The Archivist Read online

  ‘What happened to you yesterday?’ she asked.

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘You were down to do an early tour,’ Bunty said.

  ‘But I don’t work on a Thursday,’ Max said.

  ‘No,’ Bunty said. ‘I don’t think you have quite understood how important it is to check with the diary before you plan your week. We were short of guides yesterday, and you had been put down to work. It’s quite clear,’ and she opened the dog-eared handwritten diary and pointed. ‘Here you are, beside this tour which came in before the Hall opened.’

  Max stared down at the page which was covered in handwriting and a great deal of correcting fluid. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see where I am at all,’ he said.

  ‘Here, here next to the Probus tour. MB. That’s you, isn’t it?’ Max peered and sure enough the initials MB were written next to the tour in faint pencil.

  ‘I had no idea,’ he said apologetically. ‘I don’t work on a Thursday.’

  ‘You have to check the diary,’ and Bunty snapped it shut and disappeared up to the guides’ room.

  Noel Canterbury wandered over to Max. He was chuckling.‘The diary rules,’ he said, ‘and Maureen has her favourites.’

  ‘Maureen?’

  ‘You know Maureen Hindle, the weird big one, looks a bit like a tranny. You must have noticed her, she wears the same thing all the time, huge baggy clothes, always black or navy. She does the rota for the diary. Don’t get on the wrong wide of that woman or you’ll find yourself dropped when you want to work, and slithered in when you least expect it.’

  ‘Surely if you’re put down on a day you don’t usually work, someone should ring you?’

  ‘That’s not how it works. Check it at every opportunity or you’ll be caught out and made to feel a complete heel. That’s if you can find the damned diary – quite often Maureen disappears with it. She hugs it to her matronly bosom like a talisman, her precious. She draws her power from it. If you’re on the last tour, you don’t need to come in until eleven, and if you come in at 10.30 by a mistake, not having noticed that you’re on the last tour, she’ll make you sit up in the guides’ room and have a coffee so you don’t get paid for that extra half hour. And remember,’ Noel continued, ‘what’s written in the guides’ diary often has no bearing whatsoever on the main Hall diary.’

  ‘The main Hall diary?’

  ‘Oh yes. The office takes bookings for tours and writes it in a different diary, that diary is then photocopied at the end of each day and a copy goes down to the gate so that Mr Pugh knows which tours are expected – and then of course there’s BS’s diary.’

  Max smiled broadly at Noel. ‘Go on then, tell me about BS’s diary.’

  ‘BS has a diary where he books in tours which have a vaguely educational theme to them, and then he and Bunty get together once a week and allocate specific guides to take them. However, quite often they forget to tell the main office, and sometimes guides get allocated in BS’s diary but no one gets round to writing them in the guides’ diary.’

  ‘So basically, however many times I check the diary, I’ll still get it wrong.’

  ‘Oh you will get it wrong. Maureen likes to catch you out. She gets vicarious pleasure from other people’s mistakes. It makes her feel better about herself.’

  Despite this, after a lifetime of being his own boss Max found it relaxing to spend a whole day without having to make a decision. Bunty told him when to do a tour, when to stand in the saloon on security, when to go and have a cup of tea and when to go up to the guides’ room and have his lunch.

  The guides’ room was housed in the old servants’ quarters above the statue corridor, a large low room with filthy windows which looked out on to an enclosed courtyard full of the detritus of the kitchens three floors below. The carpet was held together with pieces of parcel tape, the furniture was drab. There was one chair that had been patched and mended a number of times and rendered comfortable purely by the laxness of the springs and the rest of the seating consisted of damaged upright chairs abandoned by the caterers. The sink in the corner had no running hot water, and Max was warned not to drink water from the cold tap because it came straight from the lake. Instead the kettle was filled from a water cooler, provided someone had remembered to replenish it, and the milk had to be fetched from the kitchens in the morning. Maureen brought her own coffee in a thermos, so when she filled in for Bunty, there was never any milk because she forgot to send a guide down to collect it. Max once made the mistake of popping down himself as the doors to the Hall opened only to be roundly admonished on his return for using his initiative. As a punishment (or so it seemed), the rest of the guiding team were obliged to drink black tea for the rest of the day. Maureen held the hurt of his disloyalty to her for months until he came to dread entering the guides’ room and finding her nursing a cup of coffee and staring broodingly into space.

  On one of his breaks he found Noel and the Major upstairs. ‘Have either of you ever been head guide?’ he asked. Noel threw his head back and roared.

  ‘Don’t be unkind, Noel,’ the Major said. ‘No, Max, I wasn’t head guide, but I was senior guide for a few months when Bunty went off to have some small op.’

  ‘Best fun we’ve had,’ said Noel. ‘You made an absolute pig’s breakfast of things, didn’t you old chap?’

  ‘My approach may have been unorthodox, but it wasn’t a complete disaster. That recruitment thing settled down fairly well.’

  ‘You mean the Troika?’ Noel said. ‘Or did we decided to call them the Hydra?’ His voice trailed off into a high-pitched squawk as another wave of laughter overwhelmed him. ‘Right Max, let me explain. Unfortunately, during the week the Major was ‘in charge’, four characters turned up for interview, and he persuaded Rosemary to employ the lot of them: a decent enough chap who was stone deaf, a charming diabetic who had lost a foot, a Russian student who didn’t speak much English, and a delightful fellow who was recovering from a stroke and had no short-term memory.’

  ‘Or long-term either, as it turned out,’ the Major said.

  ‘Quite. Anyway, Max, the Major’s solution to the problem was ‘the sum of the parts are greater than the whole’. He tucked the lovely Svetlana Strapnakova off to BS Moreton’s office from whence she swiftly fled back to the wasted Russian steppes in preference to BS Moreton’s over-burgeoning admiration of her polyester slacks, and the Major amalgamated the three remaining new guides into a team. The one with no short-term memory pushed the cripple in a wheelchair, who in turn fielded questions on behalf of the deaf one who was doing the tour. Capital!’

  ‘Oh really Noel, you do exaggerate.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Noel, ‘I’d better get downstairs before Maureen berates me for being up here for too long. Guarantee she’s timing me. Toodle pip!’

  ‘Must trot too, old chap,’ said the Major and followed hard on Noel’s heels.

  As he supped his coffee, Max decided that Duntisbourne Hall was perhaps after all his kind of place. There was enough to amuse and interest him, and Sam, in particular, interested him a great deal. The new order the job had brought to his life was making him feel calmer, and the lack of opportunity to smoke had forced him to cut down dramatically, so all in all he felt Dr Usher would approve.

  By the time the freezing winds of March had mellowed, Max was feeling good about himself. He had bravely faced his first solo guided tour a number of weeks ago, and the small, disparate group of visitors he had been unleashed on had surprised him by their concentration and nodding approval. By his third tour he had begun to throw in a few lighter comments that had gone down so well that he warmed to his theme and had them rocking with mirth by the time they reached the indigo library. He was beginning to feel invincible, but then he had several groups of leaden French exchange students who were unruly and more interested in snogging than in anything amusing he had to say, and a little of his confidence waned. Now he began to appreciate the coachloads of older visitors, particularly the
enthusiastic Women’s Institute. Once he had learned not to stride ahead too quickly – he had once made it all the way through the statue corridor when he realised that none of the Zimmer frames were able to move as fast as him, and he had to scurry back to retrieve them – he began to look forward to that sea of blue-rinsed heads.

  He had spotted Sam a number of times, but an unusual and inexplicable shyness seemed to grip him whenever an opportunity arose to strike up a little conversation with her. He was sufficiently smitten to mention her to his daughter when she rang about taxing her car.

  ‘Daddy, my daddy,’ Charlotte began, as she always did ever since she had spotted her father dabbing a tear from his eye one Christmas when they were watching The Railway Children together.

  ‘Hello, sweetie. How are things?’

  ‘Big problem with the car, I’m afraid. It failed the MOT – apparently I need a complete new set of tyres, and the tax disc runs out at the end of the month.’

  ‘How much?’ Max wasn’t a pushover, but he found it hard to deny Charlotte. His father and mother had been consistently generous with him and he knew no other way of parenting. He worried that Charlotte would never learn to stand on her own two feet if he kept bailing her out, but consoled himself with the thought that even if she never returned his generosity in kind, she would treat her own children in the same way. Besides, if he could afford to help, he would; if he hadn’t been able to afford it, he probably still would. Whichever way, he seldom resented putting his hand into his pocket for his child and Charlotte was tactful enough to show surprise when he did.

  ‘Are you sure, Dad? You don’t have to. Honestly.’

  ‘Let me.’

  ‘OK then. Thanks. You’re the best dad in the world.’

  ‘Best dad for you.’

  ‘Now you’ve got that new job you must be rolling in money.’

  Max laughed loudly. ‘Yes, three days’ work at Duntisbourne Hall is going to make all the difference,’ and to his surprise he found himself telling Charlotte some of the silly things that happened during his working day and then all about Sam.

  ‘Is she a hottie?’

  ‘Honestly, Charlotte, you do say the most extraordinary things. I don’t even know what that means - and I don’t want to know what that means.’

  ‘Have you asked her out?’

  ‘No. Heaven’s above, I’m not sixteen, you know. Besides, she a lot more important than me, and it’s all very feudal at the Hall. She’s working on a new exhibition that they’re building at the moment, but the whole thing is shrouded in mystery. She drives a really nice little green sports car. I always feel rather cheerful in the morning if I see it parked there, but she’s not always at the Hall. Sometimes she’s up in London.’

  He had seen the car this morning and was leaning back on a large marble table at the side of the saloon, hands stretched out and flat, absorbing the comforting coolness of the marble and thinking about what he would say to her the next time she glided past him, the next time he had the pleasure of seeing the National Treasure, the name he had given to her gloriously shaped rear view. And as if his thoughts had magically conjured her up, there she was. She had just entered the other end of the saloon and was studying something above the doorway. He felt a wave of excitement rise in him: this time he was definitely going to say something. He chuckled to himself at the thought of nonchalantly wandering across the saloon and coming right out with it: ‘Hello, Sam. I suppose a shag’s out of the question ...’ when suddenly, in front of him, stood the earl.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, man?’ The earl towered over him, red in the face. Max jumped to attention and resisted the urge to wipe away the beads of spittle that had flown from the earl’s mouth and struck him on the cheek. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing lounging around on my furniture? And who the hell are you? I don’t employ people like you to lounge around with their hands all over my furniture, staring into space! Haven’t you got anything better to do?’

  Max was speechless. He was aware that a group of visitors close by had stopped peering into their guide books and were now gripped by the scene developing behind them. He also sensed that Sam had turned and was watching his humiliation.

  ‘Smarten yourself up, man!’ the earl barked. Max blinked impotently and the thought flashed through his mind that he was a great deal better dressed than the earl who was sporting a rather revolting pastel cashmere that resembled a Battenberg cake. ‘We have standards to maintain and you, boy ’ – he spat this last word out like an expletive – ‘are quite clearly below standard. And what’s that on your name badge? Nerys Tingley? Nerys ruddy Tingley? Is that your idea of joke?’

  It had seemed quite funny that morning. Max had left his own name badge at home and over his first cup of coffee in the guides’ room he had amused the gathered company by rifling through the spare badges. ‘Who shall I be today?’ he asked. ‘Shall I be Claude? He’s not here today. Do I look like a Claude? And what about old Frodders? Is the Major in later today? Or Roger Hogg-Smythe? I think I’m man enough to carry that name off.’

  ‘Can’t see you on the bench, old chap,’ Noel said, laughing.

  ‘Maybe not. Ah, this is it. Today I’m going to be ... Nerys Tingley!’

  ‘Your chin’s certainly whiskery enough,’ Noel remarked.

  The joke didn’t seem so funny now. The earl raved on: ‘This is my house, this is my furniture, and I will have you drummed off the premises in a heartbeat unless you damned well shape up.’

  Max felt his blood rise but as he opened his mouth to voice a rejoinder, the earl turned on his heels and clicked away down the lower dining room.

  Silence filled the saloon, a silence so profound that Max felt it drumming on his ears. It was broken by a visitor who had crept up beside him.

  ‘Was that the earl?’ the visitor asked, his face aglow with pleasure and eager interest.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Max managed to say. ‘That certainly was the earl.’

  The visitor returned to his group and they clustered around him smiling and nodding. One of them tried to catch a picture of the receding aristocrat with his digital camera, but Weenie (who had thoroughly enjoyed seeing Max’s mortification) fell on the visitor like an ocean and reminded the trembling tourist that he would have his camera taken away from him and wiped of pictures if she so much as saw him handling it again.

  Max turned his back on them and stared out of the windows across the park to hide his expression of impotent fury. He had never been spoken to like that, and the worst thing was that he hadn’t managed to say a thing. He was going to walk out right now, drive away and never come back ... but then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and turning he caught a hint of warm scent. It was Sam.

  ‘Who’s been a naughty boy then?’ she said softly in his ear, so close that he could feel the warmth of her lips flutter across his skin. Then she was gone.

  ‘Max!’ Bunty was calling him. ‘Max! Come along. Your group’s waiting.’

  ‘What group?’ Max groaned.

  ‘Mr Pugh has just radioed up to say they’re making their way to the front door – the Co-op South-East Counties Veterans’ Association.’

  With a heavy step Max made his way back through the hall to the front door.

  ‘Dear me, old chap’ Noel Canterbury said, ‘you look dreadful. Are you all right?’

  ‘Just had an altercation with His Lordship.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Noel. ‘Bloody man. I would choke rather than call him His Lordship. Nothing lordly about him, he’s the most graceless son of a bitch you could ever meet. And what has he ever done anyway except get born?’

  Max was a little taken aback. He knew that Noel’s son stood as a conservative candidate somewhere on the south coast and he hadn’t expected a left-wing outburst from him.

  ‘The second earl,’ Noel carried on, ‘now that’s a different matter. At least he had the phlegm to bed good Queen Bess. He deserved every title she gave him in my o
pinion.’ Noel twinkled mischievously at Max. ‘And the fifth earl, he was a pretty brave chap, he deserved his title ... but eight generations on, and we’ve got this idiot. He’s uncultured, thick as sump oil from the inbreeding, unpleasant to look at with those revolting bloodhound eyes, makes me shudder, and on top of all that, the man’s a crashing bore. He treats us all like dirt and one day it’ll come back and slap him in the face if there’s any justice in the world.’ Noel nodded to himself a few times to emphasise his point of view.

  ‘It’s good to hear I’m not alone,’ said Max.

  ‘Good God no. You talk to anyone – take Pugh, for example. Last year his son worked on the gate for a few months after university. Lord Montague arrives at the gate and tells the lad to hand over fifty quid from the takings – the little git’s short of cash. What’s the lad supposed to do? He tries to say no, but he’s the earl’s son and heir, for God’s sake. What option has he got? So he hands over the cash – never sees it again, of course – and the management take it out of the lad’s wages! We’re all on minimum wage here as it is, and him a student too. That sort of treatment hardly encourages loyalty.’ Noel looked around the Hall and then leaned a little nearer and said conspiratorially. ‘You know what, Max, when it’s quiet one of my favourite games is planning how to give the old bastard his comeuppance. It would be richly deserved.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ Max asked.

  ‘Well ... oh blast, here’s your group. Chat later,’ and Noel tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger and gave Max an amused, knowing look.

  Noel had lifted Max’s spirits considerably, and by the time the Co-op South-East Counties Veterans’ Association were struggling slowly up the steps to the front door like the walking dead, grunting and groaning and leaning on one another for support, his good humour was almost up to its normal levels. It was restored in full when one of the veterans fired off a stentorian fart which, despite echoing around the beams above the great hall, seemed to go unheard by the ancient gentleman who had delivered it.