Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously loud snore, Frank felt he was restored to consciousness in the nick of time, for he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance and not be taken by surprise.
The church bell tolled one again, but no sign of the second Curator. Time ticked by yet nothing came. Perhaps it was on the landing? This idea became so powerful that Frank had to get up and investigate. He shuffled slowly to the door, but the moment Frank's hand was on the lock a strange voice called him by his name and bade him follow her.
He was still in his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were hung with tinsel and streamers, a tree stood in the corner, Christmas fare was laid out on the table. It was the perfect festive scene.
"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in, and lets get to know each other. I am the Curator of Christmas Present."
The Curator was dressed in simple white lab technicians coat over a lemon yellow blouse and smart yet casual trousers. Lint free gloves peeked nonchalantly out of her breast pocket. Her court shoes had a slight heel that trod the fine line between style and practicality that female footwear inevitably has to tread. Its hair of dark brown curls was restrained in ponytail. A genial face, sparkling eyes and a cheery voice made Frank suitably submissive.
"Curator," said Frank, "conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson. Tonight if you have anything to teach me, let me profit by it."
"Touch my lab coat," ordered the Ghost.
Frank did as he was told and the room vanished instantly and they were hovering over the city streets. The sky was gloomy and the streets were choked with a dingy mist. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate and yet there was an air of cheerfulness that the brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.
The people below were jovial and full of glee as they soared over the Unreason skyline in a direction that led them straight to the house of Frank's volunteer. On the threshold the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless the dwelling with a sprinkling of her Paraloid B67. The volunteer's name was Rob Scratchit. The family was surviving on basic Jobseekers Allowance, whilst Rob hoped to begin a career in museums. Scratchit's wife, Belinda, dressed festively but poorly in a charity shop bought shell suit. The son Master Peter plunged a fork into a saucepan full of potatoes. Two smaller Scratchits, a boy and a girl came running in and danced around the table.
"Where is your precious father then?" said Mrs. Scratchit. "And your brother Slimy Jim."
"Father's coming!" cried the little Scratchits.
Suddenly in burst Rob with Slimy Jim upon his shoulder. Alas for Slimy Jim, he bore a dishcloth, to wipe his ever moist face.
"How did little Slimy behave while you were out? asked Mrs. Scratchit.
"As good as gold," said Bob. I do believe he is getting dryer every day. Soon he will be dry enough to think about a career in museums.
Soon the family was all bustle and activity as they prepared their potato and turnip Christmas dinner.
When at last dinner was done, all the family sat in front of the black and white TV waiting for the Queen's Speech, Rob proposed:
"A Merry Christmas to us all and all workers in cultural institutions the world over."
Which all the family re-echoed.
"God bless all curators," said Slimy Jim, the last of all.
"Spirit," said Frank, with an interest he had never felt before," tell me if Slimy Jim will ever grow up to be a museum professional."
" I see a vacant expression," replied the Curator, "If these shadows remain unaltered, the child will work in a call centre."
Frank hung his head to hear those words and was overcome with penitence and grief.
"Mr. Rason!" said Rob; "I'll give you Frank Rason, let us toast the great museum professional, who lets me volunteer 50 hours a week, to gain enough experience to possibly apply for a minimum wge job at a minor local authority museum!"
A strange spluttering emerged from Mrs. Scratchit. "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon. What an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Rason. You know he is Robert. He has promised you proper work on many occasions and has only ever increased in your volunteering..even when staff are leaving in droves."
"My dear, its Christmas'" was Rob's mild answer.
However the mention of Frank's name had cast a shadow across the party, which was not dispelled for a full 30 seconds until it was 3 o'clock and time to watch the Queen's speech.
"God bless her," whispered Rob.
It was beginning to get dark and was now snowing pretty heavily; Frank and the Curator went along the streets of Unreason, the brightness of the Christmas lights on the houses and in the gardens were wonderfully tasteless.
Without a word of warning from the Curator, they stood upon a bleak and deserted moor.
"What place is this?" asked Frank
"A place where labourers in the heritage of the natural environment work," replied the Curator.
Inside a jolly party of ruddy and hearty folk in cable knitwear and ill fitting jeans drank micro brewery ale under ethically source decorations.
But the Curator did not tarry there, but bade Frank hold onto her lab coat again. Suddenly they were over the sea as the waves crashed onto the rocks, they approached a lighthouse heritage centre. Inside more cable knit was evident as staff jigged along to Shaking Steven's Merry Christmas Everyone.
But the Curator sped on. They landed on a ship, a classic tall ship museum. Every person on board, awake, sober, or drunk and half-asleep was saying a kind word to others, all thanking their lucky stars that they worked in the best profession in the world.
Off the Spirit flew again and soon Frank could hear the hearty laugh of his nephew. He was back in Unreason, where a Christmas party was in full swing.
He heard his nephew say, "He said that I was a litterbug! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"He's a comical old fellow, although not so pleasant as he might be, I have nothing to say against him."
"I have no patience with him," observed Frank's niece.
"Oh I have," Said Frank's nephew. "I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. He takes it into his head to dislike museum visitors, but who suffers? Only him."
Soon party games began with the children play blind-man's buff to begin with. As the games continued, Frank begged the Ghost to be able to stay until the guests left. The next Game was called Yes and No, where Frank's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering yes or no, as the case was. Brisk questioning elicited from him that he was thinking of a live animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted, sometimes talked, lived in Unreason, was not a horse, or a cow, or a pig, or a bear. At last the nephew's sister cried out:
"I know, I know!"
"What is it?" asked the nephew.
"It's your Uncle Frank!"
Which it certainly was.
"He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure," said the nephew, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health; and I say, " 'Uncle Frank!"
"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is,"
Uncle Frank had become so light of heart even though his outward expression never changed. He wanted the night to last for ever. But the Spirit had bad news for him.
"My time is near, " said the Curator, "My work upon this globe is very brief. It ends tonight. We must go now."
In an instance they were flying over chimneys back towards the Unreason chip shop.
"Forgive me kind Spirit, but I see something peeking beneath your lab coat," said Frank.
They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, a stale and shrivelled hand had pinched and twisted them.
"Curator, are they yours?" Frank could say no more.
"They are Museum's" said the Ghost, looking down upon them. "And they cling to me. The boy is Education and the girl is Outreach."
"Have they no refuge or resource?" cried Frank
"Not in museums any more, not even prison museums or National Trust workhouses."
The bell tolled twelve.
Frank looked about him, but the Curator had gone. As the last stroke rang out, Frank lifted up his eyes and beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming towards him.
Coming next chapter 4: The Last of the Curators
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