Chapter seventeen, Monday morning: 28thoctober2013 the museum
HC: “Hi Sis, howzit!” He thinks he’s down with the kids, such a shame.
TC: “Finished your tour?” What does he want he never calls me, god I sound like Mum!?
HC: “Until Christmas, we’ve got The Academy then, Mum wants to know where you are” there you are.
TC: “The British museum” I love it here.
HC: “Very cultural Tharie, I’m jealous” liar, you’d hate it, all the women are fully dressed, it’s cold in here.
TC: “…and yes, I’ve eaten properly” ha!
HC: “I’ll tell her” see that you do.
As we enter the lower underground of the back end of the museum I hold Daniels hand tightly, he is obviously nervous at getting strangers involved in the mystery.
EC: “Catharine, I’m worried about you” tell me something new.
TC: “Mum, I’m fine, I had a healthy dinner and am leading an active life” true story.
EC: “You’ll never find a husband if you don’t look after your appearance” I almost shake my ponytail in response.
TC: “Mum, Superhero’s can’t have a family.” and that, dear reader, is a true story if ever there was one.
TC: “Spiderman wasn’t married.” no-one likes a boy who wears Lycra.
EC: “His outfit was smart and he brushed his hair” I’m not winning this one am I?
TC: “OK mum, I’ll get my haircut” sometime.
In the archive room, it’s very dark with shelves upon shelves, stacked from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with white plastic fully labelled boxes containing finds from digs all over the globe, lit from behind. It’s like the Bread Kitchen but instead of wine, its antiquities.
My phone buzzes.
EC: “I’ve booked you an appointment with Gail” bloody hell.
Phone away.
A short, friendly man approaches, clearly juggling several past conversations in his head, I know the feeling. He’s a squat man with salt and pepper thinning hair and a very warm, engaging, friendly smile with clear as crystal blue smiling eyes that match his mouth. His tweed jacket is original seventies, with corduroy elbow patches worn and frayed around the edges of the pockets and cuffs from constant use. Wearing a Fender Stratocaster t-shirt under his lab coat, it doesn’t close, the professor likes his food. The embroidery above his breast pocket which has two pens with no lids a pencil, a penknife, a plastic fork and a plectrum in it, says Professor Dr. Nigel Cummings. He reaches out a warm friendly hand with thick soft fingers to greet us “hello.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, I bet he does that a lot I think to myself. “I’m Professor Cummings, call me Nigel or Professor.” That's clear. His trousers are too short, they’ve been altered because his legs are short and a mistake has been made with the measurements in the wrong direction, but clearly fashion is not a priority for Nigel, they still function as trousers. Plus the stitching is orange and his trousers are mole brown, he wears grey cable knit socks and those nasty chunky neoprene sandals with buckles on them. Its winter.
Behind him is my friend Liza, blonde hair the colour of wet hay, long and swept up in a very professional but casual bun. Her slight boyish frame lost under the white lab coat she is wearing at least two sizes too big, they probably don’t make them in a size 6. Her name is tidily embroidered on the breast in navy blue sanserif, Dr Liza Cartier. We all exchange pleasantries, and Nigel leads us all further into the maze that is his domain, I am already terribly lost, but that’s to be expected. Chattering away to us or himself it’s hard to tell, Liza glances at me with an eye roll to suggest he does this a lot and it’s OK to ignore him, just as long as he doesn’t notice.
“I notice everything Dr Cartier, it’s why I know so much” adds the Professor, we laugh out loud.
“You still riding at the weekend Tharie?” Liza asks me with an exaggerated eye-roll as we follow the men through this store room.
“It’s the Grand Prix, we’ve been working for.” Chocolate Mousse is a Dutch Warmblood, much bigger than my Trakehners, longer in the back, less sharp. He is very dark brown almost black, and his focus is dressage. It’s like watching ballet on horseback, stunningly beautiful.
“You got rosettes last weekend I hear?” She asks me trying to bring the conversation back to something that connects us.
“Yes, we did quite well,” I confess to being proud of our performance.
“And this event?”
“Yep, all set to go, lorry filled with diesel, tack all clean, boys are ready, you know they’re both competing this time?” I answer, always happy to chat about horses. “If I’ve finished my class in time I’d love to come watch you do your Prix St. George, I just love watching Mousse dance.”
Liza smiles affectionately, whether at me or the thoughts of her horse it's impossible to tell, but I assume it's me and happily carry on.
“George will win it for sure, if you can just keep Harry’s attention for more than five minutes you might get somewhere on him too, he's very talented, he's just a little....” Liza searches for the correct word, accessing her head library, being deliberately careful to use the correct phrasing so as not to upset.
“Crazy?!” I add laughing. She’s not wrong about Harry.
“Sharp, he's sharp and yes he's talented, he just needs to keep his cool.” Quite. I refer you dear reader, to a comment I made earlier about Trakehners, the mad ones in particular.
“Easier said than done Liza, his personality is what gives him the edge, he thinks as he gallops.” True bloody fast story. I of course love Harry to death, he is undoubtedly the most stunning creature who ever walked or trotted, jumped or even piaffe'd the earth, but he's clever and often has other things on his mind. “Not as easy as that sounds.” I reply with raised eyebrows. Liza does dressage and I jump, they couldn’t be more different disciplines. We don’t get the others passion but we accept and we both love our horses to bits, or in my case hackamores, so we have that in common.
HC: “What’s wrong with your hair?” Nothing.
TC: “Mum wants me married, she and Dad had already had us by my age” she loves to remind me.
HC: “And her friends all have grandchildren too eh?” Bloody hell, like I need to hear it all again.
TC: “True story, but she didn’t have horses” see?
HC: “I’ll remind her of that next time” next time?
Aware that our journey into this crypt like basement has already taken us well under the depths of the museum, it certainly smells like the place could benefit from an open window, not dusty and old as you might imagine, just airless, still and warm. I appraise Daniels arse as it walks ahead of me, as he chats animatedly to Nigel, looking at me over his shoulder with a smirk like somehow he knows I’m checking him out. He slows so I can catch up, “see something you like Miss Charles?” He winks.
“I like it better unwrapped.” I flirt back.
Liza catches us, “phew, he's hot!” She whispers to me, “very, very...
“That’s quite enough Liza!” I scold playfully, but secretly I have to concede, he is, and for now at least he's mine.
“Is there a kitchen down here Liza, I could use a cuppa?” She nods. Phew!
The Prof. has a well-fed look to him and at first glance his Bill Oddie frame belies an energy and agility of a much younger man. Walking swiftly, ducking around obstacles the professor talks as he goes, not stopping or pausing for breath, I get the impression it’s as unusual occurrence to have visitors. He is happy and animated and clearly loves his job, he reminds me a little of my Dad, I smile at the idea.
Are there tea making facilities down here I wonder, since Liza failed to hear my question? Or did she? Bloody hell, should have brought a flask.
“I understand from Dr Cartier there’s some imagery you’d like me to give you an opinion on? Quite an unusual request.” He says giggling to himself and pushing his spectacles back on his nose, “but I’m waiting for funding and the permissions to go back to Peru, so I have time on my hands.”
Liza rolls her eyes as if to signal he’s been driving his team mad with frustration, and she can’t wait for him to be gone another year!
“Unusual indeed, professor, the artwork is unclear in its mixed origins and its application,” offers Daniel.
“Oh really?” The professor answers, “Liza has told me very little, where is the item you wish me to appraise?” He looks at our luggage awaiting for us to produce a piece of pottery or textile. He notices the amusing looks exchanged between us, and returns his gaze questioningly. His eyebrows raise in impatient anticipation, like me, he doesn’t appreciate any wasted time. Standing in the bright glow of fluorescent tube lighting of Nigel’s office, Daniel takes off his black wool All Saints pea coat and hangs it over a chair back. He wiggles the knot of his skinny Prada tie loose and slips it over his head adding it to the pile. His eyes don’t leave mine, it’s a striptease, in public. This would be most peoples worst nightmare, but Daniel doesn’t seem to mind, but then he has nothing to be shy about, trust me, I suddenly feel smug.
Where's the bloody tea?
The professor fidgets about as if uncomfortable with what's happening, taking the spectacles off his nose and unnecessarily cleans them on a monogrammed handkerchief only men of a certain age still carry. But as Daniel undoes the front of his skinny Prada shirt and unbuttons the cuffs, the professor becomes animated as his arms are revealed. Daniel pulls off his t-shirt over his head, and a body covered in tattoos has been uncovered. “Interesting, very interesting indeed.” He says putting his glasses back on, and forgetting this is a man under the markings, continuing his appraisal up close.
Daniel takes off his bashed-up twelve-hole doc martens, balls his socks up and places them into his shoes tucking them under the chair. This is so hot, he’s looking straight at me, taunting me, I shudder, shut up brain! Daniel unbuckles his leather belt and pops open the fly, pulling off his skinny black Acne denim, and he just stands there in black Calvin’s, his Rolex and a skull ring. His body is incredible, slim and toned, sculpted, beautiful, I can’t take my eyes off him, and for the moment, he’s mine. I feel lucky, like someone’s who’s had the chance to ride a schoolmaster and wants to take every advantage. He looks directly at me his eyes burning into mine, my face burns, I feel a little lightheaded, he takes a very deep audible breath and finally he is completely naked, all of him for everyone to see. OMG!
PF: “Is this a bad time?” Are you kidding me?
TC: “Pete, there's a naked man standing here, please go away, and come back later” get it?
PF: “If you were going for subtle, you missed it” did I?
TC: “Tell you everything later” true story.
Liza looks at me appraisingly stifling a whistle, admiring Daniels naked form she looks over at me and winks conspiratorially. It’s perfect, I have to agree with her appraisal, the muscled contours of his beautifully sculpted body standing proud for all to enjoy, me especially, stunningly decorated in the most exotic imagery twisting and winding shapes and symbols around his frame. Such fine craftsmanship. The professor moves his glasses over his nose for a sharper view. “Fascinating,” he says. Not the word I’d use.
“These are ancient symbols from different unrelated origins, it’s really incredible to see them in one place, but maybe that’s the point.” He looks up at us only briefly, he moves around Daniel as if the living body beneath is inconsequential, and it was an inanimate object he was asked to study. “Ahh...yes, I see.” He stares closer at certain portions of the design, he’s looking at an image on Daniels back ribcage, one that has fascinated Daniel since he got it at nineteen. “It’s extremely intricate in its workmanship and must have taken several days to complete.” Says the professor, suddenly animated. His excitement clear, but his brain moves too fast to annotate what’s he’s thinking.
My phone vibrates,
EC: “You never call me” she’s right, but I never call anyone.
TC: “Later Tx” swipe send, the immediately feel guilty,
TC: “Love you Tx”
Note to self, ask Dr Shrink about my guilt issues.