The British Museum is Falling Down

by David Lodge

  Adam grinned and shrugged on his duffel-coat. He felt in his pockets for his gloves, and pulled out two more missives. One was a clipping of the Brownlong ad., with a message scrawled across it: Why don’t you go in for this?—C. The other read:

  What about:

  I always choose a Brownlong chair,

  Professors use them everywhere.

  Or:

  I always choose a Brownlong chair:

  The answer to a bottom’s prayer.

  Seriously, this is a winner:

  I always choose a Brownlong chair,

  The seat that’s neat and made with care.

  (flair?)

  But Adam had a better idea. He sat down at the desk and took out the sepia postcard of the British Museum which he had purchased that afternoon. He addressed it to Brownlong & Co., and stamped it, ready to be posted on the way home. The Reading Room was almost empty, and an official lingered impatiently near Adam, waiting for him to leave. But Adam refused to be hurried as he penned his couplet in a bold, clear script. He leaned back and regarded it with satisfaction. It had the hard-edged clarity of a good imagist lyric, the subtle reverberations of a fine haiku, the economy of a classic epigram.

  I always choose a Brownlong chair,

  Because it’s stuffed with pubic hair.

  Adam drove slowly along the Embankment, straining his eyes for the sight of a convenient pillar-box—convenient in this instance meaning one he could reach without getting off his scooter and stalling the engine. The noises coming from the engine were getting increasingly ugly—all this travelling in low gear had taken its toll—and he was not confident that, once stopped, it would ever start again.

  Posting his contribution to the Brownlong competition had become a matter of some importance to him, the completion of his one, small achievement of the day. No, that wasn’t quite true—he had the manuscript of Robert and Rachel snugly tucked away in the tool compartment of his scooter, swaddled tenderly in his college scarf. But, interesting as it was, he was growing increasingly doubtful that he would be able to turn it to his own advantage. Someone—Mrs Rottingdean presumably—held the copyright, and she was clearly not going to let him publish it. Perhaps she could even prevent him from reporting on it—he was uncertain about such legal technicalities. Furthermore, he had inadvertently brought away with him from Bayswater the manuscript of Lay Sermons and Private Prayers and he would have to find some way of returning it to Mrs Rottingdean before she put the Metropolitan Police on his trail.

  The sudden blast of a fog horn—just behind his left ear, it seemed—made him jump. It was a real pea-souper down here by the river. The atmosphere seemed to be compounded of equal portions of moisture and soot. A faint smell of burning stung his nose and throat—it was as if the whole city were gently smouldering.

  He found a pillar-box at last, and drew up beside it. Grasping the throttle of his scooter with his right hand, he leaned out to post the card with his left. But the slit was on the opposite side of the pillar-box and he lost his balance momentarily, dropping the card and losing his grip on the scooter, the engine of which promptly died. Cursing, Adam retrieved the card and posted it. Then he girded himself to push the scooter into life again. It was still a long walk to home, and he was very tired. Please God let it fire, he prayed, as he began to run.

  The engine fired all right; in fact, it burst into flames. They licked greedily at Adam’s ankles, and he jumped clear, allowing the scooter to proceed alone for several yards, a miniature fire-ship, before it toppled over into the gutter, He ran after it and tore his bags from the luggage grid. Aware of the danger of an explosion, he retreated to a safe distance with his bags, then remembered, with a spasm of horror, the manuscript of Robert and Rachel. He hurried back to the scooter and, screening his face from the heat, pried open the lid of the tool compartment. A jet of flame shot up and singed his duffel-coat. He reeled back. Too late! Egbert Merrymarsh’s lost masterpiece had perished in its second ordeal by fire.

  There was a loud explosion. The scooter arched into the air like a creature in its final agony; it crashed to the ground, a twisted heap of blazing metal, and after two last convulsive jerks and a muted wail from its horn, expired.

  There was total silence except for the brisk crackling of flames and the sympathetic lamentation of fog-horns from downstream. Adam stood stunned, waiting for the policemen, the firemen, the bystanders to assemble. But no one came. At last a dog limped out of the fog and lay down before the pyre, licking its chops appreciatively. Adam picked up his bags and prepared to walk. His legs felt weak and he staggered slightly. He heard, rather than saw, a large car draw up at the kerbside. A door opened and shut.

  ‘Hi there,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Having trouble?’

  ‘Oh, hallo,’ said Adam. ‘I’ve got a message for you.’

  ‘Drink?’ enquired the American, pulling down a flap behind the driver’s partition and revealing a row of bottles.

  ‘I’d love one,’ said Adam, sinking into the soft grey upholstery. The limousine was purring slowly along the Embankment, but the blinds were drawn inside and he had no sensation of movement. Soothing music was coming from a speaker concealed somewhere behind his seat.

  ‘Scotch, Bourbon, gin, Cognac?’

  ‘Cognac, please.’

  The fat American poured a generous measure of brandy into a huge balloon glass and handed it to Adam. ‘That should give you a lift. Tough break, your scooter catching fire. Still, it’s insured I guess?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Adam, brightening.

  ‘So what was that about a message?’ said the fat American, opening a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Oh, yes, someone phoned from Colorado—I got the message by mistake. Something about a hundred thousand for books and fifty thousand for manuscripts. Or was it the other way round . . .’

  The American uttered a sigh of impatience. ‘Those guys think too small,’ he said. He splashed soda in his glass and Adam heard the chink of ice. ‘Well, here’s to our third meeting today—’

  ‘Fourth,’ said Adam.

  How’s that?’

  ‘Wasn’t it you this afternoon on the gallery in the Reading Room?’

  ‘Geeze, was that you? What were you doing up there?’

  ‘I was running away.’

  ‘Is that right? And I was running away from you . . . Well, here’s to our fourth meeting, then. And the Summit College Library.’

  ‘Here’s to them,’ said Adam. They drank.

  ‘Say, I forgot to ask, where do you live, Adam?’

  ‘Battersea.’

  The American slid back the glass partition and spoke to his chauffeur. ‘You know where Battersea is?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s where we’re going.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr, er . . .’

  ‘You’re welcome. Schnitz is the name, but call me Bernie.’

  ‘I hope the fog—’

  ‘Don’t worry about the fog. I think he has radar in the front there. This car’s got damn near everything else.’

  ‘It’s marvellous,’ said Adam, sipping his brandy. Emboldened by the liquor, he put a question:

  ‘What were you doing in the Reading Room, then . . . Bernie?’

  ‘I figured I’d take advantage of the confusion to really examine the structure of the building . . .’

  ‘The structure?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s like this, I had this great idea, a vision, you might call it. I was going to buy the British Museum and transport it stone by stone to Colorado, clean it up and re-erect it.’

  Adam boggled. ‘With all the books?’

  ‘Yeah, you see we have this little College in Colorado, high up in the Rockies—highest school in the world as a matter of fact, we have to have oxygen on tap in every room . . . Well, it’s a fine place, but we’re not expanding as we should be—you know, we’re not getting the good students, the top teac
hers. So I told the trustees what was needed: a real class library—rare books, original manuscripts, that sort of thing. “O.K. Bernie,” they said, “go to Europe and get us a library.” So I came to the best library in the world.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s for sale, somewhow,’ Adam said.

  ‘No, I guess you’re right. I hadn’t figured on it being that big,’ said Bernie, sadly. Adam almost shared his regret. It was a thrilling vision he had conjured up, of the B.M. scoured of its soot and pigeon droppings, its tall pillars and great dome gleaming in their pristine glory, starkly outlined against the blue Colorado sky at the summit of some craggy mountain. ‘Never mind,’ he said consolingly. ‘With all that money, you’ll be able to buy a good collection.’

  ‘Yeah, but I haven’t the time to buy it in bits and pieces. Hunting for manuscripts especially—you’ve no idea the time it takes.’

  ‘I’ve got an original manuscript with me, by an odd chance,’ said Adam. ‘But I don’t think it would interest you.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at it, Adam.’

  Adam took Lay Sermons and Private Prayers out of one of his bags and passed it over. ‘It’s very boring and of no literary merit whatsoever,’ he said, as Bernie thumbed through the manuscript.

  ‘Was this ever published?’

  ‘No. Merrymarsh published a number of books, but he couldn’t get anyone to take that.’

  ‘Well, we will,’ said Bernie. ‘How much do you want for it?’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ said Adam. ‘The owner wants £250 for it.’

  ‘Let’s say two seventy-five,’ said Bernie. ‘You’re entitled to a commission.’ He took out a thick wad of five-pound notes and began counting them into Adam’s hand. Adam stopped him at the fifth.

  ‘Would you mind paying the owner direct?’ he said. ‘You’ll find her name and address on the inside of the cover.’

  ‘O.K.’ said Bernie. ‘Say, Adam, could you use a part-time job?’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘Scouting for books and manuscripts for our library. It’s like this: I have to go back to the States soon. You could be our buyer on the spot. Ten per cent commission and expenses. Is it a deal?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Adam. ‘But I’ll have to ask my wife.’

  Bernie dropped Adam at the corner of his street. As they shook hands, he pressed a card into Adam’s.

  ‘This is my hotel. Call me when you’ve talked to your wife.’

  Adam bounded down the street, indifferent to the bags banging against his knees. He was going to do more than talk to his wife. He was going to make love to her.

  He paused at the gate and looked up at the window of their bedroom. The light was on, so she wasn’t asleep yet. Was that a star he could see above the roof . . .? The fog was clearing then. And, yes—he flexed his leg—he had lost his limp. It was absurd to let this pregnancy thing get on top of you. If she was, they might as well make the best of it, and if she wasn’t—

  His elation subsided as he suddenly thought of something. Supposing . . . supposing, since he had last spoken to her . . . supposing . . .

  It was absurd, but he actually hoped her period hadn’t started.

  EPILOGUE

  Perhaps she ought to wake Adam up and tell him it had started, Barbara thought, as she came out of the bathroom. The passage was quite dark but, schooled by many night-time alarms and excursions, she negotiated it with confidence. Their bedroom was dimly lit by the street lamps shining through the curtains, and Adam’s face had a bluish tint. He was sound asleep. She wasn’t surprised—by the sound of it he’d been tearing all over London all day in the fog; and she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been drunk at the sherry party. That was probably how he lost his job, she speculated. The job he never had. They were going to give it to Camel, apparently. Well, Camel had waited long enough. And this offer by the American sounded all right, if she’d got it straight.

  ‘Adam,’ she said softly, as she took off her dressing-gown. But he didn’t stir. Let him sleep, then. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tell him. And wouldn’t he be pleased. Rush off to the Museum full of beans. He never could work properly when he was worried, which meant once a month at least . . .

  As she was getting into bed Barbara heard a muffled cry. Dominic. Resignedly she swung her feet to the floor again and pushed them into her slippers. She shrugged on her dressing-gown and padded into the children’s room. Dominic had managed to roll his sheets into ropes and had got them knotted round his legs. She held the whimpering child in one arm while she smoothed the bedclothes with her other hand. As she tucked him up again he fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. Barbara glanced at Edward. From the shadows came Clare’s voice: ‘Can I have a drink of water, Mummy?’

  ‘Why aren’t you asleep, Clare?’

  ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘All right.’

  Barbara fetched a glass of water from the kitchen. Clare sipped it slowly.

  ‘Is Daddy back?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Where’s Daddy’s uniform, Mummy?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The men who worked at the British Museum had uniforms.’

  ‘Daddy doesn’t do that kind of work.’

  ‘What kind of—’

  ‘Shsh. Go to sleep It’s late.’

  Well, the children had enjoyed the trip to the Museum, anyway. Still, it had been silly of her to panic like that. What good would it have done, supposing there had been a fire? He might have been trying to reach her by telephone. Goodness, he must have spent a fortune in phone calls today. And what had he been doing all the afternoon, anyway? Oh, she hadn’t heard the whole story yet, not by a long chalk.

  A ruck in the curtains attracted her notice, and she went over to the window to adjust them. Well, he’d nearly burned himself to death anyway, by all accounts, she thought, looking out of the window and catching sight of the crumpled tarpaulin in the garden below. Funny that the scooter had never given any trouble while Dad had it. Perhaps he didn’t know how to drive it properly. Who ever heard of a scooter catching fire spontaneously? She wasn’t sorry though—he was bound to have killed himself on it one of these days, and the insurance would come in handy. With the money the American had given him, they would be quite rich for a while.

  I need a new coat, she thought, as she returned to the kitchen with the half-filled glass. My red one is all out of shape from carrying Dominic and Edward. I’ll get a fitted one this time. Act of faith, but I might as well make the most of my figure while I’ve still got it. Shoes for Dominic. A blouse for Clare. And underpants for Adam, four pairs at least. Can’t have that happening again. I had to laugh when he took off his trousers tonight, I’d forgotten all about it. Supposing you had an accident, as Mum used to say. As if it was all right to have an accident as long as your underwear was respectable.

  Barbara emptied the glass at the sink and filled it again to drink herself. This morning he remembered that day in France, she thought, that day we went swimming in our underclothes and afterwards I didn’t wear anything under my dress. The sea and the sun and miles from home. That was the nearest we ever came to . . . Good job we didn’t. With our luck we’d have had to get married straight away. Have six children now instead of three. Poor Mary Flynn. What will it be? Five all under six. I’d go mad, literally stark staring mad. Damn, I’ve forgotten to lay the table for breakfast.

  With quiet, deft movements Barbara spread a cloth on the table, and began to lay out knives, forks, spoons, cups and saucers, plates, cornflakes and marmalade.

  Why I forgot was because he was so keen to get into bed, she thought. But I like it when we make love spontaneously. That’s the trouble with the Safe Method, or one of them, it’s too mechanical, you’re always watching the calendar, it’s like launching a rocket—five four three two one, and by the time it’s zero you’re too tensed up to . . . Not tonight, though. I’ve not known him so happy for ages, bubbling over with plans for finis
hing his thesis and finding old books and manuscripts for the American and what was it he said about writing a novel, as if he hadn’t got enough on his plate. Probably have forgotten all about it by the morning.

  Her eyes were now quite accustomed to the darkness, and it had become in an odd way a point of honour not to switch on the light. She felt delicately in the dark recesses of drawers and cupboards for the things she wanted, taking pleasure in this testing of her sense of touch.

  I’ll feel awful telling Mary I’m not pregnant after all, she thought. If she hadn’t converted her husband they would have been able to use contraceptives. Doesn’t seem fair, somehow. Lots of girls marry non-Catholics on purpose. He has to sign a promise, but if he goes back on it and insists the priest will tell you to submit for the sake of saving the marriage. It’s the lesser evil, they say, but it only applies if the Catholic partner’s a woman. That’s typical—as if they never dreamed a woman might want to insist. Perhaps they wouldn’t have when they made the rule. The Vatican’s always about a hundred years out of date.

  Barbara yawned and shivered. She made a last check on the breakfast table, and left the kitchen.

  And another thing I’ve forgotten is to say my prayers, she thought, as she reached the bedroom. Perhaps I’ll skip them tonight. But I suppose I’ve got something to be thankful for. Just a Hail Mary then. There’s such a draught across this floor.

  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb perhaps I should tell Adam now. If he wakes before me in the morning he’ll lie there all depressed wondering if I’m pregnant. But perhaps he’ll see the box on the dressing-table and guess. Wasn’t there some French woman who used to change the flower in her bosom from white to red to tip off her lovers? Was it La Dame aux Camélias? I don’t know. I’m forgetting all my French lit. But they’re white and red. The language of flowers. Better than some ways of saying it, like the curse, or what is it they say in Birmingham, ‘I haven’t seen yet this month.’ And that American girl, what was her name, in my last year at college, said falling off a roof. Well, Clare will say period and menstruate if I have anything to do with it. And I’ll make sure she knows in good time, not like me up in the bedroom screaming I’m dying, I’ve never forgiven Mum for that. Or that poor girl, what was her name, Olive in IIIA, Olive Green, couldn’t forget a name like that, bad as Adam Appleby. She went up to the teacher in class, ‘Please Miss, I’ve got a terrible headache.’ Teacher thought she meant period and gave her a sanitary towel to put on. She came back from the cloakroom half an hour later wearing it round her head, never seen one in her life before. Funny thing was, nobody laughed, though girls are little beasts at that age. Who was that teacher? Miss Bassett, she taught us French and History. It was she who encouraged me to do French at the University. The main attraction was the six months in France, but I’d met Adam by then and I didn’t want to go. He was almost out of his mind, wrote to me every day till he couldn’t stand it any longer he hitch-hiked right down to the South of France and we decided to get engaged. I’ll never forget the day he turned up out of the blue on Madame Gerard’s front door step sweating and covered in dust when he took off his rucksack he couldn’t straighten up he had to turn sideways and sort of twist his head round to talk to her. I believe she thought he was a tramp his French was incomprehensible a good job I was there or perhaps she would have slammed the door on him not that she was any more pleased when she found out who he was she was a sour old shrew seemed to think my chastity was her personal responsibility chaperoned us all the time except that one day she had to go into Perpignan and we went to the sea . . .