Things were gathering apace. But I was prepared. All those evenings I’d spent writing everything down hadn’t been wasted. Everything was clear now. Everything was straight. Hanny was safe. It didn’t matter what anyone said to the contrary. Leonard, Parkinson and Collier wouldn’t have had the wit to plan as I had. They had been too reliant on each other’s silence and hadn’t reckoned on The Loney revealing everything they’d done.
I waited for as long as I possibly could before I had to leave for work, with one eye on the news and the other on the weather outside. A blizzard had been raging since the dark of the early morning and the street outside was becoming lost under heavy drifts of snow. It was starting to come light but only just. A grey colour spilled across the sky, pale as dishwater.
Walking down to the station I outpaced the cars that were waiting to get onto the North Circular in a long line of exhaust fumes and brake lights. People stood huddled at bus stops or in shop doorways which were still shuttered and dark. Even the Christmas lights they had strewn along the high street were out. The city was grinding to a standstill, it seemed, and the crib outside the church on the corner was the only thing of brightness.
They set it up every year — a kind of garden shed crammed with life-sized shepherds and wise men and Mary and Joseph kneeling before the plump little Christ in the hay. Music plays on a loop all day and night, and as I paused to cross the road, I caught the tinny trickle of Joy to the World before the lights changed.
The tube was packed, of course. Everyone steamed and sneezed. Coldbarrow was headline news on most of the papers. Each had the same syndicated photograph of Thessaly tumbled to ruins on the beach. Some had grainy images of people in white boiler suits stooped over the rubble. I wondered how long it would be before I saw Parkinson or Collier or even Clement blazoned across the front page. They would be in their seventies now, perhaps their eighties. About to be jolted out of the complacency of old age.
At the museum, I let myself in through the back door. It was so quiet that I wondered if there was anyone else there, but going through the staff kitchen there were a few others standing around in their coats drinking tea, in a kind of holiday mood, thinking that it was very likely the museum would be closed for the day. And they were probably right. I mean, who was going to risk life and limb or a bout of the flu to come and see an exhibition of pewter or Edwardian millinery?
‘Hey, I wouldn’t get settled,’ said Helen jovially, as I gave them all a cursory good morning nod and headed to the basement.
I know they think me rather odd and talk about me when I’m not there. But I don’t really care. I know who I am and I’ve worked out all my failings by myself a long time ago. If they think I’m fastidious or reclusive then they’d be right. I am. And so where do we go from there? You’ve worked me out. Well done. Have a prize.
Helen gave me a frowned smile as I undid the security grill. She looked as though she was going to come over and speak to me but she didn’t and I pulled the shutters aside and went down the stairs, unlocking the door at the bottom that once closed behind me meant that no one was likely to bother me for the rest of the day. There is a phone but if I get any correspondence it’s through email. They understand that I need quiet to work. They’ve learnt that much about me at least.
A waft of warm air met me. It’s always warm in the basement. A dry heat to stop the damp getting to the books. It can be a bit oppressive in the summer but that morning I was more than thankful for it.
I switched on the strip lights and they pinked and flickered and lit up the long rows of bookshelves and cabinets. The homes of many old friends. Ones I’ve got to know intimately over the last two decades.
When I have a moment, which is becoming rarer these days, I like to visit Vertot’s History of the Knights of Malta or Barrett’s Theorike and Practike of Moderne Warres. There’s no better way to spend an hour or two once the museum has closed than reading these volumes as they were written — in quiet reflection and study. Any other way is worthless. Having them spread open in a display case upstairs for people to glace in passing is an insult if you ask me.
I generally work at the far end of the basement where there’s a computer I use for research and a wide desk where I can keep all the bookbinding equipment and still have plenty of elbow room.
I don’t know why I felt the urge to do it, and it makes me feel like someone out of a Dickens novel, one of Scrooge’s clerks perhaps, but a while ago I moved the desk under one of those glass grids they have at street level where I could look up and watch the shadows of feet going past. I suppose there was something comforting about it. I was down there warm and dry and they were out in the rain with people and places to hurry to and be late for.
But today the glass was opaque with snow, making the basement even gloomier. The strip lights don’t do much apart from create shadows, if I’m honest, and so I switched on the angle poise lamp and sat down.
For the past few weeks, I had been working on a set of Victorian wildlife books that had been donated from the sale of some laird’s estate up in Scotland. Encyclopaedias of flora and fauna. Manuals of veterinary science. Copious volumes about badgers and foxes and eagles and other reprehensible predators. Their habits and breeding patterns and the many ways to cull them. They were in a reasonable condition, given that they had been languishing in a gillie’s hut for years, but the leather covers would have to be replaced and the pages re-sewn if anyone was ever going to read them again. Someone would. There was always someone who would find such things fascinating. Academics might take pains to go through all the details, but what was of interest to the museum, the bit of social history they could sell to the public, was the handwritten marginalia. The little insights of the anonymous gamekeeper who had stalked the moors of the estate and kept his master’s animals safe for nigh on fifty years.
Notes about the weather and nesting sites were strewn around the sketches he had made of the things he had had to kill in order to protect the deer and the grouse. A fox caught in a snare. An osprey spread-eagled by shotgun pellets. They seemed at first glance, gruesome, boastful things, no better than hanging trophy heads along a hallway, or rats along a fence, but the detail of feathers and fur and eyes that he had taken time to render with his fine pencil made it clear that he loved them dearly.
It was, to him, no different to pruning a garden, I suppose. The gillie hadn’t hated these animals for following their instincts of survival anymore than a gardener hates his plants for growing. It was a necessary mastery that he exercised over the estate. Without him, there would have been nothing but chaos, and I suspect that it’s reverted back to wilderness now that there’s no one looking after it anymore.
I worked for an hour or more until I heard the doors at the other end of the basement opening. I put my glasses down on the desk (I have become short-sighted in recent years) and looked around the shelves. Helen appeared, her coat over her arm.
‘Are you there?’ she called, making a visor with her mittened hand and peering through the shadows.
I got up from the desk.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Good news. We can go home,’ she said.
‘Home?’
‘They’re going to close the museum because of the snow.’
‘I’ve got work to finish off.’
‘You don’t have to do it,’ said Helen. ‘Everyone else is leaving.’
‘All the same. I’d like to get it done.’
‘It’s really coming down out there,’ she said. ‘I’d get going if I were you. Otherwise you might be stuck here all night. If you need a lift, I can take you as far as Paddington.’