The Golden Child. Penelope Fitzgerald

William, to accommodate the enormous numbers. They are not, after all, obliged to come to the Exhibition.’

      ‘They’re obliged to feel that it’s educational death if they don’t. These booklets, with Golden Toys on the cover, these schools talks on the BBC, planned units for the Open University, Golden coach tours — the whole country has been persecuted to come here. And now they’ve got to queue for seven hours to get in. What would you say a museum is for?’

      The minutes were slipping by, and there was so much to arrange. Hawthorne-Mannering succeeded in controlling himself. But of patience, unlike hate, one only has a certain store.

      ‘The object of the museum is to acquire and preserve representative specimens, in the interests of the public,’ he said.

      ‘You say that,’ returned Sir William, with another winning smile, ‘and I say balls. The object of the Museum is to acquire power, not only at the expense of other museums, but absolutely. The art and treasures of the earth are gathered together so that the curators may crouch over them like the dynasts of old, showing now this, now that, as the fancy strikes them. Who knows what wealth exists in our own reserves, hidden far more securely than in the tombs of the Garamantes? There are acres of corridors in this Museum that no foot has ever trod, pigeons nesting in the cornices, wild cats, the descendants of the pets of Victorian curators, breeding unchecked in the basements, exhibits that are only looked at once a year, acquisitions of great value stacked away and forgotten. The wills of kings and merchant princes, who bequeathed their collections on condition they should always be on show to the public, are disregarded in death, and those sufferers trudging like peasants to the temporary canteen, to be filled with coconut cakes and to lift plastic containers to their lips — they pay for all, queue for all, are the excuse for all; I say, poor creatures!’

      ‘Perhaps I might explain what I have been asked to see you about,’ said Hawthorne-Mannering coldly.

      ‘Well, I know that it’s journalists’ day, and you want the old lunatic to talk to them,’ said Sir William, with a rather alarming change of tone. ‘Bring them in, by all means.’ Then, reverting to the language of his boyhood, he added, ‘I’m careful what I say to them bleeders.’

      Hawthorne-Mannering adroitly took advantage of this opening to point out the necessity for strict security. But Sir William continued musingly.

      ‘Carnarvon died at five minutes to two on the morning of the 5th of April 1923. I knew him well, poor fellow! The public enjoys the idea of a curse, though. Why shouldn’t they get what they can for their money?’

      ‘But this is in no sense relevant, Sir William. I have no competency whatever to discuss the excavations of the Valley of the Kings, but I am sure that no responsible authority has ever attached any importance to the Curse of Tutankhamen, still less to the quite arbitrary invention by popular journalists in these past few weeks of the Curse of the Golden Child.’

      ‘Who put those yellow pamphlets about?’ asked Sir William. ‘Gold is Filth? 50p?’

      ‘I am afraid that is quite outside my —’

      ‘Have you ever been under a curse?’ asked Sir William.

      ‘I think not. Or if so, I was not aware of it.’

      ‘It’s a curious feeling. It has to be taken seriously. By the way, I’ve forgotten your name for the moment.’

      ‘The two journalists whom I am particularly recommending to you,’ said Hawthorne-Mannering, ignoring this, ‘will, of course, not wish to discuss the alleged Curse or anything of a popular nature. They are the accredited archaeological correspondents of The Times and the Guardian. One of them, Peter Gratsos, is a personal friend of mine from the University of Alexandria. Louis Sintram of The Times you of course know.’

      Sir William showed no signs of doing so.

      ‘A chat, yes, about these trinkets, eh? There were deaths, you know, in 1913, though we never talked about them. Poor Pelissier was dead when we found him, with one of the Golden Toys in his hand. He was stiff as lead.’

      ‘You will recall that the interview is to take the form of a short talk by Tite-Live Rochegrosse-Bergson from the Sorbonne — the distinguished anthropologist, anti-structuralist, mythologist and paroemiographer. Then there is Professor Untermensch, at present I think at Heidelberg. He has been invited, at his own request, to sit in. You are to make a few comments, a summing up, call it what you will …’

      Sir William discharged a volley of foul smoke from his pipe.

      ‘If you want me to say what I think about Rochegrosse-Bergson …’

      ‘Hardly about, Sir William, but to. The whole discussion is to be on the highest level …’

      Hawthorne-Mannering looked as though he were about to cry.

      There was a faint disturbance in the outer office as Dousha moved in her chair. She could be seen through the green glass like an ample underwater goddess, slightly dislodged. The Deputy Director of Security came in.

      ‘Excuse me, sir. Just a word about the arrangements for this morning.’

      So he didn’t trust me, thought Hawthorne-Mannering bitterly.

      ‘Ah, security,’ said Sir William. ‘Quite right. There’s a Frenchman coming. Good fellows enough, but you don’t want Frenchmen and gold too near each other. Remember all that trouble with Snowden.’

      ‘This document, sir — your copy of the secret report which, according to our information, concerns the genesis of the Exhibition.’

      ‘Did I have a copy?’ Sir William asked.

      ‘Our records show that you did, sir, a complimentary copy. You and the Director were the only two recipients in the Museum.’

      ‘Well, Allison may still have his copy, if you want one.’

      ‘With respect, sir, that is not quite the point. The report being, as I have indicated, at Cabinet level, I should like to be sure that it is in safe hands during today’s interviews.’

      Sir William had been known, more than once, to leave confidential papers in a taxi or scattered about the reading room of his club.

      ‘Dousha may have mislaid it. Poor girl,’ said Sir William. ‘I’ve no idea why a girl like that was appointed as my secretary,’ he added unblushingly.

      ‘There are a number of minutes downstairs, sir, from yourself to Establishment, urging her appointment on grounds of hardship.’

      ‘Paper! paper!’ rejoined Sir William. ‘Fallen leaves! Faded leaves! But I’ll see to it. Yes, yes, I’ll get it under lock and key.’

      ‘The other matter is a little awkward, sir — rather personal. We are informed that this Untermensch is a bit of an eccentric’

      Hawthorne-Mannering stirred slightly, feeling impelled to come to the defence of all savants, and perhaps of all eccentrics.

      ‘One might feel that last remark as somewhat reductive,’ he said. ‘Professor Untermensch is a noted Garamantologist who has devoted much of his life to a study of the Treasure without, of course, having actually ever seen it except in photographs and from parallel sources. One might call him a kind of saint of photogrammetry. He is, also, the acknowledged expert on the Garamantian system of hieroglyphic writing.’

      Deputy Security’s business in life was to secure the safety of the objects he guarded. Their value, and the sanity of the staff, of both of which he had a low opinion, did not concern him.

      ‘To continue, sir. Our information is that Untermensch is, not to put too fine a point on it, pretty cracked. That’s to say he is obsessed with the idea of holding one of these objects from the Treasure, one of these Golden Toys or whatever, of actually looking at it close to and holding it in his hand. I don’t know whether you yourself, sir …’

      ‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Sir