The Golden Child. Penelope Fitzgerald

if you haven’t seen any before.’

      ‘And what do you want me to do?’

      ‘That’s it, I’ve come to make a request — I accept you don’t want to come down personally —’

      ‘Did anyone suggest that I should? Not Sir John, surely?’

      ‘Oh, no, sir, not the Director. It was Public Relations. But if you don’t want to disturb yourself — if you could just issue some sort of definite statement — I mean, as the only real authority — something we could relay over the TA system — something about the Treasure and the whole matter of this Curse …’

      Sir William appeared to be meditating.

      ‘I expect that I could do that for you,’ he said, ‘but I am not sure of how much use it would be. First of all, you may tell them, with my authority, that every child who can collect fifty of these documents, and put them in the rubbish bins provided, will receive a pound note.’

      ‘I shall have to clear that with Departmental Expenses,’ said the troubled Deputy Security.

      ‘I shall pay the money personally,’ replied Sir William calmly, ‘but, in respect of what has been called the Curse, I should like you to add this. Everything that grows naturally out of the earth has its own virtue and its own healing power. Everything, on the other hand, that is long hidden in the earth and is dragged by human beings into the light of day, brings with it its own danger, perhaps danger of death.’

      The Deputy Keeper stood rigid with attention and dismay.

      ‘That doesn’t sound very reassuring, Sir William.’

      ‘I am not reassured,’ replied the old man.

      Sir William had a kind of equivalent to the long-vanished band of wild Kurds in a solid, grizzled, flat-footed museum official called Jones, nominally one of the warding staff, either on stores or cloakroom duties, but in fact acting as a kind of personal retainer to the old man. It was felt that on Sir William’s account, ‘not much could be done about Jones’. This was a source of annoyance to the Establishment, Superintendence and Accounts Departments, but they had been asked for forbearance — it could not be for more than a few years now — by the Director, Sir John Allison, himself.

      For this concession Sir William was grateful to Sir John. It made a kind of bond between the awe-inspiring, gently smiling, wondrous blend of civil servant and scholar, who had risen quietly and inevitably, though early in his career (he was forty-five) to the very top of the Museum structure, and the ancient ruffian who lingered in a corner of the fourth floor. Without his countenance, of course, Sir William, whose job was undefined, could scarcely have been there at all, but it must be admitted (since everybody knew it) that there was another reason for Sir John’s care and protection, which had its origins in the vital question of money. Sir William made no secret of his intention to leave a large part of his fortune — accumulated heaven knows how and invested heaven knows where — to the Director, to be spent as he thought fit in the improvement of the Museum. This, in its turn, would mean a vast increase in the Museum’s holdings of French porcelain, silverware, and furniture, the centre of Sir John’s working life — he knew more about this subject than anyone else in the world — and the centre of his emotional life also, for the two came to much the same thing.

      Sir John was paying a brief call on Sir William, ascending in his private lift to the fourth floor, since the old man had to be spared walking as much as possible. Sir William had particularly asked to see him, being deeply disturbed at the plight of the frozen children and teachers, now gradually thawing and steaming as they reached the haven of the entrance halls.

      ‘I went through a few rough times finding these things,’ he muttered, ‘but God knows if they were worse than what these people suffer when they pay to see them.’

      Sir John wondered privately how the old man could know this, since he had positively refused to go and look at the Treasure on its arrival or to visit the Exhibition.

      Sir William read his thoughts without difficulty. ‘When you’ve been in business as long as I have, John, you won’t have to go out to get information, it will come to you.’ The Director produced out of his pocket something exquisite — a box containing a tiny but priceless feast-day Icon from Crete, a saint in jewelled robes raising a man from the dead. ‘The box was made for it, of course. One thinks of the Prado, but theirs was stolen, I think.’

      The two men bent over it, absolutely united, and for a moment suspended in time and place, by their admiration for something fine.

      ‘Have you had any coffee?’ the Director asked, shutting the little box.

      ‘Well, Jones brought it, I suppose.’

      ‘Where’s your secretary, where’s Miss Vartarian?’

      ‘Oh, Dousha has to come in late these mornings, she has to be indulged. You only have to look at her to see that.’

      ‘She ought to be in. You haven’t forgotten it’s a Press day? We shall be bringing this Frenchman, this anthropologist, along to see you later. And there’s the Garamantologist, German I suppose, but the combined efforts of my staff haven’t really discovered what his nationality is — Professor Untermensch, I mean.’

      Sir William gazed at the Director like an old tortoise. ‘I know all that, John, and what’s more, in case I should forget it I am to receive a visit from your subordinate from the Department of Funerary Art, Hawthorne-Mannering.’

      ‘He means well,’ said the Director.

      ‘Nonsense’, replied Sir William, ‘but let him come, let them all come. I dare say I shall be able to forget enough to keep them happy.’

      It was one of Sir William’s difficult days, and yet surely he was no more difficult than anyone else. The Museum, nominally a place of dignity and order, a great sanctuary in the midst of roaring traffic for the choicest products of the human spirit, was, to those who worked in it, a free-for-all struggle of the crudest kind. Even in total silence one could sense the ferocious efforts of the highly cultured staff trying to ascend the narrow ladder of promotion. There was so little scope and those at the top seemed, like the exhibits themselves, to be preserved so long. The Director himself had been born to succeed, but he now had to have a consultation, at their request, certainly not at his, with two of the Keepers of Department who had been expectant of promotion long before his arrival, and who regarded him with a jealousy crueller than the grave.

      Sir John was immune from the necessity of being liked. He went down one floor in his private lift. A nod from his invaluable private secretary, Miss Rank, indicated that the loathsome pair must have already arrived, and, as befitted their seniority, had been shown into his private room.

      The Director took his place behind his rosewood desk, the beauty of whose inlay might have made it fit for the Wallace Collection. As a matter of fact it did belong to the Wallace, and one of Sir John’s few weaknesses was revealed in his very long delay in returning it after a loan exhibition. The two Keepers opposite him, quite impervious to the delicate, fruit-like shimmer of the polished wood, were Woven Textiles and Unglazed Ceramics. They sat close together, like conspirators.

      ‘I’m a moment or two late, you must both forgive me …’

      ‘It is, as you well know, simply the matter of Sir William’s bequest. The suggestion seems to be that he is not likely to last very much longer?’

      The Director gazed at their skull-like faces. How long did they expect to last themselves? But he acknowledged that they were indestructible. They had been there when he came. They would also be there when he left.

      Unglazed Ceramics tapped menacingly on the gleaming desk.

      ‘We take it that the bequest, which it now seems will be very considerable, will be evenly distributed among the departments? This would normally be a matter for the Trustees, but since it is to be administered by you personally …’

      ‘A rumour is circulating — one might put it higher than