by P. D. James
“The investigations I have carried out during the last month led me to one inescapable conclusion. If it is to survive, the Dupayne Museum must change, and change fundamentally. We can no longer continue as a small, specialized repository of the past for a few scholars, researchers or historians. We have to be open to the public and see ourselves as educators and facilitators, not merely guardians of the long-dead decades. Above all, we must become inclusive. The policy has been set out by the government, in May 2000, in its publication Centres for Social Change: Museums, Galleries and Archives for All. It sees mainstreaming social improvement as a priority and states that museums should—and here I quote—identify the people who are socially excluded . . . engage them and establish their needs . . . develop projects which aim to improve the lives of people at risk of social exclusion. We have to be seen as an agent of social change.”
And now Caroline’s laughter was both sardonic and genuinely full-throated. “My God, Marcus, I’m astonished you never became head of a major Department of State! You’ve got all it takes. You’ve swallowed the whole contemporary jargon in one glorious gulp. What are we supposed to do? Go down to Highgate and Hampstead and find out what groups of people are not flattering us with their attendance? Conclude that we have too few unmarried mothers with two children, gays, lesbians, small shopkeepers, ethnic minorities? And then what do we do? Entice them in with a roundabout on the lawn for the kids, free cups of tea and a balloon to take away? If a museum does its job properly the people who are interested will come, and they won’t only be one class. I was at the British Museum last week with a group from school. At five-thirty people of every possible kind were pouring out—young, old, prosperous-looking, shabby, black, white. They visit because the museum is free and it’s magnificent. We can’t be either, but we can go on doing what we have been doing well since Father founded us. For God’s sake let’s continue to do just that. It will be difficult enough.”
Neville said, “If the pictures go to other galleries, nothing will be lost. They’ll still be on public display. People will still be able to see them, probably far more people.”
Caroline was dismissive. “Not necessarily. Highly unlikely, I should think. The Tate has thousands of pictures they haven’t the space to show. I doubt whether either the National Gallery or the Tate will be much interested in what we have to offer. It may be different for the smaller provincial galleries but there’s no guarantee they’ll want them. The pictures belong here. They’re part of a planned and coherent history of the inter-war decades.”
Marcus closed his dossier and rested his clasped hands on the cover. “There are two points I want to make before Neville has his say. The first is this. The terms of the trust are intended to ensure that the Dupayne Museum continues in being. We can take that as agreed. A majority of us wish it to continue. This means, Neville, that we don’t have to convince you of our case. The onus is on you to convince us. The second point is this. Are you sure of your own motives? Shouldn’t you face the possibility that what is behind this disagreement has nothing to do with rational doubts about whether the museum is financially viable or fulfils a useful purpose? Isn’t it possible that you’re motivated by revenge—revenge against Father—paying him back because the museum meant more to him than his family, more to him than you? If I’m right, then isn’t that rather childish, some might think ignoble?”
The words, delivered across the table in Marcus’s unemphatic monotone, apparently without rancour, a reasonable man propounding a reasonable theory, struck Neville with the force of a physical blow. He felt that he recoiled in his chair. He knew that his face must betray the strength and confusion of his reaction, an uncontrolled upsurge of shock, anger and surprise that could only confirm Marcus’s allegation. He had expected a fight, but not that his brother would venture on this perilous battleground. He was aware that Caroline was leaning forward, her eyes intent on his face. They waited for him to reply. He was tempted to say that one psychiatrist in the family was enough, but desisted; it wasn’t a moment for cheap irony. Instead, after a silence which seemed to last for half a minute, he found his voice and was able to speak calmly.
“Even if that were true—and it is no more true of me than of any other member of the family—it would make no difference to my decision. There is no point in continuing this discussion, particularly if it’s going to degenerate into psychological profiling. I have no intention of signing the new lease. And now I need to get back to my patients.”
It was at that moment that his mobile phone rang. He had meant to turn it off for the duration of the meeting but had forgotten. Now he went over to his raincoat and delved in the pocket. He heard his secretary’s voice. She had no need to speak her name.
“The police have been in touch. They wanted to ring you but I said I’d break the news. Mrs. Gearing has tried to kill herself and her husband. An overdose of soluble aspirin and plastic bags over their heads.”
“Are they all right?”
“The paramedics pulled Albert through. He’ll make it. She’s dead.”
He said through lips which felt swollen and as hard as muscle, “Thank you for telling me. I’ll speak later.”
He replaced the phone and walked back stiffly to his chair, surprised that his legs could carry him. He was aware of Caroline’s incurious gaze. He said, “Sorry. That was to say that the wife of one of my patients has killed herself.”
Marcus looked up from his papers. “Not your patient? His wife?”
“Not my patient.”
“As it wasn’t your patient it seems unnecessary, surely, for anyone to have troubled you.”
Neville didn’t reply. He sat with his hands clasped in his lap, afraid that his siblings might see their trembling. He was possessed by a terrifying anger so physical that it welled up like vomit. He needed to spew it out, as if in one foul-smelling stream he could rid himself of the pain and the guilt. He remembered Ada Gearing’s last words to him. I don’t think I can go on. She had meant it. Stoical and uncomplaining, she had realized her limit. She had told him and he hadn’t heard. It was extraordinary that neither Marcus nor Caroline should apparently be aware of this devastating tumult of self-disgust. He stared across at Marcus. His brother was frowning with concentration but was apparently little worried, beginning already to formulate argument and devise strategy. Caroline’s face was more easily read: she was still white with anger.
Frozen for a few seconds in their tableau of confrontation, none of them had heard the door open. Now a movement caught their attention. Muriel Godby was standing in the doorway carrying a laden tray. She said, “Miss Caroline asked me to bring up the tea at four o’clock. Shall I pour it now?”
Caroline nodded and began pushing the papers aside to make room on the table. Suddenly Neville could stand no more. He got up and, grabbing his raincoat, faced them for the last time.
“I’ve finished. There’s nothing more to be said. We’re all wasting our time. You may as well start planning for closure. I’ll never sign that lease. Never! And you can’t make me.”
Fleetingly he saw in their faces a spasm of contemptuous disgust. He knew how they must see him, a rebellious child wreaking his impotent anger on the grown-ups. But he wasn’t impotent. He had power, and they knew it.
He made blindly for the door. He wasn’t sure how it happened, whether his arm caught the edge of the tray or whether Muriel Godby had moved in an instinctive protest to block his way. The tray spun out of her hands. He brushed past her, aware only of her horrified cry, an arc of steaming tea and the crash of falling china. Without looking back he ran down the stairs, past Mrs. Strickland’s astonished eyes as she glanced up from the reception desk, and out of the museum.
13
Wednesday 30 October, the day of the trustees’ meeting, began for Tally like any other. She made her way before daylight to the museum and spent an hour on her normal routine. Muriel arrived early. She was carrying a basket and Tally guessed that she had,
as usual, baked biscuits for the trustees’ tea. Remembering her schooldays, Tally thought, She’s sucking up to teacher, and felt a spasm of sympathy for Muriel which she recognized as a reprehensible mixture of pity and slight contempt.
Returning from the small kitchen at the rear of the hall, Muriel explained the day’s programme. The museum would be open in the afternoon except for the library. Mrs. Strickland was due to arrive but had been told to work in the picture gallery. She could provide relief on the reception desk when Muriel was serving the tea. There would be no need to call on Tally. Mrs. Faraday had phoned to say that she had a cold and wouldn’t be coming in. Perhaps Tally would keep an eye on Ryan when he condescended to arrive to ensure that he didn’t take advantage of her absence.
Back at the cottage Tally was restless. Her usual walk on the Heath, which she took despite the drizzle, served only to leave her unusually tired without calming her mind or body. By midday she found that she wasn’t hungry and decided to postpone her lunch of soup and scrambled egg until Ryan had had his. Today he had brought half a small loaf of sliced brown bread and a tin of sardines. The key of the tin snapped when he tried to unfurl the lid and he had to fetch a can opener from the kitchen. It proved too much for the tin and, uncharacteristically, he bungled the task, spurting oil on to the table-cloth. The smell of fish rose strongly, filling the cottage. Tally moved to open the door and a window, but the wind was rising now, spattering thin shafts of rain against the glass. Returning to the table, she watched as Ryan smeared the mangled fish onto the bread using the butter knife instead of the one she had set out for him. It seemed petty to protest, but suddenly she wished he would go. The scrambled egg had lost its appeal and instead she went into the kitchen and opened a carton of bean and tomato soup. Carrying the large mug and soup spoon back into the sitting-room, she joined Ryan at the table.
He said through a mouth half-stuffed with bread, “Is it true that the museum is going to close and we’ll all be chucked out?”
Tally managed to keep the note of concern from her voice. “Who told you that, Ryan?”
“No one. It’s something I overheard.”
“Ought you to have been listening?”
“I wasn’t trying to. I was vacuuming the hall on Monday and Miss Caroline was at the desk speaking to Miss Godby. She said, ‘If we can’t convince him on Wednesday, the museum will close, it’s as simple as that. But I think he’ll see sense.’ Then Miss Godby said something I couldn’t hear. I only heard a few more words before Miss Caroline left. She said, ‘Keep it to yourself.’ ”
“Then shouldn’t you be keeping it to yourself?”
He fixed on Tally his wide innocent stare. “Well, Miss Caroline wasn’t speaking to me, was she? It’s Wednesday today. That’s why the three of them are coming this afternoon.”
Tally wrapped her hands round the mug of soup, but had not begun to drink it. She was afraid that the action of lifting the spoon to her lips would be difficult without betraying the shaking of her hands. She said, “I’m surprised you could hear so much, Ryan. They must have been speaking very quietly.”
“Yeah, they were. Talking as if it was secret. I only heard the last words. But they never notice me when I’m cleaning. It’s like I’m not there. If they did notice me, I expect they thought I wouldn’t hear above the noise of the vacuum. Perhaps they didn’t care whether I heard or not because it wouldn’t matter. I’m not important.”
He spoke with no trace of resentment, but his eyes were on her face and she knew that she was expected to respond. There was a single crust of bread left on his plate and, still looking at her, he began crumbling it, then rolling the crumbs into small balls which he arranged round the rim.
She said, “Of course you’re important, Ryan, and so is the job you do here. You mustn’t get ideas that you’re not valued. That would be silly.”
“I don’t care whether I’m valued. Not by the others, anyway. I get paid, don’t I? If I didn’t like the job I’d leave. Seems like I’ll have to.”
For the moment, concern for him overcame her personal anxieties. “Where will you go, Ryan? What sort of job will you be looking for? Have you any plans?”
“I expect the Major will have plans for me. He’s a great one for plans. What’ll you do, Mrs. Tally?”
“Don’t worry about me, Ryan. There are plenty of jobs these days for housekeepers. The advertisement pages of The Lady are full of them. Or I may retire.”
“But where will you live?”
The question was unwelcome. It suggested that somehow he knew of her great unspoken anxiety. Had someone been talking? Was this also something he had overheard? Snatches of imagined conversation came into her mind. Tally’s going to be a problem. We can’t just chuck her out. She’s got nowhere to go as far as I know.
She said evenly, “That will depend on the job, won’t it? I expect I’ll stay in London. But there’s no point in deciding until we’re certain what will happen here.”
He looked into her eyes and she could almost believe that he was sincere. “You could come to the squat if you don’t mind sharing. Evie’s twins make a lot of noise and they smell a bit. It’s not too bad—I mean, it suits me all right—but I’m not sure you’d like it.”
Of course she wouldn’t like it. How could he seriously have imagined that she would? Was he trying, however inappropriately, to be genuinely helpful, or was he playing some kind of game with her? The thought was uncomfortable. She managed to keep her voice kindly, even a little amused. “I don’t think it will come to that, thank you, Ryan. Squatting is for the young. And don’t you think you’d better get back to work? It gets dark early and haven’t you some dead ivy to cut down on the west wall?”
It was the first time she had ever suggested he should go, but he got up at once without apparent resentment. He scraped a few crumbs from the table-cloth, then he took his plate, knife and glass of water into the kitchen and came back with a damp tea-cloth with which he began scrubbing at the stains of fish oil.
She said, trying to keep the note of irritation from her voice, “Leave that, Ryan. I’ll need to wash the cloth.”
Dropping it on the table, he left. She sighed with relief when the door closed behind him.
The afternoon wore on. She busied herself with small tasks about the cottage, too restless to sit and read. Suddenly it was intolerable not to know what was happening, or, if she couldn’t know, intolerable to be stuck here apart as if she could be ignored. It wouldn’t be difficult to find an excuse for going to the museum to speak to Muriel. Mrs. Faraday had mentioned that she could do with more bulbs to plant in the fringes of the drive. Could Muriel meet this from petty cash?
She reached for her raincoat and tied a plastic hood over her head. Outside the rain was still falling, a thin soundless drizzle, shining the leaves of the laurels and coldly pricking against her face. As she reached the door, Marcus Dupayne came out. He walked swiftly, his face set, and seemed not to see her although they passed within feet. She saw that he hadn’t even closed the front door. It was a little ajar and, pushing it, she went into the hall. It was lit only by two lamps on the reception desk where Caroline Dupayne and Muriel were standing together, both putting on their coats. Behind them the hall was an unfamiliar and mysterious place of dark shadows and cavernous corners, with the central staircase leading up to a black nothingness. Nothing was familiar or simple or comforting. For a moment she had a vision of faces from the Murder Room, victims and killers alike descending in a slow and silent procession down from the darkness. She was aware that the two women had turned and were regarding her. Then the tableau broke up.
Caroline Dupayne said briskly, “All right then, Muriel, I’ll leave you to lock up and set the alarm.”
With a brief good-night directed at neither Muriel nor Tally, she strode to the door and was gone.
Muriel opened the key cupboard and took out the front door and security keys. She said, “Miss Caroline and I have checked the rooms so you n
eedn’t stay. I had an accident with the tea tray, but I’ve cleared up the mess.” She paused, then added, “I think you’d better start looking for a new job.”
“You mean just me?”
“All of us. Miss Caroline has said that she’ll look after me. I think she has something in mind that I might be willing to consider. But yes, all of us.”
“What’s happened? Have the trustees come to a decision?”
“Not officially, not yet. They’ve had a very difficult meeting.” She paused, then said with the hint of relish of one giving bad news, “Dr. Neville wants to close the museum.”