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The Archivist

Page 21

by L P Fergusson


  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sam refused to be provoked. ‘This exhibition needs prints. It needs the authentic prints that were part of this collection and which you have failed to find. Mass printing is at the heart of the sexual revolution in the eighteenth century. Without it the Church might have been able to keep its stranglehold on spiritual conformity and the concept of people controlling their behaviour with their own consciences might never have developed. How would the west have discovered the different sexual values of people from distant lands if they couldn’t read about the exploits of sailors and explorers of these different cultures? But for me the single most important thing on that list is the painting of the ninth earl.’

  ‘It’s here,’ BS said sarcastically, pointing at the Thomas Lawrence painting on the wall above him of the corpulent earl in his later years.

  ‘You know I’m not talking about that one. I mean the one of him when he was young – the one that aped the Hogarth painting of Francis Dashwood. Crispin Sebastian Falkenstein, dressed in the humble clothes of a friar, kneeling at an altar on which is spread a naked woman, a candlestick in the shape of a phallus, the mask of Priapus and a book of erotic writing in place of the Bible.’

  ‘Blasphemy.’

  ‘Precisely, and at the very heart of this whole exhibition – the break with the Church as the custodian of moral correctness. Even now, in our modern society, a painting that rouses some disgust.’

  ‘And so it should. It is heresy.’

  ‘No, BS. It’s missing.’

  ‘Oh, this is all very tedious,’ he said. ‘I am bored with this whole issue. In fact a less equitable man than me might start to feel decidedly testy.’ He patted the file gently against his thigh.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel like that, but I thought it only right to warn you.’

  ‘Warn me?’

  ‘I am honour bound to notify the trustees. They and the earl will be getting a copy of this list on Monday. You have the weekend to sort it out.’

  BS stared down at her and in his fury he seemed to swell in size or perhaps, she thought, he was straightening up his body in order to attack. For what seemed like minutes but was probably only a few seconds they stared at one another until finally BS looked away.

  ‘I have never been able to understand the mind of a woman,’ he said quietly. Clearly he had succeeded in controlling himself once again. ‘Have I not gone out of my way to make you feel at home here? To show you round, to help you whenever you needed my guidance and my expertise? I have been the philosopher Theon to your Hypatia, allowing you to rise up and take the plaudits at the Museum of Alexandria.’

  Sam frowned, trying to recollect to whom he referred, then she remembered. ‘What a colourful and pointless metaphor,’ she said.

  BS swept on regardless: ‘Like Theon, I have had to swallow my pride. I have been archivist to His Lorship for nearly two decades now, solely responsible for this invaluable collection. Have you asked yourself how hard it was for me to hand it all over to someone else, an outsider and a woman at that? Of course you haven’t. I have had to come to terms with your complete lack of sensitivity, but the thing I can’t understand is what I have done to make you behave like this towards me. It is vindictive, spiteful behaviour – the sort of behaviour I have seen before in overambitious women who are intimidated by the world of men, who know they are inferior and overcompensate with viciousness.’

  Sam opened her mouth to parry his words but he raised his hand to stop her and added, ‘You do what you think is right, but let me warn you, if you hand this over to the earl, you are the one who will look a fool, not I,’ and with that he tucked the file under his arm and walked past her to the exit without looking back.

  - 24 -

  BS Moreton made his way along the formal gravel path until it dropped down towards the River Lugg which ran along the bottom of the valley to his left. At a turn in the river below, his journey continued straight towards a shoulder of hill where he rounded a group of ancient oaks which roared in the wind over his head. He turned his face into the gale and felt the first drops of rain strike his forehead. Planting his stick into the ground, he stared out across the valley, rocked by the storm as it blew and veered around him. A patch of sky glared beneath the clouds and dazzled him before it was pulled back up into a boiling sky, the clouds indigo and black like a bruise. He wanted to shout at the approaching storm with all his might, ‘blow winds and crack your cheeks.’ He saw himself as King Lear, blundering across the heath. He wanted to call down ‘oak-cleaving thunderbolts’ to ‘singe his white hair’. Eventually the desire to voice his rage became too much and using the modulations of Laurence Olivier he yelled over the gale, ‘I am a man more sinned against than sinning!’

  He was snapped out of his performance by the sound of a foot slipping a short distance on gravel, and turning, he saw two visitors approaching down the path. They had not seen him because they were crouched together underneath an umbrella with which they tussled as the wind bounced and buffeted it, and he hoped they had not heard him either. His outburst had been for the ears of his maker and no one else. He turned to make his way back to his car and as he drew level with them, they tilted the umbrella to see who was passing. Instantly the wind caught the brolly from below, swerved the canopy up and inside out, spinning the two elderly ladies round before it left their grasp completely and leapt away from them in huge hops and jumped down the embankment into the trees below. Exposed and shocked they continued to spin and came to rest facing BS, but instead of bewailing their predicament they were laughing and panting and leaning on one another.

  ‘There’s a nasty storm coming, ladies,’ BS said, his voice raised over a sudden slam of wind which seemed to pluck his words away. ‘You should get back inside.’ The elder of the two ladies raised an acknowledging hand before they lowered their heads into the wind and continued on their way. BS stared after them. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered.

  He made his way back along the path towards his car and clambered in as the rain worsened. Manoeuvring his stick into the footwell of the passenger side, he glanced down with a shudder at the file on the seat and rested his head back. The rain hit the windscreen like handfuls of grain and the wind pounded and rocked the car. He wondered where those stupid old women were now. Slipping and slithering through the torrent, no doubt. Served them right.

  He was fed up to the back teeth with women. His Lear analogy could hardly be more apt; he had shown nothing but kindness to Maureen Hindle and Sam Westbrook, and they had both turned on him. He had helped Maureen at her time of greatest need, had nurtured her failing confidence throughout one whole winter to set her back on her feet, and she had repaid him with a two-year campaign of spikes and rumour to bring him down. And Sam was no better. He could not imagine how he could have been more helpful. He had done everything in his power to encourage her to produce an excellent exhibition, with great humility he had taken a back seat and let her accept the plaudits, but instead of appreciating his sacrifice or thanking him for his help, she too had turned on him. What was wrong with these women? Why did they twist every good intention of his into something base? What had he ever done to them?

  He knew he had caught Sam off guard when he went up to the sealed chamber and found her with Max Black, who had scuttled off at such speed. Clearly something had been going on between them. It was totally inappropriate behaviour in a place of work, but instead of showing any remorse, she had attacked him. Initially he thought the problem was just this damned Maureen Hindle issue – Sam had got some notion that she shouldn’t have been suspended. As if it was any of her business! BS thought he had parried most of her observations rather effectively, making several good points, but Sam didn’t seem convinced.

  Then, to his astonishment, she had presented him with that list as long as your arm of things she wanted for the exhibition. He had spun round in disbelief, pointing his stick at the cabinets of artefacts. The exhibition was co
mplete bar a few light bulbs that were still missing, so why should she need anything else? It was preposterous. And when she said she was going to hand the same report over to the earl and the trustees at the beginning of next week he nearly lost it completely. Thank the Lord he didn’t, he had used every ounce of his self-control and fired at her with both barrels. He was glad he had told her in no uncertain terms his opinion of her. When she first arrived he had to admit he thought she was rather special, but he had made a terrible error of judgement. She was like all the other members of her sex – ruthless and spiteful. What on earth was she accusing him of? Bowdlerising the collection?

  It was an egregious accusation. Over the years he might have filleted out some of the material, but not out of any prudish need to remove anything he considered offensive or improper. Heaven knows, the whole collection was improper – there would be nothing left if he had embarked on expurgating it. He had been the archivist of the collection for nearly two decades, space was limited, and he regarded part of his job to be on the look-out for duplications and to deal with those in ways he regarded as fitting, but there was absolutely no need whatsoever to justify his actions to Sam ruddy Westbrook.

  He looked down again at the folder on the seat and pushed it open with a weary hand. Rummaging in the breast pocket of his shirt for his reading glasses, he ran his eye down the first page of the list before turning to the following page. It did seem rather a lot, he was surprised to see. He was sure some of the books were still back in his study at home. He heaved a heavy sigh and looked out through the car window. Perhaps his best course of action would be to gather as much as he could before Monday so that when the list plopped on to the earl’s desk he could reassure His Lordship that most of it had actually turned up and that Sam Westbrook was one of those shrill, pushy women who made mountains out of molehills. The thought of making a fool out of Sam Westbrook cheered him.

  He was feeling calmer and, as if in concord, the storm seemed to be moving away towards the Black Mountains, leaving behind a steady drizzle of rain. BS turned on the windscreen wipers and pulled himself forward with the steering wheel to wipe the inside of the screen with the sleeve of his jacket. The tweed squeaked on the glass and left a smear of water droplets and lint.

  ‘Oh blow!’ he muttered, slipping back into the seat and pushing his spectacles up his nose to enable him to read the symbols on the air conditioning panel. The car was only a few months old and BS was unfamiliar with several of the more complicated modes in the vehicle. He hated modes. The word itself summed up everything fatuous about modern technology. However, he persevered and several modes into the menu the fans fired up and blasted damp air into his face. He sank back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting the row and clatter mollify his thoughts. The breeze, still redolent with the artificial scent of a new car, felt like a balm for the tense and contracted muscles of his face which gradually started to relax.

  After a few minutes he stirred himself. The windscreen was beginning to clear and he put the car into gear and drove back across the estate towards the Hall. The afternoon was late and he couldn’t face spending the final hour at his desk – he would surprise Patricia. She had seemed rather down since his illness, worried about him going back to work so soon afterwards. It would cheer her up if he showed a willingness to follow her advice by getting home early. It would also give him a chance to have a good hunt for some of the things on Sam Westbrook’s list. Patricia would help. They would sort this out together, side by side, contra mundum, against the world. Once again he thought of his Lear analogy with Patricia in the role of Cordelia, loyal and honest compared to the other two harridans who had betrayed him and undermined his authority.

  ‘Patricia, my love?’ he called. He shut the front door behind him, dropped his keys on to the brass plate on the hall table and made his way up the corridor into the kitchen. ‘Patricia? Are you here, pet?’ He gazed around the empty room then leant on his stick to peer into the conservatory beyond. Where could she be? He felt disappointed and piqued that she wasn’t home to appreciate the effort he had made on her behalf. He pulled his coat off and dropped it on the kitchen table, glanced one more time towards the conservatory to make sure she wasn’t fossicking around somewhere at the bottom of the garden and started back towards the office they shared at the front of the house – although most of the desk space was taken up with BS’s belongings.

  He put Sam’s list on his desk, turned on the lamp and sat down heavily. He drew the file towards him and opened it. Books – he would start by digging out some of the books that needed to be returned. Pushed himself up on to his feet once more, he began to work along the bookshelves which covered the wall on the left-hand side of the door. He ran a finger along the spines to force himself to concentrate on the titles as he knew he had a habit of losing focus and scanning them without taking them in. By the time he had completed the shelf at eye-level, his neck was beginning to ache from holding his head on one side, so he straightened up and turned to look out of the window into the drive in the forlorn hope that Patricia would drive in and come and help him. The stormy day was hastening the approach of dusk, and from the lighted room in which he stood, the front garden looked dark and gloomy. Wherever could she be?

  He returned to his desk and began to go through one of the many piles of papers and books stacked up along the back of it. He let out an involuntary ‘Oh!’ when he spotted the earl’s crest on the front of one of the volumes, but it was from the indigo library, not one of the titles on Sam’s list. Again he peered into the darkening evening and sighed. He wondered what they were having for supper – perhaps there was something cooking slowly in the Aga.

  He made his back down to the kitchen and lifted the door of the bottom oven open with the toe of his shoe. To his dismay there was no immediate smell of food. Gripping the sturdy rail at the front of the Aga, he lowered himself down to peer inside. It was empty. He pulled himself up again and clanked the door shut with his foot. It really was very difficult to settle down if you were waiting for someone to come home. He began to feel aggrieved – it was selfish of Patricia not to leave a note or some indication of when she would be home. By the time he heard her key in the front door he was feeling extremely disagreeable.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he said as she pushed past him into the kitchen with a handful of carrier bags.

  ‘Shopping.’

  ‘You don’t go shopping on a Friday.’

  ‘Don’t I? How would you know, BS? You’re never here on Friday afternoon.’

  ‘You go shopping with Jane on Wednesdays.’

  ‘Not when I’ve got the whole family here for the weekend.’

  ‘The whole family?’

  ‘Our anniversary. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.’ Patricia stopped her task of unloading the bags and turned to face him. She was frowning. ‘Whatever’s the matter BS?’

  ‘I came home early and you weren’t home.’

  Patricia shrugged her shoulders. ‘I had to get a few extra things, that’s all.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the oven.’

  ‘I’ve got supper here,’ and she waved a hand over the bags. ‘It’s not much, but I’ve got so much cooking to do for the weekend.’

  It was almost as if she was trying to provoke him.

  ‘I simply don’t understand you, Patricia. You pester and scold me about my working hours, and the one day – the one single day – I come home early – solely to please you I might add – you’re not here.’

  ‘It’s not yet seven o’clock, BS. How was I supposed to know you were coming home early?’

  BS ignored her question and continued: ‘I have had a most extraordinarily stressful day, a mountain of work is sitting on my desk at the Hall, every hour in my working life is precious, you’d be hard put to find someone over there as dedicated as me, but I set all that aside – all of it – and hurried home. And what happens? I spend hours plodding around an empty house all on my own. I had no idea whe
re you had gone or when you might be back. It really is exceptionally selfish behaviour.’ He stared down at Patricia who returned his gaze, but the tiny movements of her head had increased and her face was beginning to colour.

  ‘Selfish? You call me selfish?’ She pulled her bag off her shoulder with an angry yank and thumped it down on top of the shopping. ‘How dare you BS! Day after day, night after night, I “plod”, as you so quaintly put it, around this house waiting for you. Month after month, year after year, I’ve waited for you to spend more time here. And do you know what? I’ve been waiting now for nearly twenty years.’ She spun away from him and thumped a couple of packets out of the bags and on to the kitchen table before turning on him again. ‘I didn’t want to move down here when you retired. I had friends up in Manchester – I didn’t want to uproot and leave everything, I didn’t want to say goodbye to everyone I knew, friendships I’d built up over the years. But I did it because you promised that you’d be around a lot more than when you were running that blasted school. I didn’t want to live in that horrible dank cottage on the estate. I wanted to be near people, live in that nice flat that Sam Westbrook has, where you probably spend a great deal more time nowadays than you should.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, don’t play the innocent with me, BS. “Wives are the last to know” – isn’t that what the letter said?’

  ‘Not the ruddy letters again,’ BS groaned. ‘What’s the matter with everyone today? The world has gone mad.’

 

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