Page 3 of The Secrets of Dragonfly Lodge
‘Yeah. It’s difficult not to include Rosalind Franklin, she’s such a towering example, but I’m also interested in those who didn’t make it to the big league. It’s important, Sarah. Those are the ones who will prove my point. I’ve found a really sparky American chemist from the 1970s. She complained about her papers not being accepted by journals. Then, after she married a colleague, hey presto, adding his name to her work got her published! There’s an obvious trend here – I’ve come across it a lot.’
‘She sounds a great example.’ Sarah was writing in a little notebook. ‘Anyone else?’
Stef listed a couple more names, then paused. ‘Something interesting happened today.’ She told Sarah about her mother’s phone call. ‘She’s met a zoologist from the 1950s called Nancy Foster. I haven’t heard of her, but I’ll investigate.’
‘Nancy Foster. Let’s see what Uncle Google says.’ Sarah typed the name into her phone. ‘I’ve added “zoologist” and “1950s”,’ she said. She scrolled through the results. There was a vet practising in Australia with the name, who’d recently won a bravery award for saving the life of an ageing film star’s sick dog and been feted in the media there. ‘Clearly not she,’ Sarah said with an ironic smile. She clicked onto the next page and swiped past numerous social media profiles of irrelevant Nancy Fosters. ‘No good,’ Sarah said, frowning. ‘You’ll have to do some digging.’
‘Of course, she might have worked under a different surname,’ Stef mused. ‘If she married, I’m thinking.’
‘Maybe. Let’s look into it. What about a title for the book?’
‘I was thinking ofCurious Women.That’s what all scientists have in common, a curiosity about the world.’
‘Excellent, but you’ll need a subtitle.’
‘The Struggles of Women in Science?’
‘That’ll do for the moment. And I know you’re aware that Catherine wants an outline for the book soon. Now, are you eating? The food’s good here. There’s a burrata starter that melts in the mouth and I can recommend the sea bream.’
Later, when Stef arrived home, bright-eyed from the evening, all was thankfully quiet. She made some herbal tea and sat cross-legged on the bed in her pyjamas, her laptop open before her. Again, the search for Nancy Foster’s name was fruitless. Perhaps she was looking for the wrong surname. But when she tried adding the word ‘doctorate’, the list of results included the entry ‘Dr Nancy Foster, Prince’s College, London’.
Quickly she opened the link. It led to a search engine for alumni who had studied at the prestigious institution. Stef entered Nancy’s name and read the very brief resumé that came up: ‘BSc (Hons) Zoology 1950, PhD 1954.’ There was a link to a doctoral thesis, but when she tried to open it a screen came up that read ‘Access denied’. She stared at it in surprise, then tried to find it on other websites, using the dates and Prince’s College, but without success. There was no mention of Nancy’s subsequent career anywhere, either.
Stef’s interest was properly piqued. She closed down her laptop and sat thinking, feeling the familiar pricklingsensation at the back of her neck that told her she was on to a story. She must meet this woman and find out more.
Downstairs, a door banged shut and a moment later the familiar sound of her neighbour’s music started up. She knew it wouldn’t go on all night – Gary kept regular hours during the week – and it wasn’t at its loudest. She’d learned to ignore it, but it was still a nuisance.
She lowered the window blind slowly so no draught would blow over the birthday cards. Last year, she mused, she’d had five times as many, mostly with some variation of ‘Congratulations’ on the front. Now they mocked her for getting old.
She sighed. She badly needed a decent advance for a new book. Most of the time she pegged on, trying to be optimistic, but looking at the cards now, for a brief moment she felt unmoored.
Her mother was right, she thought as she climbed into bed. She did need a break. It was too late to ring her, she’d do so tomorrow. If she set off first thing on Saturday morning, she should reach deepest Norfolk by lunchtime. They would go to Nancy Foster’s talk and Stef would speak to her afterwards.
The decision made, as if it was a sign, Gary’s music ceased. Stef switched off the bedside light and lay listening drowsily to the distant sound of traffic. London was never silent. A peaceful weekend in the country should be the restorative break she so desperately needed.
Three
Norfolk
‘Hi, Baxter, old thing.’ Stef bent to caress the overweight spaniel who had ambled to the door to greet her, his feathered tail swaying with pleasure. ‘Where’s Mum, eh?’ Mellow red-brick Springfield Cottage lay quiet. Was her mother out or in the garden?
After the four-hour drive, she’d hoped for more of a welcome. Instead, the doorbell was hanging broken behind a curtain of rampant ivy and there was no answer to her knock. Thankfully, when she’d twisted the doorknob and shoved, the door had creaked open.
‘Baxter, find Mum!’ The dog wheeled round and lumbered off. Stef followed him down a hallway that was bright with her mother’s paintings, through a cluttered kitchen and out into a sunny, flower-filled garden.
Her mum had been busy. An ancient claw-footed bathspilled over with purple petunias, and sky-blue lobelia fronted a newly built artist’s studio with a wooden frame and sloped glass roof. Baxter trotted past it on the flagstone path and out through an open gate onto the strip of mown grass that ran behind the row of cottages.
Here Stef stopped, shielding her eyes against the sun, to look at the view. A field of ripening corn gave way to lush pasture dotted with cows and crisscrossed by hedgerows and green canopies of trees. When she’d helped her mother move in, thick cloud had hung over the landscape. Now, she could appreciate its full summer beauty. A lark sang in ecstasy somewhere above. She scanned the sky, but the bird was too high and the sun too dazzling for her to spot it.
‘Stef, darling, I thought you wouldn’t be here till later.’ Stef turned at her mother’s breathy voice and saw her rise from her stool by an easel under a gnarled old oak tree. She looked as slight as always, as though the wind would blow her away, and despite her paint-spattered smock very pretty with her blue eyes and swept-up fair hair. Stef managed to kiss her cheek without getting paint on herself.
‘I did say lunchtime, but don’t worry. How’s it going?’ Stef glanced at the broad canvas her mother was working on and felt a mixture of wonder and wistfulness at how clever she was at capturing and transforming the landscape with her vibrant palette. It was not a talent Stef had inherited. Pippa could draw well, but Stef was more like her father, a retired academic historian who was currently writing a book about the Spanish Civil War.
‘Oh, you know,’ her mother said cryptically. ‘I just need time.’
‘Is there anything to eat in the house or should I nip to the shop?’ Stef was used to her mother forgetting about normal life when she was working.
‘Darling!’ Cara Lansdown smiled and patted her daughter’s arm, her bracelets jangling. ‘Don’t fuss. I did know you were coming.’ She wiped her brush with a cloth. ‘Go and put the kettle on while I tidy up here. Oh dear, I haven’t made your bed up yet. Would you mind doing it?’
