‘It’s amazing. Like a secret world. I’d love to do some drawing up here.’ He’s peering at a dark face in an old portrait, cocking his head from side to side to try and get the evening light to complement the dull bulbs along this corridor. ‘There’s a look of Leo about this one,’ he says. ‘Who is it?’
I stand next to him to look, leaning in towards him, breathing him in. He’s right, the portrait has the same very dark hair, the coal-black eyes. It could be Richard but that it’s a good hundred years too old. ‘All the men in the family look like that.’ I test my voice. ‘Richard did.’
The walls don’t crash down on me. There is no lightning, no fanfare of trumpets announcing the traitor walking through the house. Just Patch, resting his hands on my shoulders and squeezing very gently, letting me know that he is there, that he heard Richard’s name too and that’s okay.
*
When we get to the sitting room, Patch having oohed and aahed his way past every window, every dusty portrait, Leo and Curtis look like boys rather than men. The only giveaway is the neat row of empty beer cans on the coffee table. They’ve been perfectly reasonable – for young men with a freely available fridge – and only had two each. They barely look up – whatever is happening on the screen is clearly vital to the survival of something, somewhere.
Patch and I step back out of the sitting room and take the – one pace wide – hall to my bedroom. I take his hand and we step across to the window. Richard’s ghost scuttles into the corner with the spiders and the dustballs, hides in the gap between the skirting and the floor. I try and pretend I didn’t see him.
The sun is thinking about setting, lowering itself into a comfortable position on the horizon, letting go of the heat of the day. It is the most beautiful way to see the two sculptures on the pond, dappled with golden beads and reaching up towards us as if, for all the world, they want to join us in my room.
‘Do you know they’re copies?’ Patch asks me.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The real ones are in the Louvre. I’ve seen them. To be fair, they look exactly the same – same size, same colour.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘Very different setting though. I’ll take you, one day, and you can see for yourself.’
We have gone from being strangers to talking about trips to Paris. We have shared less than a bottle of wine, we are yet to sit and eat together for the first time. It should be nonsense, preposterous: here, in my bedroom, watching the sun coat the gardens, it is exactly as things should be – one more curiosity in this eccentric, and slightly magical, house.
Patch puts his fingers on the waistband of my jeans. The very tips edge over the fabric and onto the skin of my lower back. My whole body clenches with the illicit thrill of it.
‘This is worse than having your parents next door,’ I whisper. I turn and face him, dare a kiss with one eye open and fixed on the doorway.
I feel his cheeks fatten as he breaks off from the kiss into one of his huge grins. ‘How are we going to do this?’
We both know implicitly what ‘this’ is.
‘I get a few sessions away from Leo a week,’ I say. ‘If he’s not fighting. But they’re with you. He’s with you. We’re going to have to wait.’
‘I can wait,’ he whispers. ‘But I’d rather not wait too long.’
‘This Saturday is the grand event. Re-opening a museum that’s never been closed and hoping no one notices. It is, honestly, all I can think about right now. But it’s all done by Sunday.’
‘Sunday belongs to me,’ he says.
*
When Patch says goodbye to Leo and Curtis and I go downstairs to finish the clearing up, there’s only me and the ghost boy Richard left. I reach down beside me for his little invisible hand and hope he can forgive me.
Chapter Fifteen
I get up at 6 a.m. on the day of the Pretend Re-opening: there is so much to do. I have been giddy for the last three days, swapping texts with Patch last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Every other moment has been spent recruiting and advertising, posting on social media and booking tours. I know Araminta disapproves, that she thinks the evils of social media leave us open to all and sundry but, frankly, that’s what we need. She came to me the day before yesterday, clearly worried.
‘I was talking to Rosemary in the garden . . .’ She didn’t make full eye contact.
‘Rosemary?’ I was going through the galleries, trying to find the highlights to add to our new profile pages, thinking of every last thing I could use to pull people in.
‘One of the volunteers. Older lady.’ That doesn’t help at all: all our volunteers are at least retirement age.
‘She saw a news item – about a party that someone posted on the internet. 500 people turned up – the house was almost destroyed.’
I sighed and turned to face her. ‘Kids, Araminta. Those things are always kids.’ I could picture the echo chamber of the two old women, exaggerating and scare-mongering, layering on the doom of every internet rumour, every small-town fright. ‘It’s not the sort of thing that happens at a museum.’
I noticed the single capuchin monkey hanging upside down in the diorama behind her: an animal that Colonel Hugo discovered himself, one of quite a few species named after him. I made a note in my phone to add some details about it.
‘Sorry, Araminta. I have to write these things down while I think about them.’ I pointed to the monkey. ‘Otherwise all memory of it will be gone in ten seconds’ time.’
She pursed her lips, stared at me. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But at least we’ve had this conversation. At least you know my thoughts.’ She nodded, once, at me and returned to whatever duties she was carrying out back in the box office.
‘Please succeed,’ I said to the empty gallery, in an effort to feel brave. If I’d been in the library, at least I’d have had the echo to help me believe.
The email that waits on my phone when I wake up today is the last thing I expect to read, and sent with the worst of timings.
From: Simon Henderson
To: Cate Morris
Subject: A Lot of Time to Think
Mail: I’m back from a two-week expedition and there’s no word from you. I hope you don’t think I was ignoring you – there’s no signal where I’ve been and clinging on to the side of Mount Cook kept my hands full.
Did you miss me? I did, actually, really miss you – and Leo, of course. Maybe it was the silence and the mind-space at the top of the mountains, but it made me yearn for home. I think it’s all that vast immovable rock, the life clinging to it and the secrets trapped inside it – and the unbelievable quiet – puts things in perspective. Without wanting to get all hippyish on you, I spent four days collecting bones from creatures that were last alive 70 million years ago. That can have an effect on a boy.
It made me think about Leo and how I could be a better godfather to him if I occasionally gave him some time, it made me think about my old mum and how she will need a bit more of me as life goes on. And it made me think about you and how I ran away and why I’m even here on the other side of the planet. We have things to discuss, you and I, things that I’d like to talk through face-to-face.
So I’m coming to England to put some of these things right. I can’t leave yet, I have to finish the contract, but I’m coming. Hang on in there, I’ll be back before you know it.
S x
Six months ago, I would have known exactly what to think about this message. Six months ago I was a completely different person: in my old job; in my old flat; in my old self. I park Simon’s email in a corner of my mind. If there are any spaces in today’s events, I will think of a way to answer him before I go to bed. I owe him too much to leave him waiting until tomorrow.
*
For the purposes of social media and the general public, we are calling today ‘The Grand Event’. It looked good on the posters I made to put up in shops and our full-page advert in the local newspaper. The publicity has been eating into my
redundancy money but I’m hoping it’s a worthwhile investment. I made colour photocopies of a picture from one of the children’s books in the library. There are merry-go-rounds with lions and brightly painted horses, tigers and ostriches with long exaggerated legs. They’re very good, if I say so myself. It gives an air of times-gone-past and a hint of what the collection entails, what it means – I even found a font for the details that implies this museum is a relic from more simple times, a love letter from the past.
Our avatar on all our social media is a sparkling gold photograph of Atalanta and Hippomenes, taken on a scorching blue-skied day much like this one. We couldn’t have been luckier with the weather. The bunting that I ordered online and have strung across the museum drive crackles in the light breeze – a sound I thought was rain when I first woke up this morning.
Leo has spent three days helping Curtis in the garden, edging borders and cutting grass. He looks bronzed and strong: Curtis hasn’t taken his hoodie off as far as I can see – despite the soaring temperatures, so I should imagine he still looks the same underneath it.
I sniff Leo’s clothes every time he comes in, just in case: it’s not the most thorough of protection policies but it’s all I’ve got.
‘Stop sniffing me,’ he said last night. ‘It’s not normal.’
I moved my nose away from his shirt but didn’t say anything.
‘I’m not stupid so I don’t smoke drugs.’
I still don’t say anything. He has a point.
‘And I talked to Curtis about it and now he doesn’t any more either.’
I have to – gladly – take his word for it. Maybe they’ve been good for each other.
*
Araminta is waiting in the drive when we get downstairs. Leo and I are enthused with the excitement that fizzes through the air on this bright summer day: we are buzzing. It’s hard to imagine the drive full of cars, the silent corridors bubbling with chatter, but we both believe they will be.
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ I say to Araminta in my boldest voice.
‘I wish you the best of luck with it all.’ Her smile is unconvincing. ‘Leo, could you come and help me for a moment?’
They go upstairs behind the box office, up to where the dusty office and the storerooms are. Leo comes down first, carrying a box that’s wider than him. Araminta is behind him with a smaller one.
She puts them on the floor in the space that Malcolm and Thierry used for their makeshift bar. ‘I thought these might be of help,’ she says, opening the first box. ‘A hands-on exhibit. Something to touch.’
Leo’s box contains four folded skins: a zebra, a spotted cat of some sort, a buffalo hide, and what Araminta explains – with a slight shiver – is a Colobus monkey rug. ‘They’re things people have dropped off here over the years: things they didn’t want in their houses.’
I touch the poor sad fur of the black-and-white circular rug, run my fingers over the stitches that hold six little hides together. ‘Thank you, I thought . . .’
She interrupts me. ‘I do want it to work.’
In the box Araminta carried are two pieces of taxidermy on stands: a hedgehog and a magpie, his black feathers a gleaming darkest blue when you look so closely at him. ‘And these are the same. They have no place here, but they’ll be great for children to touch.’
‘And people with visual impairments,’ says Leo, pushing his glasses further onto his nose.
A dead petting zoo, I think but don’t say. ‘It’s a brilliant idea: thank you so much.’
Leo and I move a desk out from the ticket office and lay the things out.
‘And if these get stolen or broken, it’s not such a big problem.’ Araminta is clearly still worried. ‘I’ve checked all the alarms and the storeroom doors. And I’ve locked the door next to the kitchen so no one can get up to our apartments.’
‘I think that’s sensible.’ I pat her arm in solidarity.
My phone tings to say I have a text and I stifle a smile: I know who that will be.
Have the greatest day. Although tomorrow will be better. Looking forward to seeing you so so much. Xxx
The first car comes in at 9.45, fifteen whole minutes before the museum is supposed to open, before our posters said we would start. Leo and I grab each other in excitement as we see it approach. ‘Act like we see this every day,’ I say to him as the car parks up and as a second comes down the drive, halogen headlights straining against the bright sun.
Leo is tapping his thighs in anticipation.
I reach out and squeeze his hand. And then, as if our dreams had come true, just before opening time – a coach. An actual coach full of visitors, visitors who disembark as if the party had already started. From the card in the front window, I can see that it is full of Cubs and Brownies.
The noises of cars crunching up the drive, children calling to one another across the gardens, the murmur of visitors contemplating, marvelling, it’s all very life-affirming. The museum is waking up.
The children stream from the coach, the uniformed Akelas and Brownie leaders trying to get them into some kind of organised crocodile, and head for the ticket office.
‘We’ve booked,’ one of the leaders calls over the heads of the restless children. ‘Eighty-six children, twelve adults.’ It’s more people than we’ve had in all the time I’ve been here. The very first two coaches have brought more people than we had in the whole day of the French exchange trip.
I take the Brownie leader over to Araminta behind the desk. ‘We need to ask people how they heard about today,’ I tell her. ‘So we can find out which method worked.’
‘We saw the article in the local paper,’ the woman says. ‘So exciting to have it finally re-open.’
Araminta and I exchange glances.
When the local WI ladies arrive, en masse, they bring cakes and biscuits to sell in the foyer, promising all the takings to the museum. I am overwhelmed by their kindness. Leo and I gave a talk to them last week about Colonel Hugo’s mission and our part in the legacy. Leo fielded their questions masterfully, impressing everyone – especially me – with his knowledge of the exhibits. We owe this deluge of cakes to the fact that he completely charmed them.
I position myself by the entrance of Gallery One; I pretend it’s so that I can assess the impact of the social media advertising but really I want to hear those collective gasps as the visitors see it for the first time. No one lets me down, no one is immune to the wonder of it: it makes me smile every time.
The same three mums with pushchairs who were here on the day of the French exchange come in with a group of friends. They are loving being the ones who know their way around, who can point out the cutest cubs, the angriest zebra.
‘I can’t believe what you’ve done to the place in such a short time,’ one of them says to me. ‘It’s a whole new lease of life.’
Clearly, dogmatically telling people that you’ve done something works. The only real changes are a weeded drive and some straight edges on the flowerbeds, although Araminta did muster some volunteers to clean the glass. I make myself look busy by walking through the museum in case my face gives it all away.
*
In the library, small groups stand staring upwards at the books, wondering what might be there, pointing at titles on spines, guessing at the flags on the flagpoles. Once the first man finds out about the echo across the library, it is alive with vibrato and forced tenors for the rest of the morning.
I’m directing people through the library, answering questions as best I can, when Araminta appears. ‘It’s astonishing. It’s been a very long time since this many people came. We’ve sold almost two hundred tickets.’ Her cheeks are pink with pleasure: it’s lovely to see her so alive, so engaged.
‘We need to find a way to sustain it. I feel like I’ve dragged each one of these in by hand.’
A man behind me booms out a pop song across the library and it makes me jump. ‘Who’s on the desk?’ I ask.
‘O
ne of the WI ladies kindly took over so I could have a comfort break.’ She goes slightly coy at mentioning the possibility of bodily functions.
‘I’ll go and check on Leo. Do you need anything to eat?’
There is a sudden shout from the galleries behind me. And then a man’s voice, loud, urgent. Everyone turns to stare, something is very wrong. There are a lot of people in the library’s circular space, their reactions to the shout bubble and babble above our heads.
‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ I push my way through the bewildered people. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’ But we can all hear the raised voices, the man shouting.
I sprint back through the galleries, Araminta not far behind me. It takes only seconds to cover the length of the corridor, my feet clap loudly against the polished parquet as I run. The visitors are all standing still, confused, and I knock into people’s shoulders in the rush to get through.
Gallery One looks like a battle scene. Vivid scarlet drips from the glass, washes across the parquet flooring. A man holding the handle of a pushchair looks up at me, his face covered in – at first I think it’s blood and then the smell of paint hits me. His expression is pure shock. Somewhere a baby screams and I realise with relief that the pushchair was empty.
The man shouting is Malcolm. ‘You can’t do that!’ I hear as I stop running and try to take it all in.
Three men in balaclavas and camouflage jackets stand in the middle of the gallery, shouting back at him. A fourth, is painting large red letters across the glass.
‘MURDER.’
Araminta speaks first. ‘Stop! Just stop it! What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Meat is murder,’ the man shouts back in her face, only his eyes visible through the slit in the black wool. ‘This is a charnel house.’
I shout to Malcolm, to anyone, to call the police. ‘Get out!’ I yell at the top of my voice, running towards the group of men. ‘Get out!’ I push into the middle of them, trying to separate them, trying to make them leave.
The Museum of Forgotten Memories Page 15
