by Robin Jarvis
In silence, but with a curious smile traced upon her face, Miss Webster disappeared into the darkness which lay behind the entrance as the new caretaker scuttled over to his sons.
‘Neil!’ he called. ‘Give me a hand with these bags, will you?’
It didn't take long for the Chapmans’ possessions to be unloaded from the van, forming an untidy pile beside the bollards, ready to be carried indoors.
With a holdall full of clothes slung over one shoulder, a medium-sized suitcase in his left hand and a bulging carrier bag in the other, Neil trudged into the grubby alley and looked for the first time upon the grandiose entrance to the Wyrd Museum.
‘Looks like the doorway to a tomb,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘A great, big, hungry tomb just waiting to be fed and swallow us whole. This whole place is foul!’
Frowning, he climbed the three steps and cautiously passed into the shadows beyond.
The moment he crossed over the threshold, Neil coughed and dropped the suitcase as a horrid, musty smell assailed his nostrils—he spluttered in disgust. It was like opening a cupboard that had been sealed for years and inhaling all the damp and dry rot that had accumulated in that time in one great fetid breath.
‘Are you ailing, Child?’ snapped a brisk voice.
Neil looked up—there was Miss Webster standing before him with her thin hands clasped primly in front of her.
‘It's just the smell. . .’ he explained, ‘I wasn't expecting. . .’
‘Smell?’ she archly interrupted. ‘I smell nothing. Is this a schoolboy joke? I have had little or no experience of your generation, child, so you would do well to keep out of my sight whilst you are here and refrain from any more of this idiotic humour. I have never tolerated nonsense and frivolity of any sort repels me. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Very,’ Neil answered, bristling indignantly at her severe and unjust tone. 'This slum probably hasn't been cleaned for years,’ he observed in a grim, inaudible whisper as he surveyed his dingy surroundings.
No interior could hope to live up to the Victorian facade that framed the entrance to the museum, but the poky room he found himself in was a disappointment nevertheless.
It was a cramped and claustrophobic hallway, crammed with ornaments; from a tall and rather spindly specimen of a weeping fig planted in a stout china pot, to an incomplete suit of fifteenth-century armour that leaned drunkenly against the dark oak panelling which pressed in on all sides. To the right of where Neil stood and just behind the entrance, a small arch had been cut into the panels and traced in letters of peeling gold were the words ‘TICKETS FOR ADMITTANCE’.
A flight of stairs covered in a threadbare red carpet, and mostly hidden by a solid wooden bannister, rose steeply to the other floors. On the landing, one of the Georgian windows let in a pale ray of dirty brown light, weakened by having been filtered through the grime of centuries—and this tinted all it touched a melancholy sepia. Under its ghastly influence, the dim little watercolours which hung on the far wall seemed to have been daubed from mud and where it touched the weeping fig it was as if the leaves cringed and curled in revolt.
Stepping into the province of the pallid beam, Miss Webster glanced uncertainly upwards and her white hair was sullied and transformed into a filthy gold.
‘As you are to live here, Child,’ she said, addressing Neil once more, ‘know now that you may wander where you will in this museum, if your courage allows.'
A secretive, almost teasing tone crept into her voice as she gazed about the hallway and inhaled deeply as if savouring the rank atmosphere of the place.
‘You see, child,’ she told him, ‘there is an ancient and fundamental belief amongst some people which assigns to certain sites or buildings a particular mood, a spirit—or heart, if you wish. It is a belief which I am wont to share most wholeheartedly.
‘In the days that are to come, when you are roaming within these venerable walls and learn the little you can of what they have to offer, pause a moment and think on that. What manner of heart might you suppose beats here? What will be the nature of the force that watches you and feels your footfalls travelling and moving inside it as a whale might feel a shrimp wriggling deep in the caverns of its belly?
‘Perhaps the answer to that lies within yourself, but many are those who have blanched and fled when they became aware of the presence which abides here. Older than the soil wherein the foundations of this museum lie, it is. For an eternity has it pulsed, this shadow-wrapped and mysterious heart. Yet, whatever its nature may be, it is most certainly not a comfortable one and I make no apologies for it—or what it may choose to do with you. In many ways it is out of my control.’
Her words hung ominously upon the air and Neil wondered if the terse old woman was trying to frighten or intimidate him. To show that she had not succeeded, he folded his arms and stared back at her with as bored an expression on his face as he could muster.
'This you will discover for yourself,’ Miss Webster assured. ‘Until then all you need to know is that the private apartments of myself and my poor sisters are located upon the third floor and that area is forbidden to you. I must also tell you that my sisters are not as... strong as myself and sleep much during the day, therefore you will make no disturbance of any kind in case you awaken them. Now, who is this?’
Neil turned to see that Josh had walked in the door with a small bag of his own clothes in both hands. Immediately, the four-year-old screwed up his face and let out a loud ‘Eerrrrrkk!’ followed by ‘It stinks!’
Miss Webster eyed the fair-haired toddler caustically and pressed her lips so tightly together that they turned a bloodless white.
Under the glare of this cold contempt Josh moved closer to his brother and caught hold of his sleeve.
‘Don't like her,’ he murmured honestly, ‘she's got a face like a camel.’
There was an awkward silence. The old lady breathed deeply through her nose but said nothing until the boys’ father reappeared bearing two cardboard boxes.
‘Mr Chapman,’ she began in a voice of wood, ‘I will now show you to your rooms.’
‘I haven't finished bringing the rest of the stuff in,’ he said. Won't be too long. I can't leave it on the road...’
Miss Webster's lips parted as she turned on him a chilling smile, revealing a row of mottled, brown teeth. ‘My time is precious to me, Mr Chapman,’ she said with an assured finality. ‘Pray let your belongings remain where they are for the moment.’
‘But someone might. . .’
‘Out of the question!’ her crisp voice snapped before he could finish the sentence. The folk who dwell around here are no doubt aware by now that you have been made welcome in this place. They would not dare tamper or take anything that belongs to a guest of mine. Only once has my hospitality been violated and by the likes of one that shall never be seen again. For who now could withstand those nine nights hanging from the ash? Besides, it was so very long ago, so very long, when I was green enough to... well let us say that I have never allowed myself to be so vulnerable again.’
She licked her discoloured teeth and sneered scornfully. ‘But this is not the hour for such ancient histories. Mr Chapman, I swear to you that your goods have never been safer, not ever.’
‘If... if you're sure?’ he said doubtfully.
‘Decidedly,’ came the insistent reply. ‘There are many, many affairs of which I am most certain. Now follow me to your quarters.’
As Miss Webster turned to open a door in the far wall, Brian put down the cardboard boxes and pulled a wry face at Neil.
‘Old bag,’ his son mouthed silently.
The man nodded hurriedly, then looked across the room to where Josh had wandered. A strangled gurgle issued from Mr Chapman's mouth and he stared at his young son in disbelief.
‘Josh!’ he cried.
The little boy was staring at the suit of armour and before anyone could stop him, gave it a none too gentle nudge.
With a snap and
a rattle of rust, the spear broke free, toppling headlong into the panelled wall where it scraped and gouged a frightful, deep scratch in the wood, inscribing a perfect arc all the way down to the parquet floor. Thrown off balance by the violence of the weapon's descent, Josh tumbled backwards into the armour. For an instant the helmet quivered, then it flew through the air like a cannonball and punched a great dent into one of the cardboard boxes, buckling it and sending it spinning against Neil's legs. Promptly, the boy fell into the box, then with a tremendous, resounding crash of clanking metal, the rest of the armour collapsed and a riotous clamour rang throughout the dismal hall.
With flurries of dust flying about him and in the midst of this clanging destruction, stood Josh, a scared expression on his face.
‘I didn't mean it!’ he gasped. ‘I only wanted to have a look and play...’
His voice died in his throat as he beheld the stony face of Miss Webster. The old lady was awful to look upon. Medusa-like, she glared for several moments at the four-year-old then advanced menacingly towards him, picking her way through the debris of scattered pauldrons, cuisses and rerebraces that now littered the floor.
‘I will not have this!’ she seethed. ‘For only a moment have you been here but already you have caused grievous harm. What right have you to despoil the armaments of the glorious dead? Have you performed deeds equal to he that fought in those forgotten wars? Would you reward such valour by this wanton destruction? How dare you raise your hand to this memorial of one whose renown is greater than your baseborn house ever shall be?’
Terrified of this stern apparition, Josh skipped over the upturned breastplate and ran wailing to his father.
‘I'm... I'm awfully sorry,’ Mr Chapman stuttered, ‘I'm sure he didn't mean that to happen.’
‘Then he ought not to have touched it!’ Miss Webster roared back in a shrill, shrieking voice that made the man blink in astonishment and shrink away from her.
‘If I catch him meddling with anything else,’ she began threateningly, ‘then it will be the worse for him. All I have to do is withdraw my protection from you all. You would not like that—I swear!’
Struggling out of the cardboard box, Neil placed himself between the old lady and his brother.
‘Leave him alone!’ he yelled. ‘He's only four. That thing wasn't supported properly, it's a good job for you Josh isn't hurt.’
A peculiar glint flickered in Miss Webster's eyes as she regarded Neil, then a mocking smile curled over her face as she stepped back towards the door, the hem of her beaded dress brushing softly over the dismembered armour.
‘We shall say no more about it,’ she stated simply. ‘It was perhaps an honest mistake, I am unused to company—I have been confined in the museum for too long, perhaps. I only hope that the noise did not awaken my poor sisters. I would not wish them to be disturbed. Now follow me, if you please.’
Neil glanced at his father who shrugged and took hold of Josh's hand. Suddenly, the four-year-old let out a cry of surprise and alarm.
‘Dad! Up there!’
Both Mr Chapman and Neil looked up to where Josh was pointing.
Peering down at them from the landing, with their chins propped upon the bannisters and grinning like a pair of naughty children, were the faces of two elderly women.
‘Veronica!’ Miss Webster called out. ‘Celandine! You know you were not to come down. Go back upstairs at once!’
Childlike dismay spread over the faces of the other women and they both groaned in protest. ‘Oh Ursula!’ they complained in unison. ‘Don't be beastly. Let us come down and meet the strangers, we're so excited, we've even managed to dress ourselves—wasn't that clever of us?’
Before their sister had a chance to refuse them, Miss Celandine and Miss Veronica came pattering down the stairway like two great flapping geese.
‘How darling!’ Miss Celandine squealed when she saw Josh. ‘See, Veronica—what a bonny baby boy! Is he the one?’
The two old ladies reached out to tweak Josh's cheeks and though he growled and tried to fend them off it was no use.
Neil stared at them in bewilderment. These two old bags were even odder than the first.
Miss Veronica's hair was dyed an unnatural coal black and hung down her back in a wild tangle like the ungroomed tail of a horse. The colour contrasted starkly with her pale complexion, accentuated by the way she had applied quantities of white powder to her face that crumbled when she grinned and fell in fine, dusty trails upon her clothes. It was as if she was a small girl playing with her mother's make-up; for a pair of finely-arched eyebrows had been painted high upon her forehead, so that she looked perpetually startled and astonished, and a vivid stripe of vermilion lipstick obliterated her twittering mouth, so that it resembled a viciously-bleeding wound.
Her sister, however, was as unlike her as it was possible to be. Miss Celandine's face was tanned and crabbed like an overripe apple. Her small eyes were as dark and glittering as the beads on Miss Ursula's gown and below her upturned, bulbous nose she possessed a wide mouth which always seemed open, displaying her protruding and goofy teeth. Miss Celandine's hair was just as long as her sister's but it was the colour of dirty straw, shot through with wisps of grey and twisted into two prodigious plaits that hung on either side of her head.
Both women were dressed eccentrically. Miss Veronica wore a loose-fitting garment of billowing silk which had once been white but was now grey and peppered with small spots of black mould. Dancing slippers of creamy satin embroidered with gold thread were on her feet and in her hand she carried a pearl-handled walking stick, for her left leg was rather stiff and she limped when she walked. Stooping over Josh, enveloped in the voluminous folds of her frayed silk gown, she looked like some frail and geriatric Diana—too old and decrepit to go hunting under any phase of the moon.
Velvet of an intense ruby red was the main theme of Miss Celandine's attire. Her bare, liver-spotted shoulders were draped with a tasseled shawl and she had squeezed herself into a tight-fitting evening dress of the same material. But the pile of the velvet was worn and the vibrant colour had faded to a muddy orange in places, so that it looked as if she had been splashed with bleach.
‘Oh, we're so delighted!’ they cooed in jubilation. ‘How exquisite, what fun we shall have.’
Miss Ursula eyed her sisters with impatience and clapped her hands for their attention as they fussed over Josh.
Veronica! Celandine!’ she commanded. ‘Stop that at once! The child does not like it.’
Miss Veronica's hand fluttered to her garish mouth and disclosed that she had painted her nails a deep shade of violet. ‘But it's been so long,’ she trilled into her palm. We've been so terribly anxious these past weeks.’
‘Yes, we have,’ chimed in Miss Celandine. ‘So don't be cross, Ursula, and tell us what we must and mustn't do. You're just as eager as we are, admit it.’
‘I assure you, I am nothing of the kind,’ her sister corrected.
‘Pooh!’ Miss Celandine argued as she adjusted the shawl which had slipped from her shoulders to reveal an expanse of sagging and blue-veined flesh. ‘I know more of what you think before you do, most of the time. You can't fool me and never could.’
'That will do,’ Miss Ursula scolded and both her sisters drew their breaths as if she had slapped them. Turning to Mr Chapman, the old lady made some brief introductions.
‘This is Mr Chapman. He is to be our new caretaker. I was just about to show him his apartment.’
Miss Veronica buried her face in her hands. ‘Splendid!’ she prattled, peeping coyly between her fingers at the unfamiliar, gangly man with the greasy hair. ‘And will he truly take care of us, like the beautiful white stags used to, so long ago?’
‘Not us,’ Miss Ursula replied with a weary shake of the head as if she had laboured through this conversation many times before, ‘he is employed to look after our museum.’
‘Oh,’ Miss Veronica murmured, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a pang
of regret in her voice, ‘the museum, of course. I had forgotten about the museum. Have the mists abated and the valiant guards perished? Do we still have all the collections? Is that where we are now?’
It was Miss Celandine who answered. ‘Of course it is, darling,’ she laughed. ‘You remember Ursula's little design don't you?’
Miss Veronica's troubled look of confusion cleared almost immediately. ‘Why indeed!’ she giggled. Then this is the man who is to be caretaker?’
‘Just so,’ confirmed Miss Celandine before she turned her attention to Mr Chapman. We are overjoyed that you are here,’ she greeted him. ‘I hope you will be most comfortable.’ With that, she held out her hand evidently expecting it to be kissed but the man was so bemused and flustered that he merely shook it.
Snatching her hand back, the old woman let out a high-pitched cry, as though she had been scalded, but the noise quickly turned into a giggle and she focused her black, sparkling eyes upon Neil and his brother.
‘Such delicious children,’ she murmured. They really are quite enchanting—aren't they, Veronica?’
‘Mouthwatering.’
‘I know we shall have fun together,’ Miss Celandine promised, bringing her nutty brown face close to Neil's. ‘You will be surprised.’
Neil coughed, partly from nerves but mostly because of the pungent whiff of mothballs that wafted from the red dress.
These three old women were completely cracked. Why had his father accepted this job? Of all the incredibly stupid, inept disasters he had ever committed, this had to cap the lot. Who, in their right mind, would willingly agree to be cooped up in a museum that reeked of mildew with three crazy pensioners who ought to be locked away in padded cells?
‘Celandine,’ Miss Ursula called, ‘why don't you take Veronica upstairs? You both look tired.’
Miss Celandine nodded readily. ‘Yes,’ she assented, ‘excitement is so very draining. Do you think we might see the children again another day?’
Miss Veronica let out a shrill cackle. ‘When the hurry-hurry's done!’ she gibbered.
‘But that may be too late!’ complained Miss Celandine. ‘Please, please, do let us see them again—we would relish their company so much before we have to—’
