The British Museum is Falling Down Read online

  ‘Perhaps you do other things in your sleep,’ said Barbara, getting out of bed and leaving the room.

  Her words did not immediately sink into Adam’s consciousness. He was fascinated by a mental picture of himself running through the streets of London in his pyjamas, at tremendous speed, chest out, arms pumping, mouth swallowing air, eyes glazed in sleep.

  PYJAMA ATHLETE SMASHES RECORD

  Early yesterday morning late-night revellers were astonished by the sight of a young man clad in pyjamas speeding through the streets of London. Herman Hopple, the British Olympic coach, spotted the mystery runner when returning to his Bloomsbury hotel, and having a stopwatch in his pocket, timed him at 1 minute 28.5 seconds as he lapped the British Museum before disappearing in the direction of Battersea. An official of the A.A.A. who was fortunately acompanying Mr Hopple at the time later measured the perimeter of the British Museum at exactly 800 metres. The pyjama athlete has thus smashed the world record, and qualifies for the $10,000 prize established by an American millionaire for the first man to cover the distance in less than a minute and a half. ‘We are very anxious to trace him,’ said Mr Hopple this morning.

  Barbara’s words suddenly formed up and came resoundingly to attention in his mind. Perhaps you do others things in your sleep. Could you, he wondered, and not remember it? That would be the supreme irony: to conceive another child and not even be conscious enough to enjoy it. There was that night not long ago when they had come back from Camel’s place drowsy and amorous from drinking Spanish wine . . .

  Barbara returned from the bathroom, and shook her head at Adam’s hopeful glance. She was carrying Edward under her arm, breech presentation.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Adam, ‘about what you said just now. It’s just possible you know. That evening we came back from Camel’s. Do you remember, the next morning my pyjama trousers were on the floor and two buttons had come off your nightdress?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Barbara, rummaging in a drawer for a nappy. ‘You might not know what you were doing, but I would.’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous. What about incubi and succubae?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were demons who used to have intercourse with humans while they were asleep.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ said Barbara.

  ‘How many days overdue are you?’ Adam asked. As if he didn’t know.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Have you been that much before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Barbara was bent over the wriggling torso of Edward, and her replies were muffled by the safety pins in her mouth. Barbara always seemed to have something in her mouth.

  ‘Often?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Adam!’

  Barbara clicked the second pin shut, and let Edward slide to the floor. She looked up, and Adam saw with dismay that she was crying.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he wailed.

  ‘I feel sick.’

  Adam felt as if two giant hands had grasped his stomach and intestines, drenched them in cold water, and wrung them out like a dishcloth. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he murmured, employing the blasphemy he reserved for special occasions.

  Barbara stared hopelessly at Edward, crawling across the lino. ‘I can’t think how we could have made a mistake. My temperature went up at the right time and everything.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Adam repeated, aloud. When his own innate pessimism was balanced by Barbara’s common sense, he could survive; but when Barbara herself was rattled, as she clearly was this morning, nothing could save him from falling deeper into despair. He could see it was going to be a bad day, of a kind he knew well. He would sit slumped at his desk in the British Museum, a heap of neglected books before him, while his mind reeled with menstrual cycles and temperature charts and financial calculations that never came right. He made a brief mental prayer: ‘Please God, let her not be pregnant.’ He added: ‘And I’m sorry I swore.’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘As if it was all my fault.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t your fault,’ said Adam testily. ‘Or mine either. But you don’t expect to see the Lineaments of Gratified Desire all over my face, do you?’

  The entrance of Clare and Dominic put an end to further conversation.

  ‘Dominic says he’s hungry,’ Clare announced, accusingly.

  ‘Why aren’t you having any breakfast, Mummy?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Mummy doesn’t feel well,’ said Adam.

  ‘Why don’t you feel well, Mummy?’

  ‘I don’t know, Clare. I just feel sick.’

  ‘’ick,’ said Dominic sociably.

  ‘I only feel sick after I eat things,’ observed Clare. ‘So does Dominic, don’t you Dominic?’

  ‘’ick.’

  ‘Sick, Dominic. Say “Sick”.’

  ‘’ick.’

  ‘I wish to hell you wouldn’t talk so much at breakfast, Clare,’ Adam said.

  ‘Don’t lose your temper with the children, Adam,’ Barbara intervened. ‘Clare is only trying to teach Dominic.’

  Adam swallowed the last morsel of his bacon without relish, and reached mechanically for the marmalade. Barbara intercepted him. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I feel better now. I think I’ll have some breakfast after all.’

  Songbirds! A ray of sunshine! Bells ringing! Adam’s heart lifted. Barbara smiled faintly at him and he raised his newspaper before his face to hide his absurd joy. An advertiser’s announcement caught his eye:

  ‘Write the second line of a rhyming couplet beginning:

  I always choose a Brownlong chair

  .........................................................

  —and win a new three-piece suite or £100 cash.’

  Now that was the kind of competition a literary man ought to be able to win. A modest prize, too, which should cut down the number of competitors to a reasonable size. I always chose a Brownlong chair . . . Because . . . because . . . Ah! He had it. He read out the terms of the competition to his family.

  ‘“I always choose a Brownlong chair.” What about the next line?’

  ‘Because it’s made for wear and tear,’ suggested Clare.

  ‘That’s what I was going to say,’ said Adam, resentfully.

  When Adam came to dress, he could not find a pair of clean underpants. Barbara came into the room at this point, carrying Edward.

  ‘I don’t think he’s got measles after all,’ she said.

  ‘Good. I can’t find a pair of clean pants.’

  ‘No, I washed them all yesterday. They’re still damp.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to wear the pair I had on yesterday.’ He moved towards the soiled linen basket.

  ‘I washed those, too. While you were having your bath last night.’

  Adam came to a halt, and rounded slowly on his wife. ‘What are you telling me? D’you mean I haven’t got a single pair of underpants to wear?’

  ‘If you changed them more often, this wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘That may be so, but I’m not going to argue about personal hygiene at this point. What I want to know is: what am I going to wear under my trousers today?’

  ‘Do you have to wear something? Can’t you do without for once?’

  ‘Of course I can’t “do without”!’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. I’ve gone without pants before.’ She looked meaningfully at Adam, who softened at the memory of a certain day by the sea.

  ‘That was different. You know the trousers of my suit are itchy,’ he complained in a quieter tone. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, sitting in the Museum all day.’

  ‘Wear your other trousers, then.’

  ‘I’ve got to wear the suit today. There’s a post-graduate sherry party.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Don’t cha
nge the subject.’

  Barbara was silent for a minute. ‘You could wear a pair of mine,’ she offered.

  ‘To hell with that! What d’you take me for—a—transvestite? Where are those damp ones?’

  ‘In the kitchen somewhere. They’ll take a long time to dry.’

  In the passage he nearly tripped over Clare, who was squatting on the floor, dressing a doll.

  ‘What’s a transvestite, Daddy?’ she inquired.

  ‘Ask your mother,’ Adam snarled.

  In the kitchen, Dominic was tearing the morning paper into narrow strips. Adam snatched it away from him, and the child began to scream. Cravenly, Adam returned the newspaper. He looked at the clock and began to get angry at the way time was slipping away. Time when he should be at work, work, work. Ploughing ahead with a thesis that would rock the scholarly world and start a revolution in literary criticism.

  He found a pair of underpants in a tangle of sodden washing in the baby’s bath. Improvising brilliantly, he pulled out the grill-pan of the electric stove, wiped the grid clean of grease with a handkerchief, and spread out his pants. He slotted home the grill-pan, and turned the switch to High. Fascinated, Dominic stopped tearing up the newspaper and watched the rising steam. Adam stealthily confiscated the remaining portion of the newspaper. The competition again caught his eye.

  I always choose a Brownlong chair

  Whenever I relax au pair.

  Or

  I always choose a Brownlong chair

  For laying girls with long brown hair.

  No, it was worth going in for seriously.

  I always choose a Brownlong chair

  For handsome looks and a price that’s fair.

  Didn’t scan very well.

  ‘Dadda, ‘ire,’ said Dominic, tugging gently at his sleeve. Adam smelled burning cloth, and lunged at the grill. Ire was the word. He stuffed the scorched remains of his underpants into the garbage pail, burning his fingers in the process.

  ‘More, Dadda,’ said Dominic.

  In the passage Adam met Barbara. ‘Where did you say your pants were?’ he asked casually.

  ‘In the top left hand drawer.’ She sniffed. ‘You’ve burned something.’

  ‘Nothing much,’ he said, and hurried on to the bedroom.

  Adam, who had hitherto valued women’s underwear on its transparency, now found himself applying quite different standards, and deploring the frivolity of his wife’s tastes. Eventually he located a pair of panties that were opaque, and a chaste white in hue. Unfortunately they were also trimmed with lace, but that couldn’t be helped. As he drew them on, the hairs on his legs crackled with static electricity. The clinging but featherlight touch of the nylon round his haunches was a strange new sensation. He stood thoughtfully before the mirror for a moment, awed by a sudden insight into sexual deviation.

  ‘Mummy says a transvestite is a poor man who likes wearing ladies’ clothes because he’s silly in the head,’ remarked Clare from the door.

  Adam grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. ‘Clare, how many times have I told you not to come into this room without knocking. You’re quite old enough to remember.’

  ‘I didn’t come in. I’m standing outside,’ she replied, pointing to her feet.

  ‘Don’t answer back,’ he said dispiritedly. What a mess he was making of his parental role this morning. Oh, it was going to be a bad day, all right.

  Adam’s family lined up in alphabetical order to be kissed goodbye: Barbara, Clare, Dominic and Edward (seated). When the principle behind this nomenclature dawned on their friends they were likely to ask humorously whether Adam and Barbara intended working through the whole alphabet, a joke that seemed less and less funny to Adam and Barbara as time went on. Adam kissed Barbara last, and scrutinised her for signs of pregnancy: coarse-grained skin, lifeless hair, swelling breasts. He even looked at her waistline. With an immense effort of rationality, he reminded himself that she was only three days overdue.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Oh, all right. We must try and be sensible.’

  ‘I don’t know what we’ll do if you’re pr—’

  ‘Pas devant les enfants.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That means, not in front of us,’ Clare explained to Dominic.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Adam, catching on. ‘I’ll phone you later.’

  ‘Try and do it when Mrs Green is out.’

  Dominic began to snivel. ‘Where Dadda going?’ he demanded.

  ‘He’s going to work, like he always does,’ said Barbara.

  ‘At the British Museum,’ Adam said impressively. As he closed the door of the flat, he heard Clare asking Barbara if there were any other transvestites at the British Museum.

  CHAPTER II

  As I go to my work at the British Museum I see the faces of the people become daily more corrupt.

  RUSKIN

  WHEN THE DOOR of the Applebys’ flat was closed, the staircase leading to the ground floor was plunged in total darkness, as the single switch of the hall light was at the bottom, near the telephone, and was always kept in the ‘off’ position by Mrs Green. Adam groped for the banister, and slowly descended the stairs, impeded by the two canvas holdalls he carried, one containing books and the other papers; having discovered with tiresome frequency that whatever portion of his thesis material he left at home he was bound to need at the British Museum, he had resigned himself to carrying the whole apparatus backwards and forwards every day.

  He was making good progress down the stairs when his cautiously-extended foot encountered a soft, yielding, object. He drew back his foot with a gasp of fright. He stared hard, but could distinguish nothing in the gloom.

  ‘Pussy?’ he murmured. But if it was Mrs Green’s cat, it was asleep—or dead. The foot he inched forward again aroused no life in the mysterious object.

  The thing to do, of course, was to step smartly over it, whistling loudly. But somehow the idea was distasteful. He recalled a novel he had read about a man who had been locked up by the Gestapo in total darkness with a sinister, soft, moist, yielding object, which the man in his terror imagined to be all kinds of horrible things, such as a piece of human flesh looking like a lump of raw meat, but which turned out to be nothing more than a wet cloth. Adam placed his bags on the stairs behind him, and struck a match. It was a lump of raw meat.

  ‘Is that you, Mr Appleby?’ inquired Mrs Green, as Adam’s half-stifled scream lingered in the air. The light came on in the hall.

  ‘Is this yours?’ inquired Adam, with cold politeness, indicating the cellophane-wrapped joint at his feet. Mrs Green came to the foot of the stairs and looked up.

  ‘Mrs Appleby asked me to get it for her. I was out shopping early this morning.’ She bounced a reproachful look at Adam off the dial of the clock in the hall. Mrs Green considered it little less than criminal for a married man with three children to be leaving the house in the middle of the morning, and not to work either, but just to sit in a library reading books. Her look, however, accused him of more than idleness. Adam knew very well what Mrs Green supposed him to have been up to, while respectable people had been up and about.

  To Mrs Green, herself a widow with an only son, Adam’s paternity of three young children, whom he could patently not afford to support, indicated an ungovernable sexual appetite of which Barbara was the innocent victim. ‘Ooh, isn’t Mr Appleby naughty?’ had been her first response to Barbara’s nervous announcement of her third pregnancy; and subsequently Adam had had to endure from his landlady the kind of half-fascinated, half-fearful appraisal usually reserved for prize bulls. As he calculated that there could be few married men in Metropolitan London who enjoyed their marital rights as seldom as himself, he found this situation particularly trying. But it was difficult to communicate to Mrs Green the true state of affairs. Shortly after Edward had been born she had taken Barbara aside, and hinted that there were Things You Could Use, and that she had heard it rumoured that there were Clinics where
they gave you the Things, not that she had any experience of them herself, she had never been troubled that way with poor Mr G., he was more for the fretwork, but she thought she owed it to Mrs Appleby to tell her. Barbara had thanked her and explained that their religious convictions prevented them from profiting by her advice. Undeterred, Mrs Green had consulted a female relative who belonged to some obscure non-conformist sect, and returned with the counsel, ‘You’ll just have to Pull Away, dear, at the critical moment, if you get my meaning; just Pull Away.’ Adam and Barbara tolerated these intrusions into their private lives for the sake of the flat, the rent of which Mrs Green had not raised during their tenancy out of compassion for Barbara.

  ‘I hope you haven’t hurt that meat, Mr Appleby,’ Mrs Green remarked as Adam reached the hall. ‘I see you’re limping.’

  ‘No, no, the meat’s quite all right,’ Adam replied. ‘My leg’s been hurting since I got up. I think I must have pulled a muscle.’

  ‘You ought to get more exercise,’ said Mrs Green, adding meaningfully, ‘in the open air. It’s not healthy to be reading all day.’

  ‘Well, I won’t get much reading done today unless I hurry,’ he replied jovially, bustling to the door. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Appleby—’

  He got the door swinging just in time to pretend that he hadn’t heard, but in the instant before it slammed behind him he caught the end of her sentence:

  ‘—a letter for you.’

  A letter. Adam experienced a kind of psychic salivation at the thought of a letter waiting for him behind the door. He loved mail, even though his own consisted almost exclusively of bills, rejected scholarly articles and appeals for donations from missionary nuns who obtained his address from letters he wrote to the Catholic press about Birth Control. He had a tantalising mental image of the letter on Mrs Green’s hall-stand—he could swear now that he had seen it out of the corner of his eye as he had rushed for the door—not a bill, not an appeal, not a creased brown foolscap envelope addressed in his own handwriting, but a plump letter in a thick, white, expensive envelope, his name and address typed on it in a distinctive typeface, a crest on the flap suggestive of an important, semi-official source, a letter bringing good fortune: Would you accept . . . We should like to commission . . . It is my pleasure to inform you . . . State your own terms . . .