The Museum of Forgotten Memories

by Anstey Harris

  ‘And nowhere in the terms of the trust does it say anything other than “of sound mind and body” and Leo is certainly that.’ I am half-standing, ready for this battle.

  The man to the left of Roger speaks, his neck is too wide for his stiff collar and his throat wobbles over the top of the starched white cotton. ‘It is totally impossible to put your son forward for this post. He cannot be considered. How would he ever manage? How would he know what to vote? Or follow what we were talking about?’

  I open my mouth to shout him down, to put him right . . .

  ‘I have Down’s syndrome.’

  I spin round. Leo, in his soft trainers, has crept into the room. I did not want him to hear any of this.

  ‘That’s all. Down’s syndrome. I’m not ill and I’m not stupid. Lots of people who have Down’s syndrome work. They can be shopkeepers, librarians. They can be actors. I have been looking for a job.’

  The men are silent. One or two of them have the decency to be puce with embarrassment at their assumptions.

  ‘But I already have a job.’ Leo gestures around the room with his arms. ‘I have my dad’s job. I work in the garden, and I know what to say on tours, and I look after the visitors. My dad isn’t here to look after the museum – and my mum – but I am.’

  Roger makes a grunt, he is about to speak.

  Leo cuts him off. ‘And there are more things I can do because I have Down’s syndrome. I can use sign language. I know what to do when someone has a fit. I . . .’ He searches for a third thing. ‘I can dislocate my shoulders.’

  I hear the click and grind as he demonstrates.

  He stares at Roger hard while he does it. ‘We had a big fire here. I didn’t see any of you when it happened, or afterwards. I didn’t see any of you when we cleaned the galleries and the kitchen and the corridors.’

  They look at the ground. I follow their gaze to eight identical pairs of black lace-up shoes.

  ‘I called the Fire Brigade, 999, when there was a fire.’ He looks around, his fury evident. ‘Down’s syndrome doesn’t mean I can’t do that. And I carried my mum out of the fire to outside. To the ambulance.’ His hands are still on his thighs, fingers splayed, palms flat, but still and solid against his legs. ‘It was my friend who saved the animals. And my friends who came and cleaned up all the smoke. That means I looked after the museum. Really looked after it.’

  He pauses for a moment, inhales. ‘Not looked after it like you do.’ He points at them, each in turn. ‘You never even come here. This is my family’s museum and I look after it.’

  There is an awkward pause. I am in tears: Leo stands with his hands by his sides, his feet planted solidly on his family’s ground. The animal heads around the room look on with pride, their antlers and horns held high.

  Araminta stands and pushes a pile of paper towards Roger. ‘And if that isn’t enough, gentlemen, you will find every relevant clause marked in yellow throughout this document. Good day.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The three of us made a graceful exit at the end of Araminta’s closing statement, despite the fact it was completely unrehearsed. As I told Patch later, seeing Leo do a ‘high-ten’ with Araminta was probably the best bit of the whole thing. It isn’t the best bit, of course, the best bit is that – at least for the time being – we have money coming in and we have a sympathetic board: sympathetic because Leo now controls 51 per cent of the vote. It means Leo controls his own future.

  We celebrated Leo’s success long into the night, Patch, Leo and me. Araminta declined our invitation – I understand, she has worked on this for days and she must be exhausted.

  *

  I volunteered to be the one to get the papers, despite my thumping head. I need to spend some time with Ghost Richard, to talk through the events of last night. I flex my good hand, curling through his invisible fingers as I walk down to the village. This is not the boy Richard who goes down to the village with me: this is the proud father, thrilled by the story about his son.

  My lips move silently as I tell him everything, describe Leo’s serious and determined face, his courage and commitment. Richard and I both know, without discussion, that Leo stepped right into Colonel Hugo’s boots yesterday; that he held up the family name on behalf of all of us.

  ‘What would you think about us going back to Lyons-Morris?’ I ask Richard. I will have to wait until my dreams for an answer.

  I squint my eyes against the vigour of this new bright day. Even my hangover cannot quench the victory that floods through me.

  ‘Morning, Cate,’ says the girl behind the counter. She has the colour supplement open in front of her. ‘I’ve never seen Crouch-on-Sea in the paper before.’ She closes the magazine and passes it to me. As Janet promised, the cover is a picture of Leo, Araminta and me with Hatters stretching away behind us. Hollyhocks bob their bright heads in the foreground and the wisteria that climbs up behind us has recovered enough from the fire to hang long lilac blossoms all over the front of the house.

  ‘You should frame that,’ she says.

  ‘I definitely will.’ And I buy four copies, one for each of us and one to send to Simon. I don’t need to buy a copy for Patch, he’ll share mine.

  I walk back up to the house slowly, the sun behind me on my shoulders, and savouring the peace.

  *

  Leo has stationed himself in the ticket office when I get back. Giving change is absolutely not in his skill set – this could be disastrous for the day’s takings.

  I can’t send him outside, he is wearing a suit and tie, presumably to mark his new status – he must be boiling. The suit is one he had a couple of years ago for his school prom: I hope he doesn’t need to sit down in it.

  ‘We can expect a lot of visitors today. I mean a lot. I think you’d be better off this side of the counter – doing meet-and-greet.’

  He shrugs. ‘Maybe.’ His eyes narrow and he looks at me, weighing his words. ‘But I’m in charge of the museum now, so I can tell you where to stand. It’s the other way round.’

  ‘Do you think?’ I laugh. In the drive, I can see Curtis coming towards the house – we knew we would need all hands on deck today, the day the magazine arrives on doorsteps all over the county. ‘Try telling Curtis what to do – see how that goes. Or, for that matter, Araminta.’

  Leo frowns, I can see him rethinking this plan already.

  ‘Is Araminta down yet? Have you seen her?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘In the kitchen?’

  ‘Nope.’ Leo steps out to the foyer, starts tidying the animal skins and the little plastic pith helmets that I ordered the other day for children to wear on their way around the museum. I have been keeping my receipts in the vague hope I can get some money back when we start applying for grants, but it’s a very vague hope.

  I set off to look for Araminta through the galleries. The glass in Gallery One is so highly polished it can’t be seen at all: she must have been in here at some point this morning. The fruit bat hangs from his tree without a care in the world, the armadillo beneath him roots through the rocks and leaves looking for ants. I hear the squeak of my sandals against the parquet floor and catch the eye of a little rat looking upwards and interested from the very front edge of the diorama.

  The library is silent. The moose and caribou still look mightily proud of what Leo accomplished yesterday, their chins raised, their horns held high. I will have to get Leo or Malcolm to help me move the tables back: they are still in the middle of the room, where we held the meeting. Malcolm has cleared away the sandwiches and teapot – I must remember to thank him.

  I look into the kitchen and out of the back door into the gardens: there’s still no sign of her. I begin to wonder if she’s all right – she has been working very hard.

  I go upstairs onto our landing and tap, gently, on her door. After a few moments of waiting for any noise, I knock again and then turn the handle.

  Her bed is perfectly made. The pillow is plu
mped and absolutely perpendicular to the sides of the mattress. The top sheet has been turned down neatly over the coverlet and tucked in tightly at the sides. Araminta is not here but, on the pink satin roses of her coverlet, there is an envelope, and even from here I can see it says ‘Cate’ on the front.

  Instinctively, my eyes flick up to the top of her wardrobe, to the sad little leather suitcase she took with her when she went to London. It is gone.

  I sit down on the neatly made bed, the sheet immediately wrinkles underneath me: it will be ruined when I stand up.

  The flap of the envelope has been tucked in, rather than stuck down: it reminds me of a birthday card. But I know, deep down, what this letter is going to say.

  Dear Cate

  Thank you so much for all your help in securing the future of Hatters. I know that you and Leo will be very happy here and so good for the museum.

  I’m very sorry that there have been times that you and I haven’t seen eye to eye and I know that my withholding the reason I wasn’t here to endure that dreadful fire with you has been an issue . . . part of the reason that I think it is a good idea if I leave Hatters. Without going over old ground, we have reached a stalemate with that particular situation and I feel that it will continue to make things difficult between us – particularly in the light of Leo’s incredible bravery.

  The second part of my reason is that bravery itself: I promised Colonel Hugo that I would take care of his collection and make sure it stayed out of the hands of private buyers. That future is now secured and the – noble – duty having passed down to Leo means I can move on and away from the house without letting the Colonel down.

  Good luck and please do give Leo my very best wishes. He will be wonderful in his new role: his father would be so very proud of him.

  Yours faithfully

  Araminta Buchan

  I let out a long sigh, drop backwards onto the bed, the letter still in my hands. This isn’t what I wanted – to drive her away from everything she knows, has ever known. We can’t let this happen, Leo and I, but I haven’t got time to deal with it now. I put the letter in my pocket: I will discuss it with Patch at some point during the day. I’m not going to tell Leo yet: he’ll be upset by this: he’s fond of her and she’s part of his team.

  I sigh again: the house is back to its old tricks; whipping happiness away with its sleight of hand as soon as I think I’m winning.

  I need to resolve this.

  *

  The museum is every bit as busy as I’d hoped. No one seems to notice, in the mêlée, that Araminta isn’t here: at times it’s so hectic I almost forget too.

  We meet interesting people who’ve come all the way from London to check us out; fascinated locals who’ve never got round to seeing the collection before it appeared over the breakfast table in their favourite newspaper; best of all, we get pledges to help with the garden and the galleries – a whole new clutch of volunteers. We even have one interested visitor who specialises in grant applications: I grab her business card out of her hand and guard it with my life.

  At lunchtime, when I’m doing a stint in the ticket office, Sophie arrives with Martin. I can see trouble ahead.

  ‘Hello, Cate.’ Sophie smiles. ‘We’ve come to see Leo.’

  Martin looks around at the shop. ‘Your postcards are very old,’ he says. ‘Have you considered making new ones?’

  ‘I’ll give Leo a text, track him down.’

  ‘It’s fine, he’ll be here in a minute. He said to meet him here at half twelve.’

  ‘Leo invited you? Both of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Martin, still staring at the postcards. ‘Although he is actually two minutes late.’

  I think I am beginning to understand the over-tight suit and the awful pink tie.

  Leo comes out from the gallery to meet them. Martin looks pointedly at his watch.

  ‘Welcome to my museum,’ Leo says and makes an expansive bow. ‘As of today, I have taken over running it.’ He looks at me cautiously. ‘Although I have some help, obviously: my mum, my friends Curtis and Mrs Minta. Some other people. It’s a big museum.’

  ‘You need new postcards,’ says Martin. ‘And I can’t stay very long because I have my job to go to this afternoon.’

  ‘Is that your job in the supermarket car park?’

  ‘Leo.’ He knows this voice – it is my teacher voice. ‘Can I have a word with you please?’

  I beckon him round the corner where Sophie and Martin can’t hear us. ‘That is not how you speak to people. You’re lucky enough to have a great-grandfather who left you this opportunity: that doesn’t make you better than Martin – and it doesn’t make your job any better than his.’

  He looks at the floor.

  ‘A job is a job and hard work is just that, no matter where you do it. What you said to Martin is against everything Colonel Hugo stands for. Go and apologise.’

  Leo’s apology is genuine and I’m relieved.

  ‘Let me show you the animals,’ he says and he ushers them both into the gallery.

  The rest of the day is a warm success, a series of tasks where I glide past Patch or Leo, engaged in their own contributions to the smooth-running of the day. I don’t have time to talk to either of them about Araminta.

  I’m about to cash up in the ticket office when Leo comes through with Curtis, Sophie and Martin.

  Leo has changed out of the suit – or maybe the trousers split – and looks far more like himself back in his shorts. ‘I will see you later, Mum. I’m going for a drink with my friends and my girlfriend.’ He winks at me, only it doesn’t quite work and ends up being an exaggerated nod of his head.

  ‘Girlfriend, eh?’ I say to Sophie. And then I ask Leo, ‘Is this to do with your new job?’

  Sophie answers for him. She is indignant. ‘No it isn’t. It was never about a job – that was Leo’s idea, not mine. I don’t have a job myself because I’m doing my art course. I wasn’t Leo’s girlfriend before because he didn’t ask me.’ She reaches out and takes his hand. ‘He only told me. And I don’t respond to that. I was waiting for him to ask me. Properly.’

  Leo couldn’t have chosen a better match.

  ‘Have you got your ID?’ Curtis asks Leo, and I remember that Curtis is a year too young to get served in the pub.

  *

  I’ve got the coins arranged in piles on the counter when the man comes in. ‘I’m sorry, we’re closed now.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine. I was actually looking for a friend of mine: Patch Samson. You must be Cate?’

  He is the first of Patch’s friends that I’ve met.

  ‘How do you do?’ I shake his hand. ‘I’ll call him and find out where he is. He literally could be anywhere.’ I get my mobile out of my pocket. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’

  ‘Mike,’ he says. ‘Michael Green.’

  I carry on chatting while I wait for Patch to answer. ‘Does he know you’re coming?’

  ‘He doesn’t. It’s a surprise.’ The man smiles at me and I get the impression he wants me to get on with it. I turn my back slightly as he answers the phone, but I keep one eye on Mike Green.

  Mike is nonchalantly looking through the postcards, picking them up and looking at them, then sliding them back into the rack.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Patch says when he picks up my call. ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘I’m cashing up, then I’m done. You’ve got a friend here – in the ticket office. Michael Green.’

  Patch is silent. Then, his words in a rush, ‘What does he look like? Actually, don’t answer that.’

  ‘Patch?’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen garden, down by the ice house. Can you send him out?’

  ‘Sure. I can’t leave all this money here though – I’ll have to give him the map.’

  Patch’s voice is strange, strained and low. I wonder how much he likes Mike Green. ‘Cate, was my name in the article? Did it say in the paper that I live here? Regardless of me saying I didn’t
want to be in it?’

  I turn my back fully on Mike, half-hide behind the dark oak booth of the ticket office. I don’t want to squabble in front of him. ‘You said you didn’t want to be in the picture. Nothing else. How was I supposed to know?’

  ‘Send Mike out to the garden. We’ll talk about it later.’ He pauses. ‘Sorry. And I love you, I really do.’ And he ends the call.

  I show Mike how to get out through the side door where the peacock waits like a tour guide, and I go back to counting the takings. Each day is getting better and better. And if we add to this with grant money – now that we have had national coverage and have a platform to apply – we are going to make it: even under the tyrannical thumb of the new majority-holding board member.

  *

  It’s about ten minutes later when Mike comes back. He is red-faced, angry. ‘Where is he? Where’s Samson?’

  I’m quite scared of him suddenly, this ordinary-looking man. There is something very aggressive about the way he stands, about his voice.

  ‘I don’t know. Did you find the ice house?’ I’m worried for Patch – this man is not his friend.

  ‘What car does he drive? Which one is his?’ He points to the car park.

  ‘You need to leave.’ At the same time, I look past him. Patch’s car has gone.

  ‘Mike Green’ swears under his breath and storms out of the foyer. I lock the door behind him and lean up against it, wondering what to do next.

  *

  I call Patch’s mobile on the way up to our bedroom. It rings out, but I assume he is driving and can’t answer. A tiny voice in the back of my head asks where he is driving to, but I quieten it.

  The top two drawers of the chest in our bedroom are open. Shirts and pants spill out in a muddle. I wonder for a moment if Mike Green came up here, went through our stuff. But these are only Patch’s drawers, mine are untouched.

  I know for sure when I turn round. On the bed is the drawing of me, my face as Patch sees it. ‘I love you, I really do,’ he had said on the phone.