The Curator’s Misstep
When an ambitious young museum curator oversleeps on the morning of Little Dithering’s grand exhibit launch, she finds herself learning about history in a far more hands-on manner than she ever anticipated. Expect stern discipline, scandalised dignitaries, and one unforgettable contribution to the living arts — all under the watchful eye of Lady Hawtrey’s slipper.
Act I: Making an Exhibition of Oneself
In the long and sometimes draughty annals of the Little Dithering Historical Society, there were few exhibits which generated as much drama as Discipline Through the Ages.
Lady Hawtrey, the Society’s chairwoman and undisputed sovereign of museum matters, surveyed the preparations with the air of a general preparing for battle. Her hair was drawn back in a chignon so severe it seemed to exert its own gravitational pull, and her expression suggested that any exhibit falling short of perfection would face immediate and public execution. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk, missed nothing.
The star attraction lay in the east hall of the society's museum. This consisted of four silent rooms behind wall-sized panels of glass.
Over the years these rooms had exhibited dioramas of varied success. The depiction of an apple, bouncing from the cranium of a moderately accurate mannequin of Sir Isaac Newton, proved especially popular, if historically doubtful. But, their “legendary tales” exhibit two years prior, which included lifelike reproduction of Lady Godiva on horseback, had prompted controversy and a boycott by the local WI.
This year's exhibit, however, had captured the imagination far and wide. The scenes depicted realistic disciplinary figures, of varying threat. The first glass-fronted room featured a mannequin of a governess, brandishing a hairbrush like an accusing finger. It had given Clara, the museum's youngest and newest curator, the absolute heebie-jeebies, which further confirmed its accuracy of intent. Her anxiety was magnified because she couldn't help but wonder how she would feel, were she ever to find herself on the receiving end of such an encounter.
Beyond the governess awaited a headmaster flexing a menacing looking crook handled cane. Then came a nun poised mid-swing with a ruler. All mannequins, all perfectly still. All, Clara thought privately, radiating the sort of grim purpose usually reserved for tax inspectors. And, she had thought with a shudder, that governess figure seemed to bear more than a passing resemblance to Lady Hawtrey herself.
The fourth room, whose scene was still under construction, featured an Edwardian country house bedroom. A single bed stood below a painted backdrop of flowery wallpaper and a window overlooking sunny lawns. The mannequins, yet to be fitted with their outfits, were discreetly out of sight beside an ornate folding dressing-screen.
They should have been built and into their final positions by now. Lady Hawtrey was less than pleased.
“Where on earth is that girl,” she muttered, looking at her watch for the umpteenth time. Clara Perkins, junior assistant curator and occasional cautionary tale, should have been here an hour ago.
She eventually arrived more than two hours late.
“My goodness,” Clara panted, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming in short gasps.
Strategically she considered it best to assume a breathless tone, to create the illusion she might have been making at least some effort to hurry. Her ability to balance a sense of shame with her natural flippancy was not well developed.
“I'm ever so sorry, Lady Hawtrey,” Clara offered. “Alarm clocks and buses, you know how it is. But I'm here now, and—”
Lady Hawtrey certainly did not “know how it is”, and she was not slow to express that opinion, and in a most indignant fashion. She turned her head by a mere fraction, a movement that could have dissuaded charging cavalry.
“Miss Perkins,” she said, her voice as cold as ice, “I asked you to come in this morning because I needed your help completing this final exhibit. And now I find you not only late, but insolent to boot. These exhibits are intended to educate our visitors, but I suspect it's you who needs to be educated.”
Clara, cowed but not quite defeated, murmured something about the “authentic atmosphere” and waited nervously for Lady Hawtrey's judgement, her heart fluttering in her chest like a moth trapped in a Victorian lampshade.
“In fact, since the mannequins are delayed, I may have an even better idea,” Lady Hawtrey observed, inspecting Clara with a sly chuckle.
Act II: The Authentic Exhibit
Lady Hawtrey rapped her knuckles against the bedpost with the finality of a judge passing sentence. She was indeed passing sentence, in a matter of speaking, but first of all she passed Clara a set of pale blue silk pyjamas.
“Change into these behind the screen, Miss Perkins. I suggest you make haste, because you have wasted quite enough of our time already.”
Clara winced. The screen was a flimsy affair made of paper-thin fabric, offering little in the way of privacy. She could see through the gaps beside the hinges, and she shivered at the thought of being so exposed. The pale blue silk pyjamas looked innocent, but their diminutive dimensions suggested they could become ominously revealing.
Behind the screen, with much muttered grumbling and a sense of growing humiliation, she wriggled and squeezed into the ensemble. The silk felt cool and smooth against her skin, but she could feel the fabric clinging to her in all the wrong places.
It was apparent that either the mannequins had been ordered in a spirit of Victorian thrift, or the silk had shrunk during storage. The trousers ended just above her ankles, leaving her calves bare. The buttons across the top protested at her every breath, straining against her chest, and she hoped the buttons had been thoroughly stitched. She tugged at the fabric, trying to adjust it, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
She could already hear Lady Hawtrey's footsteps pacing outside the screen. It sounded like the final preparations before a calamity she could neither prevent, nor properly dress for. She wondered if somewhere, deep in the archives of career advice, there had ever been a footnote warning against this type of scenario?
Clara took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the tightness of her new outfit was less than comforting. With a mix of indignation and mortification she stepped out from behind the screen in an outfit that had now confirmed itself to be far too small.
“Splendid,” came Lady Hawtrey’s voice with iron satisfaction. In her eyes, the fit of the outfit met her requirements with absolute precision. “Come along now. Into position.”
Clara watched her superior seat herself with regal composure on the side of the narrow Edwardian bed. A leather-soled slipper rested ominously on one knee.
Blushing fiercely, Clara shuffled forward, still not fully trusting the integrity of the pyjama-top buttons. They seemed to be in a state of high tension, and were quite possibly plotting a daring escape.
“Over my knee, Miss Perkins,” came the brisk command, in a manner that brooked no discussion. “Remember, we're aiming for true authenticity.”
Clara opened her mouth, but whether to protest or plead remained unclear. Before she could decide, she found herself expertly positioned across Lady Hawtrey's lap. Her dignity was stretched even more than the silk of her nightwear. The pyjamas clung with traitorous enthusiasm, embracing every curve and contour, leaving Clara with little room to spare, and presenting an unmistakable target.
An instant later the smooth leather sole cracked smartly across her uplifted behind, eliciting a yelp that would have done justice to a medieval folk festival. Another swift swat followed, then another, and another. Lady Hawtrey administered each swat with the thorough professionalism of a woman pruning a particularly intransigent rosebush.
“Oh, come on!” Clara protested, wriggling. “Isn't this a bit... realistic for a re-enactment?”
“Authenticity,” said Lady Hawtrey serenely, punctuating the word with a particularly expressive swat, “is not for the faint-hearted.”
More crisp slaps echoed through the glass-fronted room, accompanied by occasional muffled squeaks from Clara, who had abandoned dignity somewhere around the third swat. It seemed so unreasonable that a century-old bedroom slipper could still exert such a persuasive influence.
The impacts against her bottom were sharp and stinging, and Clara could feel the heat building as she squirmed under Lady Hawtrey's patient and systematic ministrations.
“Please, Lady Hawtrey,” Clara gasped, her voice a mix of embarrassment and desperation. “I think I've learned my lesson!”
Lady Hawtrey paused for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I believe you may be learning, Miss Perkins,” she said finally, her voice as cool as ever. “But, I don't believe the lesson is complete.”
With that, she continued her meticulous administration of discipline, each swat punctuated by Clara's increasingly desperate protests. Clara began to wonder whether she might hereafter develop an entirely rational fear of both slippers and nightwear.
Meanwhile, in the entrance lobby outside the main exhibition hall, voices were approaching. There was a grand proclamation from the Head Tour Guide, resonating with civic pride.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his hand poised dangerously close to the door handle, “we are about to enter the main exhibit, and you will have the privilege of previewing one of our finest achievements in visual history education.”
A breathless series of hushed whispers spread amongst the gathered ensemble of visiting dignitaries. The Mayoress gave a nod of impressed approval, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
In grand tones he announced, “We proudly present... Discipline through the Ages!”
And, with his announcement complete, he turned the handle, oblivious to the scandalous scene he was soon to unveil.
Act III: Tableaux Vivants
The first thing the tour party saw as they filed into the east hall was the Governess exhibit.
The figure, a stern-faced mannequin in an austere black dress, stood brandishing a hairbrush with alarming credibility. The group clustered at the glass, murmuring in admiration.
“My word,” said the Mayoress, peering closely. “You can practically feel the menace in her expression.”
“Indeed,” agreed the tour guide. “We pride ourselves on our attention to detail. Every accessory, every stitch of clothing, has been meticulously researched.”
From her horizontal posture within the fourth room, Clara strained her ears whilst also straining to maintain some semblance of composure. She fancied she could just make out the swell of voices slowly moving closer. She put it down to imagination, possibly provoked by her increasingly uncomfortable position over Lady Hawtrey’s lap.
Outside, the group moved to the next window: the Headmaster exhibit.
Here, the mannequin wielded a crook-handled cane, captured mid-flex as though preparing to deliver an unwelcome verdict to a less than stellar trigonometry student.
It was at this moment that the first small, uncertain noises drifted through the hall. They were faint, rhythmic sounds, oddly suggestive. A few dignitaries exchanged puzzled glances.
“Did you hear that?” whispered one.
“Part of the soundscape, no doubt,” the tour guide said hastily. “Ambient historical effects. Very immersive.”
At the Nun exhibit, matters became harder to ignore.
The Sister Superior, frozen forever mid-swing with her ruler, seemed to command an unsettling vitality. The effect was amplified since, just beyond her glass, the muffled cadence of sharp impacts was growing louder, and was being punctuated by what could only be described as earnest protestations.
The Mayoress paused, frowning. Beside her, the tour guide tried to concoct a more convincing explanation for the sounds.
“Ahem. We recently installed an innovative... er... experimental soundtrack. To evoke the atmosphere of traditional discipline methods.”
He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, as though somewhere overhead, an invisible phonograph were valiantly spinning its grim tale. Several guests nodded sagely, reassured. Others peered more keenly towards the fourth window, where the sound effects seemed to become more focussed.
Without turning towards the glass window, their guide announced, “And here, ladies and gentlemen, we reach our final exhibit. A representation of homely maternal discipline in an Edwardian household. You may notice the attention to detail in the period fittings of the furniture.”
At first he was uncertain whether the look of stunned awe upon the visitors faces should be taken as a compliment. Something about the volume and increasing urgency of the sound effects, including an especially spirited yelp, made him spin around.
There, beyond the glass, the tableau revealed itself in all its scandalous detail.
A young woman, clad in silk pyjamas that were several sizes too small, lay draped over the lap of an older matronly figure. The pyjamas moulded themselves to the curves of her behind, leaving very little to the imagination.
The matron, serene and implacable, was operating a leather-soled slipper with grim professionalism, her expression as unyielding as a statue. The young woman’s expression was a study in pink-cheeked discomfort, her eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and desperation. Her mouth hung open in a silent protest, twitching as though she were keen to express a particularly pressing opinion.
There was a collective intake of breath from the dignitaries, followed by a moment of stunned silence. The Mayoress's eyes widened, and a few of the visitors exchanged glances, trying to suppress their chuckles. The guide, meanwhile, stood frozen in place, his face a picture of utter bewilderment.
“Er, yes,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “As you can see, we take historical authenticity very seriously here at the Little Dithering Historical Society.”
The Mayoress pressed a gloved hand to her bosom, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and amusement. The tour guide, seeing no hope of explaining this with ambience alone, gaped like a man watching his retirement prospects plummet into a trench. He blanched, and struggled to find words to salvage the situation.
Inside the room, Lady Hawtrey, without missing a beat, leaned down towards Clara's ear and murmured crisply, “They're a bit early. Don’t attract attention, dear. Just bluff it out until they've gone!”
Clara, who was beginning to feel the sting of authenticity far too vividly, squeezed her eyes tight shut and gritted her teeth. She remained stiffly stationary, her body trembling with a mix of discomfort and perseverance.
The slipper, maintaining its velocity with authentic sincerity, sent fresh ripples through Clara's quivering silk-clad behind with every fresh contact. But, the chastened curator clung to her role, and to the edge of the duvet cover, with stoic determination.
The dignitaries, after an extended and awkward silence, collectively decided that this, too, must be an extraordinary new form of educational interpretation.
“Remarkable realism,” someone muttered.
“Exemplary commitment,” said another.
The Mayoress nodded with regal approval. “Splendid. Most enlightening.”
The sound of that faithful old leather sole cracking against Clara's smarting derrière echoed behind the glass screen of the room. The spanking maintained admirable consistency for such a brisk tempo and her yelps expressed emotions of surprising authenticity.
Glancing desperately at the glass window, Clara bemoaned, “How long are they planning on staying there for?”
The tour group shifted uncomfortably, their faces a mix of amusement and disbelief. The guide, trying to maintain composure, cleared his throat and continued, “Well, I believe that concludes our tour. Thank you for joining us today.”
With that, he quickly ushered the visitors out of the room, leaving the scandalous scene behind. The sound of their whispered comments echoed away down the hallway, a testament to the unforgettable experience they had just witnessed.
With the visitors safely departed, the slipper finally paused in a blessed relief. Clara exhaled shakily, still draped in mortified tableau. Lady Hawtrey, with an air of modest triumph, guided her back to her feet and calmly straightened her apron.
“Well, Miss Perkins,” she said, “I do hope you appreciate the opportunity you have had to contribute so tangibly to the living history programme. I wonder if your punctuality might improve in future, too?”
Clara, her cheeks now approaching the shade of the museum's emergency fire buckets, could only nod. She strongly suspected she would never again hear the words “immersive learning” without an involuntary shudder.
Epilogue: Endorsed by the Mayoress
Two days later, the Little Dithering Historical Society held its quarterly meeting, a sober affair conducted over weak tea and strictly rationed biscuits.
Clara sat discreetly at the rear of the hall, the memory of her “living history contribution” still vivid enough to make the museum’s polished oak chairs feel rather prickly.
Lady Hawtrey presided over the proceedings with her usual magisterial calm. When the matter of the Discipline Through the Ages exhibit was raised, the floor was opened to remarks.
The Mayoress was the first to speak.
“I must say,” she declared with considerable emotion, “I have never witnessed such a vivid portrayal of historical authenticity. Truly outstanding.”
A ripple of approving murmurs spread around the room, indicating universal agreement.
“Particularly,” the Mayoress continued, beaming towards Clara, “the interactive component. The young lady in the domestic tableau. What dedication! We were all very impressed by her commitment.”
Clara attempted a modest smile, which emerged somewhere between a wince and a grimace.
Another committee member chimed in.
“Perhaps,” he suggested brightly, “on special occasions — Easter, Founder’s Day, Bank Holidays — we might arrange further re-enactments? It was all so... lively.”
Several heads nodded enthusiastically.
After a moment of thought, the Mayoress contributed anther thought. “It's a splendid idea, and perhaps next time we could bring the Governess scene to life? That hairbrush looked very educational, and the two of you seem to work so well together.”
Lady Hawtrey allowed herself a small, inscrutable smile.
“An excellent suggestion,” she said. “Miss Perkins has certainly demonstrated a flair for... bringing history to life.”
Clara, finding herself inadvertently promoted to the Society’s chief exhibit of practical instruction, accepted her fate with the mute fortitude of one who had lately been educated, and vowed with considerable feeling, never again to underestimate the importance of punctuality.
Excerpt from the Little Dithering Historical Society quarterly minutes: “Miss Perkins’s commitment to historical realism was both stirring and instructive. Particularly for Miss Perkins.”