1. assessment and identification.
2. restoration of the automaton and the accommodation of the clockwork within a newly produced pedestal or plinth a la Vaucanson. This would enable us to exhibit sometime in 2011 and would attract funds for stage two. The Conservator expressed her general agreement with this strategy.
3. restoration of the original chassis, which not only presents its own set of puzzles, but requires greater resources than the museum can contemplate at the present time.
The meeting shared the Conservator of Horology’s opinion that the assessment and identification could be conducted by a single Conservator in a timely manner.
S. Hall said that an assistant (graduate of both Courtauld and West Dean—young but highly recommended) could be made available almost immediately. E. Croft agreed to assess progress in ten days and discuss what resources might then be required.
Given the age of the automaton and its imperfect storage, C. Gehrig warned that it was likely both spring and arbor were dried out. Removal of springs from the spring barrel would require the manufacture of a wooden jig which would not be inexpensive, particularly as the work must be done off-site, at University College London. E. Croft will speak to the College and attempt to arrange a favourable price estimate. He stressed that although the budget for this restoration would be initially limited, he had great hopes of “turning on the taps.”
Catherine
THE LAST THING I require is human company, but there she is, my unwanted assistant. She is appallingly young and eager, with long fair hair and dark eyebrows, a slim figure made for jodhpurs and wind-cheaters and a white plain shirt.
“You are Amanda?”
“Yes.”
“You are the Courtauld girl?”
“I suppose so, yes.” The voice is upper-upper but has some wobbly vowels, a weird melange of Faubourg St. Germain and Essex. It makes my teeth ache, the pitch of it.
“Come in,” I tell her carefully, treading around the edges of my hangover.
Piercing voice or no, she is very pretty, with a porcelain complexion and very blue eyes and long lashes. She waits obediently while I turn on my computer but when I realize the museum server is now functioning, all I can think of is how to get to Matthew’s emails. This is far more important than the resuscitation of a swan.
“You can hang your umbrella over there.”
I have had an idea about Matthew’s password. It will be a secret no one else would ever guess.
After I have tested my idea, I will be extremely nice to her, take her to Fortnum’s for tea—she looks like she might enjoy that. For now I am very agitated but I force myself to ask how long has she been with us, what has she done so far.
“Nothing very much I’m afraid. I must say those glass rods look fascinating.”
I really, really do not wish to talk. “Do you know what they are?” I ask.
“I think so, yes. That is, of course not. Do they rotate to simulate water?”
Has Crofty planted her? Is she someone’s daughter? “You went online?” I suggest.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been researching automata online?”
“No, oh no, I wouldn’t do that.” She seems so shocked, I smile. “They will be jolly hard to clean, won’t they? I was thinking how you would manage it. Is there a trick to it?”
“Only to have Ceramics take care of it.”
“Oh.”
“You are disappointed?”
“I like to clean things. I think that’s why they sent me.”
So that’s how I will get rid of her. She can fetch Hilary from Ceramics. She pays very close attention to the complicated instructions—the normal response to Swinburne directions is to panic, but she listens, alert, her head cocked. I expect her to ask me to repeat. She leaves. A moment later I am attempting to access Matthew’s account.
Username: MTINDALL
Password: CATHERINE, and my lovely man opens like a flower. And here it is, everything I want, me to you, you to me, years of them. Dear God in heaven. I love you, Matthew. How sad to have to throw this out.
I have only begun when the two women return and I am forced to quit. My guilt and excitement must be obvious but the Courtauld girl is starring in her own movie. Her colouring is very high and I know that she is, quite reasonably, very pleased with her success.
The glass rods must now be carefully loaded on a long steel trolley, a process that takes them no more than five minutes, but I must wait and wait beyond endurance before, finally, I am left alone.
“Meet you outside the place.” Delete.
“See you there.” Delete.
“I kiss your toes.” Delete.
“I love you. Sorry I was a beast.” Delete.
There are thousands and thousands of them. I should keep them every one, I do not dare. I have no idea of time. I do not even hear the girl return and it is a shock to realize she is by my shoulder.
“You must get an awful lot of email?”
I am aware my eyes are peculiar. “I don’t like to talk very much,” I tell her as I quit again. “I hope that won’t make you feel uncomfortable?”
“No,” she says, but clearly my appearance is unnerving.
“Very well,” I say, “you might as well unpack the tea chests.”
“By myself?”
I speak without engaging her. “Do you think you can manage?”
“Oh yes. As long as that’s OK.”
“There will be some rather heavy pieces. If you have any doubt about anything, you fetch me.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“A swan apparently.”
She remains, startled, staring at me. She says, “Do you wish me to begin the inventory,” and I can see the pink of her tongue behind her teeth. The vowels on
“No. Just remove them very carefully. Keep all the newspaper they are wrapped in. Watch out for any documentation at all, even a postage stamp.”
“How will I arrange them? I mean, what is the principle of order?” I cannot talk.
I will not look at her. “I don’t care. Any way you like.”
My colossal lack of curiosity is completely inconceivable. In real life this would never happen, but even in the middle of my own personal rollercoaster ride, I do manage to keep some sort of eye on her. I realize she is ordering the components by size, smallest to largest. You little pickle, I think, you cheeky little thing.
“How is your day?” Delete.
“I hate everyone, not you, my sweet.” Delete.
“I am a genius. Come and see what I have done.”
The girl unpacks and classifies. I slice away my heart. Delete, delete, delete. There may be a faster, less painful way to do this, but I doubt I would use it even if I could. It is a field of electric turbulence, bone-breaking updraughts, emails from his wife. Delete. I never asked him if he had sex with her. I trusted him completely. Just the same I always sniffed his skin. Delete. There are emails to women I do not know. These I cannot help but open, and every time I am ashamed. Delete. I dig deeper and the Courtauld girl digs in the tea chests.
“Now are you up to this?” I ask her.
But I see she is listening to music on some device I cannot even see. On another day this would annoy me.
