Stave 5: The End of It

The bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own, the heavily thumbed copy of the Museums Journal on the bedside table was his own. Best of all the time before him was his own.

"I will work on the past in the present for the future!" Frank cried as he scrambled off the bed.

"I am here!" whooped Frank, "the shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be! I know they will."

"I don't know what to do!" shrieked Frank, both laughing and crying in the same breath. "I am as happier than a Strictly Come Dancing judge, I am as jolly as Wetherspoon's Happy Hour clientele. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to the museum world!"

"I don't know what day of the month it is," said Frank. "I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know how to run a museum properly. I KNOW NOTHING! Never mind. It's time to learn!"

Running to the window, he opened it and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, stirring and cold.

"What's today?" shouted Frank calling to a boy who happened to be passing.

"Eh?" grunted the boy looking at him strangely.

"What's today, my fine fellow?" said Frank.

"Today?" replied the boy. "It's Christmas Day you daft old coot...merry Christmas." But before the boy could escape Frank shouted;

"It's Christmas Day, I haven't missed it. What a night! Do you know the 24 hour convenience shop on the corner?"

The boy nodded slowly, wondering what was coming next.

"Is the 'Unreason's Largest Turkey' still in the window?" said Frank.

"What the inflatable purple one as big as me?" said the boy doubtfully.

"Yes! yes! Go and buy it and bring it here. Here's a tenner, if you are back in less than 10 minutes I'll double it with an extra fiver!" hollered Frank.

The boy was off like a shot.

"I'll tell the boy to take it to Rob Scratchit's, it's twice the size of Slimy Jim."

Soon the boy wrestled the massive turkey back to the flat. Cackling wildly, Frank paid the boy, sent him off to the Scratchit house with the inflatable poultry, with a card that read 'Merry Christmas from Museum of Unreason be at the museum at 9:30am this morning'.

Frank then dressed in his finest tweed, stuffed his pockets with spare museum entrance tickets and went out into the chilly streets of Unreason. He greeted everyone he met with a, "Good morning sir or madam. A merry Christmas to you from the Museum of Unreason. Have tickets to the Museum of Unreason's Christmas and New Year extravaganza."

Frank had not gone far when he came upon the couple of carol singers he had kicked out of the museum the day before, warbling away outside the Unreason scrap metal dealers. "Come come with me, come to the museum and bring your festive cheer to the front steps, I will guarantee a substantial donation to your charity."

The ladies look dumbfounded.

"Don't say anything please," said Frank. "Come now, will you come, you will you be part of the new improved Museum of Unreason."

"We will!" cried the old dears. And it was clear they meant to do it.

Frank went to the church, walked the streets, patted children on the head, invited beggars to the museum. He had never dreamed that any walk..that anything... could give him so much happiness. He then turned towards his nephew's house.

After much hesitation, Frank knocked on the door and went straight in. He surprised his nephew and wife jointly sampling an early morning eggnog latte in the kitchen.

"Why bless my soul," said the nephew (or words to that effect).

"It's I, your uncle Frank. I have come to invite myself to dinner this evening and be a litterbug in your house!" at which point Frank showered the floor with ten pound notes. "Merry Christmas! See you later."

Frank then ran towards the Museum. He wanted to get there before 9:30 and hopefully catch Rob Scratchit coming in late.

And he did it. Somewhat breathless he sat there as the clock struck  nine thirty. No Rob. Nine forty-five, no Rob. Frank began to worry, perhaps Rob wouldn't do as he told - for the first time ever.

At 5 minutes to 10, Rob stomped in.

"Hallo," growled Frank, in his usual manner, "What do you mean coming in at this time of day?"

"I'm very sorry, sir, but my wife said I shouldn't come at all," replied Rob."It's Christmas, it's only once a year!" he pleaded.

"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Frank, "I am not going to stand for this sort of thing any longer. And therefore'" he continued, "we need someone to handle all the new visitors for our Christmas extravaganza starting in 35 minutes. It attracts a competitive salary, but they need to start now - can you do it?"

Rob trembled, he momentarily thought of calling the NHS helpline to ask what to do if faced with a case of temporary insanity. Instead he just nodded dumbly.

"A merry Christmas Rob, now lets get this place looking festive and open the doors," said Frank as he clapped Rob on the back, "make this day a success, and I'll immediately raise the starting salary, take on Slimy Jim as an apprentice, and listen to all your ideas for innovative customer friendly displays and events."

Rob gibbered quietly to himself, then set to work with a purpose.

Outside, on the museum steps, the sound of the carol singers came through the door as they began, 'Once in Royal Unreason City'.

People began to gather curious at the change that had overcome Frank and the museum. Revellers on the way to the pub for a quick lunchtime pint before the Christmas turkey stopped and never  left, mesmerised by large quantities of Frank's unique gluhwein recipe. Rob's family came along to see where he was and began to join in the family friendly Christmas activities.

"God bless you Frank," said Rob's wife, whilst landing a sloppy gluhwein tasting kiss on Frank's lips.

Frank's nephew and family dropped in and were immediately swept away into the partying throng.

At the end of the day, the Museum of Unreason had had more visitors in one day than ever before.

Frank was better than his word. He kept his promise to Rob. He did it all and infinitely more; and to Slimy Jim, who went on to have a stellar career in the cultural sector, he became his AMA mentor. He became as good a friend, as good a museum manager, and as good a man, as the good old town of Unreason knew. Some people laughed to see the alteration in the museum, but they began to visit out of curiosity, then out of fun, then out of love for the old place. The Museum of Unreason not only began to have visitors, but a friends group, a fundraising group and a town that began to care about its history and past.

Frank himself had no further intercourse with ghostly curators; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to run good Christmas museum events. May that be truly said of all us museum professionals. And so, as Slimy Jim observed,

God Bless Museums, Every One of Them!

Stave 4: The Last of the Curators

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. It was shrouded in a deep black shapeless garment, which concealed its form. Nothing beneath was visible. The figure glided to the side of Frank.

"Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Curators Yet To Come?" said Frank.

The Spirit answered not, but emitted a strange electronic burble. A eerie light shone from beneath the robe downwards.

Frank feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him and he could hardly stand as he tried to follow it. The Spirit paused and waited, Frank sensed a tutting sound coming from beneath the cowl.

"Lead on," said Frank, "the night is waning fast. Lead on Spirit."

They scarcely seemed to be out of the flat when the vast expanse of the downtown metropolis of New Unreason spread before them. They swooped down to overhear a conversation.

"No," said a fat man with a monstrous set of chins, "I don't know much about it, either way. I only know it has closed."

"When?" inquired another.

"Sometime ago apparently, but nobody noticed for many months. It was only discovered last night when a couple of American tourists arrived searching for their ancestors. They had read on the internet that Unreason had a museum with the most magnificent archive in England of family records for unfeasibly rich Americans. They turned up, tried to open the door and the knob came off in their hands, closely followed by the door slowly falling outwards and covering the wife under a pile of woodworm dust. Inside they found his skeleton.

"It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said some speaker. This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

Speakers and listeners gradually strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Frank looked to the Curator for an explanation.

The Phantom whirred then glided on. Its light pinpointed to two persons meeting. Frank listened again.

"How are you?" said one.

"How are you?" returned the other.

"Well!" said the first. "I heard they've got rid of that boring, boring museum at last and that arse of a Curator whatsisname."

"So I am told," returned the second.

Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation and their parting.

Frank shuddered whilst, quiet and dark beside him the Phantom hovered and occasionally beeped. They left the busy scene and into an area of ill repute that Frank had only occasionally visited. In this den of infamy there was a low-browed shop where second hand goods were traded. Frank and the Curator came into the presence of a man behind the counter. He was talking to a couple of suited gentleman, clearly agents of a more wealthy client.

"Come into the back office, just wait until I shut the door of the shop." said the shop owner.

"There's not much I'm afraid, most of the good stuff has gone, the remainder are getting some bids on eBay. There are a few pieces, which he was keeping for himself, wicked old screw."

The man opened up a bundle. It was not extensive, a royal seal or two, a pencil case with Turner etched on the back, a pair of sleeve buttons worn by Winston Churchill on his only visit to Unreason and a brooch made by Rene Lalique. They were severally examined and appraised by the agents and a trade was made, whilst the old shopkeeper gently removed the accession numbers.

"I hope he didn't die of anything catching ,"said the shopkeeper, "but it is a shame he has gone, at least they are not housed in boring glass cases gathering dust in the museum for no purpose at all. No one cares."

"This is the end of it," he continued, "He frightened everyone away from the museum when he was alive, and sold items for his personal profit, and now we profit from his death and the death of culture in Unreason. Ha, ha, ha!"

Frank recoiled in horror, but the scene changed almost immediately, he was in a room - too dark to be observed with any accuracy. But a pale light emanated from the Curator and fell upon the body of a man whose rotted tweed jacket still had the pens visible in his breast pocket.

The body lay in the dark empty museum, with not a man, a woman, or a child to visit. There was only the sound of gnawing rats beneath the showcases.

'Spirit," said Frank, "this is a dreadful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson. Did anyone care about the loss of the museum?"

The Phantom spread its robe, to reveal a crystal clear HD screen in its chest. On it there was a mother and her children were. It was Rob Scratchit's house. They were clearly expecting someone.

At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door and met her husband. A man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was still young.

"It is the end of the dream," he said eventually, "He is dead and it is closed. The Job Centre Plus for me tomorrow. It will break Slimy Jim's heart."

Away the Phantom went with Frank at his side and at last the landed in the Unreason churchyard. Frank looked at the name on the gravestone, trembling as he wiped away the Mcdonald's wrappers and pizza boxes from in front of it. He read his own name, Frank Rasin.

"No, Spirit! Oh no, no! At least they could have gotten my name right," wailed Frank.

"Curator!" he cried clutching at its robe, "hear me. I am not the museum professional I was. I will not be the man I must have been. Am I past all hope?"

"From now on I will honour museums in my heart. I will ethically preserve the past in the present for future generations. I will not shut out the lessons of tonight!"

Turning to the Ghost, he saw an alteration in the Curator's hood and robe. It shrank, collapsed and dwindled down into a bedpost.


Next: chapter 5: The End of It.

Stave 3: The Second of the Three Curators

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

Stave 2: The First of the Three Curators

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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Stave 1: A Ghostly Museum Tale

I have endeavoured with this Ghostly little story, to raise the Ghost of a Museum, which shall not put curators out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me.  May it haunt their museums pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it. 

Your faithful Friend and Servant,  F.R.  December, 2014.

Chapter 1 Charley’s Ghost

Charley was dead. At least to the small local museum in the quaint town of Unreason in middle England anyway.  There was no doubt about it. She hadn’t been seen for years, the registrar had de-accessioned her and Frank had reported to the Board of Trustees that she had been ethically disposed of during the last collections review. Charley was as dead as a curator’s sex life.

Mind you, I can’t say that I know, or have studied, the sex lives of museum professionals, or whether it is any deader than that of, say, estate agents. Quite clearly she was deader than the nocturnal activities of most politicians or rock stars (Cliff Richard excepted). What I am trying to say is that we lost Charley.

Frank knew she was lost, of course he did. He had acquired her for the museum many years ago, only he would look after her, he was her sole administrator, but he did not appear cut up by her loss. Staff worried that he would mourn, but Frank was a man of the world he had moved on.

Frank had never got rid of the, ‘Temporarily removed for conservation’ sign from Charley’s display case. It had been a popular display, she had single handedly quadrupled the school visits to the museum. Her fading label still reads, ‘mummified cat found at the tomb of Queen Hatshepsut in the Valley of the Pets in Egypt in 1903’.  Frank had brought it into the museum in a Tesco’s carrier bag in the spring of 1996 having muttered something about a long-term loan from the British Museum.

Then she was gone, Frank never talked about it. It was all the same to him, he was a hard man. Frank Rason was a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching, covetous, old museum manager. The cold within him froze his old features and dripped from his veined nose, the temperature seemed to lower when he walked by and it didn’t thaw one degree at Christmas.

External cold had little influence on him. If anything he preferred it as it meant less visitors to the museum, not that there had been many in recent years. His staff and volunteers had slowly deserted him over the years. Now he was almost alone. The registrar had finally walked out in the October, leaving him with only a single volunteer. Nobody ever stopped by the museum to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Frank, how are you?” Such was his countenance that not even Big Issue sellers approached him.

But what did Frank care? It was the very thing he liked. So it was on a cold Christmas Eve, old Frank sat busy in the museum’s back office. It was cold, bleak, biting weather; he could hear the people in the street outside scoffing at the £25 Museum of Unreason Xmas Special entry charge. It was three thirty, but it was dark already. The fog had come down and was so dense that the Tesco Extra over the road was a mere phantom building.

Frank’s back office door was open so that he might keep an eye on his last remaining volunteer who sat cheerfully in his elf hat behind the reception desk.

“ A merry Christmas Uncle Frank” cried a cheerful voice, startling both Frank and the volunteer out of their reveries. It was Frank’s nephew, he burst through the museum's front door full of life with sparkling eyes and an irritating youthfulness.

“Bah!” said Frank, “Litterbug!”

“Christmas litter uncle!” said Frank’s nephew as he picked up the candied ginger cubes he had dropped in his excitement.

“What reasons have you to be merry? You’re poor and you work in a museum” said Frank

“What reasons have you to be morose? You’re unfeasibly rich enough even though you work in a museum” said the nephew.

“What else can I be” returned his uncle, “when I work in a profession of such fools. What’s Christmas time but putting tinsel on the display cabinets and charging an extra £5 for entry? I’m older and a wiser. Museum Christmases are for fools. The next person who wishes me a merry Christmas will be put in the reception area pillory and pelted with turkey giblets.”

“You are wrong uncle, Christmas is a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable time: the only time of year when people think of each other and when museum shops actually turn a profit. And therefore, uncle, though I am an overqualified cultural professional working for minimum wage I believe that Christmas can do museums good, have done museums good and will continue to do museums good, and I say God bless museums.”

The volunteer in the elf hat, burst into spontaneous applause; immediately regretted it and went back to sticking glitter onto the museum’s collection of cat o’ nine tails for the annual Unreason Sado-Masochists Christmas AGM on boxing day.

“Don’t be angry uncle, come and have Christmas at our museum”

“No! and a good afternoon to you,” said Frank.

The nephew left without an angry word shouting over his shoulder,  “Merry Christmas uncle…and a Happy New Year!”

As the nephew left, he let two women of a certain age into the museum. One was dressed as a Christmas Fairy and another as a Christmas tree. They bowed and began a slightly slurred version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’. Frank put his head in his hands and wondered where the key to the pillory was.

After a wait that seemed interminable, the singing stopped and the fairy stepped forward.

“At this festive season, it is desirable that we think of the poor and destitute museums and their volunteers, who suffer greatly at this present time.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Frank.

“There are many prison museums; what shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing!” Frank cried. “Leave me alone, we are not merry in this museum and I can’t be responsible for making museum volunteers happy. Please leave.”

Seeing Frank eye up the pillory in the corner of reception, the ladies withdrew.

As the fog outside grew thicker, the time came to close the museum.  Frank opened the door, and grudgingly let the volunteer out.

“I suppose you are not coming in tomorrow.” growled Frank

“If that’s OK?” the volunteer smiled faintly as he took off his elf hat.

“It is not convenient and it’s not fair, if I was paying you wages, I would dock you a day’s pay. See you on Boxing Day.”

The volunteer scuttled out the door, Frank locked up and trudged out into the foggy Unreason evening.

He lived in his long deceased mother’s flat above the chip shop on the High Street. After popping in for an unwrapped cone of chips for his tea, Frank shuffled down the side alley towards the gate that lead to his front door. The back yard was so dark that Frank actually had to grope his way down the passage. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the flat, that it seemed as if the weather sat in mournful meditation on the future of the heritage sector in the UK.

Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the flat’s doorknob except that it was very large. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Frank having put his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knob, not a knob, but Charley’s face.

Charley’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the rest of the yard, but had a dismal light about it, like a rotting lobster in a museum store. Frank stared again at the knob and it was simply a knob again.

Frank quickly put the key in the door, turned the knob and marched resolutely into the flat and closed the door with a bang. The sound resounded through the flat like an enormous fart. Quite satisfied he double-locked himself in, which was not his custom.  Thus secure against unwanted visitors, he took off his cravat; put on his pyjamas, dressing gown, slippers, and a nightcap he’d found lying around in the museum costume store in a box labeled ‘do not open under any circumstances’.

Frank sat alone with his usual late night tipple, a half of Theakston’s Old Peculier with a Ryvita Crispbread for dipping. As he sat in front of the single bar electric fire, the memory of Charley came flooding back and the night he took her from the display case and met a Russian of uncertain morality in the Leicester Forest East Services and swapped her for a paper bag full of unmarked Euros. Did he regret his actions? He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Bah! Unplug!” said Frank as he turned off the electric fire. He made his way out of the room and into the bathroom.

The front door flew open with the unmistakable sound of plywood banging on chipboard. Then he heard a shuffling noise, it was getting louder and coming towards the bathroom door. Cockroaches?

“Bah! Must debug!” said Frank.

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the bathroom door and passed into the bathroom. Frank remained seated on the toilet and contemplated pulling his pyjama bottoms up.

“Charley’s ghost!”

The same bandages, the same whiskers, the same foul smell without doubt it was Charley.

“What do you want with me?”

“Much” the mummified cat purred back. “Ask me what I was.”

Frank asked the question while the ghost perched herself in cardboard box at the side of the bath.

“I was your premier object in the museum, I filled your museum with life, and the day you got rid of me you murdered your ethics and your museum.” sighed Charley

Frank sensed something malevolent, but Charley remained motionless.

“Mercy, dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?” whimpered Frank.

“Hear me!” Charley suddenly cried. “You will be haunted by three curators. Without their visits,” said the ghost,  “you cannot hope to continue to preserve the material culture of this fair land. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.”

When it said these words the spectre wrapped its loose bandages back around its body and walked backward and with every inch the bathroom door began to swing open and suddenly she was gone.

Frank closed the door and reached for the toilet roll, after a brief hiatus he went down stairs to see that the front door was still double locked. He stumbled to his bed feeling uncomfortable, as if there was something there in the bed with him.

“Bah! Bedbug!” yawned Frank and fell asleep in an instant.

Next: the first of the museum professionals visit Frank