide street streaming with purpose. I’m a positive person, it’s one of my virtues – Edward was a bit of a moaner. The gorgeous light scored straight to the park. The hotel was a dump, but near Central Park.

I love it all. The skating rink, the joggers, the lake, the spring trees, that delicate yellow – the zoo. Oh yes, I love the zoo. It’s a play zoo, really, tiny and lovely. Monkeys, bears, in the heart of the city, so alien and mysterious. Alive in the moment, so different from us.

But first of all: work to do. Off to the New York Public Library.

(Inside, part of me was still shaking. I’d felt shallow or hollow, ever since that terrible blaze of white light.)

The woman in charge of the private Berg Collection where the Woolf manuscripts are kept gave me an oblong yellow reader’s card: ‘ANGELA LAMB is hereby admitted to the BERG COLLECTION (Room 320) for research on VIRGINIA WOOLF. This card is good through 27 NOV 2020 unless revoked.’ I like membership cards. They make me feel entitled. I haven’t always felt that way.

Virginia, of course, was born entitled. But part of me is still the daughter of Lorna and Henry, born in Wolverhampton.

Statutory humblings. Abandon your coat, your briefcase, your camera, your pens, your phone before you can enter. I didn’t mind. I was excited. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on her!

Then the librarian explained.

There’s a rule that only applies to Woolf, because she is so valuable: no original manuscript material can be accessed. ‘I’m afraid you have to read her on microfilm.’ But it’s hardly the same, is it? She hasn’t breathed on that film, or used it, or touched it.

I was muttering furiously under my breath, head down because I didn’t want to be evicted from this submarine, cosy, womb-of-a-room where only the two librarians and I were working. At least I was near those manuscripts. At least I sat two feet away from the heavy glass case where the walking stick she carried on that final day was lurking, a horrible thing of dark, hooked cane. It looked – cursed. I’m allergic to suicide. And yet, it was a link to her.

Who has more right than me to read her?

All the senseless ‘No’s of my life jostled and surged in my head as I sat there. Virginia, I thought, Virginia, I crossed an ocean to get close to you. Can’t they let me reach you somehow? I sat there and longed: for her elegant angular writing, her amused, classic face. English! She was English, but these rich Americans had filched her!

Then the pleasant girl brought me one article, a strange piece Woolf had written for Hearst Magazine and Cosmopolitan in 1938, a carbon copy on thin onion-skin paper, with a few corrections in ink. The title was ‘America which I have never seen interests me most in the cosmopolitan world of today’.

And at once I was enjoying the dance. ‘Cars drive sixty or seventy abreast,’ she assures us (though she never went there!). ‘While we have shadows that walk behind us, they have a light that dances in front of them, which is the future.’ I was smiling as I read. I’ll take you home to Europe, I silently promised, if I can get to you I’ll slip you in my bag and take you back to Sussex, to Leonard, to Lewes …

Perhaps I had spoken aloud – ‘I’ll take you back to Leonard, to Lewes’ – for one of the librarians was staring at me fixedly.

Or not at me. No, behind me.

I heard, or half-heard, a croaking sound. Half-human. Distressed. Straining. And I turned in my chair. And saw.

VIRGINIA

Did I hear ‘Leonard’? Did I say ‘Leonard’? Can I now even remember how it was?

Suddenly from nothing

was I something again?

My own voice waking me from too far away –

hearing my own voicerather deep and tremulous, I thought & almost – old –

(for inside I was still young, a girl, when I died)

I followed it up

from the depths of cold watery sleep

into the warmth of a small dim room I did not know

a woman breathing as she read, lips half-moving, very serious,

a sigha small smile

She was reading me with such strong desire and I wondered

‘Who is she?’

she has blonde hairbut she is not young

I am on the thresholdI’m too tiredI don’t know

a fish jerkingit’s me that she’s readingyes, it’s my soul it’s me –

And she reeled me in, hauled me up. A strain like a tooth being pulled.

ANGELA

This woman. This strange woman. That was all I thought. Tall and dusty in bedraggled green and grey clothes. A suit. The librarian said, ‘Excuse me. May I help you?’ Then closed in on her like a gaoler.

VIRGINIA

Stirring and gathering myselftoo late to go back –

an achecoming together

puckering a long fall of satin curtain

a wavering

a pulling togethernot wanting

to be seen

exposed

her eyes, their eyes

but oh –

the waking of the light

in the dark so longlost in my own crushed rib-cage

weighted with mud and slimethough dyingwas no

worse than the terrornothing

is worse than the terror

Here, I am suddenly here.

Warm wood. Women. Electric lights. A strange room.

Two books in my hands. Yes, they’re mine. Hold them close to my body, hide them. Mine.

And, as if new-born, no fear. Was it over?

ANGELA

Almost before I knew what was happening, she was gone. In a pincer movement, two librarians hustled her out of the door. ‘If you don’t have a need for access to original material …’ one was saying, and the strange woman gaped like a fish, while the other librarian intoned, ‘The librarians in the open reading rooms will be happy to help you.’

The door swung shut. There followed a hubbub of librarian excitement, which is quiet, but the first words I could make out were ‘Who was THAT?’

And as soon as I heard it as a question, I knew the answer, and made for the door.

Out on the landing, a gaggle of Japanese tourists with cameras, a big-nosed man in a red woollen hat – but not her. So I ran down the stairs, and there, on the last flight but one, by a seat where a black boy in shades was sleeping, there she stood, yes it was her. A tall angular shape from the back, not going forward, hovering, leaning, like a tall-masted sailing ship. Her white fingers trailing on the balustrade, then touching two books, which she clutched to her ribs, shyly, as if in wonderment.

My breath caught. I slowed down, and came to her step by step.

Step

by

step.

I was afraid. I kept walking, I drew abreast.

I was any fan, any groupie, suddenly. I could see her face. Her great globes of eyes, darting down, away: hunted.

Perhaps I should have left her. But how could I have let her stumble out on to the streets of Manhattan on her own?

I had to say: ‘Virginia?’

VIRGINIA

She said my name, that first time, as if I belonged to her. They shan’t have me! She said ‘Virginia?’ and I was off like a hare. There were red ropes, I went the wrong way, a man in uniform stopped me & asked to look at ‘those books’, I had two of my own & he looked at me hard and said ‘Ma’am, are these from the library?’ – but I said ‘No’ & rushed on, with her after me. And then –

ANGELA

Half of me was laughing, half of me was shivering, nothing like this had ever happened, not to me. But I couldn’t let her go.

It was brilliant; it was impossible; it was so thrilling I could hardly breathe. It was Virginia Woolf in Manhattan. And I reached out my hand.

VIRGINIA

She touched me. It felt – electric. You see, I wanted –

ANGELA

It was like dipping my hand in water.

VIRGINIA

I wanted to come back.

2

ANGELA

I loved my life: I was in the thick of it. Things I had earned by writing my books. Yes, I’ve earned them, and I enjoy them. Films, travel, clothes, chocolate. I loved my daughter – I love my daughter. (It seems a long time since I emailed her.)

I love good food, and taking out money, nice thick chunks of it out of the wall. And no, I don’t have to feel defensive. My parents were poor, and my mother couldn’t cook. I like the sunny side of the street, because when I was a child, days were darker. When I was a child I was often afraid. And of course, more recently, problems with Edward. Eco-heroes are hard to live with.

It was more a question of living without. Edward was on an expedition to the Arctic, financed by a cat’s cradle of grants. I hadn’t wanted him to go. There were a series of explosive rows before he went. I told him, if he was leaving me, he needn’t bother coming back.

I hadn’t expected to be alone. But who wants to be with the wrong person? I knew my life was about to get better.

And so I paused before pushing onward. A dark smudge on the event horizon. Something brief as a fin surfacing.

(Because reading Virginia Woolf isn’t simple. I love her, but parts of her make me shiver. And sometimes – yes – she creeps into my head, a pale bony version of the woman she was, and she’s pointing to places I’ve never been, tunnelling away from air and sunshine. Although of course she can be very funny.)

In that instant the universe split, and I was sucked into this particular story.

There she was, white, in front of me.

‘Virginia?’ I sighed, a second time.

3

VIRGINIA

A yellow-haired female was gaping at me. Not respectable. Primped & painted. Yet her demeanour was kind enough. All around us, more painted women. Everyone smelled of chemicals. There were many Africans and Chinamen.

Was it Wolstenholme’s laudanum? How had I lost myself again?

The world whirled round me, I had no centre, perhaps the voices would begin.

Yet part of me was still, quiet. A child, watching. Was I reborn?

ANGELA

Then, too late, I remembered my manners. We stood in the foyer of the library, the great loud streets roaring past outside, but there was still glass protecting her – I felt from the start I would have to protect her. ‘Mrs Woolf?’ I corrected myself. ‘Mrs Woolf? May I help you?’

‘I think,’ she said – such a beautiful voice, but absurd! If she tried to give a reading today, people would laugh out loud at her fluting vowels, her long ‘I’s like ‘A’s, her ‘a’s like ‘e’s – ‘I may perhaps need help. I seem to have forgotten where I am.’

And I stammered, ‘The New York Public Library.’

‘A library?’ Large eyes, grey-green, puzzled. Blurred or misted with age or doubt. Blinking out from caves of bone. ‘Perhaps there is a telephone?’

‘Use my mobile,’ I said. ‘But we must go outside.’

She stared, then continued as if I had not spoken. ‘Is there a telephone I might use?’

So many things to explain to her. But first I must get her to some kind of shelter. Virginia Woolf on these blaring streets … ‘Come back to my hotel. It’s not far.’

On the other hand: Woolf in my modern room – modern to her – small, slightly seedy, the radiator humming, my shabby 1970s Waddington Hotel?

Her voice became more imperious. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know your name, but I really must telephone my husband.’

And then I was overwhelmed with pity. She did not know that he was dead! But I said – that temptation to show my knowledge – ‘Leonard.’ There must have been something in my tone, for she looked back at me, alarmed. ‘Are you an acquaintance of my husband’s?’

‘I’ve heard of him. Everyone has.’

And her long, almost equine face relaxed. Those mournful, haunted eyes sparkled, her full lips lifted in a sweet, shy smile. Yes, a chalice of happiness. ‘Do you think so? Mr Woolf will be amused to know that.’

You love him still, I thought with pain, pain for her and then for me – Edward said he loved me, but he still walked out. Had I ever been loved as Virginia was?

‘You’ll have to come with me,’ I said, almost brusque (people were starting to stare at her). And then, as kindly as I could, ‘Come with me, I’ll look after you.’

And yes, that’s what I tried to do.

4

GERDA

My mum picked up this weird old woman. That’s what I thought till I googled her. For a bit, Mum thought about nothing else. She claimed this person was ‘very famous’. Mum didn’t bother to explain to me. I just thought, ‘Yeah, she’s got a loony in tow.’

She should have told me. I would have believed her. And in the end – but that’s much later.

5

ANGELA

Virginia smelled. Of mud, and roots. People were pausing and sniffing the air as they pressed through those great library doors. I wasn’t able to be objective. I thought, it’s a dream, of course it’s a dream, but please don’t make me wake up until –

I needed to learn what she had to teach me. Maybe everything. About life, and writing. She had the secrets. She’d reached the end. The hard truth people can never tell us. At least, that’s something I’ve always thought. Not till the end is the pattern complete. But then they slip away through the gate. They can’t come back, we can’t ask questions.

Yet here she was. Virginia.

VIRGINIA

Have I slipped my leash?

I think that’s it.

I’ve made it through to the other side, the place I never

believed could be.

At first I thought, banally, I was dreaming.

Now, all round me, this dream has flesh

barsbrickstowerstreestall silver-grey trees

beside the librarycrowsyesflown out of my past

friendly crows‘Kaar, Virginia’

& now I have to find the others.

(I don’t think everyone is here. No matter, so long as Leonard is.)

He must be here. He wouldn’t leave me.

6

‘This is Fifth Avenue,’ Angela says, as Woolf steps tremulously along the pavement. ‘Incredibly famous street, Virginia.’

Yes. The greatest, straightest avenue in one of the greatest cities in the world. Shining street surfaces, traffic lights, pavements without cracks or pot-holes. City of dreams: city of films.

‘Yes,’ Woolf says, ‘I’m not a bumpkin.’ She looks to her left: streaming ribbons of cars, and windows as far as her eye can see. Rare yellow-green trees wave messages; there’s a faint green fingerprint, Central Park.

And back to her right: more towers, more cars, the blinding glass of skyscraper windows. She turns, like a horse fretting in its collar, to the left again, irritable, hoping against hope for something different. How can buildings have grown so tall?

Her great eyes search for that slim glimpse of green. There, yes. Still yellow with spring.

I could go there and be happy.

A half-thought forming: Alive again.

But they’re both hemmed in with right-angles.

Two lost ants. Tiny nets of nerves. Glittering scraps of spider’s web.

7

ANGELA

She was like a trapped animal.

Of course, they have built over the past. Once Manhattan must have had fields.

And then – oh shit – she launched herself forward.

VIRGINIA

It was the noise, roaring, blasting. And sun on a thousand surfaces. Shards of sky, elbows of trees, clouds leaping out at me from strange tall buildings. The sky and the city had been smashed together, with jagged pieces thrown everywhere. I thrust the books deep into my pockets, I would need my hands to protect myself, my head spun, I walked forward, blind –

‘What in hell are you DOING! Madness! Beyakoof!’

A yellow car had almost hit me. The wind knocked me sideways, and I saw the furious face of the driver. He had small wire glasses under his turban. Where was this place & who were these people? I stood quite still in the middle of the road & cars screamed past me & I wasn’t afraid.

I had been changed, because I wasn’t afraid. Perhaps the darkness had finally left me. Wherever I had been – for however many years – I had left my fear behind like a parcel, & something began in the midst of my confusion, although I was dazed, something started – a jolt of joy, which could not be stifled, small as a child set free in a hayfield, stunned for a second then gathering pace, dancing across, the yellow dust flying –

‘Kaar, Virginia.’ A crow welcomed me back to the pavement where it pecked at a crack, pecked at the gap between the worlds.

ANGELA

She almost died before her new life started!

VIRGINIA

She dragged me – pulled me hard by the arm, I nearly struck her for her impudence – into a place that smelled of fried meat. I have always hated restaurants. Music I had never heard before – loud drumming & someone shouting – I placed my hands over my ears & said, ‘Where is the telephone?’

ANGELA

‘Please sit here, where you are safe. There are things I must explain to you, but first I will get some coffee – I don’t remember if you drank coffee?’

VIRGINIA

The woman spoke as if she knew me!

ANGELA

I mean, there’s been coffee since the eighteenth century, but God knows which modern kind she’d like, latte, cappuccino, Americano … Expresso seemed like the safest choice. Was there anything about it in the Diaries?

VIRGINIA

‘Yes, of course. I adore coffee.’

ANGELA

I came back from the counter balancing my tray and saw her, for the first time, clearly, from a distance.

First, though old, she was beautiful. Very pale, drawn like a bow. Thin and tall. Her eyes, avid.

Second, she was extremely odd. Two small children were staring at her, American children with little round bellies. She was like a great mayfly, long neck poking forward. Straggling limbs, her knees jutting out. Then two long feet like heavy boats that might float away from her altogether. Greasy grey hair pulled back in a knot at the nape of her long column of neck. She wore a long woollen suit that might have been tailored, but didn’t fit, as if she’d tried to shrug it off but then given up in embarrassment. Yet her long white hands and blue-white wrists had escaped, and couldn’t wriggle back in again. She didn’t look unhappy, but intensely self-conscious. At the same time, she was curious. Her eyes flicked up, her eyes flicked down. Her eyes went swooping round the room, hungry to see everything. I thought, what will she think of us? – Plastic surfaces, harsh colours, half-dressed people celebrating New York’s unnatural spring heat-wave.

I brought back an expresso for her, and my normal creamy half-shot latte, which came in a rather attractive tall glass. Without hesitation, her starved bony hand reached across the table and closed on my latte.

She left me the small, bitter cup.

She got the cream, and I the grounds. Her tall angular shape between me and the window, a cone of darkness drinking my prize.

Yes, I thought, we are in her shadow.

I watched her grey-green orbs dipping and sweeping. She was almost in a trance. What was she learning?

I saw she didn’t want to talk to me. Her mind was working on its own, and her bony hands like sea-creatures scampered across the table-top, climbing the curve of her narrow glass (my narrow glass, I reminded myself), skating down to the base again, twisting the metal frame that contained it, lifting her tea-spoon, putting it down.

And suddenly I remembered The Waves. ‘Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup … things in themselves, myself being myself.’

‘Myself being myself.’ I knew what she meant. It was why I fled home and its social duties – why I fled Gerda, which makes me ashamed. Because I wanted to be myself. Was I myself in my writing, at least?

Was I good enough to stand naked?

She was good enough. God, she was good. She even managed to write well about coffee.

I watched her swallowing my latte. Yes, of course, she was ravenous. She was sucking it down in great raw gulps, as if she was trying to drink the world. She hadn’t eaten or drunk for decades!

She said ‘Could you bring me another, please? Then I will telephone my husband.’

Bring me another! Did she think it was free? Unlike her, I did not inherit money. She spoke to me as if I were a servant. Of course I would try not to hold it against her, but well – my grandma was a servant.

Still – ‘I will telephone my husband’ – annoyance yielded to a surge of pity.

How could I possibly begin to tell her?

Everyone she knew was dead.

8

ANGELA

Safety. I still hadn’t got her to safety. That was the mantra in my brain. Through a blur of noise, speed, fear I guided her back to the Waddington.

Virginia Woolf, that leviathan! How lucky I was to be in this dream – or was she lucky, to share my dream? Did the dead get holidays?

Briefly, I moved through space beside her, and every step felt dangerous. Thank God it wasn’t very far. The Waddington, Seventh Avenue. The last hotel I would have chosen.

Perils of last-minute internet packages. Flights were cheap, but what a dreadful flight!

The lift. I do remember that. She cowered from the walls as if they were shrinking. I slipped my keycard across the room door and saw her eyes fixate, briefly. Then we were in, and she saw the phone. ‘No, Virginia, wait a moment.’

I expected the dream to fall apart. I think I hoped that waking would save me, but the unspeakable silence extended – she was still there, and I was still there, and the room was as constricting as before, like the small-sized room where everyone dies, for I had looked after Henry and Lorna, and once you have seen your parents die, nothing is quite as it was before.

Somehow she’d have to be told about Leonard.

And I began to try to explain.

VIRGINIA

‘The twenty-first century,’ the woman said, for the second time, patiently, slowly, as if I were a child or an idiot.

And so it all started to scream in my head, the noise of the traffic five floors below us – the moans & gurgles of the radiator – this yellow-haired woman who looked so hard at me, & took my arm, & told me lies – this strange small room full of ugly furniture, the pale telephone like none I had seen that squatted on her bedside table like a sickly, sleeping, dachshund pup, & this dyed stranger did not want me to use it –

I must wake upIt’s time to wake up

‘You can’t call him,’ she said to me. ‘I’m so sorry, he – can’t be called. As I said, it’s the twenty-first century.’

‘Of course, of course I must call my husband – ’

I MUST WAKE UPIT’S TIME TO WAKE UP

I strained to wrench myself out of the dream –

The detail felt too sharp for a dream. This box-like, tiny, oblong room, the ugly bed with its poor, bare, bedhead – the square black screen staring out from one corner, some awful cinema machine – the cheap brocade curtains, the poisonous smell this woman said I was imagining.

Could it be true that I had jumped a century?

Could I be … back?

I stared out of the window. A strip of sky. A ray of light.

A sudden jolt of absolute beauty. Through the mean window it signalled to me a world of new signs, flashing, glowing.

But Leonard. Leonard. Was he here too?

Odd that I can’t remember how I left him. I can’t remember yesterday. And yet I surely spent it with him. My mongoose love, my beloved mate. With whom I’ve had such happiness. They underrate the joy in marriage. No-one could be happier than we have been –

I don’t think two people could have been happier

Stare at the floor, the yellow walls, the painted-over wallpaper. The nameless spots and spills and smears. The human body, leaking stains

No, look away, that air, that sky

‘Virginia do you want some water? Virginia? Virginia?’

‘Leave me alone. Please be quiet.’

For I heard a voice of terrible clarity, reading the note that I had written, picking me up by the scruff of the neck and shaking me with guilt and horror –

(Somewhere in the room, a loud bell shrilled. The woman started patting her body frenetically, up and down, like a meaningless dance. Then she dragged a small box out of her pocket. Now she was talking and smiling to herself.)

I understood. Another telephone. In this strange world, some did not need wires, some slept like dogs on bedside tables. I would make her give it to me, and ring Leonard. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Sorry, Gerda.’

9

GERDA

I sneaked to the village before detention and called my mother from a phonebox. It smelled of London: smoke and old wee. London! Where I wanted to be. She didn’t sound at all happy to hear me, and she was talking much too quietly.

‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch. There’s someone here. Sorry, Gerda – ’

‘Who?’

‘Someone who is right beside me. Someone very famous I’m having to look after. Someone special. I’m busy, darling.’

‘How about looking after your daughter? Aren’t I special? I hate you, Mummy.’ I banged the phone down, though it missed the cradle and swung there, hopeless, like a baby on a cord. Banging its head against the glass. Just for a moment, I felt powerful, but it was raining outside the box, there was nothing I knew, just the horrible village.

I was the baby, swinging, hopeless.

ANGELA

She knows she is not supposed to call me. But that’s children: they choose their moment. They ask a lot. Though one gives it gladly. I had told her never to hang up on me.

Virginia, too, was like a child. She showed no interest at all in me. Yes, I pitied her pain over Leonard. But I had worries of my own. I had no clue what was happening to Edward.

However much I tried not to care, I didn’t have a heart of stone. Some of the time they would be using huskies, but some terrain would be covered on foot. Edward had done special training for months – I should know, I had complained enough when he didn’t do his share of the household chores – but he was also accident-prone, and health and safety were not his forte. He was cavalier about equipment, and frostbite, and when I fretted, called it ‘fussing’.

What if I just read about his death in the papers? Did he, or his team, know where I was? I’d left my new mobile number with the neighbours, but had Edward actually noticed our neighbours? Men could be impervious. I didn’t want to hear the news from strangers. How could I ever tell Gerda?

It would break her heart. She loves her father.

10

VIRGINIA

1941. I am back in the gyre, water corkscrewing towards perdition. I am fifty-nine. I will never be older.

The thing I wrote before I set out. That day in March. I remember it.

The skies were clear, blue and bright, a great blue blank bearing down on me, dazzling, blinding, and naked terror, everyone would know, everyone would see me

everyone would say the book was no good

The day before, I had seen the doctor. Octavia asked me to take off my clothestake off my clothes so she could see me what did she know?too young to be a doctor!

I told her no, there was nothing wrong.

Why did Leonard make me visit her?sharp eyes peering at my nakednessthat terrible look of pity, kindness, yes yes Octavia, yes, thank you, thank you, my hands are always cold (thank you, that hardly proves your brilliance)

(I didn’t say it, I was polite)Leonard had told her to ask me to restI saw his careful hand behindit now they would all gang up on me

she asked me to ‘Try, try for Leonard’

That night I could not sleep at all

The morning, cleareverything clearit was very cold I fetched my furI needed one last touch of comfortflowers in the garden were too bright fat yellow daffodils, harsh, triumphant

Yellow varnishthis yellow room

cruel that Octavia asked me to try ‘for Leonard’, as if I had no care for him, and she, a stranger, knew everything

I have tried so hard. I can try no longer

The Furies waiting where the path disappears

The hideous old women bare their claws at me, wet-mouthed, whispering as they crawl towards me, brown scaly talons and hanging flesh

I could smell their furious iron-rich breath, the great blades of their scissors wet with light, the hellish light of the blue spring sky, gnawing my fate before I was ready

I loved my life but I had to go, once the Furies smell you you can only flee. I knew that day I could not outrun them, the sky was cloudless, they had me at bay –

I wrote to Leonard & I wrote to Vanessa. Words I had practised many times. With the breath of the Furies hard in my ears & their split yellow nails, like torn bamboo, sharpened ready to gouge my eyes out.

In this hostile, stinking, yellow room the dreadful words return to me, words that can never be unsaid, the deed, once done, that can never be mended

the wound I dealt him, the grief I gave him

darling Leonard how I struck at his heart

knowing I must hurt him, I pulled on my coat, thrust my hand deep into the pocket as I almost ran down through the meadow, it was ready now for the fate it must carry, yes, I had gone too far to go back,

a tiny voice like the voice of a child that wanted to be born

was crying Stopa tiny part of me cried in the night

small, stubborn, a scintilla of light

trying to escape me, trying to get out

but the path led straight to the river bankthe Furies behind me every step of the waybehind me, ahead of me, snapping at my ankles, tearing at my stockings like vicious brambles,battering my ears with icy hatred, whipping me onwards, flee, flee

this time I knew they would never release me

the river roaring

full of crazed blue lightOmega chunks of blue and brown

feel certain I am going mad again

can’t go through another of those terrible times

begin to hear voicescan’t concentrate

I am doingwhat seems the best thing to do

You have given me the greatest possible happinessI don’t think

two people could have been happier

could have been happier

this terrible disease

I can’t fight any longer

ANGELA

After a long silence, her voice came, hoarse. ‘I did it, didn’t I. That terrible thing.’

VIRGINIA

Sitting on the woman’s ugly bed, which was broken-backed under a yellow-gold cover, with nameless shadows, wine or blood – it groaned beneath me like the sea, as if my grief was too heavy for it, & I groaned louder, I groaned like old metal, I groaned like banks of black stones on a beach, moaned in pain like a wounded beast

I remember

the clumsy walk at midday with the voices shrieking and baying behind me, the yelps of the Furies hounding me down through the meadows I had loved for so long, the skin on my back crawling with terror, Virginia, you’re mad again

I remember

thrusting the stone in my pocket

large, heavy, waiting for me, the stone like a toad on the river-bank

I held it weighed it in my hand

blind, brutalI choose you

forcing the stitches of my pocket apart and as it started to tear, as I heard the silk split, I stopped myself, gently, be gentle with it, yes, I controlled it, the heavy bludgeon

remember

the brute knocking hard at my flank as the Furies reached me and I jerked away, their black hide blotting out the sky, great shrieks of raucous joy as they pawed me, knowing my fear would drag me down and hold me under the green tangled water — but a voice in my head still whispered Leonard, a woman’s voice said how can I leave you?

Leonard, Leonard. Yes, again. Leonard my love. I can’t leave you.

But it was too late for him to save me. Or my dear sister who was so patient, with her stooping head and steady eyes.

Yes, it was true. I left him behind. I loved my husband but I left him behind, & slipped through the door where none can follow.

11

Two o’clock in the afternoon, though several lifetimes have slipped away. Two fragile organisms, blown together. Dandelion clocks on a dirty bedstead. Angela, Virginia.

She was washed downriver like a broken doll. He had to identify her three weeks later. Children thought she was a log in the water. They stoned it, hard, to make it sink. The happy bird-calls of adolescents. Then one boy realised it was a body.

Down in the street, the cold is beginning a slow fight-back against the spring heat-wave. The dark, repressed, pauses, alerted. Soon it will be able to creep back into the gullies. Then it will climb up the buildings again.

Angela looks around her and shivers. ‘Mrs Woolf, are you all right?’

12

VIRGINIA

I suppose he had to identify me.

After that, did the horror start to eat my face? Did the sight erase poor Leonard’s memory of what he once thought beautiful?

Wracked on the bed, I remembered my crime.

ANGELA

She was pale as wax, and sat there trembling.

‘Mrs Woolf? Virginia?’

She shook her head, again and again, like a dog shaking water away.

VIRGINIA

‘I don’t know you. Why are you here? Why won’t you let me use your phone?’

ANGELA

Her breath rasped like an old man’s.

‘It’s the twenty-first century. Some way through. My name – I’ve told you several times – is Angela Lamb. And I’m alive. It feels to me as if we’re both alive. But Leonard – well, he died long ago. You can’t call him. I’m so sorry.’

She stared back at me, blind with anger. Her hand still stretched towards the phone.

I spoke more brutally than I intended. ‘The world you knew is – everything’s gone.’

‘Gone? What are you talking about?’ But her arm drew back, her shoulders bowed.

For a minute she sat there saying nothing, kneading the bed-cover with big white hands. She looked – epic. I will never forget it. I did feel pity, but also … the writer in me was trying to record it. How could I ever describe this moment?

I was there. I was – chosen to see it. Somehow I had to find the words.

The tears began to roll down her face, bright ropes of water on her dry white skin. She cupped her hands, and her head dropped into them. The clever long skull with its silver hair. She sat, a dead weight. A broken statue. A water-streaked monument on a stained bed, in the wrong room, in the wrong century.