THE MUSEUM

Calm. Ordinary day. Butch moved round the gravel path towards his garage. Smart path. Smart new detached residence, family couple, upper average income. Hundred per cent. Key to the garage. Note stronger than usual lock. The only hint, maybe, of something not so usual. Plus the smart car, in the drive.

For the garage was where Butch kept his collection. One day it would be a famous museum, like Beamish or the Ashmolean; now it was boxes – cardboard, tea-chest, bread-tray – stacked, crated, bagged – “Butch's World Life Circus”, he fondly thought of it as. The East Herring Display Archive of Everyday Experience was its more practical title: a useful reserve collection of trades, household, artefact and experience, in fact. And not cheap. For years, Butch had been collecting material from every house-clearance, forced sale, casual meet and offer in the pub and club, folk auction and work contact. He had come to know what was what and how much it was worth. “The fair price is the one that suits me,” he used to chuckle. After all, whose benefit was it all in aid of?

The garage door lifted, slowly but easily, on well-oiled gears. He had to make a selection for a show at –

He stared in horror. In the corner, there was –

No? Yes? An intruder!

He grabbed a wrench.

“How! What the ---“

A crabbed sort of figure straightened up and turned. It was an old woman; with a shawl. She looked sort of vaguely in his direction for a moment or so...
and then vanished.

Butch stood thunderstruck. A ghost? A figment? An eye-trick? He almost laughed. The threat he feared was physical; the robbers that tracked the pharaohs down and bled them of their last trinket, in the deepest well in the tallest mountainside. A trick of the light – well, that was what it surely was – and – yes – he must be getting a touch paranoid. Suspicious. Edgy.

As he got better known – well, he had to expect the odd bit of jealousy, rivalry; attempts to make him swop; people asking ridiculous prices; people seeking advice, evidence of relatives, vast schemes to share. Expected, really. But intruders on his home patch. That was a bit close. His Petal wouldn't like that – she had no love of his collection to begin with. Where did he get the money from? for example. Why did he waste his time? etc.

Back in the house Petal was waiting. “There was a caller,” she said, straight off. “While I was…?” He was wrong-footed at once – she hated him visiting his collection first, before seeing her. This was his home - not that garage thing. He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Last night.” “Reg? Tamber?” he speculated. A few friends were bound the make the odd unscheduled call. “Some old gadgie, no name. He frightened me.” For a moment, Butch had a flash-back to the old woman in the garage corner.

“Butch,” she said, “let's get rid of all that gear. It's getting too much. For me.” He nodded. This had been his idea all along, of course. Expand. Emerge. Establish. A modest museum to start with, it may be. Free premises? Volunteer help. Big grants. Keyrings to sell, and all that shmuck. Just one opportunity to make good, that's all it needed. So he had no problem assenting. “It'll be packed and away any time now,” he comforted her. “There's an opening at Frosty-Me…” “I don't care WHERE,” she snapped. She hated discussing Butch's self-exhibition. How dare he make a committee of her? “Look,” he said patiently, “without a collection I can't get shows; without shows, I can't get permanent premises and grants; without that museum status, well, we just can't.” Perfectly logical. “I wish…,” she said, for a moment, but stopped herself. What was the point?

“So what was this caller then?” Butch resumed. He was geneuinely interested, especially if it meant some sort of security risk, some pattern of harassment, some conspiracy against his collection. “Well, it was while you were at the…” Then she stopped, for she realised she did not know where he had been. “I was just with Nod and Claire,” he hurriedly supplied, omitting to say which pub they were in. “That's exactly the problem: someone calls here, how do I know where you are? It could have been a killer, or a VAT Inspector, or a…” “So, who was it, again?” “I dunno. Tall fella. Hat. Overcoat. Old. Shabby. Didn't seem to speak very well. Held his hand out. Flat, like that. As if for money.” A cadger, then. Well, you get them everywhere. Though visiting his missus of a winter evening was a bit much.

He was about to suggest having more of his committee meetings at home, but, no, that would not work. Had not in the past. A new security system? Worth it in the end. No need to tell Petal though. “You mobile phone me next time,” he said, exuding confidence and comfort. “Next time?” she murmurred.



Asa was down in the bar, sketching some figures, when Butch came in. “Hello Butch,” said Asa, “wassu-havvin.” “Scotch, Ace, ta,” sez Butch. And “Hello” to a few regulars in the corner. “Are you on to Frosty-Me yet?” “Am. The key seems to be this local council planner guy – change of use – wants to be assured we can manage – business plans and so forth.” “Oh.” “Mostly paper confidence, you know.” “Well, there's that M.P. poof – said he'd be available.” “Aye, I'll put him as President.” “And then that history lot.” “Do we have to get involved with them?” “No, just use their name.” “And privileged they should be to contribute their all,” smirked Asa, with a scratch of his cunning, wolf-pelt belly.

“There's no doubt about it,” thought Butch, “being self-employed teaches you how to get things sorted.

“How, Botch,” called out a newcomer. It was Eric. Butch did not offer a drink. “Eric,” he said, “have their been any gipsies in this area, lately?” “Round here?… No. Winter Quarters for them, over at Rainbow Hill. Why?” “Oh, someone begging at the door last neet, Petal said. Probably some Come To Jesus lark.” “I thought we had enough of them in here, like.” “Not in my pub,” warned Asa; “I'm fed up with scroungers, me. And drunks. And all sorts. Why the trouble I have with some folk, you'd think there was no proper prison service, naught, they way they do naught about such folk.” This was a common signal for a chorus of assent, to be heard of almost any community group or committee, as it sits in bar or private snuggery, and slops its ale or cheering spirit – in a whirl of political indignation. I sometimes think that Buffaloes and Oddfellows, Opus Dei and Jehovah's Witnesses, Environmentalists and March on Famine in Alston, Police Watch and Labour Express might as well all join the one group, preferably in the one room, with a do Not Disturb Sign on the door. But then, what am I intervening for? I'm supposed to be writing this…



When Butch turned home, to his no longer delighted wifie, he couldn't help just checking on the garage first. Door secure. Alarm untampered. No light showing. No sound. Round the sides, too, got to be thorough. And there it was. A hole? A sign of scraping at the least. Something had been trying to burrow its way in. Ridiculous. Didn't they know about the concrete floor? Must be some idiot animal. Or wouldn't animals know better? Some miseducated animal – Butch rambled on, not willing to believe in malice, attack or informed campaign. Pathetic attempt to frighten him? “Butch,” shouted his wife, from the porch, “is that you?” “Aye, Pet, just a minute.” “Butch, do come in!” What if something HAD got in? (To his garage, that is.) But he satisfied himself it was just a shallow scrape, an amateur attempt at – well, he would just have to keep on the look-out.
“I thought I heard someone in the shrubbery,” said Petal, anxiously. “Just now?” – Butch was ready to take up wrench and torch and search. “No, I guessed that was you. Earlier. About when East Enders was on.” “Aye, there's a sign of some sort of animal digging in the ground there. Fox? Badger?” “It sounded more like voices.” “The Willoughbys and one of their parties?” “No, sinister, this.” It was a quiet cul-de-sac they lived in, unlikely to afford much chance for dispute. “It would be a badger then. That old chap last night, probably trying to warn you. Can do a lot of damage badgers. To a lawn.” “No, I'm telling you – I peeked through the window – I saw them.” “Them?” “Three of them.” “Them?” “Well, they looked like astronauts.” “?” “Elephants.” “What the heck do you mean?” “They had masks. And them tubes – you breathe through. I don't what you call them.” “Respirators?” “Maybe. They had them on.”
Butch sucked in his breath. “Maybe… they… were… exterminating… badgers…” he said, thoughtfully, not quite convincing himself.



The next day he had a proper search of the garage. Inside and out. No breaches in the defences, as far as he could see. Nothing missing – as far as he could tell. There was that old possing stick over in the corner. What a job he'd had to convince old Mrs Washington's daughter it was valueless, when the old woman died. And his collection of blacksmith's tools. Why, he'd getten them virtually for a song. Before the sale even started. And the leather tokens. By, they were rare. Some harmless old fella had let him swop them for shiny new metal ones. New lamps for old! Why, you wouldn't see leather pit tokens this side of… paradise he was going to say. But pulled himself up. Not like him to be morbid. You had to deal hard – and after all, who was it all benefitting? Cooee bone-oh he thought he heard someone whispering. He turned sharpish, expecting some gipsy visitor, but all was quiet. He quite missed a hand passing through the corrugated wall and fumbling about – for what? It did not seem to know. As he turned back, it withdrew.

It was not like those greedy councils, him. They begged stuff for naught and then hid it away. Buggers. Always reckoned they had first claim. Well, they reckoned without the private network. He had contacts, him, Butch, and could teach them a thing or two about who had what stashed away. Like that great fossil tree-trunk at Philly, no one seemed to want. Good stuff, keen intelligence. All the same, it didn't look right here. Not long now, though. Opportunities were coming up all the time. All he wanted was a permanent display, something gorgeous and imperial, a centre were he could show them all what life in the olden times was really like, when women washed, and men worked like men, and soap was soap, and community was, well, community. Then he remebered. He particularly wanted to check the box of 'self-rescuers'.

These were handy gadgets. Life-savers if you were in a pocket of mine gas. Inside a small aluminium packet, easily attached to a miner's belt, were crammed a mask that fitted over your mouth and nose with straps to hold in round the back of our head. Not as wonderful as the cylinders of oxygen that fitted on your back, like the proper mine-rescuers had. But still life-savers if you were caught in the aftermath of an explosion. Gave you valuable minutes to get clear. If you knew what you were doing. Why, sometimes, proper equipped mine rescue parties had gone down, come across bodies, bloated and pink and stark in the mine darkness, and – so the story ran – a young'un retched and had to lift his mask free. Within seconds he was dead from the gas getting in the lungs. It all depended how you used the equpiment. These self-rescuers, now; not so good, but still a brave part of his mine display. He had been lucky to spot them when he did and lay claim – before the pits shut for good.

He reached his hand out fondly, to reassure himself of their safe presence. At the same hand a ghostly hand reached out from beyond the wall, into his reality, and seemed to mirror his own gesture. He screamed.



“What's up then?” asked Asa. “I dunno. Seeing things, I guess.” But Butch wouldn't say any more about that. “Look, Ace,” he said a bit desperately, “my Petal's getting on to me. She doesn't like all this stuff hanging around. A risk. Cluttering up the garage and that. Won't have it in the house, of course. Always on at me to get it out altogether. How's that bid for Frosty-me coming along?” “Well, now,” said Asa, laying down his pipe. “That's something of a long-term option, but looking good. Meantime, we've heard from the Welfare at Easytown. Seems they have a room or two spare. Central. No rent. We could put on a full display for a month or two. Maybe longer, if it goes well. What do you think?” “Sounds good,” said Butch, trying to keep the evident relief out of his voice if possible. “When do we start?”



It was a foggy morning. The Welfare at Easytown didn't open its doors till mid morning usually, but today was the launch of the experimental display of Local Life and Lore, alias the East Herring Museum Group's collection on view, as never before. All artefacts on neat tables, with hand-written descriptions, and volunteers on hand to explain and demonstrate. There were pit artefacts, and blacksmith artefacts, and mine record artefacts, and domestic artefacts, all evidence of a rigour of life long passed, and keenly regretted.

Already a small but intent queue was forming outside. There was an old womn with a shawl. A couple of chaps in overalls, with mufflers or masks loose round their necks. Probably been cycling in the fog. One old chap with horny hands and the shoulders of furnace worker. And a few others, oddly dressed, all very much restless and excited it seemed. But not in the usual way. There was something unhealthy, or shrunken about them. Eyes dim in the fog and chests hacking with coughs – the sole sign of breathing. Hands blue with cold, and chilly too the occasional laugh or crack that seemed to come from nowhere and circulate among them. And each had a plastic shopping bag in hand on pocket, more as though they were off to a carboot sale than a display….