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Chapter 6

Kirsty stepped into the main hall of the museum. It was all white marble and high ceilings. She had been here before, on one of their weekend family outings. They had had iced buns in the cafe. The stuffed elephant was cool; the mummies were a bit scary, but it had been fun.

In the middle of the hall was a woman in uniform sitting behind a desk. The desk was covered in leaflet holders. Adverts for steam trains and factory tours spilled on to the marble surface. Kirsty went up to the desk, smiling.

The woman in uniform leaned forwards to see Kirsty better. ‘Hello. Can I help?’

‘Yes, I’m looking for, erm, my uncle. He just came in. Did you see where he went? He’s sort of tall, with a light brown coat on. His face is a bit red.’

The woman nodded. ‘You mean Mr Thomas? From the board? Well, he usually goes to Natural History. He loves that. But today, I think I saw him go to Ancient Rome. Top of those stairs.’ The woman pointed to a grand sweeping staircase behind the desk.

‘Thank you very much,’ Kirsty said. Polite, polite – she must remember to be polite. The stairs were beautiful; bright metal poles held a thick red carpet in place all the way up them. Her arm slid easily up the wooden handrail, as though it had been greased. This would be the perfect palace for a queen!

Her footsteps made no sound on the carpet. At the top of the stairs, she turned into the Roman gallery. There were objects in glass cases balanced on top of pillars. The only light in the room came from the small spotlights pointing to the objects. It was as though they were floating in the dark space. She could make out jugs and bottles, plates, bowls and roof tiles, the odd piece of dark twisted metal that could be anything at all. It was nothing like the Rome she had seen in films! The only other person in the room was Mr Thomas. He had his back to her.

Kirsty went to stand next to him and, as she did so, she watched his face reflected in the glass case. He was smiling slightly; he looked content. Then he caught sight of her reflection. He frowned but didn’t turn around. Kirsty smiled as sweetly as she could manage. He ignored her.

‘Hello,’ she said brightly.

He turned a little and his eyes flicked towards her, but he didn’t speak.

‘Hello, Mr Thomas. Do you remember me?’

He turned to look at her properly. ‘No,’ he said and turned back to the case.

Kirsty looked up at him. The thick wool of his coat seemed to be like a shield around his thick body. She felt a lick of anger rise inside her. She squished it down; anger wasn’t sweet.

‘We met on Friday, er, sir. At my grandad’s allotment. I was thinking about all the pretty flowers I want, I mean, I would like to grow. Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’

That was ridiculous! It was only three days ago!

‘You must remember! You said I couldn’t look after it!’ Her voice sounded too loud in the dead space of the museum.

Mr Thomas turned to her with his eyebrows creased as though he were in pain. ‘Shh! You can’t shout in here. Where are your parents? You can’t be here by yourself. There are rules.’

‘There’s no sign or anything. I can talk if I want.’

‘Not to me, you can’t. I said everything that there was to say last week.’

Kirsty bit her lip. Be polite, be polite, be polite, she repeated in her head. She took a deep breath. ‘Please, Mr Thomas, I just want you to listen to me, just for a bit. Then I’ll leave you alone. I want to keep the allotment and I think you should let me.’

Mr Thomas looked stunned; it was as though one of the jugs in the case behind him had started talking. Then he said, ‘Do you see my desk here? My filing cabinet? My hole punch and stapler? No, you do not. Because I am not at work. This is my leisure time. Which I spend at leisure. Not talking to little girls. Your grandfather’s allotment is vacant. I will write up the findings of my inspection this week and next week I will offer it to new tenants. End of story. Now, go away.’

Kirsty felt her hold on her temper loosen; it seemed to rise up out of her like the bubbles rushing out of a can of lemonade. He was going to give away the allotment next week! ‘It’s not fair. You won’t even listen. It’s not fair. I promised Grandad, and you won’t even let me try. You don’t care about anyone. Not me, or Grandad. All you care about is stupid old jugs and plates and . . . and . . . Vivaldi!’

‘How did you . . . Have you been spying on me?’

Kirsty hung her head. ‘No, not really, hardly at all.’

Mr Thomas’s face turned a violent shade of purple, like plum jam smeared over a red postbox. ‘What?’ he roared. ‘You’ve been following me? How dare you! You are a very rude little girl. Now, get out, go! If you ever come bothering me again. I’ll call the police.’

‘But, I just –’

‘Out!’

Kirsty turned and ran.