I don’t even think I’ve heard anyone speak it out loud since school. That’s kind of the point of Latin these days. It’s a dead language. You use it for scholarly research, and the odd plant name or family motto, but that’s about it. No one actually speaks it.
For a few moments we simply stand, staring after the bike as it makes its drunken way over the brow of the hill.
“You know, sis, I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably have cause to say it again,” Freddie says at last, with a shake of his head. “But you really do get some strange people in Cambridge.”
I wind my scarf loosely around my neck as I step out onto the bright, sunlit street. It’s one of those utterly perfect October mornings, all crisp blue skies and leaves swirling through the air in shades of amber, honey and gold. It’s the kind of day which can’t fail to put me in a good mood. Even the residual sense of embarrassment hanging over from last night seems to fizzle into nothing in the dazzling light of a new day. Better still, I’m actually running on time for work for once. Perhaps the gods really are smiling down on me after all.
The streets begin to narrow the closer I get to the centre of town, becoming labyrinthine passageways barely large enough for a single car to squeeze through. I stop briefly to allow a cyclist to pass and he holds up a hand in thanks, his coat billowing out behind him.
Cambridge looks more romantic than ever on a day like this, the sun warming the stone to its richest hue, gleaming like molten bronze in the narrow mullioned windows. Somewhere, amongst the cluster of turrets and spires, bells are ringing, a melodic, undulating rhythm which is as familiar to me now as breathing. Bells are always ringing somewhere in Cambridge; most of the time, I hardly even notice them any more. But today their sound seems to be everywhere, filling the air around me in cascading layers.
Sidling around a cluster of tourists peering at the grasshopper clock, I check the time on my phone, automatically beginning to pick up the pace. It’s easy to dawdle in a city like this, to wander around dreamily at half speed without even realising you’re doing it. Familiarity never seems to dull its beauty, its ancient magic. If I had to pin it down, I’d say that’s ultimately what made me choose to stay here, rather than letting myself be drawn away to the bright lights of London, as so many of my classmates were.
I’d like to think that it was a wise choice, to an extent. My life might not exactly be flawless but, as I look around me now, I know without a doubt that there’s nowhere I’d rather be. And, at the end of the day, how many people can honestly say that?
My thoughts are interrupted as the imposing facade of the Montague Museum comes into view. My glittery lilac ankle boots make a hollow tapping sound on the smooth stone steps as I ascend between the soaring Corinthian columns. One of a row of stately Georgian townhouses, it’s quite an impressive-looking place of work; I still get a thrill of anticipation every time I walk up to it.
Even so, it’s the inside where it really takes your breath away.
The cold air is still tingling on my cheeks as I push through the revolving door into the opulent marble foyer.
Just bear in mind, if you will, that when I say marble, I don’t just mean a few niches or a bit of panelling here and there. Oh, no. That, someone clearly decided, would be far too pedestrian.
Instead, the entire space, from floor to ceiling, is lined in the purest white marble. It’s quite dazzling to the eye if you’re unused to it. Ancient Greek statues flank the sweeping staircase and priceless Chinese porcelain is scattered across every available surface.
In short, it’s a health and safety nightmare. Not to mention a conservationist’s one. But that’s how Lord Montague, the slightly mad Victorian collector who bequeathed the house, wanted it. He actually stipulated the fact when he left the place in trust to be run as a private museum. What began as a cabinet of curiosities soon overtook his entire home, and he was adamant that it should remain that way.
It isn’t a big museum, not at all, but it holds some breathtaking pieces of art. I haven’t even begun to talk about the paintings – that’s really my area of expertise although, in a little place like this, the role of assistant curator covers all departments, as well as some other jobs which a curator would never dream of undertaking in a larger establishment. I help out with everything: hanging pictures, showing visitors around, doing further research into some of the pieces … Just last year, we discovered that one of the more nondescript sketches which had hung in the corridor by the ladies’ toilets was in fact a previously unknown Renoir.
That’s what this job’s like – from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve discovered it’s best not to dwell upon the sheer responsibility of it all. It only induces mild panic. Which, in turn, can only be alleviated by several biscuits and a mocha made in the largest mug in the staffroom cupboard.
That’s chocolate biscuits, obviously. I mean, what else?
“You’re here!” Ruby bears down upon me in a kaleidoscope of colour. “Thank God, we’ve been absolutely desperate to talk to you.”
Immediately, I feel a shiver of alarm and my hands stop halfway down the velvet-covered buttons of my coat.
“What’s the matter? It’s not one of the paintings, is it?”
I have this recurring nightmare that I’m standing in the main picture gallery, and someone’s drawn all over one of the Gainsboroughs with permanent marker. I’m trying desperately to rub it off, but the paint itself begins to dissolve, running down the wall in rivulets. Then, if I don’t wake up at that point, it only gets worse, because someone else trips over Casper, who’s mysteriously appeared, and I can only watch in mounting horror as they pitch head first into a William Etty, before …
“We can’t wait to hear all about your date,” Eve, who’s been following behind at a more stately pace, ventures excitedly. She claps her hands together, making the stacks of rings she wears jingle against one another.
The sound of her voice catapults me back into the present, visions of irreplaceable artworks biting the dust receding mercifully into the abyss. My relief is short-lived, however, as my heart sinks all over again, this time for an entirely different reason.
Why did I have to tell them about my date? I should know better by now, what with Casper’s track record in that department.
To be honest, after the disastrous events of last night, I’d sort of begun to forget about my equally disastrous date with James. One disaster rather eclipsed the other, if you will. But now it comes rushing back to me, with an attendant sense of acute humiliation. I really can’t face talking about this now. I look down, hoping I can hedge my way around it.
“Oh, it was … uh, fine. You know, nice. Ish. Kind of.”
They’re looking hopelessly confused, not unreasonably. I focus my attention on unbuttoning the rest of my coat, not meeting their eyes. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again, though.”
“Oh,” they chorus, faces falling in mutual disappointment. There’s a brief awkward pause, during which I brace myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. But, to my immense gratitude, they hurriedly start chattering about museum matters, Ruby recounting a story about someone who brought an illicit sandwich into the Egyptian gallery and refused to give it up, resulting in an undignified tussle with one of the room attendants. Eve chimes in every now and again, filling the gaps with amusing observations, and not for the first time, I find myself sending up a little prayer of thanks for my wonderful volunteers.
No one would ever imagine that these two would have become such fast friends. A candyfloss-pink-haired art student barely out of her teens and an elegant, cashmere-clad grandmother of four wouldn’t usually even mix, let alone find so much in common. But they adore one another. They’re usually to be found together, laughing over