When Frank awoke, it was so dark, he could barely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his bedroom. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of the Unreason town church, St. Acetone's, struck the four quarters. He listened for the hour bell.
To his great discombobulation the bell tolled twelve, and yet he had gone to bed after well after one. He scrambled out of bed and peered through the UV screen on his window. It was still very foggy and all seemed still, just like peak visiting time at the Museum of Unreason. Frank made his way back to bed, but he couldn't sleep, images of mummified cats floated in his mind. Then he remembered that Charley's Ghost had warned him to expect the first visit when the bell tolled one. He lay fearfully with his 'Transformers' duvet pulled high up under his chin and counted the minutes.
Frank lay in this state until the chimes broke upon his listening ear.
"Ding, dong!"
"A quarter past," said Frank, counting.
"Ding, dong!"
"Half past," said Frank.
"Ding, dong!"
"A quarter to it," said Frank.
"Ding, dong!"
"The hour," said Frank.
The hour bell sounded, light flashed up in the room and the curtains were drawn back by a hand. Frank found himself face to face with an unearthly visitor. It was a strange figure, it seemed almost human, yet not; it seemed almost like an old man, yet not. It's hair was white with age, it's garb was of the purest tweed and patched at the elbows. In the top pocket a row of three pens protruded, neatly arranged.
"Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me by the spirit of a rotting cat?" asked Frank.
"I am" The voice was soft and gentle and strangely distracted. The ghostly figure floated over to the ornaments on his bedroom dressing table. It carefully pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of it's pocket, slipped them on almost absent-mindedly and took hold of the porcelain teacup in two hands and gently turned it over to look at the base. Its face turned first to disappointment when he read the words "Specially Made for Aldi", then disgust as the dregs of the night before's drink spilled onto his faded cord trousers.
"Who, and what are you?" Frank demanded.
"I am the Curator of Museums Past."
"Long past?" inquired Frank.
"No. Your past. Rise and walk with me"
As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road and began to walk into a town that seemed vaguely familiar to Frank.
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Frank, as he looked around him. "I began my career in this place." The Curator gazed upon him mildly.
"You recollect the way to the museum?"
"Remember it!" cried Frank, "I could walk it blind drunk, and often did."
Upon reaching their destination jocund museum visitors were everywhere, assisted by many, many staff and volunteers helping them enjoy the museum's Christmas festivities. Frank knew and named every one of them.
The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self as he slowly got up and went into the reception area where there was an old gentleman in a wig laughing and chatting to visitors.
"Why it's old Fuzzywig! Bless him, he's alive again."
"Thank you, time to close up! Merry Christmas everybody and a safe journey home!" cried old Fuzzywig to the visitors. As the visitors slowly filed out, Fuzzywig turned to the staff and volunteers and said, "Let's quickly clear everything away and let our party begin."
There were dances, and more dances and there was cake and plenty of beer. When the clock struck eleven, the party began to break up. Mr. Fuzzywig stood by the door wishing all staff and volunteers a merry Christmas whilst gently mopping his brow with his wig. Last to leave were the two junior Manpower Services Commission apprentices the young Frank and Joan. The Spirit and Frank followed them as they weaved their way down the street into the crisp Christmas Eve night. Both were singing the praises of Fuzzywig.
The Spirit turned to Frank to ask why his younger self loved Fuzzywig so much.
"He had the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our museum work light or burdensome; a please or toil. I say that his power lies in words and looks. The happiness he gave was quite as great as if it cost a fortune."
Frank felt the Spirit's eyes on him.
"What's the matter?" asked the Ghost.
"Nothing", said Frank.
"Something I think", the Curator insisted.
"No," said Frank, "I would just like to say a word or two to my museum volunteer right now. That's all."
The Ghost and Frank now stood silently on the steps up to the front of the museum.
"My time grows short," observed the Curator. "Quick now."
Frank saw himself again, only older now; a man in the prime of his life. He was not alone, but by the side of a fair young museum education assistant, tears were in her eyes.
"You've changed." She said tearfully.
"You fear the public too much," she continued, "I have seen your nobler aspirations to preserve the material culture of human activity for the education and enjoyment of all, fall away."
"What then?" Frank retorted. "Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I have not changed towards you."
"You have. Everything that you stood for and I loved you for has gone in your changed nature; in your reduced opening hours and in your higher admission prices."
Frank was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, the museum educator continued.
"You may have pain in this. In a very brief time, you will dismiss the recollection of it as an undersold Easter Egg Hunt in a National Trust property. May you be happy in the museum life you have chosen. Let me warn you though. Museums are cultural institutions that must not die; they must be museums of the people, by the people and for the people. Your way shall seem them perish from the earth. Goodbye Frank."
She left him, and they parted.
"Curator!" said Frank, "show me no more. Take me home. Why are you torturing me."
"Just one more then my work here is done."said the Curator.
They appeared in another museum, in a not very large, but comfortable staff room.
Frank saw the beautiful young educator by the coffee machine. Until he saw her now in middle age, come and stand beside the younger version. Was the young girl her daughter or are all young women who work in museums beautiful? They were chatting and laughing as the museum manager walked in, bearing tidings of extra Christmas leave, overtime bonuses and extra training allowances for all.
"Guess who I saw this afternoon?" said the manager eventually.
"How can I, I was up to my knees in Key Stage 1 'make and do' activities for Christmas." said the matronly educator.
"Frank Unrason!" laughed the manager. "I happened to be in Unreason to pick up a late Christmas gift for my aged aunt, when I walked past the museum. I saw Frank sat at the front desk alone. Quite alone in the world I do believe. He really must fake the visitor numbers for his Council funding."
"Curator, take me home!" pleaded Frank.
Suddenly the Curator began to glow until it engulfed him at which point he was overcome by an irresistible drowsiness and the faint whiff of acetone. It was his usual condition when visiting his museum stores, but he found himself in his own bedroom. He barely had time to assimilate all that had happened to him before he fell into a deep sleep."
Next: The Second of the Three Curators.
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