The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  ‘He donated himself to the museum, Archie. Most terrible job I’ve ever had to do, cleaning him up. He arrived, skinned, in a hessian sack. No respect at all. But I did it for him. When he was alive he often complained that there were no Scots’ skulls to compare with those of the blacks. And he loved the place. Seems he never wanted to leave it. The director had a wonderful plan for him too. Eric represents the epitome of human evolution in the new gallery: the British Race. His is a fine skull. Strong and masculine. I even fitted him with a new set of teeth. You might have seen him there already. Sitting atop the skulls of all the other races, with “Caledonian” written in ink across his brow, as he’d have wished. And, you know, the director showed me his will. Eric left five quid so the staff could drink a toast to him. We were going to organise a small celebration in his honour, let everybody know that he was still with us, so to speak, after we’d got the exhibition open.’

  Bumstocks was becoming animated. Beatrice noticed a dirty bandage on his left wrist.

  ‘Henry, come to the sink. Whatever’s under that bandage needs tending to.’

  Archie went to the laundry for some Eusol and a fresh bandage while Beatrice gently removed the old one. Under it was a large festering cut.

  ‘It’s been so long since I’ve had that,’ Henry said as Beatrice took his hand in hers and began gently to clean it.

  ‘How on earth did you do it?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘An accident. I was cleaning up Eric, and I suppose me nerves were on edge—not wanting to be seen doing such a job and all. But I owed it to my old friend to do it. Then a giraffe bone dropped from a shelf in the workshop. It broke into splinters with a tremendous crash. I’m sure it was dislodged by someone. Probably some poor homeless chap looking for a dry place to spend the night. Mordant often forgets to close the taxidermy entrance, and more than once we’ve come to work to find a poor waif sleeping among the taxidermy mounts. Anywise, the sound gave me such a fright that I gashed my wrist with the flensin’ knife, and I rushed outside, yelling in pain and anger. But nobody came to help me. Nobody heard at all. So I just cleaned myself up, and came home.’

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ Beatrice said, resting her hand on his. ‘I’m so glad we got to know you. You’ve set our minds at ease about so very much.’

  Archie and Beatrice walked back to the Balmain ferry. A bright, full moon shone out over the sandstone city. They were in no hurry, and stopped to admire the moonbeams skipping over the waves.

  It was, Beatrice felt, an impossibly romantic night. One on which a girl might swoon if she received a proposal. When Archie began to speak, her heart swelled.

  ‘Beatrice. I’ve been thinking about things. I was wrong to propose to you as I did. As you foresaw, my foreskin belongs in the collection.’

  Beatrice could think of no response.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having it cared for,’ Archie went on in the silence that followed, ‘into the unimaginable future, by curators of anthropology. They’re priests and priestesses, really—custodians of our human sense of ingenuity, belief and beauty. But for all their efforts they can’t preserve the full meaning of things. One day my foreskin will be just a love token from the Venus Islands. But that’s okay with me. Is it okay by you too, Beatrice?’

  ‘Shut up, Archie! Actually, it’s not all right by me. Not at all.’

  Archie stood puzzled as Beatrice reached up and kissed him. As unexpected as it was, it was the sweetest moment of his life. She flashed her left hand, and he saw a brown parchment ring on her fourth finger.

  ‘It was meant for you, Beatrice. I’ve only got the one.’ Then he plucked up the courage to ask her. Again.

  Chapter 27

  Henry, Beatrice and Archie set to work organising Eric’s final carouse. They spread the word around the museum that the following Friday informal drinks would be held in the evolution gallery, in honour of Eric Sopwith. Vere Griffon, uncertain about whether he still had any respect among the staff, debated whether to go.

  ‘You really must do it, old chap,’ Abotomy advised. ‘Like going to the funeral of a colleague. Expected of us big men, you know.’

  Vere was girding his loins for the event when he heard a knock on the pillar that served as his door.

  ‘Dithers! Good to see you, old stick.’

  ‘Vere, I’ve come because I’m worried about the museum. And about you,’ Dithers said cautiously. ‘I appreciate tremendously the support you’ve shown me of late, but I must say that when I sing your praises I’m a voice in the wilderness. I’m afraid that the old European style of director doesn’t work well here.’

  To Dithers’ surprise Vere Griffon listened. The director could tell that Dithers was speaking from the heart.

  ‘You must understand, Vere, that the Antipodeans are a strange lot. I fought with them at the charnel house that was Pozières. They were the bravest soldiers I ever commanded, and they died like flies. In somebody else’s war. I never saw one shot in the back for deserting the fighting. But they hated being ordered about. The worst day of my life came when I was commanded to assemble a firing squad to execute a young man for failing to salute a brigadier. He was the best soldier we had. Fearless. Refused a blindfold: just stood there staring at me as the squad fired, as if to say, “I’m every bit as good as you, mate”. I was only twenty-one—just a year or two older than him—and not a night goes by when I don’t relive it.

  ‘I can’t help but think,’ Dithers went on, ‘that if you trusted them a bit—mixed with the troops; that sort of thing—you’d find that you have the finest set of curators in the world. And a far easier job of it.’

  Griffon thought that maybe, just maybe, Dithers had a point.

  ‘I have my own problems, Vere,’ Dithers continued. ‘Abotomy is a queer sort of chap. Deficient, somehow. Lacking in character. He’s convinced that I attempted to seduce his wife, a charge of which I’m entirely innocent. He has threatened me with, er, physical violence.’

  ‘Yes, a most disagreeable type. But in this case all bluff and bluster. Though I do know what you mean about his character. I can’t help but think that in a frontier country like this, men like Abotomy are considered great solely because they get things done. A conscience just gets in the way. If you want to find the truly great here, you have to dig. History buries them deep.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. There is just one more thing. I have a manuscript I intend to publish. Could I leave a copy with you?

  Griffon scanned the title page: ‘The Role of Museums in a Nation Founded on Murder’.

  ‘I see. I’ll try to get to it…in the fullness of time. But, my dear chap, the subject is outside your area of expertise.’

  Dithers knew what that meant. Obfuscation and delay, in the hope he’d lose interest in pursuing what Griffon doubtless saw as his latest craze. He slumped against the pillar. He had more sympathy than hard feelings towards his director. But the last few weeks had changed him. It was as if the shellshock and despair had finally lifted. He had discovered that there was something worth fighting for. He knew what he must do, and now there was no way but the hard way.

  ‘Shall we be off to Sopwith’s do?’ Griffon asked. He took Dithers by the arm and led him from the room.

  Archie and Beatrice were surpris
ed at who turned up. Some board members came along, and even the museum recluse, Mr Trembley, put in an appearance. He was, Archie was surprised to see, wearing his Samurai sword.

  Almost everyone had a story of Sopwith’s kindness—and everyone arrived with a bottle or two and some food. With the five quid’s worth of catering, they’d have a surplus to give to the street kids.

  Henry Bumstocks, Archie and Beatrice were debating who should say a few words when Griffon and Dithers walked through the door. Immediately, the atmosphere chilled. Dr Doughty hopped forward, a determined look on her face. ‘Director, I know you’ve done much to support me of late, and I’m grateful for it. But you should be ashamed of yourself, pilfering the Bathurst meteorite from the collection while I was in the field. It was a despicable act!’

  Vere Griffon’s jaw tightened. He looked at the faces around him and fought the impulse to be high-handed.

  ‘Elizabeth, I knew that you would be upset, but please try to understand. These miserable financial times put the very existence of the museum at stake. And I do bear responsibility for the fate of this institution. Sacrifices had to be made. I can’t tell you what a difference the acquisition of the Giglione goats has made to the finances of the place. I’m only sorry that the meteorite perished in the fire.’

  ‘You’re mistaken there, Director. On the evening of the blaze, my dear Leggenhacker assisted me in removing it from your office and returning it to the mineral collection. The Bathurst meteorite is a most precious celestial body. It has the power to reveal the mysteries of outer space, and I have no doubt that one day it will! But after wandering the heavens for millions of years it very nearly didn’t get the chance. No thanks to you.’

  ‘I see,’ Griffon said, suddenly understanding why the urchin thought he saw a butcher and a one-legged man fleeing from the fire. ‘That is good news, Elizabeth. And of course you are quite right. Quite right.’

  Griffon drew himself into a directorial stance.

  ‘I have an announcement to make. At the next meeting of the board I intend to propose an amendment to the rules. From now on, curators will be consulted, regardless of where they are, if specimens they’re responsible for are required for any purpose. We will live with the delays entailed. After all, you curators are the backbone of the institution, and your authority needs to be respected.’

  A murmur of surprise rose from the crowd.

  ‘While I am on the subject of curators, I have another thing to say. This morning I received approval from the Public Service Board for the elevation of Mr Archibald Meek from the position of assistant to full curator in the anthropology department.’

  A wave of jubilation swept through the hall. The efforts of an esteemed colleague had been recognised. And many dared believe that the sanctity of a curator’s care for his collection was to be upheld. Nothing was more important to the museum men and women assembled there. Dithers, catching the emotion, led a huge ‘hurrah’. He grabbed Archie and old Mr Trembley, and together they lifted their rather alarmed director onto their shoulders and began parading him around the room. It was Dithers who struck up the old tune:

  Here’s to the prof. of museology,

  Master of all natural history!

  Good man he, and good men we,

  that suu-ch—a one—our director be.

  Hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray!

  With each cheer the curators tossed an embarrassed Griffon into the air. And they caught him again.

  When things calmed down Archie tapped his glass. ‘Director, friends and colleagues. In an institution such as this, where we live and die for our science and our collections, it’s not surprising that passions can lead to tension. And so it should be. But we must honour the spirit of this place. And there you see it,’ Archie said, pointing to a skull mounted high on the wall. ‘The last and greatest gift a curator can give to his institution is himself—whether in the field or in a will. Here’s to one of the finest curators this museum has ever known. And I believe that I can discern a smile on him even now. Ladies and gentlemen. I propose a toast to our friend and colleague, Eric Sopwith.’

  ‘To Eric,’ the choir of voices rang out as all eyes turned towards the skull.

  ‘May he not be forgotten,’ added Henry Bumstocks, a tear in his eye.

  ‘There’s something I’d like to say.’ Courtenay Dithers was tapping his glass. ‘I’m sure that the entire staff will be most interested to learn a little secret. We have one more cause for celebration today. This morning Miss Beatrice Goodenough informed me that she has accepted a proposal of marriage from Mr Archibald Meek. So, here’s to the happy couple. Long may they sail with us!’

  This time it was Archie and Beatrice being carried aloft, with Chumley Abotomy leading the cheers.

  As the drinking started in earnest, Abraham Trembley caught Archie’s eye.

  ‘I’ve seen things in the corridors, young man. Things that cause me to carry my sword wherever I go. A word of advice. Look to your man-catcher.’

  Archie barely caught the old man’s words over the din. His man-catcher? Perhaps he was telling him to look after Beatrice.

  ‘I certainly will, Mr Trembley. She’s quite a catch herself, I think.’

  Trembley raised a bushy eyebrow and a corner of his mouth, and transfixed Archie with a look of horror, before vanishing into the crowd.

  Chumley turned to Vere Griffon.

  ‘Must be off, old fellow. Portia’s at the hospital. About to pup at any moment. I might even be a father by now. But walk with me a little. I hear that Professor Picinnini of Florence has the most tremendous collection of stuffed swine. Every wild and domesticated breed, and every type of boar under the sun. What say we grab them for the colonies? I understand that the treasurer’s a keen pork man.’

  ‘Perhaps, old chap,’ the director replied. ‘But I feel I need a holiday first. Might ask for some leave. Just a couple of months. Fancy I’d like to see Malaya.’

  Chapter 28

  Courtenay Dithers felt that he had done what he could for Archie. Now he knew that he must do something for all humanity. He took a copy of the paper he had given to Griffon and strode to Speaker’s Corner in the Domain. A crowd of fifty had gathered around a cadaverous-looking fellow in a ragged black suit who stood on a fruit box holding a sign proclaiming ‘Christ is Risen!’ in handwritten capitals. A few yards away a nuggety man stood atop another box, shouting to a smaller crowd about the universal brotherhood of working men.

  Dithers stepped onto a vacant box, and began to read.

  ‘The Role of Museums in a Nation Founded on Murder. By Dr Courtenay Dithers.’

  A few people drifted away from the cadaverous speaker, and approached.

  ‘The continent of Australia was colonised by Britain less than 150 years ago. Prior to that it was the home of hundreds of thousands of black men and women. What happened to them? Many thousands died in a war. One of the bloodiest and most craven wars ever known. Men, women and children were indiscriminately shot, poisoned and bludgeoned to death—by colonial Australians.’

  By now pretty much everyone in the Domain had gathered in front of Dithers. Even the nuggety man had got down from his soapbox to listen, w
hile the cadaverous chap watched in silence from atop his. As he read on Dithers caught a glimpse of a man throwing something at him, and felt a sharp pain in his forehead. Blood dripped into his left eye. ‘Liar!’ shouted his assailant, a man in a slick green suit, as he began scrabbling in the dirt, adding to the stones he had already gathered.

  ‘Who are you, sir!’ demanded Dithers, brushing the blood from his eye.

  ‘Ken Shuttlecrap. And I can tell you that the pioneers never massacred the blacks. We’ve been spending a fortune soothing the pillows of a dying race. They get better care on the missions than our unemployed do.’

  Dithers folded his manuscript and placed it in his pocket.

  ‘You see that grand memorial up there, in Hyde Park? We built it, by public subscription, to honour those who had fallen in the Great War. I was there, and I know. Nothing is as horrific as war. The civilised countries consumed the finest flower of their youth in the trenches of France. Brave men were shot in the back as they fled the insanity. The skeleton of the unknown soldier that rests in that sepulchre is symbolic of all the glorious fallen.

  ‘But in the war I talk of, whole tribes fell facing an enemy whose armaments made them all but invincible. The bravery of their heroes merits a VC. But where is their monument? Do you see that building to the left of the war memorial? It’s our museum. And it is filled with the remains of the unknown dead, including some of the finest soldiers this country has ever produced. Men who defended home and family armed with wooden spears and clubs, against horses and guns. Yet we do not honour them. Instead we study their bones, and trade them. We defile their glorious sacrifice.’

  ‘Nigger lover. Nigger lover.’ The chant started low, but quickly swelled into an aggressive howl.

  ‘Who did the killing?’ Dithers shouted above the crowd. ‘Our bunyip aristocracy, that’s who. It was the great and supposedly good of this country whose ancestors pulled the triggers. The Duggertons, the Abotomys…’