Museum Piece: A Christmas Story

[Note: the protagonist's " issues" in this story are evident to everyone, but overlooked]

Museum Piece: A Christmas Story 

“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.”

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Karl Havers wasn't out of the London’s Nightingale Clinic a week when he got a call from the dead... at least he thought he did..

He hadn't seen Charles Massey since his last day at Uni. In fact, he didn't see him then. He simply never showed up. It took four years for him to reappear - meteorically - as “Chuck” Massey.

That's right, Chuck Massey, the actor.

The public's memory of him now is more than justifiably opaque – though, in his prime, his professional luster could not have been more incandescent. Hailed as the best actor of his generation - those accolades came with the sobriquet: “wildman of the west end”.

Failing to transition to the large or small screen sealed his fate – and Massey had been reduced to trodding ever-narrowing boards for dinner theatre patrons far north of London.

His call came with news that he was 'back – actually working' - in the City.

“Gainfully employed old chap!”

“That's fabulous Chuck! Truly! Where are you playing? ”

“....more engaged rather ..in a unique position – a character part actually.”

“What's the venue then? - Haymarket? Old Vic?”

“Not theatre per se as much as I play ... Charles Dickens himself – 'year round in the very Doughty St house he lived in – a museum dedicated ...'life 'n'works' that sort of thing...has 'str-ordinary benefits when you put it all together.”

“Sorry – so you're Charles Dickens...?.”

“Yes exactly! With wig and door-knocker beard I bear a vague similarity of the man. I reside in the basement exhibit area from 9 – 11 then 2 -5 daily ..answer questions, then take a sherry or two with visitors - as the Master may have done. Very decent gig - after hours, old friends convene for 'end-of-week' get togethers.”

Post stardom indeed: it all sounded a bit of a come-down.

“Well that's just great Chuck! . I will definitely try to come by and...”.

“You'll have to do more than try old boy...and its “Charles” .. 'in keeping wit' the sit-ye-ation.... ', he added, sounding exactly like Kathleen Harrison.

“My own medico said due to a dickey liver – I should check into the Scold's of Sevastopol venue - the Nightingale – but just for a few days only. I remembered your own interest in Dickens: indeed your Uni thesis, so I'm hoping I might count on you to fill in -all expenses paid, of course!”

“Well I don't know Chuck..er ...Charles. I ….”

“Don't decide now – come by tomorrow after five – look around and get a feel for the place. I think it could be quite a different Christmas for you if you decide to take it on! If not – no problem we'll make other arrangements”

So, on December 16th, with license renewed, I went and parking the Jag in a little mews off Roger St., walked the half block to No 48, entering through its heavy black door. It was decorated with seasonal cedar ropes and festooned by a red bow beneath the fanlight.

The place needed work that’s for certain: but immediately on entering, just past the picture laden hallway, the elegant staircase had been re-carpeted – so some improvements were underway.

I was early – but soon I heard the the braying of laughter reverberating from the basement library which meant that ‘Chuck/Charles’ was well into his charm offensive. Minutes later a troop of red-faced, smiling tourists traipsed though the hallway and out the door – followed by Chuck as “Charles Dickens'

“Ah you made it!” he boomed breathlessly, “ Well done! Waiting long? Well never mind – just amusing some colonials”

“ Yes Charl… – well I …”

“Come along - let’s get you situated.”

We went down stairs to his “library”. Charles' retinue of assistants were still milling about his chair near bookcases laden with first editions. He flung open a closet and there were a dozen or so sets of “Charles Dickens” clothes for every occasion: from christenings, to cremations.

“We’re more or less the same size. Just put these on. Don’t mind the girls – they’ve seen it all before. Haven’t you m'dears!“ he bellowed.

This occasioned a charmed exultation from his larks: cooings from the mutual appreciation society.

Chuck, when in character, was attended by a bevy of females - attendants dressed in period costume, presenting distaff characters from the the canon - but when it was slow, he had intimated they rarely displayed the presumed Victorian reticence. The warmth of the close room and liberating effects of the Amontillado, often lead to very un-“Little Nell”- like behaviour.

There is a 'washhouse room’ adjacent to his “library”, so I changed in there. A tight fit – but I managed to get into the suit provided. With the room size and sherry – I knew I too would be melting within the hour.

Returning to the library, I found Charles packing up.

“Right then – Just off. You have everything you need ...not to worry: the American’s never ask much and if they do, you’ll just be able to wing it. So ...many thanks Karl – I'm off to attend at the sign of the caduceus – home of the Crank of the Crimea - be back New Year's Eve!.”

With that he – and his entire covey of attendants - all left at once!

With that flurry of activity over – I waited for - nothing: no one arrived that day -so I fortified myself with Chuck's/Charles' “visitor's sherry” to pass the time.

The following Wednesday no tourists arrived again. I was scheduled to stay until 5:00 – however, the Staff had their afternoon Christmas “do” at nearby Ciao Bella’s, and trusted me with the keys to close up – 'in case they didn’t make it back'. It was Christmas, so needless to say, they didn’t.

I took a look around the Museum and while all the rooms were dedicated to the Master’s time and interests – there is one room on the 3^rd floor back, closed to the public – the last period room to be completely renovated next year. It's a storeroom now, but likely it might have been a visitor's room or some relative's.

I had returned to the basement to clear up, switching off the lights, just about to finish off the sherry decanter, when I heard the front door open. Going up the stairs I called out,

“We’re just about closed for the….”;

..and there, by the open door and the black night - and really, I have to say it – certainly another ‘post work actor friend’ , being comically dramatic about it - stood a young woman, mantled in a cloak and like my friend’s “helpers”, dressed entirely in period costume.

“ Is Charles in? “

It was another one of Chuck’s damnable theatre divas arriving -very late- for Chuck's end of week get togethers.

“No Miss, I’m sorry – “Charles” has been taken ill. He won’t be back until after New Years”

“ I see.” And she continued into the house closing the door behind. “Is Dr. Ellington attending him?”

“I have no idea.”

She smiled and continuing “in character” said, “Well then, who pray, are you?”

“I’m a friend of his – just standing in for a few days.”

“It’s has been sometime since I’ve been here: I had hoped to see him before I continued my travels. Listen, would you mind terribly if I warmed up for a few minutes? I’m really quite cold.”

“No, please – not at all. It’s almost closing anyway. I was just about to lock up.”

“Lock up?”

“Yes, for the night. It will be very busy here tomorrow what with Christmas and all.”

“Ah yes Christmas, of course. Well, you have decorated it in a very lovely manner I must say.”

“No, not me – the women here…”

“Yes, the staff. Mrs. Bradson is to be commended,” she said brightly.

“Is she? Well, if you say so. Anyway - take a look around Miss if you like. I’ll just finish up downstairs.”

The basement secure, I returned upstairs to put the remains of the sherry in the pantry near the back door adjacent to the office. The Staff would have to recharge the decanter tomorrow from the wine cellar. I would have, but hadn't been given the key.

I found the woman waiting for me in the dining room, leafing though the exhibits.

“Well, have you had your look around Miss.. Miss..?”

“My name is “Scottie” to my .. my intimates…”

“Scottie? Are you Scots then?

“No, an Englishwoman: born and bred.”

“Forgive me – you must be still half-frozen after being out in this weather. Would you care for some not-too-bad sherry?”

She agreed. Returning with the decanter I poured two small glasses and I noticed her dress; far different from Charles' attendants. It was done up to the neck for one thing. She had removed her cloak – and her hair was elaborately made up – totally accurate - ringlets and all.

“Must be difficult traveling around in that. Are you off to a party or something?”

“No – and it’s not difficult in the least. And no again, these aren’t the very latest fashion are they?” she laughed .”Your sherry is very good indeed by the way.”

“Thanks – it’s not mine exactly.”

“Mrs. Bradson’s again! She will be disenchanted to see us drinking it!”

“ Will she? Well, I don’t know Mrs. Bradson – but she’s probably out celebrating Christmas at Bella’s with everyone else.”

“Bella’s? Well she has a large family I think. Though Mr. Bradson was trouble...”

“Really. Well you know more about it then I. So have you seen all you wanted Scottie?”

“Actually no. I haven’t seen the upper rooms. Would you mind escorting me please?”

Now I was getting annoyed. This woman shows up at the last minute – dawdling around - and now wants to see the rest of the place. But, it being Christmas, I relented.

I followed her up to the first floor, and she went directly into the study on the right.

“The writing room – so many beautiful pages came from here Charles.”

”Karl. I’m Karl.”

She continued on, not hearing – entranced by the history with which she was surrounded, then quickly left and went into the adjoining Drawing Room.

“The stories here...the laughter , “ she enthused, “so wonderful – and the people passing through: Jane Loudon, Wilkie Collins.. all the rest…”

“Well, I don’t think we should stay....”

She said nothing but rose again swept from the room and up the next flight of stairs with me following in her wake. At the top of the landing she instantly turned right towards the unfinished room. Stupidly, I had left the door open.

I called out from the landing, “It’s closed Miss .. Scottie.. it’s not open to the public”

“It has been changed! And the fireplace: not lit Charles? – really, you should have. Yes, all seems right, but - closed you say?”

“Well they are developing a fund for its final reconstruction next year I think and…”

She opened the closet . I was shocked to see a blue evening gown.

“Look, we really shouldn’t be here..”

“No Charles, we shouldn’t – you shouldn’t anyway...” She was being coy!

She sat at the dressing table, gazing at her reflection in the broken, clouded mirror while pantomiming applying unseen unguents. Then reaching behind her, the gown fell from her shoulders. Turning looking at me as though shocked, she said,

“Really, you must leave! You are very bad indeed!” she giggled

“Now look lady, we really can’t…”

“Hush”. and I was pushed back into the hall..

I stood there -idiotically- waiting for this strange woman to finish whatever the hell she thought she was doing.

“Charles?”

I shouldered against the warped door and entered into a room transformed. Flames danced in the grate; Scottie dressed in the most iridescent blue ball gown I had ever seen.

“Look Miss. That's enough – this has to ..”

Before I said another word, she crossed the room, her gown floating.

“Charles.. “ she breathed – and kissed me!

It had been some time since a young woman – any woman - kissed me with anything other than a niece's grudgingly, obligatory dry peck of familial duty. I was overwhelmed. The light in the room brightened – all but blinding, I barely noticed. Reaching out, her hand wrapped around mine and gently lead me to the bed: a bed as dry and as desiccated as Miss Haversham’s wedding cake.

Later I lay beside her, trying to regain my composure. “Thank God," I thought sheepishly, “ the Staff hadn’t returned!” My hand splayed over her body. She took it in hers and put my fingers to her lips kissing them.

Then stopped.

“Charles? Charles, where is my ring?”

If she wanted to call me Charles or Kemel Ataturk or anyone else, at this moment - I couldn’t have cared less.

“Ring? ” I mumbled

“My ring Charles. Surely you remember.”, she said, increasingly aggravated.

“Sorry,” I said – half in a daze, “ – have you lost a ring? We can look for it later. Let’s just rest a minute ok?”

“No. No Charles. You said you’d always wear it! Have you betrayed my trust?”

“Scottie, I doubt I could wear any ring of yours”

“You did! You promised never to take it off Charles! The day you took it from my finger when I died, in this very room.”

My head snapped towards her – no longer the young beauty from the instant before – now the repugnant remains of some decomposing specter. I clamped my eyes shut against the ghastly apparition from 180 years ago: a monster mistakenly claiming me as her long dead love: Charles Dickens!

My eyes opened to: nothing.

No one.

And I found myself sitting in the pitch black dark on the stairs landing, slouched against the wall feeling ..Nothing... but coldness – freezing cold.

Struggling up...legs numb - I all but fell down the stairs to the front door to escape this place. My shaking hands fumbled with the keys in the lock...

“Charles? Charles!”

I turned to hear that rasping voice echoing down the staircase and drilling into my head…

Charles!”

The lock finally released and the heavy back door swung open. Instantly a shaft of porch light lit the hallway, illuminating a small drawing - a delicately rendered profile of a comely young woman. The legend on the frame read :

Mary Scott Hogarth: 1820 – 1837.

I wrenched at the door further and s-c-r-ea-ming... fell into the blackness ….