Anne

Anne

She did not like the London underground at the best of times. Many years previously - and before her own lifetime, when they still ran steam engines below ground - it had been, she supposed, a revolutionary mode of transport, new enough and fresh enough to possess an air of excitement and adventure. But that romance was now long since gone and it had become part of the fabric, like arteries pumping the city’s lifeblood around. At least that was how she felt about it.

For the most part however, her reaction was one of general indifference; yet here, descending the escalators of Tottenham Court Road station, such indifference moved beyond a somewhat detached emotional response. To her mind, this particular cog in the machine represented all that was bad about the outdated London system: it was cramped, always busy with too many people; it was dingy and dirty; and there was an unpleasant smell about the place that seemed, to her at least, unique to this location. Evidence of renovation or remodelling (or whatever they were calling it this week!) was growing, and Anne assumed, with surprisingly little satisfaction on her part, that once the work was completed at least some components of her distaste - the darkness, the filth, the odour - might be compromised away.

She moved closer to the handrail as a stream of people walked down past her. Someone bumped her shoulder; a bag rapped the side of her leg. A typical journey then.

On the tiled side-walls, posters were promoting West End shows. Depictions of the joyous cast of "Cats!" were interspersed with images of the slightly less joyous cast of "Les Miserables", all of which could only combine to darken her mood further. She could see no point in musicals. Many years previously, when she had lived in Central London, she had been persuaded to try one or two. It was not, she had told herself, such a big leap from opera - which she could just about cope with - only to discover that it was indeed a jump, and one far beyond the range her sensibilities were able to reasonably accommodate. The idea of "Les Miserables" made her hackles rise particularly, and she could imagine Victor Hugo grave-bound spinning. In her most severe and puritanical mood, to translate the original from French into another language seemed sacrilegious enough, so the 'dumbing down' of the classic story another few notches into musical theatre was beyond the pale. Being an intelligent woman, she was of course aware of the arguments about making great art 'accessible', but for her such modern incarnations were actually stripping that same art of its core greatness, creating something 'other'. As she stepped off the escalator she found herself wondering - not for the first time - whether people might wish to glue arms back on the Venus de Milo in order to make that more accessible too.

The overhead sign read "Ealing Broadway, 3 minutes". She would take the train one stop to Oxford Circus (another station she ordinarily avoided like the plague), and then down to Victoria from there. When she came up to town, her usual route from Victoria was to Russell Square via Green Park, a journey that had the distinct advantage of missing out the Central Line altogether. If someone had wished to challenge her, they might well have argued that her present routing would get her to and from the British Museum slightly quicker than going via Russell Square. But she preferred that station, the ensuing walk by the gardens; it had become her journey of choice, primarily because it allowed her to arrive at the museum in as neutral a frame of mind as possible, having avoided being undermined not only by Tottenham Court Road station itself, but by the hoards of tourists who trod the path from there to the British Museum’s doors.

Today she had been compromised by her offer to run an errand for a friend back in Sussex, a good deed framed explicitly enough to force her into the large 'Paperchase' on Tottenham Court Road itself, and then, in consequence, encumber her with a large carrier bag that seemed to be growing heavier by the moment.

"Ealing Broadway, 2 minutes".

All this was a far cry from Horsham, of course. Indeed, the soul-destroying repetition of an inner London commuter’s daily routine had been a significant factor in her decision to move out of the city. That and the opportunity to take up a relatively senior position at the Horsham Museum. She had been aware that moving into a provincial role represented something of a risk. The British Museum had been her home for years. It was where she had first embarked on her chosen profession, and though her progress had been relatively modest and her breadth of responsibility at any one time never particularly wide, it was an institution which had quickly come to mean more to her than just a job - and leaving it after nearly twenty years was, for some of her colleagues at least, breathtaking folly.

Neither her new job nor living in Sussex had proven particularly easy at first, and it took her well over a year to acclimatise to both. Now, a further twelve years on, she knew her original decision had been vindicated; it only took a brief journey on the Central Line to confirm as much! In her work she had also moved on professionally. What was locally regarded as her 'classical training' in Bloomsbury made her stand out from her workmates further south, and opportunities arose from time-to-time which allowed her to spread her influence in the county; at first in smaller, local institutions at Henfield, Steyning and Storrington, and then, more recently, as Consultant Curator at Parham House.

If she had been reflecting on her career at that moment, the telltale breeze from the approaching train would have roused her from that reverie. Once again shifting the carrier bag from one hand to the other, she inched towards the edge of the platform. It was early afternoon; hopefully the train would not be too much of a crush. Yet even if it were, it was a brief discomfort which, although reminiscent of her past commute, needed to be endured.

During those first few difficult months in Horsham, she had made a point of returning to the British Museum once a month. It was, she judged, both a safe way of medicating her removal from daily life there as well as providing her with the opportunity to keep at least part of herself attached to the familiar and well-loved. Initially her return visits were spent as much behind the scenes catching up with old friends as anything else, drinking tea and gossiping. But as time passed and those friends moved on too - retiring, mostly - she found herself less and less an ex-member of staff and more and more a visitor. Unsettling at first, it was an experience which offered her a freedom she had not felt for two decades. Over time, this 'invisibility' allowed her to explore with a new passion, to uncover that which enthralled and fascinated her rather than be preoccupied by that for which she held some kind of responsibility. And so it was - and this very much to her own surprise - that she found herself recurrently drawn to the Assyrian collection, a civilisation and epoch which had held almost no interest for her all the while she had been resident there. Today had been no different. An hour in her favourite galleries, an hour or so general meandering, and then lunch. It was a battery recharge that was sufficient to allow shopping, Tottenham Court Road and the Central Line; the whole, a private umbilical cord which, in confirming an ongoing attachment, permitted her life in Sussex. She was also able to justify it professionally, to others as much as to herself. It was, she argued, an opportunity to keep her finger on the pulse, to see how the biggest museum in the land was operating, to see what changes and innovations were in train - however minor - and to steal those she could adapt and adopt in her provincial world. And if this argument was indeed valid, it was one which needed to bear fruit now more than ever.

Although there were some free seats, she remained standing for the short jump to Oxford Circus, indulging - as did all Londoners pretty much - in the Underground’s unique pastime of looking without seeing, of managing to avoid any meaningful contact, and to remain safe within the security such lack of engagement offered. It was, of course, a somewhat contrary pursuit given the very real and intimate physical contact a rush hour crush could often enforce. The rise of the mobile phone had been a massive boon to the City’s travellers, providing them with an even better excuse for keeping their heads down for the entirety of their journey, and thereby not only maintain privacy but mitigate the risk of actually seeing anything at all.

Hurrying through Oxford Circus station - and seemingly always against the tide of bodies going in each and every other direction - she gained the southbound Victoria platform to find her next train already approaching. She knew she would arrive at the mainline terminus at an 'in-between' kind of time, most likely having just missed one Horsham train and thus facing the maximum wait for the next one. But it was of little consequence. Sitting down this time (even though it was just two stops) she managed to catch her reflection in the opposite carriage window just as they were on the move. It was a split second of recognition, a breaking of the major unwritten rule of tube travel, that of not making eye contact - even if it was with yourself.

Considering her age and her rather sedentary profession, Anne was many things she had no right to be: older than she looked, slimmer than she should have been, and - if you were prepared to truly look into them - with eyes that were clear, deep and blemish free, her age betrayed only by the soft wrinkles in the skin around them. Given the dryness of her passions - for facts, history, the absoluteness of things - she should not have been as spiky, forthright and emotional as she sometimes could be. Perhaps once upon a time she had been charming (and charm-able!), warm, smiling, personable and engaging; but that would be to describe a person she would have failed to recognise had such an individual looked back at her from the reflection across the carriage. Yet although she dealt in the black-and-whiteness of 'exhibits', she still liked to think that she did so with the temperament of an artist rather than that of the museum curator. If this were fanciful, it was probably her only self-indulgence - other than a weakness for the British Museum in general, and sculpture in particular.

It was this weakness - allied with an almost reverential love of the sculptor - that was now in danger of causing her considerable trouble. Whilst much of what she had grown up with during her burgeoning career was cast or hewn or chipped and chiseled into remarkable and venerated artefacts, and whilst much of what she had become responsible for were those very same physical objects, she found herself inexorably drawn to the individuals who had executed those castings, made the moulds, poured-in their molten contents, and to those who had wielded the mallet, the chisel, and who had sat, hour upon hour, covered in dust and fragments of marble. These were her true gods, and the protection of their creations was really about their persistence as heroes. It was her job to ensure they were never forgotten.

Even if this notion was romantic - and there were those who had divined it in her, analysed it, and challenged her accordingly - and she privately acknowledged and accepted the charge, publicly she would assert the logic of her position, of her responsibility, almost as if she had taken a sacred oath that only death could see her break. And whilst she had, thus far in her career, skilfully managed to navigate the waters between artist and artefact in such a way as to ensure a harmony of purpose, her present challenge threatened to puncture that perfect record.

Emerging from the underground at Victoria and onto the platform concourse represented, geographically at least, the return to battle. Checking the departure boards for her next train she found she had twenty-seven minutes to kill, exactly as she had suspected.

"Look Anne, no-one doubts your knowledge, professionalism, and integrity in all of this - and no-one can possibly question your contribution over the past few years - but we must move on…"

His use of the word 'integrity' had riled her somewhat, though she was unsure exactly why. It had been a compliment of sorts. But Terence - "Terry, to my friends!" - had quickly settled on such a negative appreciation of her that, no matter what he said, there was always bound to be something she could find to rouse her to the fight.

It wasn’t as if - at a basic level - she had any real objections to what he was trying to achieve, this Johnny-come-lately fresh from a multi-award-winning industrial museum somewhere in the Midlands. His brief - at least as he had explained it - was to work alongside the current Sussex staff (and Anne in particular, given her seniority and influence) with the goal of 'modernising' their 'offering' to the public.

"We need to find ways of getting more people through the doors. It’s all about footfall. We have to engage our customers, delight and challenge them in equal measure. We have to find ways to sell to them."

As she walked towards platform four, the sight of a man reading the paper, his pose marginally too studied and his pinstripe suit just a little too showy, brought back that first meeting. Her goodwill and the persona of a modest, collaborative colleague had lasted less than fifteen minutes, invisibly expelled from the meeting room by his use of business jargon and words like 'footfall', 'customers', 'engage' and 'sell'. Perhaps 'modernise' most of all. Her transition into combat mode had been evident to everyone else in the meeting other than Terence for the simple reason (if one were being generous) that he didn’t know her well enough to be able to recognise the material shift. Thirty minutes later, Chris, the most junior member of her team took what, on reflection, was something of a brave step by praising Anne to her face (as they waited for the kettle to boil) and denouncing Terence’s "bullshit bingo". Anne had been forced to rebuke Chris of course, but secretly she was appreciative of the support and hoped he had a good future ahead of him. It was pleasing to know she had allies. She hadn’t lost her touch entirely.

Pulling out the new pamphlets and leaflets she had recently liberated from the British Museum, Anne settled into her seat hoping, as ever, that the one next to her would remain empty for the entirety of the journey to Horsham. Terence’s grand plan for modernisation, to be executed throughout West Sussex where it made sense to do so, was to try and replace the static with the mobile and digital. He envisaged a museum-world with more screens, and more ‘collateral’ for people to touch and interact with. It was, he asserted, a strategy that worked. "But only at large industrial museums in the Black Country" was what she had wanted to say. Given a second chance, she was certain she would say it now. With the battle lines drawn and it being clear to Terence where she stood, he would no longer be surprised to encounter such a statement.

"I understand what is required of us" - this was exactly what she had said - "and it was something we did at the BM for a number of years, continuously trying to improve things, making a visit more stimulating, especially for children."

"Well then." He had smiled one of his pin-stripe smiles.

"But we aren’t the BM. We don’t have the resources, the funds. And what we 'sell', as you put it, is something completely different; a smaller scale, let’s be honest. And nowhere near as tactile and physical as many other museums."

If he had noted the subtle barb about his recent past, he chose to ignore it. He had come back with counter arguments of his own; that there was a fund for making changes, and that no-one expected local museums to suddenly feel like the Science or Natural History Museums.

"We aren’t South Kensington!" he had said with a flourish, and glanced around the room almost as if he were expecting applause for a gem of a statement intended to encapsulate everything.

The one concession Anne had made during their first meeting was that, while he continued to hone his proposals, she would utilise her next visit to London - today’s visit - to see what the British Museum was up to and whether there were any ideas they could use. She knew from experience there would always be changes, but most were subtle: improving signage and labelling, switching to different colours or fonts; changing the layouts in cabinets and galleries where exhibits were small enough to be easily moved around. And yes, there were one or two more kiosk-type displays that used computers and touch screens.

She knew that if this kind of thing was the extent of Terence’s ambition then it should be possible to find common ground, but for her the sticking point was that he also wanted to simplify what was on display, to move things out and into storage. He wanted to 'declutter'. Given his recent background it was only natural that his perspective was coloured by scale, the practical and the pragmatic. He did not - as least as far as Anne could see - allow a single artistic molecule to influence his approach to their work. The embodiment of this was his stated desire to retire around seventy percent of the sculpture they currently had on display.

It was difficult for her to keep a sense of perspective given that Terence’s views occupied one end of a curatorial spectrum were forcing her to take an increasingly extreme opposite view. The collection of sculpture under her aegis was limited, she knew that; in many ways it could be argued as being minor - even considering some of the pieces at Parham House - but from one perspective this actually made the collection more important. If they had lost a Degas or a Giacometti to storage, would that have been such a big deal? Personally she would be distraught, but comforted by the fact that there were so many other places in the world where one could see their work. But in West Sussex? In her museums? The majority of such artefacts were from local sculptors’ limited outputs and the only places in the world where they could be seen. If these were relegated to the back room or a crate in storage somewhere, then for Anne that would be equivalent to the sculptor never having existed at all. They would have killed them.

As it was, their continued existence was already tenuous. Little-known and reliant on their continued and mainly posthumous presence, these sculptors were dependant upon Anne’s modest endorsement of their worth - a piece on a plinth here or in a cabinet there - and a limited but loyal audience. Visitor numbers were slim at best and falling at worst. As she flicked through the British Museum leaflets promoting the kind of major scale special exhibitions she used to know so well (even if they were not her favourite events) Anne momentarily longed for the boost such shows could provide; an injection of interest, enthusiasm, support and funding that could stand a museum in good stead. In Steyning or Henfield any event on an even remotely relative scale would be revolutionary! Recognising this was in danger of giving weight to Terence’s proposals of course; or at least the motivations behind them. What if he was right? What if taking up his suggestions did lead to a sufficient boost in visitor numbers, the fabled ’footfall’? It might breathe new life into her charges, perhaps leading to more people becoming aware of those she was championing and trying to protect. But what if the innovations failed? What if the artists were forgotten in the interim when the museums were closed for refurbishment - another contentious point! - or if the sculptures never made it back from storage in spite of record visitors, the increased income, the publicity?

If there was a balance to be struck - and part of her could not deny the feeling that a compromise existed somewhere - as she sat waiting on the train any further thoughts on the subject were interrupted. At first there were the sounds of voices, then the sense of presence, a flicker in her peripheral vision, and then immediately in front of her a boy and his mother.

"Here will do," the woman said, indicating the seats opposite Anne.

The boy more or less threw himself into the seat by the window, simultaneously managing to remove his jacket. He handed it to his mother as she prepared to remove her own.

Anne watched the scene play out in front of her, the woman putting coats in the rack overhead then removing a paper bag from its much larger canvas companion before hoisting that upwards too. Anne recognised the bold, geometric shapes of the Science Museum logo adorning the paper bag from which, now seated, the woman removed a book and passed it wordlessly to the boy.

"He loves the Science Museum," she said, almost apologetically.

Anne realised she had been staring. She tried a smile.

"And so he should," she concurred. "Science and a boy his age, match made in heaven."

She had never been good at guessing children’s ages, so an approximation was all she could manage. He could have been anything between eight and thirteen as far as she was concerned; probably around eleven. She glanced down at the leaflets in her left hand and tried to squirrel them away before the woman noticed - but it was too late, a connection had been made.

"We come up at least once every holiday and half-term," she ventured, her tone suggesting a need to justify where they had been. "More in the summer holidays, of course."

Anne nodded, hoping to close down the exchange - not because she wanted to be rude, but because she felt she had more important things to consider. She glanced at her watch wishing the train would move.

The woman had evidently not finished.

"We have this arrangement. We take turns to decide where to go, which museum to visit."

Anne looked back to the woman at this point, unable to stop herself. She was probably in her early forties, a little care-worn perhaps, but smartly enough dressed and clearly educated. Her voice was calm, her tone even, her accent precise enough.

"It was Toby’s choice this time - hence the Science Museum. Then it will be mine. And then we discuss and agree on the one after that. Then it’s back to Toby’s choice again." She paused, expecting a response.

"That sounds like a good plan," Anne said, encouragingly, glancing at the boy who was too absorbed in his book to contribute. "I expect he always chooses the Science Museum?"

The woman smiled, pleased that her new travelling companion had taken up the baton. Anne wondered how many adult conversations the mother had been engaged in recently.

"Oh, he would love to! But we have a rule: you can’t choose the same museum for consecutive visits. So, the next time it’s Toby’s choice he’ll probably go for the Natural History. That and Science. Isn’t that what all kids want to see? Big animals and somewhere with lots of buttons to press!"

"What about you? Doesn’t that get a little dull?"

"Sometimes, I suppose. But as long as he’s happy… My favourite is the V&A actually. I love it there. When it’s my turn I tend to choose the big galleries; the Tate, the National. And the British Museum, of course." She nodded towards the pamphlets that had not yet made it to Anne’s bag. "Our joint choices can be anything. We went to Greenwich last holidays. That way he gets to see a broad range of things - even if he doesn’t really like them yet. I think it’s important, don’t you?"

Anne nodded and smiled. She knew it would have been possible to answer the question, but doing so would have taken too long, committed her too much. Undoubtedly she would have found herself compelled to divulge her own theories and prejudices, and the last thing she wanted to do was to influence - or be influenced. Not here, not now. What this woman was doing for her son was laudable, to be celebrated; there should be more people with the drive, conscience, ambition to do as much for their children. She wanted to ask the woman what worked for her, how those establishments succeeded or failed in engaging them? How did they fight off boredom in a young person only really interested in pushing buttons, computer keyboards, and life-like reconstructions of dinosaurs? But now was not the right time.

From somewhere outside a whistle blew, and then there was a jolt. The train was moving.