by P. D. James
“It’ll be enough. There’s a trustees’ meeting tomorrow, isn’t there? I phoned Aunt Caroline to inquire. You don’t want it to go on, do you? I mean, you’ve always known that Grandad cared more for it than he did for you or any of his family. It was always a private indulgence. It isn’t doing any good anyway. Uncle Marcus may think he can make a go of it, but he can’t. He’ll just keep spending money until he’ll have to let it go. I want you to promise not to sign the new lease. That way I can borrow from you with a clear conscience. I’m not taking money from you otherwise, money I can’t hope to pay back. I’m sick of being indebted, of having to be grateful.”
“Sarah, you don’t have to be grateful.”
“Don’t I? I’m not stupid, Dad. I know handing out cash is easier for you than loving me, I’ve always accepted that. I knew when I was a kid that love is what you gave to your patients, not to Mummy or me.”
It was an old complaint and he had heard it many times before, both from his wife and from Sarah. He knew there was some truth in it, but not as much as she and her mother had actually believed. The grievance had been too obvious, too simplistic and too convenient. The relationship between them had been subtler and far more complex than this easy psychological theorizing could explain. He didn’t argue, but waited.
She said, “You want the museum closed, don’t you? You’ve always known what it did to you and Granny. It’s the past, Dad. It’s about dead people and dead years. You’ve always said that we’re too obsessed with our past, with hoarding and collecting for the sake of it. For God’s sake, can’t you stand up for once to your brother and sister?”
The bottle of wine had remained unopened. Now, with his back to her, steadying his hand by an act of will, he uncorked the Margaux and poured two glasses. He said, “I think the museum should be closed and I have it in mind to say so at tomorrow’s meeting. I don’t expect the others to agree. It’s bound to be a battle of wills.”
“What do you mean, have it in mind? You sound like Uncle Marcus. You must know by now what you want to happen. And you don’t have to do anything, do you? You don’t even have to convince them. I know you’d rather do anything than face a family quarrel. All you’ve got to do is to refuse to sign the new lease by the due date and keep out of their way. They can’t force you.”
Taking the wine over to her, he said, “How soon do you need the money?”
“I want it within days. I’m thinking of flying to New Zealand. Betty Carter is there. I don’t suppose you remember her, but we trained together. She married a New Zealander and she’s always been keen for me to take a holiday with them. I thought of starting in the South Island and then maybe move on to Australia and then California. I want to be able to live for a year without having to work. After that I can decide what I want to do next. It won’t be teaching.”
“You can’t do anything in a hurry. There may be visa requirements, plane seats to be booked. It isn’t a good time to leave England. The world couldn’t be more unsettled, more dangerous.”
“You could argue that’s a case for getting out and going as far as you can. I’m not worried about terrorism here or anywhere else. I’ve got to leave. I’ve been a failure at everything I’ve touched. I think I’ll go mad if I have to stay another month in this bloody country.”
He could have said, But you’ll be taking yourself with you. He didn’t. He knew what scorn—and it would be justifiable scorn—she would pour on that platitude. Any agony aunt in any women’s magazine could have done as much for her as he was doing. But there was the money. He said, “I could let you have a cheque tonight if you want it. And I’ll stand firm on closing the museum. It’s the right thing to do.”
He sat opposite her. They didn’t look at each other, but at least they were sipping wine together. He was swept with a sudden yearning towards her so strong that, had they been standing, he might impulsively have moved to take her into his arms. Was this love? But he knew that it was something less iconoclastic and disturbing, something with which he could deal. It was that mixture of pity and guilt which he had felt for the Gearings. But he had made a promise and it was one he knew he would have to keep. He knew, too, and the realization came in a wave of self-disgust, that he was glad she would be moving. His over-burdened life would be easier with his only child at the other end of the world.
12
The time of the trustees’ meeting on Wednesday 30 October—three o’clock—was arranged, so Neville understood, to suit Caroline, who had morning and evening commitments. It didn’t suit him. He was never at his liveliest after lunch and it had meant rearranging his afternoon domiciliary visits. They were to meet in the library on the first floor as they usually did on these rare occasions when, as trustees, they had business to transact. With the room’s rectangular central table, the three fixed lights under parchment shades, it was the obvious place, but it was not the one he would have chosen. He had too many memories of entering it as a child summoned by his father, his hands clammy and his heart thudding. His father had never struck him; his verbal cruelty and undisguised contempt for his middle child had been a more sophisticated abuse and had left invisible but lasting scars. He had never discussed their father with Marcus and Caroline except in the most general terms. They apparently had suffered less or not at all. Marcus had always been a self-contained, solitary and uncommunicative child, later brilliant at school and at university, and armed against the tensions of family life by an unimaginative self-sufficiency. Caroline, as the youngest and only daughter, had always been their father’s favourite in so far as he was capable of demonstrating affection. The museum had been his life, and his wife, unable to compete and finding small consolation in her children, had opted out of the competition by dying before she was forty.
He arrived on time but Marcus and Caroline were there before him. He wondered if this was by prior arrangement. Had they discussed their strategy in advance? But of course they had; every manoeuvre in this battle would have been planned in advance. As he entered they were standing together at the far end of the room and now came towards him, Marcus carrying a black briefcase.
Caroline looked dressed for battle. She was wearing black trousers with an open-necked grey-and-white-striped shirt in fine wool, a red silk scarf knotted at her throat, the ends flowing like a flag of defiance. Marcus, as if to emphasize the official importance of the meeting, was formally dressed for the office, the stereotype of an immaculate civil servant. Beside him Neville felt that his own shabby raincoat, the well-worn grey suit, inadequately brushed, made him look like a supplicant poor relation. He was, after all, a consultant; now without even the obligation of alimony, he wasn’t poor. A new suit could well have been afforded if he hadn’t lacked the time and energy to buy it. Now for the first time when meeting his siblings, he felt himself at a sartorial disadvantage; that the feeling was both irrational and demeaning made it the more irritating. He had only rarely seen Marcus in his non-working holiday clothes, the khaki shorts, the striped T-shirt or thick round-necked jersey he wore on vacations. So far from transforming him, the careful casualness had emphasized his essential conformity. Informally dressed he always looked to Neville’s eyes a little ridiculous, like an overgrown boy scout. Only in his well-tailored formal suits did he appear at ease. He was very much at ease now.
Neville pulled off his raincoat, tossed it on a chair and moved across to the central table. Three chairs had been pulled out between the lights. At each place were a manila document folder and a glass tumbler. A carafe of water was set on a salver between two of the lights. Because it was the nearest, Neville moved to the single chair, then realized as he sat that he would be physically and psychologically disadvantaged from the start. But having sat he couldn’t bring himself to change.
Marcus and Caroline took their places. Only by a swift glance did Marcus betray that the single chair had been intended for him. He put down the briefcase at his side. To Neville the table looked prepared for a viva voce examina
tion. There could be no doubt which of them was the examiner; no doubt either who was expected to fail. The ceiling-high filled shelves with their locked glass seemed to bear down on him, bringing back his childish imagining that they were inadequately constructed and would break away from the wall, at first in slow motion, then in a thunder of falling leather, to bury him under the killing weight of the books. The dark recesses of the jutting piers at his back induced the same remembered terror of lurking peril. The Murder Room, which might have been expected to exert a more powerful if less personal terror, had evoked only pity and curiosity. As an adolescent he had stood looking in silent contemplation at those unreadable faces, as if the intensity of his gaze could somehow wrest from them some insight into their dreadful secrets. He would stare at Rouse’s bland and stupid face. Here was a man who had offered a tramp a lift with the intention of burning him alive. Neville could imagine the gratitude with which the weary traveller had climbed into the car and to his death. At least Rouse had had the mercy to club or throttle him unconscious before setting him alight, but surely that had been expedience rather than pity. The tramp had been unacknowledged, unnamed, unwanted, still unidentified. Only in his terrible death had he gained a fleeting notoriety. Society, which had cared so little for him in life, had avenged him with the full panoply of the law.
He waited while Marcus, unhurried, opened his briefcase, took out his papers and adjusted his spectacles. He said, “Thank you for coming. I’ve prepared three folders with the documents we need. I haven’t included copies of the trust deed—the terms, after all, are well known to the three of us—although I have it in my briefcase if either of you wish to refer to it. The relevant paragraph for the present discussion is clause three. This provides that all major decisions regarding the museum, including the negotiation of a new lease, the appointment of senior staff and all acquisitions with a value of over £500 are to be agreed by the signature of all trustees. The present lease expires on fifteenth November of this year and its renewal accordingly requires our three signatures. In the event of the museum being sold or closed the trust provides that all pictures valued at more than £500 and all first editions shall be offered to named museums. The Tate has first refusal of the pictures and the British Library of the books and manuscripts. All remaining items are to be sold and the proceeds shared between the trustees then in office and all direct descendents of our father. That means the proceeds will be divided between we three, my son and his two children, and Neville’s daughter. The clear intention of our father in establishing the family trust is, therefore, that the museum should continue in being.”
Caroline said, “Of course it must continue in being. As a matter purely of interest, how much would we receive if it doesn’t?”
“If we don’t have our three signatures on the lease? I haven’t commissioned a valuation so the figures are entirely my own estimate. Most of the exhibits left after the gifts are of considerable historic or sociological interest but probably not valuable on the open market. My estimate is that we would receive about £25,000 each.”
“Oh well, a useful sum, but hardly worth selling one’s birthright for.”
Marcus turned a page in his dossier. “I have provided a copy of the new lease as Appendix B. The terms except for the annual rent are unchanged in any significant respect. The term is for thirty years, the rent to be renegotiated every five. You’ll see that the cost is still reasonable, indeed highly advantageous and far more favourable than we could hope to obtain for such a property on the open market. This, as you know, is because the landlord is prohibited from granting the lease except to an organization concerned with literature or the arts.”
Neville said, “We know all this.”
“I realize that. I thought it would be helpful to reiterate the facts before we begin decision-making.”
Neville fixed his eyes on the works of H. G. Wells on the shelf opposite. Did anyone, he wondered, read them now? He said, “What we have to decide is how we deal with closure. I ought to say now that I have no intention of signing a new lease. It’s time for the Dupayne Museum to close. I thought it right to make my position clear at the outset.”
There was a few seconds’ silence. Neville willed himself to look into their faces. Neither Marcus nor Caroline was giving anything away, neither showing any surprise. This salvo was the beginning of a battle they had expected and were prepared for. They had little doubt of the outcome, only of the most effective strategy.
Marcus’s voice, when it came, was calm. “I think that decision is premature. None of us can reasonably decide on the future of the museum until we have considered whether, financially, we can continue. How, for example, the cost of the new lease can be met and what changes are necessary to bring this museum into the twenty-first century.”
Neville said, “As long as you realize that further discussion is a waste of time. I’m not acting impulsively. I’ve been thinking this over since Father died. It’s time for the museum to close and the exhibits to be distributed elsewhere.”
Neither Marcus nor Caroline replied. Neville made no further protest. Reiteration would only weaken his case. Better let them talk and then simply and quickly restate his decision.
As if Neville hadn’t spoken, Marcus went on, “Appendix C sets out my proposals for the reorganizing and more effective funding of the museum. I have provided the accounts for last year, the figures for attendances and projected costing. You will see that I have proposed financing a new lease by the selling of a single picture, perhaps a Nash. This will be within the terms of the trust if the proceeds are totally committed to the more effective running of the museum. We can let one picture go without too great harm. After all, the Dupayne is not primarily a picture gallery. As long as we have a representative work of the major artists of the period, we can justify the gallery. We need then to look at staffing. James Calder-Hale is doing an efficient and useful job and may as well continue for the present, but I suggest that we shall eventually need a qualified curator if the museum is to develop. At present our staffing consists of James, Muriel Godby the secretary–receptionist, Tallulah Clutton in the cottage who does all except the heavy cleaning, and the boy Ryan Archer, part-time gardener and handyman. Then there are the two volunteers, Mrs. Faraday who gives advice on the garden and grounds, and Mrs. Strickland the calligrapher. Both are giving useful services.”
Caroline said, “You might reasonably have included me on the list. I’m here at least twice a week. I’m virtually running the place since Father died. If there’s any overall control it comes from me.”
Marcus said evenly, “There’s no effective overall control, that’s the problem. I’m not underestimating what you do, Caroline, but the whole setup is essentially amateur. We have to start thinking professionally if we’re going to make the fundamental changes we need to survive.”
Caroline frowned. “We don’t need fundamental changes. What we’ve got is unique. All right, it’s small. It’s never going to attract the public like a more comprehensive museum, but it was set up for a purpose and it fulfils it. From the figures you’ve produced here it looks as if you’re hoping to attract official funds. Forget it. The Lottery won’t give us a pound, why should it? And if it did we would have to supplement the grant, which would be impossible. The local authority is already hard pressed—all LAs are—and central government can’t fund adequately even the great national museums, the V and A and the British Museum. I agree we’ve got to increase our income, but not by selling our independence.”
Marcus said, “We’re not going for public money. Not to the government, not to the local authority, not to the Lottery. We wouldn’t get it anyway. And we’d regret it if we did. Think of the British Museum: some five million in the red. The government insists on a free admissions policy, funds them inadequately, they get into trouble and have to go back to the government cap in hand. Why don’t they sell off their immense surplus stock, charge reasonable admission fees for all except vulner
able groups and make themselves properly independent?”
Caroline said, “They can’t legally dispose of charitable gifts and they can’t exist without support. I agree that we can. And I don’t see why museums and galleries have to be free. Other cultural provision isn’t—classical concerts, the theatre, dance, the BBC—assuming you think the Beeb still produces culture. And don’t think of letting the flat, by the way. That’s been mine since Father died and I need it. I can’t live in a bed-sit at Swathling’s.”
Marcus said calmly, “I wasn’t thinking of depriving you of the flat. It’s unsuitable for exhibits and the access by one lift or through the Murder Room would be inconvenient. We’re not short of space.”
“And don’t think, either, of getting rid of Muriel or Tally. They both more than earn their inadequate salaries.”
“I wasn’t thinking of getting rid of them. Godby in particular is too efficient to lose. I’m giving thought to some extended responsibilities for her—without, of course, interfering with what she does for you. But we need someone more sympathetic and welcoming on the front desk. I thought of recruiting a graduate as secretary–receptionist. One with the necessary skills, naturally.”
“Oh, come off it, Marcus! What sort of graduate? One from a basket-weaving university? You’d better be sure she’s literate. Muriel deals with the computer, the Internet and the accounts. Find a graduate who can do all that on her wages and you’ll be bloody lucky.”
Neville had said nothing during this exchange. The adversaries might be turning on each other but essentially they had the same aim: to keep the museum going. He would wait his chance. He was surprised, not for the first time, how little he knew his siblings. He had never believed that being a psychiatrist gave him a passkey to the human mind, but no two minds were more closely barred to him than the two which shared with him the spurious intimacy of consanguinity. Marcus was surely more complicated than his carefully controlled bureaucratic exterior would suggest. He played the violin to near professional standard; that must mean something. And then there was his embroidery. Those pale, carefully tended hands had peculiar skills. Watching his brother’s hands, Neville could picture the long manicured fingers in a ceaseless montage of activity; penning elegant minutes on official files, stopping the violin strings, threading his needles with silk, or moving as they did now over the methodically prepared papers. Brother Marcus with his boring conventional suburban house, his ultra-respectable wife who had probably never given him an hour’s anxiety, his successful surgeon son now carving out a lucrative career in Australia. And Caroline. When, he wondered, had he ever begun to know what lay at the core of her life? He had never visited the school. He despised what he thought it stood for—a privileged preparation for a life of indulgence and idleness. Her life there was a mystery to him. He suspected that her marriage had disappointed her, but for eleven years it had endured. What now was her sexual life? It was difficult to believe that she was celibate as well as solitary. He was aware of weariness. His legs began a spasmodic juddering of tiredness and it was difficult to keep his eyes open. He willed himself into wakefulness and heard Marcus’s even and unhurried voice.