Agnes Jenkins at the Museum

Agnes Jenkins, chin slightly raised, smart woollen coat neatly buttoned and black leather handbag tucked firmly over her arm, strode purposefully down the street towards the town museum.  It was grey and quiet that misty September morning, and on reaching the museum, Agnes found the cafe there quiet too.  The summer rush was over and a more sedate atmosphere had been reinstated, as visiting tourists and their easily distracted children were returned to their right and proper places.  Agnes smiled.  She avoided the museum during the chaotic summer months.  It was unbefitting for a building, housing such important artefacts, including the mayoral chains of her grandfather, to be pawed and pried over by the ill-mannered and uneducated.

Agnes ordered tea and a scone with jam and cream, then settled herself into her favourite corner, where she could view the small park outside with one eye, and keep watch over the museum entrance hall with the other.

The teapot was hot and the scone met Agnes’s standards adequately.  She was quietly congratulating herself on her choice when through the misty window, her eye was drawn to the little park across the road where she could make out a solitary figure on a bench.  There was little to see other than the spread of their broadsheet newspaper and a brown trilby hat but there was something about this person’s poise that unsettled Agnes.

There was one man she knew with that poise, newspaper and hat.  Frank Jenkins however, had been laid to rest over five years ago.  Agnes knew that because it said so on his black granite headstone where she regularly left flowers.  Recently she’d left white lilies at the grave of Frank Jenkins, after delivering a pointed reprimand about the door under the stairs.  “Really, Frank, it just won’t do, I don’t know how you expect me to put up with it any longer.  My father would never have treated my mother this way!”  

The long suffering Frank never managed to fix the troublesome door and it still refused to close properly, despite the number of times Agnes had stood over Frank, while he fumbled with the hinges and handle.  Agnes regularly had these one-sided ‘conversations’ with Frank, and Frank, having sighed and held his tongue in this life, continued to do so in the next.  The door under the stairs, along with the loose kitchen drawer handle, the scuff on the stairs skirting board and the broken wheel on her hostess trolley, remained to Agnes, a tiresome irritation.

The thought of the door and other imperfections around her otherwise tidy home irked Agnes and she turned away from the window, reaching into her handbag to check her belongings.  As she closed her bag, her eyes flicked back to the park. The figure with the hat and newspaper had vanished. ‘Well, that’s Frank gone anyway,’ Agnes mused, ‘he really shouldn’t be loitering around here when he’s got that wonderful headstone,’ and she began to straighten her smart woollen coat, preparing to leave the cafe and browse her favourite galleries including her grandfather’s mayoral chains.

Agnes Jenkins was just about to leave when she observed with a sense of unease, the Frank look-alike in the museum entrance hall.  Their hat was pulled low over their eyes and they wore a brown linen suit, white shirt, and smartly polished brogues.  With horror, Agnes watched as the linen clad figure started heading in her direction.  She averted her eyes and opened her handbag again, feigning the search for a handkerchief, hoping that she hadn’t drawn attention to herself as she’d watched the stranger in the park.  Agnes Jenkins flinched, when a copy of the Times dropped onto the table beside her empty teacup.

“Mind if I sit here?”  A slightly clipped but friendly voice.  Agnes looked up, her old green eyes meeting a dark brown pair sitting just below the rim of the trilby.  “I know there are plenty of other tables, it just looked like you could do with some company.”

“Well, actually I’m just leaving,” Agnes snapped closed her handbag, “so you can have this table all to yourself.”

“That’s rather a shame, I was hoping we could have a chat”.  The linen-suited stranger removed their hat, revealing a bob of chestnut brown hair, diamond stud earrings, and immaculate eyebrows.  This certainly was not Frank.  “I’m Polly.  Polly Alexandra Morgan.  I do hope you don’t mind.”  Without waiting for a response, Polly Alexandra Morgan pulled up a chair, placed her hat on top of the newspaper and fixed her stare on Agnes Jenkins as she sat down, elegantly crossing her linen trousered legs as she did so.

Agnes looked around in disbelief, ‘Now what have I got into?  If this person thinks they’re sitting with me, they’ve got another think coming!’  Agnes Jenkins was not the sort of woman who was pushed into anything by other people, especially young women in linen suits and trilby hats.  Agnes Jenkins was not going to have any sort of ‘chat’ with Polly Alexandra Morgan, and with a firm grip on her handbag she pushed back her chair to leave.

“You had the scone?”  Polly observed the crumbs and remains of jam and cream.  “Any good?  Would you suggest strawberry or raspberry jam?”

“Strawberry of course,” Agnes hooked her bag over her arm and stood to make her exit away from this presumptuous young woman.

“Would you say the cream goes on first or the jam?”  Polly cocked her head to one side, continuing to hold Agnes in her stare.  “I always put the cream on first.”  She wiped her finger around the dish of remaining cream and licked it carefully.

Agnes Jenkins’ choice of corner seat now left her in a somewhat awkward position.  She was unable to leave as gracefully as she would like due to Polly hemming her in on one side and a chair blocking her escape on the other.  “What do you want from me?” Agnes blustered, holding tightly onto her handbag.

“Oh gosh dear, nothing at all.  I just saw you looking at me in the park, and I thought you might need some company.  I was at a loose end so thought I’d come and say hello.”  Polly’s voice had a disarming warmth and she smiled showing white teeth which glinted in unison with her earrings.  “I just love this time of year.  Reminds me a little of Keats, don’t you think?  Are you going to sit down and we can get some more tea?” Polly looked expectantly at Agnes.  “I’d really like to hear about your favourite parts of the museum.  I might get a scone too.”

Realising that she was not going to get this strange woman to go away, Agnes unbuttoned her coat and sat back down in rare defeat.  Polly beamed triumphantly and waved to order more tea and scones.  Agnes looked around the cafe searchingly, appealing to anyone to come and rescue her. 

Agnes Jenkins was not used to company.  The broken hostess trolley in her home was not in a state of disrepair because of overuse, but due to an unfortunate incident with the dining room door and Frank’s foot.  She rarely had visitors and her social life was limited to afternoon teas at church, and a visit once a year from her daughter who lived in the Western Isles doing ‘something with sheep’, a lifestyle that Agnes refused to accept.

“You must think I’m dreadfully rude”, Polly was arranging the tea things, “I haven’t even asked you your name!  Here I am ordering us tea and scones and I don’t even know who I’m sharing them with.”

Agnes flailed.  ‘I don’t want to tell you my name,’ she thought angrily to herself.  ‘I don’t want to drink tea and eat scones with you.  You’re a complete stranger!’  But despite herself, Agnes could not be so obtuse with someone with such a well curated accent and diamond earrings.  “It’s Mrs Jenkins, Agnes Jenkins,” she said stiffly.  “Now I do have things to do, so I will have tea, but then I really must be going.”

Polly beamed. “It’s lovely to meet you Mrs. Jenkins. I promise I won’t keep you long,” and proceeded to spread cream and jam lavishly onto a scone. Agnes raised her eyes towards the ceiling, and as Polly took a mouthful of scone, the cafe suddenly darkened.  Glancing towards the window, Agnes saw a coach pulling up outside, blocking out the feeble daylight that struggled through the mist.  Agnes watched in dismay as the coach gradually emptied and a stream of casually dressed, chattering people flooded into the museum entrance hall.

“How lovely to see so many people visiting,” Polly smiled.

“I don’t know why they come here, those sorts of people.”  Agnes’ plan of a sedate visit to the museum cafe, followed by time perusing her favourite galleries, especially the Georgian silver and the mayoral garbs of her grandfather on the third floor, was being railroaded by the sort of people that she had no inclination to engage with whatsoever.  Agnes wished that her tea would cool more quickly so that she could make her excuses and leave, but steam was still rising from her cup and she remained trapped.

“Surely it’s good for lots of different people to see the museum, the history of the town, all those things?”  Polly sipped her tea, glancing over at the crowd in the entrance hall who were receiving directions from a flustered looking man pointing an umbrella towards the cafe.

“But why?  They won’t appreciate any of it!  The silver, my grandfather’s chains, none of it!  They just come and make noise and point at things.  At least there are no children with them!”

“You don’t like children?”

“Some of them are alright I suppose,” Agnes remembered her daughter as a child.  She’d refused to wear the pretty dresses that Agnes bought and instead, insisted on wearing Frank’s old shirts, leaving Agnes with little option than to give in and buy jeans and t-shirts.  “My daughter was quite a nice child, even though she insisted on wearing boys' clothes all the time.”

“I rather like that,” Polly smiled, looking down at her trousers and shoes, and patted her hat affectionately.  Agnes glared at her teacup, willing it to give some sort of advice on how to get out of this situation.  This was not what she had planned, and now the people from the coach, led by the flustered umbrella man, were flooding into the cafe, scraping their chairs and shouting to each other.  The coach remained outside, blocking the light, further darkening both the cafe and Agnes’s mood.

“I’m sorry, really I am, but this is just too much,” Agnes forced down the remainder of her tea, “I absolutely must go, these people, the noise, it’s just not right.”  She vigorously returned her cup to its saucer making such a clatter that she quite shocked herself. 

Polly was licking her fingers, having finished her scone. “Okay, no trouble, I’m just about done, I’ll come with you.”  Agnes rolled her eyes as Polly picked up her newspaper and hat, tucked her chair under the table and gestured Agnes Jenkins along, standing back for her as Agnes fastened her smart woollen coat and reinstated her handbag over her arm.

Agnes made her way brusquely through the cafe, tutting and sighing at each chair and person in her path.  Back in the entrance hall, she was wondering how she could make her escape, when Polly re-appeared at her side, hat back on her head and newspaper under her arm.  “Right then, where shall we go first?”  Polly’s eyes sparkled, her smile unfathomable.  Agnes wondered why this bizarre young woman wanted to spend time with her but something about Polly Alexandra Morgan was preventing Agnes Jenkins from being her usual termagant self.

“You mentioned your grandfather’s chains.  I’d love you to show me.  Please?”  Polly pushed her hat back, her eyes sparkling.  At the mention of her grandfather, Agnes felt a swell of pride.  Her grandfather George had been a towering figure in the town in his day though very few people remembered him these days.  Rumours of an affair with a clerk in his mayoral office had brought an end to his prominent position in the town and Agnes surmised that even though the affair must have been nonsense, probably made up to discredit George, it was possibly better that it was forgotten about and kept at the back of the closet with any other skeletons.

“My grandfather’s chains and robes are on the third floor.  We’ll have to take the lift though.  I’m not as young as you”.

“Come on then, and then I promise I’ll let you get on your way!”  Polly grabbed Agnes playfully by the arm.

“For goodness sake, get off me!” Agnes shook her away with disdain, “Don’t you think it’s bad enough being seen with someone like you, never mind you mauling me.  Get off me!”  Agnes marched through a group of visitors who had all turned to see what the fuss was about and Polly swiftly followed, grinning and tipping her hat towards her audience.

“Agnes!  Come on, be a sport, I promise I won’t do that again.  Look there’s a lift coming down.”  Polly, keeping a respectful distance, stepped in front of Agnes.  Her jovial tone softened.  “I’d love to see your grandfather’s things.  Come on.”  The lift pinged its arrival and Agnes Jenkins, despite her overwhelming anger and annoyance, could not ignore the family pride and stepped into the lift alongside Polly Alexandra Morgan.  ‘I’ll show this woman what it meant to be a dignified and worthy person in this town,’ Agnes thought to herself as the lift lurched upwards, ‘not like people today with sloppy clothes making so much noise in a museum.’

They reached the third floor and Polly stood back as Agnes got out of the lift, then followed her over to a display on a wide landing set out at the top of a red carpeted staircase with a shining wooden banister, crowned with a finely carved lion finial.

“I love the lion,” Polly ran her hand over its smooth head, “just imagine how many people have touched this.”

“I dread to think what sort of grubby hands have touched it!  It’s just not right!  Things here are from a time when people cared about quality,” Agnes sniffed, “people don’t seem to be bothered these days.”

“Well, those people who came on the coach are bothered,” Polly stroked the nose of the carved lion.

“Oh, no doubt they’ll be up here soon, making a racket.  Look, do you want to see my grandfather’s things or not?” Agnes undid the top button of her coat, she felt too warm and this situation was doing nothing for her blood pressure.  Polly assured Agnes that she did, and please would Mrs Jenkins show her the important chains of office and robes.

Tutting, Agnes moved over to a display of glass cases containing various silver and gold chains from over the years, next to which the mayoral robes once worn by her grandfather were displayed on a headless wooden mannequin.

“It’s an impressive collection,” Polly peered through the glass, “these things must have cost a fortune.  Look at the amount of gold in that chain!”

“There was a lot of pride in the town back then,” Agnes stood looking up at her grandfather’s robes, “the people deserved the best.  Grandfather deserved the best.  It was only what was right.”

“But still, it was a heck of a lot of money to spend on trappings, just think what else that money could have been used for,” Polly turned to look at Agnes.  “In fact, just think what it could be used for now.  A lot of good could be done with that sort of money.”

Agnes’ mood had not lightened by her visit to the third floor as it would usually do.  On any other day, when there was no Polly Alexandra Morgan to prod and question, and no noisy visitors, Agnes Jenkins would quietly peruse the history of the town and reinstate her pride, wiping from her mind the new society that she found herself in.

“Frank never understood either,” Agnes turned, glaring at Polly, “he was always saying things like that.  Frank dear god, he was a waste of a man, really he was.  He was my husband of course, but he was nothing compared to people like my grandfather!”  

Agnes paused, Polly opened her mouth to respond but Agnes Jenkins continued.  “People like you, you really have no idea.  You live in your ideal little worlds, looking after sheep and wearing boys' clothes, but you can’t even mend a cupboard door.  You wouldn’t have stood a chance back in my grandfather’s time.  It’s all gone to pot, it really has, this country, you sort of people.  I just can’t bear it!”

“Mrs Jenkins, really, please do calm down, it’s not good for you to get so upset,” Polly moved towards Agnes, her hand reaching for the smooth wood of the lion finial, “come on, let's find somewhere to sit down and talk about this.”

The grey September day had turned colder as Agnes Jenkins left the museum and made her way through the mist in her smart woollen coat, handbag over her arm.  The wail of an ambulance cut through the grey, shattering the silence of the quiet street and in the distance Agnes could hear urgent voices shouting from the museum steps.  The carved wooden lion looked down at Polly Alexander Morgan as she lay at the foot of the third flight of stairs, her newspaper splayed to one side, her brown trilby hat dislodged from her head.  Blood now seeped into the plush red carpet and her diamond earrings twinkled beside the unanswered questions that remained in the darkness of her eyes.