by Bill James
Three
But this was the moment that Keith Jervis erupted into the Octagon Room with his news and stains.
Simberdy, still on his feet, radiating delight from Press praise, stared at Jervis and said, mildly: ‘You speak of channels, Keith, but I’m not sure this is the way to approach your Director and his Keepers, Curators, and Museum Secretary. This is our Hebdomadal Conclave, you know.’
‘Never fear, this is a ructions that can still be kept in bounds,’ Jervis replied.
‘You spoke of the withdrawal of the museum staff,’ Simberdy said. ‘Withdrawal to where?’ He was seated again now, panting slightly.
‘I was cut off,’ Jervis said. ‘Was involved at the earliest, then couldn’t reach the refuge. Became separated from the other porters. Cornered, like a cop at a Millwall game, such as in the papers. Hence, the personal damage.’
‘My God, yes, the Press,’ Simberdy whispered, as though a reporter might be under the table. ‘This disaster, whatever it is, must not get out. It could ruin the previous good publicity, and the Japanese might turn extremely inscrutable.’
Pirie mentioned the noise.
‘We must go to them,’ Ursula Wex said very loudly, perhaps eager to emphasize her loyalty to the new, slimmer Hulliborn, after her possibly unpopular defence of Neville Falldew. She picked up the full water carafe, a modern, worthless thing, and held it by the neck like a club, drops of the liquid dribbling out down her sleeve and on to her shoes. She was small, slightly built, brilliant, off-and-on combative, mostly gentle.
‘Which refuge, Jervis?’ Simberdy asked.
‘Like I mentioned, Coins and so on,’ Jervis said. ‘The Secure Room? The Chief Porter – staff – pulled the grille down after them, self-locking.’
‘Presence of mind,’ Beresford said. ‘Good for Hamilton. Some of these NCO types – remarkable leadership qualities.’
‘They’re like animals in a cage,’ Jervis said. ‘Or the Black Hole. I mean, four in that tiny place, only intended for historic moolah: shekels, doubloons, ducats.’
‘We should go to them,’ Ursula Wex shouted, waving the carafe.
‘I was trapped,’ Jervis replied. ‘Caught in the killing fields between Urban Development, History of, and Draped Snatch.’
‘Vintag’s Serenity statue,’ Quentin Youde said.
‘Obviously, I knew I had to get an account of the incident through to management, regardless—’
‘Sterling,’ Beresford said.
‘—Regardless of not being staff. To date,’ Jervis replied.
Ursula went to the door and pushed past Jervis. She listened for a second, then turned her head back and snarled to the meeting, ‘Yes, downstairs, bloody sans culottes.’
‘How it all started,’ Jervis said.
‘What do you mean?’ Simberdy said.
‘Sans culottes?’ Jervis asked. ‘French Revo term for the republican poor. Literally, no trousers. Supposed not to be able to afford them.’
‘I know that, you self-educated, ungrammatical ponce,’ Simberdy said. ‘But why did you say “how it all started”?’
‘A lady’s modesty given fleshly outrage,’ Jervis said.
‘Which lady?’ Ursula said.
‘Then friends and relatives ran to her defence. A coach full, from Kidderminster.’
‘Outraged how?’ Lepage asked.
Jervis said: ‘I have to piece things together from all the screaming, howling, bellowing, but as I hear it, she was by herself in that cosy ancient peasant room off the Folk Hall—’
‘Middle Ages Domestic Scene, yes,’ Lepage said.
‘Wax models of some early-century yokels and their kids having the much-missed traditional Old English breakfast – a couple of swedes, some dandelion leaves and an acorn, you know. Suddenly, the Dad figure stands up from his tree stump – yes, this dummy gets to his feet and offers the solitary, lady visitor a big, inviting grin from behind the medieval moustache and whiskers, then drops his trousers and gives her a full meat and potatoes frontal. This was a pre-boxer-shorts epoch. She screeches and passes out. Well, who wouldn’t? This is a meaningful tableau! I heard her cries, and visitors heard, and we all came rushing. She stirs a bit on the floor and does something of an explanation – “the patriarch, a flasher” was how she finished. Friends of hers go berserk and start attacking the models, pulling garments awry, looking for any more working vitals, but they’re all just models, nothing there but seams. He’s gone, scarpered, while she lay out for the count. So they turn on Mr Hamilton and me and the other porters who’ve arrived because of the din. I mean, these visitors have come to believe this is what the Hulliborn stages as the normal thing, and they’re upset, belligerent.’
Simberdy boomed: ‘Don’t you see, all of you, it’s someone who aims to sabotage our standing with the Museums Inspectorate, and destroy our chance of hosting JASS? I’ve dreaded something of this sort.’
‘Falldew,’ Beresford hissed. ‘Neville’s name is written all over it.’
‘She didn’t mention no tattoo,’ Jervis replied.
From the door, Ursula said: ‘As to that, is there a description of the perpetrator at all?’
‘Well, he’s covered in hair, isn’t he?’ Jervis said. ‘Couldn’t see much face, most probably. But tall, I understand, thin, and the woman said glassy blue eyes; glassy, mad blue eyes.’
‘And?’ Ursula said.
‘Dr Wex?’ Jervis asked.
Ursula stared towards his crotch.
‘Oh, I get it,’ Jervis said. ‘Your special knowledge. But all the woman said was it seemed very present-day and alive, not a prop.’
Four
So, Lepage, in charge, hurried excitedly towards the door and Ursula. Perhaps if the job was going to be like this he wouldn’t want early retirement after all. As he stepped into the corridor, he heard Simberdy call: ‘Director, nothing extreme, I beg. No police. Don’t invite media interest. TV! Christ, think of it. Something unkind, satiric from Bernard Levin! Remember JASS.’
Simberdy was right to detect overtones. The Hulliborn’s fight for status might typify many a similar fight in Britain’s menaced cultural bodies. Although his views about his own future might vary, Lepage would never deny a strong love and admiration for the Hulliborn. After all, he had been here for fifteen years and was fond of its big, ugly buildings and its galleries smelling of floor polish and school groups. He wished the Hulliborn only good, more or less.
Another factor: Julia wanted him to collect a knighthood for his time at the top of the Hulliborn, in line with Flounce’s and the previous Director’s. It had to be admitted that Julia could be a bit of a snob. It had to be admitted, too, that there were times when this side of her came near to turning him fatally off. Julia liked being live-in partner to the Director of the Hulliborn, and if he quit early she wanted something to replace that rank and cachet: a knighthood would suit very nicely. Julia did not visualize their future social ranking as dependent solely upon her ownership of the Spud-O’-My-Life kiosk, or even upon a chain of kiosks, if things took off. But a knighthood for George, possibly marriage, and so, Lady Lepage, renowned head of a food combine – that might add up to something decently eminent.
And so, because George Lepage for most of his time did want to hang on to Julia, and because he had a soft spot for the Hulliborn, its good repute was doubly vital to him. The JASS exhibition seemed the best way on offer to lift its rating and impress those who gave out gongs. He must do all he could to further Vince Simberdy’s campaign – snatch all helpful openings, in Vince’s term – particularly as very destructive, knowledgeable flak could start flying any day about Quentin Youde’s expensive ‘El Greco’ deal, which would have to be diverted and offset. So far, the insurers and auditors had the paintings as assets slightly above the price the Hulliborn paid, but some troublesome questions had begun to circulate.
Now, Lepage went ahead, descending at a rush the iron spiral staircase from the Octagon Room level to the public R
eception area. He was aware of Ursula and Jervis clattering after him, and perhaps a couple of others from the Hebdomadal following them. As he reached the bottom and stood gazing about, a chill column of water from Ursula’s flask speared down alongside the spiral’s central pillar and struck him on the head with a spattering thump, like that sounding cataract in some poem, and then slipped down inside his collar, went the length of his spine, and continued on between his buttocks as if a new strain of big, fast-moving slug wanted to show off its pace and dauntlessness.
Dripping moderately, he made his way across Reception and towards Coins. As Jervis had suggested, this was where most of the noise originated. Lepage thought he could distinguish five kinds of sound. There were angry men’s voices, angry women’s voices, and frightened men’s voices, these latter presumably Hamilton’s and some of the other porters’. He heard fierce rattling of metalwork, which must be visitors trying to break down the Secure Room grille to get at those inside, plus the deep, possibly hysterical wailing of a woman. He went past the Serenity nude, on through the Raybould Gallery, where the ‘El Grecos’, with their bet-hedging caption sheets bravely hung, and then took the short cut via Early Industrial.
Suddenly, some distance ahead of him, he saw the tall, skinny figure of a man crossing the arched entrance to Coins and seemingly making his way towards the museum’s main exit. At the same time, from a few steps behind him, came a brief, anxious gasp. Ursula must also have seen this man and recognized him as Falldew. He was dressed in his own modern-day clothes now, not medieval costume, and seemed properly zipped up. Although he appeared to be taking his time, ambling in the style of most museum visitors, he actually managed swift, long-legged progress. It looked as though he wanted to guard against getting conspicuous by hurrying, but planned to be out and clear very fast, just the same. Falldew would know all the odd corners of the Hulliborn, and must have used somewhere hidden away to change his gear. So, had Simberdy’s reported sightings been correct? ‘Neville,’ Lepage called. ‘Neville Falldew, please wait.’
For half a second, Neville paused and looked back. Deeply unwise. He stood framed by the entrance to Coins and as he turned, his features were momentarily fully on view to the people in there. It seemed enough, although Falldew’s face was so thin that at times it appeared to be nothing but profile. The wailing from the woman stopped, or, rather, switched to a scream, a scream composed of mixed horror and rage. She shouted something. Lepage could not be sure exactly what, but he thought it something like, ‘Him! Him! Glassy eyes!’
Almost immediately afterwards, Ursula yelled: ‘Nev, darling, make a dash, for God’s sake. They’ve got you marked. Evade! Evade!’
It was too far for Lepage to see, but the avenging crowd in Coins must be adjusting to this new development; perhaps turning away from the Secure Room grille and the trapped staff, to register the woman’s information and fix their purpose on Falldew. The noise stopped. Ursula, too, had grown silent, gripped by disabling tension, maybe, as she watched to see if Nev would snatch the chance in this hiatus to escape. Another scream from the woman broke the sudden, disturbing soundlessness, and then more words: ‘It’s the prick-proud special exhibit! Don’t let him do a runner!’
Immediately, a great, ferocious roar arose in Coins. Lepage heard the beat of many feet galloping over the boarded floor, like a rain squall on a roof. Obviously, Falldew saw the crowd belting towards him and did what Ursula had urged. Abandoning all pretence at casualness, he pulled his suit jacket tight about him, as a woman might gather her skirt, and gave it all he had in a sprint towards the main door, knees pumping up near his chin, arms flailing ungovernably. Lepage had never seen him in a suit before. Invariably, he wore a scruffy old suede jerkin and, summer or winter, a lengthy blue Oxford college scarf. The present outfit was disguise. It didn’t work.
When Falldew had gone about twenty metres, the leader of the mob from Coins appeared, hurtling after him; then, in a straggle, about twenty people, men, women and children, all of them shouting abuse at Neville and calling on him to stop. Uninvolved visitors in the Hulliborn watched fascinated, possibly thinking it some sort of organized Happening, to illustrate a hue-and-cry from the good old days. The revolving door sped around as Falldew burst out on to the street. Although pensioned and gangly, he seemed to be leaving his younger pursuers. Whatever had happened in the peasant home did not seem to have taken much out of him. But Lepage had better have a proper look there later.
When he reached Coins, Medals, Badges and Smaller Artefacts, he found the section almost empty, except for Hamilton and the other porters. Lepage had a master key, and he opened the grille. The porters emerged in a rush. They appeared strained and battle-chastened, like pictures of troops back from Dunkirk. A woman lay on one of Coins’ sofas sobbing quietly. Lepage went to her. ‘Are you the lady who—?’
‘Oh, this outing was to have been so educational and uplifting,’ she replied. ‘But you are wet. Is that part of it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lepage said. ‘Please try to think only of the worthwhile elements of your Hulliborn visit. You had no comparable trouble in Entomology?’
‘I’ve brought you some water,’ Ursula told her. The carafe had a few centimetres left.
‘If only he’d said something – communicated, explained, put matters in context,’ the woman moaned. Lepage thought she must be a teacher. ‘But he just stood there, seeming so undiffident and display-prone,’ she said.
‘Yes, that’s got to be Neville,’ Ursula replied.
Five
‘A commotion?’ Olive Simberdy said. ‘Neville Falldew?’
‘We think Nev. They couldn’t catch him, so we’re not totally sure,’ Simberdy said. They were in the living room of their four-storey Edwardian house, not far from the Hulliborn.
‘How?’ she asked.
‘How what?’
‘Well, what happened?’
‘Shall we say a private showing? Neville – we think Neville – historicized himself in Folk and double-shocked a visitor. That kind of incident could be bad for the museum as things are at present, Olive. Luckily, Lepage realized that at once – he’ll make a good Director. He was on the scene immediately. He took her off to recover properly, as soon as she seemed over the worst.’
‘Took her off where?’
‘You know, I’m not sure. To his room, I suppose. Important to make our apology really tell.’
‘Alone?’ Olive had a round, friendly-looking, even jolly, face, but it could be speedily adjusted to display out-and-out suspicion. It did that now.
‘Ursula was with them at first. She gave the woman water from a carafe. She might have wanted to find Nev instead. They had, have, that tendresse, don’t they?’
‘What age?’
‘The woman?’
‘Yes, the woman,’ Olive snapped.
‘Late twenties.’
‘Nice looking? Tits?’
‘Anguished at the time. My main thought, and George’s, probably, was damage containment. Something like this could be disastrous, disastrous. That kind of publicity – catastrophic re the Japanese thing. Of course, Nev Falldew realizes that. It’s why he chose to act now. The Folk Hall crisis must be seen as very much a test of George’s new regime. He had to seem decisive. Whatever one thinks of Flounce, he was certainly that.’ A fit of trembling hit him for a moment.
‘Darling, the Hulliborn’s beginning to get you down, make you ill.’ With her palm she felt her husband’s brow for a while. Then she resumed cutting her toenails. A large, curved shiny trimming arced across the over-furnished, almost cluttered room like a jet fighter on TV news, and struck one of their few real china cups, producing a delicate, pure, continuing sound that made her pause for a moment and smile excitedly. The jolliness returned to her face, or more than jolliness: the gorgeous china-chime made her look exultant, like a surfer who’d just come in on a huge wave. Sometimes, when listing Olive’s assets, Simberdy would say she had a supreme ear. She went on snippi
ng but had no repeat of the luck.
They were both dressed in black, and on the coffee table three black woollen balaclava helmets lay ready. When finished with her feet, she pulled on black silk socks, and then a pair of black plimsolls.
‘I’m sure Falldew will try something else,’ Simberdy said, stretching out on the chaise longue. ‘He cultivates hate and revenge like plants. We’ll just lurk about in the Hulliborn grounds for a few nights – deal with this “in house”, as it were. We don’t want the police concerned and, above all, not the Press and broadcasters. We must try to surprise him. It’s shadowy. These outfits should do it.’
Stuffed into his, he looked like a parked VW Beetle, Olive thought.
‘I have my main door key, but I don’t think we should wait inside. We’re more likely to get close to him unobserved if we use the natural cover in the grounds. As to keys, I suppose Nev still has his for the main door. He’s clever and devious enough. Flounce might have been decisive in his prime, but he became doddery, forgetful and careless at the end: that East German stuff – the haversack straps, Mrs Cray, and the friend of his shot dead from the Wall trying to escape to the West, etcetera. All this was bound ultimately to get to his mind.’
‘I never understand. What about the haversack straps and so on?’
‘Nobody’s completely clear, but that stuff’s important.’ He sighed. ‘I aim to give Nev only a forceful talking to, no brutality. I’ll use shame: appeal to the undoubted good in him and his basic love for the Hulliborn. I know it’s there, temporarily soured, that’s all. I’ll ask him why he’s siding with the new vandals.’ He gave her some gaze. ‘It’s sweet of you to say you’ll come.’