Something did happen. Edward sent a message asking if he could arrange a time to meet with me. We needed to move forward, he said. This was a verbal message. I would recognize his handwriting if he wrote to me, from lists, instructions, and reminders scribbled out and left on the table or pinned to a beam in the barn. I do not think I have ever received anything personal to me, though, that he has written. I might have cherished a note, even now, but he was not to know that. He did as he would always have done—asked Andrew to deliver a message to me. I sent a message back. A verbal message. (If I am being fair, which I am trying to be, I have written very little to Edward that is personal. An occasional postcard perhaps.) I fixed a time when he could visit me at Bella’s flat. I thought I might keep hold of my detachment if we did not meet at the farm.
On the day, at the time I arranged, it was raining; if asked, I would guess it has been raining for most of this month, but I am probably wrong. There has been almost no sunshine. I am sure of that. I was watching from Bella’s window when the Land Rover arrived and Edward got out. He looked shorter and wider than I expected, seen from above. Then the passenger door opened and Daphne Trigg slid down off the seat and scuttled into the shelter of the porch to the block of flats. I thought at once of your first option, your “no change” option.
I let them in. In Bella’s flat, Daphne looked ordinary and Edward looked awkward. I let them sit down. I let them talk. Edward began. He told me the farmhouse was a sorry place without me, and it was important to him that I came home. Daphne cleared her throat and wriggled her buttocks on the sofa cushions. However, Edward said, I must also realize that I was not the only one who had a right to be considered in whatever arrangements were made. He cared deeply for Daphne, too, and he was not so cruel as to cast her aside now that the whole story was out in the open. He hoped that I would recognize Daphne had her own claim to some happiness.
“What do you mean?” I asked, when he appeared to have run out of platitudes—he went on for longer and used more words and was a lot less clear than I am reporting to you. So it came out, bit by bit, Daphne taking more of the job of explaining it to me as I gave no indication that I was against the whole idea, both of them relaxing, appearing more confident. Edward would buy a house for Daphne to live in, they explained, closer to the farm than she lived now. This would be, as it were, his second home. I would keep my status as a wife, my lovely, big house, lead my life exactly as I had done before, so why should I begrudge her this? Why should I begrudge Edward? We would be behaving like adults, hurting no one.
Was there ever a possibility they would have talked me into this, I wonder? So ready, as I am, to accept that there is another point of view? I hope not. Yet Edward can be charming, and I had lived with him for so long that it might have been possible I would have softened, pitied him just a little, and looked for a way to ease the pain he was in, faced with the disruption of his orderly life. I might have given in because of the instinctive connection between my husband and myself. I stop short of calling it love, though that is the name I have given it and have used to him through the years of our marriage. But he did not come alone, and Daphne was so shallow, so self-seeking in everything she said, and beside her, Edward looked weak, uncertain. I could not even be sure this was a solution he wanted, or if she had manipulated him into requesting it. And of course I am not the woman I was before I started writing to you. I have become clearer to myself as I made myself clear to you. That has given me strength and courage.
They would not go until I had said something in response, so I said I would think about it, which satisfied them—meaningless phrase though it is—and the “it” left undefined by me but assumed by them to mean the proposition they had laid before me. They were wrong. Instead, I thought through the other options you had suggested. But not in the order you suggested them. I thought first about revolution, and I understood what you were wanting me to ask myself. Would a room be empty for me, if Edward were not there? The answer to that is not simple, and thinking about it led me back to options two and three. I will tell you why. It has to do with the farm. Would I miss him if he were absent from the farmhouse? Yes.
The rooms in the farmhouse would be crammed with emptiness if Edward were not there. I could scarcely bear to move about the places where he spends his days—the kitchen, where he sits and eats and talks; the snug, a small, untidy, cozy room off the hall where he has his computer and a telephone; the parlor, where he sits with his drink after the day’s work. There would be no point to these rooms if Edward were not somewhere close, about to come in, just gone out. But this is true only at the farm. If I were to choose your third option and lay claim to live there alone, making him move elsewhere, he could live wherever he moved to for the rest of his life and, however long that was, when he went at last, the rooms would hold no trace of him. The distinctive smell of a life lived outdoors, among animals and machinery, would soon fade. Once it was gone, no one would look round suddenly in expectation of seeing him, as I expect to see Bella in her flat. Bella’s flat is somewhere she lived for a moment. But because she was so vital, so special, so much herself and no one else, she had only to be there for a little while for it to hold a flavor of her in the air when she had gone. The office you describe is not somewhere you saw Birgitt often, not somewhere she visited often, if I understand you correctly, but even if you had never been there before, you could walk into a space she had occupied and feel her loss. I would feel the loss of Edward only in the fabric of the buildings at the place he was born.
I have been conscious, when I have thought of my marriage, which I have done more often lately since starting to write to you, that while I have committed myself to it fully, in every practical sense, I have also held something back. I have kept apart from it in the part of myself where I live when no one and nothing is calling for my attention. I have never stinted in my devotion to Edward, to his physical and emotional needs. I have seen it as my job to do everything possible to make him comfortable and to support him in his work. But I have failed to love the farm, as he loves it. I have felt like a duster moving over its surfaces, keeping it clean. Edward, if he could ever be persuaded to put such fanciful thoughts into words, would see himself as the heart and lungs of the place, keeping it pumping. If he could tell me the truth, he would be forced to admit the farm was more important to him than I am, that he loves me because I am part of the cogs and pistons keeping it going.
Having thought all this, I wondered what it would have been like if Edward had not been a farmer, not been so much obsessed by the place and the job; might I have yielded up my innermost thoughts and feelings and reached a point where every room where he was not was empty? How foolish, you will be saying to yourself; this is like saying, “If I had married someone else, I might have been happier.” How foolish, I said to myself, as soon as the thought had formed in my mind. It is like saying that his relationship with Daphne Trigg—so much more on the surface than I am, so much clearer in her expressions of joy and sorrow and discontent—is in some way justified by the fact that, while I could reconcile myself to marrying the man, I could not reconcile myself to my place in the hierarchy; subservient to the farm, with all its weight of history and present burden of toil. Nothing justifies what he did; nothing justifies the proposal they put to me. The compromise would have degraded us all.
I watched from the window of Bella’s flat as Daphne and Edward left the building. Daphne took a step out from under the porch, then stepped back—it was still raining. Edward ran across the parking lot to the Land Rover and brought it as close as possible to the shelter where Daphne stood. This was a courtesy I would not have expected him to show me. He would have done, I acknowledge, if I had asked. Only, I never would have asked. In Daphne’s position, I would have accepted that the car was over there, that I was not very far from it, and that I had legs. Perhaps Daphne will be better for Edward in some ways than I have been. She will force him to take notice of her.
I unde
rstood, during the course of that wet afternoon, how I was necessary to Edward for the purpose of maintaining his comfort; that is, not truly necessary at all. And not being necessary, I had no reason to stay.
* * *
The next day, I drove over to the farm and walked into the kitchen, where Daphne and Edward were sitting at the kitchen table, as Edward and I have sat for so many years, drinking tea. They were using, I noticed, my tea cozy. Edward pushed back his chair and stood up, his face flushed, his expression hopeful. Daphne had just lifted a mug to her lips and did not know whether to go ahead and drink out of it or to put it down. In the moment of indecision, she dropped it, and it shattered on the stone floor, pieces of it skipping away from the point of impact to lodge in corners and under furniture, where I can be sure they will stay for months to come.
“I’ve come to pack a few things,” I said, and walked on past them.
“You’re going?” said Daphne. She sounded hopeful. She had no idea of the burden I was leaving her to shoulder as I left the room.
Edward came after me. In our bedroom, while I began to pack my clothes, he shut the door and told me that, if this was what it took to make me stay, he would stop seeing Daphne. There was no need, he said, to follow the path they had proposed the day before, if I did not like it. We could go back to just the way we were before.
“I’m not going just because of Daphne,” I said. “I’m going because I don’t find the life I am living here, with you, is all I ever want to have.” He sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. “The life you led with me isn’t everything you wanted, either, was it?” I said. “If it had been, you would not have turned to Daphne.”
“You’re saying it is not all my fault,” he said.
“That is what I’m saying.”
“Will you be coming back?”
“To visit. I have two sons and two grandchildren who live here.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’ll let you know when I get there.”
He carried my suitcases down to the car. Daphne was still sitting at the table in a circle of broken mug. I hoisted the tea cozy off the teapot as I passed and tucked it into my bag.
“Oh…” she said.
“Knit yourself another,” I said, which was remarkably petty but satisfying.
Edward was still standing watching me go as I turned the corner of the lane. He has everything that matters most to him left in his life and I honestly believe he will be as happy without me as with me, once he has found someone else to do the chores. It will not, I feel sure, be Daphne.
* * *
I have been rereading The Bog People, here in my peaty, acid-soiled outpost. I have looked again at the pictures of the Tollund Man’s body and read the description of what was best preserved—his heart, lungs, liver; his alimentary canal; his sexual organs; his hat. I have brought my knitted balaclava with me—it is windy here, too, and cold—and I think, as I put it on to go out for a walk, that I am preserved in the same way. Everything vital still in place, but suspended. My skin, like his, is a little the worse for wear; my brain may have shrunk a little. As to my face—Professor Glob describes the Tollund Man’s expression as a combination of “majesty and gentleness.” I wish for this. To be mild but dignified. I look in the mirror and imagine myself into being more like the Tollund Man.
Isn’t this where we started?
* * *
Raspberries grow well in Scotland; also ferns. It is too early for the raspberry canes to be fruiting, but the ferns will soon begin to unfurl. I know I have decisions still to make, but I need time to contemplate these things before I make them.
Tina
Silkeborg
March 21
Dearest Tina,
I am waiting for you. I will wait, every day, between twelve o’clock and two o’clock, in the café in the museum. I will be watching the door, waiting for you to arrive. There is no need to tell me you are coming; though I have never seen your face, I will recognize you. I will know you by the picture you have given me through all these months, a portrait in words. I have listened to everything you have told me and to the silences where I have heard the things you did not say. I hope you will be smiling, as you come through the door, because at last you have reached the place you have always wanted to be. I will be smiling because we will be together. In the same room.
The museum is open every day.
Even if you do not receive this letter, you will know I am waiting. The Tollund Man is waiting, too, has been waiting two thousand years for you to come. Please come.
My love, always,
Anders
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
James Hawes, for his encouragement, support, and advice.
Judith Murray and the team at Greene and Heaton (with special mention for Rose Coyle and Kate Rizzo), Jane Lawson and the team at Transworld, and Caroline Bleeke and the team at Flatiron, for being so good at what they do.
Fiona Clarke, Dr. Sarah Milliken, and Rebecca McKay, for providing early feedback.
Ceri Lloyd, Bev Murray, and Elizabeth Crowley who, with Rebecca McKay, are indispensable writerly friends.
Deborah Warner, for the loan of the inspirational hut.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Tollund Man is a perfectly preserved body from around 250 B.C., unearthed in 1950 in a peat bog in a remote part of Jutland. He has a cap on his head, a belt around his waist, and a noose around his neck. Professor P. V. Glob was the Danish archaeologist responsible for the excavation and subsequent study of these remains. He wrote a book, The Bog People, which came out in English in 1969, about this and other finds. In 1970 Seamus Heaney wrote a poem called “The Tollund Man,” which appeared in his collection Wintering Out in 1972.
In 2010, Heaney published an essay in The Times, revisiting his thoughts about the Tollund Man, before the launch of a new collection, Human Chain. At the head of this article was a photograph of “the perfectly preserved, mild and meditative face of a neighbour from the Iron Age.” I have had this picture pinned on my wall ever since. Each of the aspects of the Tollund Man that Heaney picks out in this descriptive phrase has haunted me. The remarkable preservation of the body of a man who died two millennia ago, when the bodies of everyone I knew who has died in my lifetime are completely lost. The expression of calm thoughtfulness that, even though we know he died by violence, makes it seem he would be a bringer of comfort, if he could only speak. His likeness to men and women alive today, living in the next road, walking down the same street, taking for granted what it would have been the business of his life to strive for—food, safety, warmth.
Meet Me at the Museum has grown out of my contemplation of the Tollund Man’s face.
I have not invented the Silkeborg Museum. It exists, as I have described it, and anyone lucky enough to be in Denmark, who has the time, can visit it. I have invented a person called Anders who I imagine as working there. Neither the person nor the job he does is based on any of the people at this gem of a museum or the jobs they do.
Recommend Meet Me at the Museum for your next book club!
Reading Group Guide available at
www.readinggroupgold.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Youngson is retired and lives in Oxfordshire. She has three grandchildren. Meet Me at the Museum is her debut novel and is being published around the world. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
&n
bsp; Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MEET ME AT THE MUSEUM. Copyright © 2018 by Anne Youngson. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.flatironbooks.com
The author gratefully acknowledges Kate Clanchy for permission to reprint her poem “What Can I Say” from Newborn: Poems on Motherhood, published by Pan Macmillan, reproduced with permission of Kate Clanchy through PLSclear. Grateful acknowledgment as well to Faber and Faber Ltd. for permission to reprint a portion of “The Tollund Man” by Seamus Heaney and a portion of the dedication letter in the original edition of The Bog People by P. V. Glob.
Cover design by Keith Hayes
Cover photograph: frame © Matthias Clamer/Getty Images
Cover illustration: raspberries © Florilegius/Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-29516-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-29515-6 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250295156
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: August 2018
Meet Me at the Museum Page 18
