THE REASON THAT THEY ARE LOVED; THAT THEIR FORMER OWNER PRIZED THEM ABOVE HIS OR HER OTHER POSSESSIONS, THAT THEY ARE ORIGINALS, THAT THEY ARE IRREPLACEABLE.
In time the collection grew too abundant to keepin my bedroom and was relocated piece by piece to the cellar, a three-month programme of exodus. At first they were hiddenin the wine cellar, which like many parts of the estate was out of bounds for children; this parental warning ensured that these forbidden corners quickly became my favourite hiding places.
Time walked on.
Then Francis Orme, not one day out of many, but not unsuddenly, was child no more. Then Francis Orme, white gloved, was declared past child age.
Time walked on.
Then it was announced that the park was changing its name to Observatory Mansions and building work began. The wine cellar was to be transformed into a basement flat. A three-roomed cage hidden amongst the dust and dirt.
The fat and thin Cavalier .
I had been told ghost stories of the corpulent courtly gentleman (also an Orme, also called Francis – every first-born male Orme was named Francis – though this Francis Orme was called Sir Francis Orme) who was too large to escape down the cellar passageway to the sanctuary of the church, which, by fault of design, narrowed as it progressed. I had been told how the Cavalier became stuck down there in the dark, wedged himself in so perfectly that he could neither advance nor retreat. And in the miserable darkness, his ribs crushed, unable to turn around, bleeding at head and broken at fingers, he died. His skeleton was discovered decades later collapsed on the floor, with his once tidy uniform rotting around him. Only after death had the Cavalier thinned enough to be set free. This legend had been told to my child self with the correct degree of drama and suspense that I swallowed it utterly and vowed never to wander along the church passageway where I would surely be trapped against a circle of walland be unable to wriggle free. Nobody, I was told, would ever come looking for me if I got chocked up there, for that is where the Cavalier lives, and no one wants to meet the fat and thin Cavalier.
So, armed with burning candle and box of matches, lest I should shiver the flame out, I moved the exhibition once more to that safest of places where my parents wouldn’t come searching if I screamed out at eighty decibels. No one must discover you. Never. Never, ever . It was such a perfect hiding place, even the Porter did not come to this part of the cellar. Too much dirt. Of course, I had to protect my gloves down there. Small concession. Whenever I went to the cellar I wore my father’s brown leather gloves over my white cotton ones. And for nineteen years I kept the exhibition a secret there. Until the new resident came.
The Object .
One object was always moving. This was my most precious possession. It was the inspiration for which the exhibition kept multiplying. It was the most delicate, intricate and clever object that I had ever known, the object above all other objects, which was always moved to the end of the exhibition. It must always seem to be the exhibition’s newest item, never supplanted in love by any other exhibit. It was the exhibition’s greatest glory and was called simply, with love and awe, The Object .
And next to that sacred object I placed so tenderly object number nine hundred and eighty-six. A scratched toy Concorde. I did not need to conceive a history for this object. I had viewed enough by seeing the child’s tears as the plane and child parted company.
As I concentrated I licked my bottom lip, as had been my habit for a long time when gripped with exhibition passion. And so, after a while, my lower lip became swollen.
I spent an hour amongst my friends, walking up and down the narrow corridor, seeing that they were all safe, talking to them, sharing with them. Eventually, I returned, with regret, to the world above.
On reaching the top of the stairs that
In time the collection grew too abundant to keepin my bedroom and was relocated piece by piece to the cellar, a three-month programme of exodus. At first they were hiddenin the wine cellar, which like many parts of the estate was out of bounds for children; this parental warning ensured that these forbidden corners quickly became my favourite hiding places.
Time walked on.
Then Francis Orme, not one day out of many, but not unsuddenly, was child no more. Then Francis Orme, white gloved, was declared past child age.
Time walked on.
Then it was announced that the park was changing its name to Observatory Mansions and building work began. The wine cellar was to be transformed into a basement flat. A three-roomed cage hidden amongst the dust and dirt.
The fat and thin Cavalier .
I had been told ghost stories of the corpulent courtly gentleman (also an Orme, also called Francis – every first-born male Orme was named Francis – though this Francis Orme was called Sir Francis Orme) who was too large to escape down the cellar passageway to the sanctuary of the church, which, by fault of design, narrowed as it progressed. I had been told how the Cavalier became stuck down there in the dark, wedged himself in so perfectly that he could neither advance nor retreat. And in the miserable darkness, his ribs crushed, unable to turn around, bleeding at head and broken at fingers, he died. His skeleton was discovered decades later collapsed on the floor, with his once tidy uniform rotting around him. Only after death had the Cavalier thinned enough to be set free. This legend had been told to my child self with the correct degree of drama and suspense that I swallowed it utterly and vowed never to wander along the church passageway where I would surely be trapped against a circle of walland be unable to wriggle free. Nobody, I was told, would ever come looking for me if I got chocked up there, for that is where the Cavalier lives, and no one wants to meet the fat and thin Cavalier.
So, armed with burning candle and box of matches, lest I should shiver the flame out, I moved the exhibition once more to that safest of places where my parents wouldn’t come searching if I screamed out at eighty decibels. No one must discover you. Never. Never, ever . It was such a perfect hiding place, even the Porter did not come to this part of the cellar. Too much dirt. Of course, I had to protect my gloves down there. Small concession. Whenever I went to the cellar I wore my father’s brown leather gloves over my white cotton ones. And for nineteen years I kept the exhibition a secret there. Until the new resident came.
The Object .
One object was always moving. This was my most precious possession. It was the inspiration for which the exhibition kept multiplying. It was the most delicate, intricate and clever object that I had ever known, the object above all other objects, which was always moved to the end of the exhibition. It must always seem to be the exhibition’s newest item, never supplanted in love by any other exhibit. It was the exhibition’s greatest glory and was called simply, with love and awe, The Object .
And next to that sacred object I placed so tenderly object number nine hundred and eighty-six. A scratched toy Concorde. I did not need to conceive a history for this object. I had viewed enough by seeing the child’s tears as the plane and child parted company.
As I concentrated I licked my bottom lip, as had been my habit for a long time when gripped with exhibition passion. And so, after a while, my lower lip became swollen.
I spent an hour amongst my friends, walking up and down the narrow corridor, seeing that they were all safe, talking to them, sharing with them. Eventually, I returned, with regret, to the world above.
On reaching the top of the stairs that
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