TALES OF NONAGON
Chapter 2
(The Plan)
An unnecessarily heavily gilded horse-drawn carriage trundled through the granite-cobbled streets. Burning fossil fuels was for the lower classes.
Anyway, twenty horses later, Lord Rancidrimple had arrived at the museum, late as usual.
Emerging from the plush interior of the carriage, he was aided by an army of minions dressed in red velvet and wearing sinister blank masks over their faces, lest their true countenance offend the lord. The lord’s spindly body was then placed gently upon the red carpet that had been especially rolled out for his visit.
The tall, gangly lord tossed his golden hair to one side. He looked down upon Bulbous Bluster as though he were covered in excrement. Bulbous stood to attention in his peaked cap. As he held the door open, he tried to make himself taller. He failed miserably.
“Good morning, your honour,” he said proudly, over-emphasising the letter H, somewhat overwhelmed by the importance of the lord’s presence. “Your greatness, your illustriousness, your flawlessness...” he grovelled.
Lord Rancidrimple could only manage, ‘Grmph mornnn’, as he was too superior to speak clearly to lesser mortals.
Meanwhile, the army of minions removed the lord’s long minklet fur coat. This prompted another hair-tossing from the lord, culminating in an even higher position of his nose.
At this point, Pork-Rind arrived to escort Lord Rancidrimple to the meeting of the board of museum patrons, assembling today, as it did every month on the ninth day at nine of the clock. Except today was not the ninth day. And this was no ordinary meeting. This was a meeting that would change the world. Pork-Rind was beside himself with joy as he prepared to present his proposal to the patrons. Everyone was there - Sir Basildon Hornet-Nest, Lady Uphelia Puff-Powder...
He stood at the end of the long oak table and unveiled his grand plan.
A building to end all buildings, nay, a museum to end all museums. A museum that would be the envy of the world, attracting millions of visitors. There was one small problem. It would involve bulldozing parts of the present building.
Later, Lord Rancidrimple was being escorted about the museum. Gallery Attendant Sneerpot giggled to himself as he overheard the words ‘new’ and ‘building’ being bandied about in various combinations.
But it was mid-morning and it was time for Sneerpot to rush off for his tea break. His bald head whooshed past people in a blur of speckled flesh. He overtook everyone who got in his way between gallery and teapot, as though he were in some kind of hybrid walking-running race that no one else was aware of.
The other gallery attendants, who happened to be in the teapot room at the same time, groaned as Sneerpot appeared, seemingly followed by a cloud of dust that had gathered behind him.
“Bet you don’t know what I know?” Sneerpot teased, almost bursting into song. He was going to tell everyone what he thought he knew, no matter what:
“They’ve been having a meeting and that Lord Rancidface’s here. And there’s going to be a new building...” he could hardly breathe, with the excitement of it all, “...And we’re all going to have new uniforms and we’re going to be walking about with special portable receivers.”
“New uniforms, eh?” Attendant Stinkleton wheezed as he waddled to a chair with his large white enamelled tea mug. His enormously round stomach got in the way of everyday activities such as walking and talking, especially as the rest of him was quite small.
Sneerpot continued, “Yep. There’s going to be bottle-green shirts and yellow ties. Cravats for the women...”
“I am NOT wearing a green bottle!” Madame Pluchette shrilled.
“You’re just making it up. The privileged over-classes have been threatening us with new uniforms for years!” said a small male attendant, whose face changed colour depending upon the circumstances, and was apparently named Boil. He was semi-Chameleon, hence his tendency to change colour. Also his hair was raised in a sort of frond.
“It’s true! Why else would they be having a meeting that isn’t on the ninth? They never have meetings unless they’re on the ninth day and ninth hour. That’s always the way here!” cried Sneerpot.
No one could argue with that.
All the attendants were soon back at their posts.
The hours passed. A steady trickle of visitors came and went, displaying various levels of interest in the works of art and objects of historical significance. While, simultaneously, the attendants displayed varying levels of drowsiness, for it was against the rules to think. As far as the attendants were concerned, the most interesting thing about the museum was that the later in the day it was, the slower time would pass. So that by 10 minutes to closing, time had stretched to a point where it would actually take an hour to pass - time having somehow been distorted. And within that distorted 10 minutes, there would be more visitors than in the rest of the day put together. Funny that.
It was the following morning and the attendants were carrying out their duties, as was their lot in life. If you were deemed to be of the attendant class then that is what you did - the lot that other people would rather not do if they could possibly avoid it.
Attendant Cypher scratched her crop of bark-coloured hair. Then, methodically, she began waving a long stick about various display surfaces, obscured as they were by a layer of dust. The fluffy end of this stick supposedly picking up the particles from said surfaces. But all it did was move the dust slightly to one side so that it could creep back at some later date and create more work for future generations.
Stinkleton had a huge mop in his hands but it was strangely still. His hands were placed upon the mop as though he were pushing it, but the mop was immobile. On closer inspection, one could see why. His head was cocked at a peculiar angle, his greasy comb-over gradually unravelling, his face expressionless. On even closer inspection, past the large thick glasses he wore, his eyes were tightly shut. Stinkleton had apparently mastered the art of sleeping while standing.
Sneerpot barged past and rushed down to his own allotted gallery with a sloshing bucket of water, eager to begin mopping everything he could. Nothing was safe. Not even Stinkleton, who, more often than not, smelled like he could do with a severe mopping.
Meanwhile, a steady trickle of academia drifted through the museum, rather earlier than was usual, arousing the attention of Sneerpot. He lurked behind the glass cabinets so that he might better analyse the situation and arrive at another unwarranted supposition.
His bald head blended rather well with the collection of ancient Southern alabaster pouring pots inside the cabinets, such that he was barely visible. Not that it mattered much: attendants were not supposed to be noticed by those that were more elevated in life. That was why they were attendants.
In any case, there was definitely something going on. Why else would all the academics be heading in the general direction of Pork-Rind’s office? Why else would they all look so nervous and irritable? Sneerpot smirked to himself as all sorts of scenarios formulated in his mind.
Professor Argyle Bucket rushed through, flustered and sweaty. The back of his crumpled shirt hung out of his baggy trousers and grey tufts of hair stood on end all over his head, matted as they were by years of neglect. His bow tie was crooked too.
Sneerpot craned his head from behind the cabinets. “Good morning, Professor Bucket. How are things today?” he said with a light hint of mockery.
The professor didn’t answer. He waved his hand about and grumbled.
“Oh dear, Professor. I hope there’s nothing wrong?” Sneerpot’s voice grew louder and more sarcastic as the professor rushed away towards the offices.
All were finally present. The head of each department sat around a large table. It was heavy oak with stout legs and it was combined with matching chairs. The furniture was much too large for the room it was in, and it was a bit of a squeeze to get everyone around it.
There was Dr Travinion Wingnut, Custodian of Eastern Artefacts. He took up a lot of space by his mere presence. Not because he was overweight but because of his rugged good looks and forceful character. His slightly sunburnt jaw jutted out handsomely. In contrast, the rather thin Dr Dyspepsia Horsenffiffin, Custodian of Southern Artefacts sat very compact next to him, long grey hair and big glasses emphasising her small, thin body.
Fligbert Bimblecrumb, Custodian of Northern Artefacts sat at the end of the table, hoping no one would say anything to him unless it was about Northern art or a closely related subject. He sat in a warm glow of tweediness, his woolly hair reflecting a woolly-headedness, which was a common trait amongst the academic class.
And of course, the Custodian of Western Artefacts, Professor Argyle Bucket, who sat fuming at this enormous waste of time. He had better things to do than to pander to the whims of the new director, supreme or otherwise. Of course, the fact that he didn’t get the directorship of the museum for himself had nothing to do with it.
At last, Pork-Rind walked in.
He placed a large folder of papers on the table and opened it before speaking: “I have called you all to this meeting to announce an important development in the history of this museum... After consultation with the university and the board of museum patrons, I am happy to announce that my plans for the museum have been approved.”
“Your plans?” asked Fligbert, with a certain anxiety.
Followed swiftly by Professor Bucket booming, “What bloody plans?!”
“My plan - henceforth to be known as ‘The Glorious Plan’ - to reconfigure the entire museum, as I have deemed the museum, in its current state, to be wholly inadequate,” he snorted. “This will of course involve demolishing parts of the building and an extensive refurbishment,” he added, matter-of-fact.
“You mean vandalising the building!” screamed Dr Wingnut, face red with anger.
“It is unfortunate that a substantial part of the building must be demolished, but it is obviously in the way,” Pork-Rind added, in an arrogant manner.
Fligbert fidgeted nervously. “But what will happen to the collections?”
Pork-Rind waved his hand as though this was a minor consideration. “They will be temporarily moved, of course.”
“Never mind that!” shouted Professor Bucket, “Have you not considered the enormous risk you are putting the collection under?”
Dyspepsia cringed at the wrangle being caused by all this, and spoke quietly: “After all, perhaps there might be more room for all the artefacts that can’t be displayed at the moment.”
Pork-Rind smirked. “Ah yes. That brings me to another point.”
Fligbert gulped, “There’s more?”
“The collection will be re-arranged into a new way of displaying artefacts. This will involve commissioning a firm of consultants-”
“-WHAT?!” Professor Bucket fumed.
“This meeting is at an end!” declared Pork-Rind as he slammed his folder shut. And with that, he quickly retreated.
Meanwhile, the attendants had finished cleaning the galleries. They were now streaming down to the basement via a succession of stairs that meandered pointlessly down to a baffling series of gloomy corridors and shabby doors. The way was dimly lit by a string of naked bulbs due to the lack of windows. This was all rather confusing unless you had been an attendant for some time, especially as the doors were in the habit of shuffling themselves around so that they were in a different position each time.
It was one of these doors behind which was the teapot room. And it was in the teapot room that the attendants had their tea and regulation biscuit before re-emerging into the galleries, wearing their frayed red blazers. It was only then that Security Officer Bilious Bilberry would be ready to open the museum to the public.
Attendant Seed was sitting on the chair in the bottom of the Red Gallery that housed Northern artefacts. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Director Pork-Rind approaching. Seed quickly hid some small pieces of paper he had been doodling upon, and promptly stood to attention.
Pork-Rind swanned about the gallery, escorting the small group of ladies around the museum. This exclusive group consisted of women of a certain age. The sort of women who have time enough on their hands for intellectual pursuits such as fund-raising and being a friend of the this-and-that.
As Pork-Rind passed, he gave Seed a hard stare. Followed by another hard stare beginning at Seed’s riotously wiry copper hair and terminating at his pungent feet - a result of the plasticated shoes he had taken to wearing lately.
Seed seemed to be unaware of Pork-Rind’s disapproval and greeted him with nervous, stilted speech, eyes glazed over with the effort it took to form the words into a coherent sentence, hands shaking as he tried to ingratiate himself with the director...
Later, in the Bronze Gallery, Stinkleton sat in a corner, picking his nose rather insistently. Pork-Rind appeared with his entourage, pointing out some of the Northern sculptures housed in glass cases, while droning on about provenances. Until an overwhelming stench reached his snout as he passed close to Stinkleton. Pork-Rind’s eyes narrowed as he glared at him.
It wasn’t Stinkleton’s fault. He was after all, genetically predisposed to smell. Why else would he be named Stinkleton?
Next on Pork-Rind’s tour, was the Green Gallery full of Egyptoid artefacts.
“Why, it’s the Director! What a lovely surprise! Come to see how it all works then, sir?” mocked Sneerpot.
Pork-Rind was not amused by Sneerpot’s impertinence, and ignored him, addressing the group of ladies:
“Now, as you may have come to realise from our little tour, that the galleries are somewhat difficult to follow. This is one of the many reasons for the proposed redevelopment...”
Sneerpot’s prominent ears were visibly flapping in the direction of Dr Pork-Rind’s voice...
Rather than being in her allotted gallery, Madame Pluchette had taken it upon herself to get acquainted with the ladies. After all, she was a lady too. She handed out some leaflets as a vehicle to introduce herself. Before Pork-Rind had realised, she had not only included herself in the group, but had taken to interjecting at every opportunity, professing herself to be an expert, in a small way, on Southern sculpture and offering her assistance.
Dr Hector Pork-Rind grimaced as he tried to smile through his seething dislike of these attendants. And especially Madame Pluchette.
The day passed as usual with little incident.
For the attendants it wore on, punctuated by the occasional visitor query, which made little difference to the daily inertia. They were always the same queries.
There was the: ‘I’m going to ask that attendant a question they can’t possibly know the answer to, so I can feel smug and superior’ visitor.
There were two approaches to this situation depending on whether an attendant did, in fact, know the answer or not. However, many of the attendants were disinclined to ‘know’ the answer, on the grounds that they didn’t get paid to ‘know’ anything. Indeed, attendants knowing anything was actively frowned upon by the academic and administrative classes.
Then there was the: ‘Did you know there’s a misprint on that label?’ visitor. Then the visitor would either give a potted history of how they happen to know that there’s a mistake or launch into a tirade of accusation as though it had been the attendant’s personal blunder.
And the: ‘What ever happened to the dinosaurs? I’m sure they were here. When I was last in this gallery, 27 years ago...’. They had clearly got their museums confused.
All this would be interspersed with: ‘Where’s the toilet?’, ‘What floor am I on?’ and the classic, ‘I want to get out of here! Where’s the exit?’.
Of course, no day would be complete without the ‘last-two-visitors effect’. At closing time there would be two visitors lingering in a distant gallery, only leaving reluctantly at the last possible second, and then only very slowly moving towards the exit. But not without stopping at every artefact on the way out, and then prolonging the agony by stopping to leaf through various pamphlets at the information desk. Only after being told once again that the museum is closing, do they leave. Having arrived 15 minutes before closing time, they do so most indignant that the museum is closing and not remaining open especially for them.
Still, all in a day’s work.
Behind his small, round spectacles, he blinked and squinted. Much to Museum Administrator Humffrey Twink’s surprise, late that afternoon he had suddenly found himself administering no more. It had been decided by Pork-Rind to appoint him to manage the new Glorious Plan instead - what ever that was. Nevertheless, he was now the Glorious Plan Building Project Supervisor. But Humffrey Twink didn’t like surprises. He liked permanence and continuity. That is what the Imperial University of Nonagon stood for: no matter how the world changed, Nonagon was always there, the sun never setting and always forever well. But now things were changing and who knows at what cost? A new administrator possibly taking his place, bringing new-fangled ideas, no doubt. Humffrey adjusted his spectacles, buttoned his brown corduroy jacket and folded his almost-but-not-quite matching trousers into cycle clips. He cycled home to the village of Binbury on his bright red bicycle, his chestnut pudding-bowl hair wafting furiously in the breeze, as he fostered a simmering resentment with each turn of the peddles at having been pushed aside so cruelly by the new supreme director.
Binbury, so called because it was near the site of the municipal dump, was one of nine villages upon which the city of Nonagon had, over the time, slowly encroached. Nonagon itself had grown from an ancient settlement, with steep hills and cascading waterfalls, into a bustling city that soon made a reputation for learning throughout the land. One small school had evolved into a great seat of learning, accommodating some of the biggest arses in the intellectual world.
Over the centuries, it had acquired a mélange of architectural gems.
The centre of Nonagon was mainly in the fondanté style. Its distinctive feature of bonbon coloured façades and florid ornamentation made a splendid contrast to the streets, recreational areas and hills dense with trees. Other parts of the city were more often than not in the grand morphiloquent style - a vulgar architecture associated with old utility buildings and basic dwellings. And of course, the more contemporary antimorphiloquent style.
Humffrey Twink looked over his shoulder as he approached Binbury. From the top of the hill, he could see Nonagon’s bloated domes above the horizon, reflecting the almost setting sun with their gold and silver gilding. The sky had turned a comforting shade of pink with a few mauve clouds progressing slowly across it. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that the rest of Nonagon was still forever well.
He arrived at a small gate and pushed his bicycle over the short, narrow path to the cottage he called home. His identical twin brother, Halibut, greeted him.
Halibut happened to be the administrator of the Imperial University of Nonagon Centre for Scientific and Mathematical Querying. He was home earlier than usual to attend to the latest addition to their small collection of rare orchids, which was at a difficult stage in its development and therefore had to be treated with the utmost care.
They retreated into the cottage where the inside was covered with random acts of wallpaper in colours of varying persuasions. A couple of overly puffy brown leather armchairs in front of a log fire furnished the front room.
A collection of assorted objects of interest almost overwhelmed this room. Cabinets full of mineral and crystal specimens were wedged into every available space. Halibut was partial to a bit of tourmaline.
Every horizontal surface available was covered in an array of prisms, pendulums and perpetual machines. Mobiles and wind chimes hung obtrusively from every ceiling, glittering and pinging in the draught emanating from the back of the cottage, where the door had been left open into the garden and to a small tropical house.
Humffrey sank heavily into one of the armchairs and recounted to his brother what had happened to him. It was generally agreed that a trip to the Lime Barrel was in order, to calm Humffrey’s nerves.
Next door to Caramel Cup Teahouse was Lime Barrel Lodge, a local public house serving the population of Binbury almost exclusively. It was in the grand morphiloquent style and thus appeared somewhat bloated. The acid green interior put one in a mood to get pissed almost immediately with an evening’s absorption of alcoholic beverages.
A very large fireplace slowly burned away wooden logs, giving off a warm orange light as they smouldered away to embers till closing time...
