History rained from the walls, time portioned into compartments, horror and gore beside the drudgery of day to day life. Annie had seen it all. Her days from nine to five framed by the annals of time.
‘Wow, what a wonderful job?’ or ‘must be quite boring,’ opinions divided on the nature of her work. They had no idea. The museum was so much more than the history decked throughout, days never felt like work.
Annie took her morning rounds as usual, stepping first into the Roman room. Claude Henry, she noted this from the name tag clipped to his lapel, stared intently at the coin collection before taking his regular seat in the corner. He would spend at least an hour. Why, she had no idea. Maybe haven from the heat of the corporate bonfire outside.
Into the Egyptian chamber, the colour of life no better expressed than by the meeting of Charles and Diana. She didn’t know their real names only that they met here at ten on Wednesdays. Him, with his classic British integrity dressed in clothes which belonged in one of the displays, her in a summer dress with a pattern that curtain manufacturers would do well to copy. Five minutes would pass before they’d speak and feign surprise at meeting. She considered suggesting they get a room, but couldn’t imagine Charles and Di would quite have it in them.
Medieval Britain, the room of drama, Kings and Queens, subterfuge and legend had quite a different role in the 21st century. She called it the spy room. For an occupation adorned in secrecy and subtle unseen worlds she could never quite work out why public school Timothy always came here. He’d met Russians, Americans, and numerous other nationalities, old, young, delicately attractive females, elderly matrons who were cast offs from 1950’s hospitals. If she understood his operation, a queue of others must be outside. But then Timothy probably thought he was important, saving the world from untold dangers, or perhaps Walter Mitty dreaming of glory. Annie was clear where her vote would be.
Every room cast another story, where the path of reality took a twist. Unlikely that any of these occurrences would achieve a record in the archives of the Museum, but still life danced its peculiar waltz through the ancient walls.