affairs and beach stones

1st October 1957

7AM

Better this morning. Writing this over breakfast. Today he comes. My policeman is alive and well and he is coming to meet me at the museum.

I mustn't be too eager. It's essential to maintain professional distance. At least for a while.

At work, I'm known as a gentleman. When they say I'm artistic, I don't believe there's any hint of malice there. It helps that it's mostly youngish women, many of whom have better things than my private life to concern themselves with. Quiet, loyal, mysterious Miss Butters – Jackie to me – stands by my side. And the head keeper, Douglas Houghton – well. Married. Two children, the girl at Roedean. Member of Hove Rotary Club. But John Slater told me he remembers Houghton from Peterhouse, where he was a definite aesthete. Anyway. It's his business and he's never given me so much as a hint that he knows about my minority status. Not a glance passes between us that isn't entirely official and above board.

I'll tell my policeman, when he comes, about my campaign to install a series of lunchtime concerts – free for all – in the downstairs entrance hall. Music spilling on to Church Street during the lunchtime rush. I'll say I'm thinking of jazz, even though I know anything more challenging than Mozart will be an impossibility. People will stop and listen, venture in, and maybe look at our art collection whilst they're about it. I know plenty of musicians who'd be glad of the exposure, and what does it cost to place a few seats in the hallway? But there's resistance from the powers that be (I'll stress this). Houghton's feeling is that a museum should be 'a place of peace'.

'It's not a library, sir,' I pointed out, the last time we had our usual discussion on this topic. We were having tea after our monthly meeting.

He raised his eyebrows. Looked into his cup. 'Isn't it? A kind of library for art, and artefacts? A place where objects of beauty are ordered, made available to the public?' He stirred triumphantly. Tapped his spoon on the side of the china.

'Well put,' I conceded. 'I only meant that it needn't be silent. It isn't a place of worship ...'

'Isn't it?' he began again. 'I don't mean to be profane, Tomlinson, but aren't objects of beauty there to be worshipped? This museum provides respite from the trials of everyday life, does it not? Peace and reflection are here, for those who seek it. A little like a church, wouldn't you say?'

But not nearly as suffocating, I thought. Whatever else this place does, it does not condemn.

'Absolutely right, sir, but my concern is to widen the museum's appeal. To make it available, attractive even, to those who wouldn't normally seek out such experiences.'

He made a low gurgling noise in his throat. 'Most admirable, Tomlinson. Yes. We all agree, I'm sure. But remember, you can take the horse to water, but you can't make the bugger drink. Hmm?'

I shall make my changes. Houghton or no Houghton. And I'll make sure my policeman knows about it.

7 p.m.

Rain means a busy day at the museum, and today water sluiced down Church Street, raging against car tyres and bicycle wheels, soaking shoes and splashing stockings. And so in they came, faces damp and shiny, collars darkened by rain, seeking shelter. They pushed through the stiff doors, shook themselves, stuffed their umbrellas in the steaming rack, made for a dry place. Then they stood and dripped on the tiles, glancing at the exhibits, always keeping one eye on the windows, hoping for a change in the weather.

Upstairs, I was waiting. I had a gas heater installed in my office last winter. Considered lighting it to cheer the place up a bit on such a gloomy day, but decided this was unnecessary. The office would suffice, would impress him enough. Mahogany desk, rotating chair, large window looking out over the street. I removed some papers from the armchair in the corner so he would have somewhere to sit, gave Jackie instructions for tea at four thirty. A pile of correspondence kept me busy for a while, but mostly I watched the rain course down the panes. Checked my watch quite a bit. But I had no plan of action. I didn't quite know what I would say to my policeman. I trusted we would get off on the right foot somehow, and the way forward would become clear. Once he was here in this room, before me, everything would be all right.