“It is thought that he fled.” Geoffrey agrees. “In their society, it would have certainly meant the workhouse for him, or worse. Not that there was much worse.” He looks around, delighted at the downcast faces. “Shall we continue?”
The crowd begin to follow Geoffrey to the next shopfront, his voice booming again, as if he hadn’t just told the saddest story ever. I stay where I am, studying the incomplete parts of Jane’s portrait. I didn’t notice them before, but now they’re all I can see.
A vibrant, promising life cut short. Just like Sara and maybe even Tasha, though I hope not. There’s been too much grief and sorrow already.
“I bet her fella was heartbroken, having to leave her like that,” I say to Tommy, but there’s no reply.
I turn around and realize I’m alone, with only fragments of a dead girl for company.
I greet Jess at the entrance to the museum. She shakes off her umbrella and steps inside, wiping her feet on the rough welcome mat. The frames of her glasses are postbox red today and match her lipstick. Turns out she’s a real history nerd (her words, not mine) and once she heard about this place I couldn’t keep her away. Rain streaks down the outside of the frosted glass doors, allowing me little glimpses of the world outside. The warm, damp smell of the city follows her in.
“Hey,” she replies, dumping her brolly in the basket by the door. “It’s miserable out there. Oh – wow!” Jess catches a glimpse of my costume and attempts a whistle, but it comes out as more of a splutter. “Oops,” she laughs, dabbing her lips on her sleeve. “Still can’t do that.”
She chatters brightly as I lead her through the turnstile and it feels good to allow my shoulders to loosen. I try to let her excitement chase away the darkness of this morning.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know this was here!” She squeals in delight as we step into the cavern, only to be silenced by a pointed look from the raincoat lady from the tour earlier. She’s been here for hours now.
“You’ll know more about all this than me though. You’re the history expert. I don’t have a clue about any of this stuff.”
“Hardly.” She brushes it off but I see her flush with pleasure at the compliment. “So, are you going to give me the tour?”
“I’ll try.” I lead her around the cobbled street, taking her into the shops which we can enter. There’s an olde worlde sweet shop, full of glass jars of sherbet lemons and liquorice. There’s even a lingering hint of cocoa in the air.
There’s a hatter’s, too, where Jess whips out her phone and we pose for selfies in bowler hats and frilly bonnets, vogueing in front of an ornate mirror. I try my best to remember Geoffrey’s speech from this morning and point out the bits that come to me, but I’m hardly doing it justice. Jess interjects when she knows something and I quickly discover that she really is a bit of an expert. Her passion for the past is evident in each word.
I avoid the fortune telling booth, hoping she won’t notice. Her gaze does linger on it longingly as I pick up my pace but the rope that bars the entrance keeps her away. I’m not sure what it is about that corner, but my skin crawls just looking at it. Thankfully, Jess lets me lead her past.
“This is amazing!” Jess stops just short of pressing her face against the side of another exhibition case. I don’t remember seeing this one in detail, actually – Geoffrey said that he likes to mix up the tours a bit. It must be boring doing the same thing over and over. I wonder what else I’ve missed.
The cabinet is made of glass, tall with sliding doors at the front. The shelves are glass, too, and they display a collection of jewellery and other random bits and pieces. Most of the other displays have a theme but I can’t see one here straight off. It doesn’t look hugely exciting to me but Jess seems enthralled.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in real life, have you?” Jess breathes.
“What, like rings and brooches and stuff?”
“Well, obviously I’ve seen jewellery before.” Her voice drips with friendly sarcasm. “But these aren’t justanyrings and brooches, are they?”
“How do you mean?”
“Ah, I see you have found the mourning section.” Geoffrey’s unexpected boom makes me jump. “Is this young lady a friend of yours, Niamh?”
“Yeah.” I introduce Jess and they shake hands in a very formal, English way. “Is that OK?” I didn’t think about whether I was allowed visitors, it’s a free museum after all. I hope he’s not annoyed that she’s here.
“Of course! It is your lunch break, is it not?” I nod. “It’s just wonderful to have young people in here; I often wish more would stop by.”
Phew.
Jess starts asking questions that are way over my head, so I let them chat while I take a closer look for myself.Mourning display. It’s funeral stuff.
I scan the case as I try to follow their chatter. One layer is clearly clothing and textiles. There’s a pretty black handkerchief, a gauzy square made from lace with bows and flowers decorating the finely woven, delicate edges. A small box sits next to it, about the size and shape of a box of matches, with slim black pins spilling out of it. It is emblazoned with a crest and the words:Black Mourning Pins.
The information card next to it explains how women would wear black when their husband or another family member died and silver dress pins weren’t suitable. Jeez, they took the whole mourning thing pretty seriously in the Victorian times. There is also a series of mounted, haunting photographs (ordaguerreotypes, as I hear Geoffrey tell Jess) of sombre, veiled women in huge black gowns. A shiver runs down my spine as I look into their blank expressions. Creepy as.
I move my attention to the next shelf. A necklace made of thick, shiny black stone, labelled as jet, lays so heavily on the shelf that I expect to see dents in the glass. There are tiny seed pearls embedded into its hanging pendant, their swirling arrangement forming the shape of some dear-departed’s initials. Small diamonds are sprinkled along its base, hanging so as to delicately mimic the tears of the family members left behind. It is morbidly beautiful.
I am examining a delicate locket containing a tiny oil painting of a young boy, when Jess’s voice interrupts me. “What’s usually here, Geoffrey?” She’s pointing to a bare shelf, with a card saying the artefacts are out on loan.
“Ah.” Geoffrey’s voice is tinged with sadness as he lowers it to a baritone whisper. “I’m afraid that is a slight fabrication. These objects are not on loan, but missing. You see,” he lowers his voice further, “the items on this shelf were stolen a few weeks ago.”
