The Cupboard of Curiosities

Found you

"OH, you absolute beauty," Rum thought when he finally found the Brackendale Natural Science Society building after driving past it twice.

"How the hell did I miss you?" he asked out loud, marveling at its shamelessly Victorian-Goth style and the intricately-bricked-clock tower jutting from its roof as if to pierce the late-afternoon clouds the colour of pigeons.

How indeed? Its pale brick walls were crawling with ornate wood- and metal-work, all painted a toxic shade of green that would've been visible from space. It was way better in the flesh than in its grainy website picture, he thought as he climbed the steps to its vast front door and rapped loudly with his knuckles, seeing as there was no knocker, letterbox, bell, nor, interestingly, considering the rest of the exterior, any sort of ornamentation at all, apart from a small brass knob that didn't turn.

As soon as he knocked, a woman shouted cheerily from the other side: "Hello? Yes, it's OK, I hear you, hold on a minute, I just need to fetch the keys. Won't be a sec." From her voice Rum guessed she'd be in her '60s. He readied his notepad and pencil while he waited and checked that his phone had enough charge for taking photos. Only just. Standard.

Apart from his little VW Up! (stupid name for a car), the only other car in the drive was a pretty cool-looking vintage American, pale-blue, low-slung, white-wall-tyre job, the make of which he hadn't a clue. Must be her's he decided. Maybe she'd turn out to be a cool old hipster type.

With a whispery swish, the door opened and the woman, who actually did look to be in her late 60s, smiled broadly at him.

She was shorter than him and about twice as wide; she had small, gappy teeth, her hair was an untidy shrub of dark frizz and there was a sheen on her nose. So not exactly a cool hipster, then.

"You must be Rum MacQuoid. I can tell by your reporter's notepad," she said grinning at her great detective skills. "Rum. Nice name. Very unusual. After the drink, I suppose?" she asked and offered her hand, which he took and shook. It was warm and dry and way rougher than his own.

"Nah," he laughed. "Everyone thinks that but it's after a Scottish island. You've probably heard of it. My twin's called Lewis, after another one. I reckon he got the best deal." The woman suddenly stopped, her smile became a pucker.

"You have a twin? Identical?"

"Nah. He's blonde and shorter than me. In fact, we're nothing alike, thank God."

"Yes, quite, thank God. Wonderful," she chuckled then shuffled aside to let him in. More your typically eccentric museum sort, he decided.

"Do come in, it's cold out there."

Stepping over the threshold he said: "And you must be Florrie. Thanks for getting in touch and for agreeing to show me round. The building's amazing, by the way. I'm not keeping you late, though am I? Is that your car outside? It's a bit smart, what make is it? Sorry, so many questions."

"Not at all. Yes, she's mine. A highly rare Spectre Blue Firemist '68 Cadillac Coup de Ville. Last one in the world as far as I know. And no, you're not keeping me late. The best time to see this place is when all the people have gone. I say all the people, we only had three visitors today. Oh, and four staff. Talk about out-numbered," she tittered, shaking her head.

"Well, hopefully my story will get some more bums on seats, so to speak, for you guys. It'll appear on our website as well as in the magazine, so lots of people should see it. And maybe they'll even throw some money at you."

"Now that would be wonderful. It's a super place but the coffers are empty and we're all volunteers. Doing it for the love and hoping one day we'll get that special exhibit that will attract the big crowds."" 

"I know a bit about what you all do from your website, and I try to include your open days on our What's On section, but I need to find out more. I was so chuffed when you phoned cos I can finally see inside."

"That's exactly why I rang you, I have read some of your stories and I like your style, your take on stuff. I felt you'd appreciate the collections and want to support the place," she said. "Just let me lock the door, Rum. This is Boscourt after all and we don't want any old Tom, Dick or Harriet coming in, do we?" Boscourt was a rough neighbourhood now but when the museum building went up it would have been a road of genteel Victorian residences, sitting within their own woodland gardens. 

Florrie locked the door, thrust the key under her jumper and into a pocket in her flowery top.

"There. Safe now," she said and smiled at him.