Spoilt Victorian child

I saw the ad on the Internet and thought, what the hell? I had no kids of my own, probably wouldn’t have time, so why not go for it?

I didn’t realise the child was Victorian at first, I thought it was just grumpy. But when it asked for a sing-song round the piano instead of plugging in the Xbox, I knew that I’d been done. The knickernockers should have been a clue.

I’d read an article about the trend for adopting Victorian children. They were cheap to maintain as they ate little, had no desire for expensive trainers and were unable to use mobile phones. Yet I hadn’t seen many around these parts. Until now.

But still, it was a child, so I made the best out of it. I tried every possible distraction the twenty first century had to offer, but nothing worked. The child was continually bored.

Until it found the flyer for the Art Treasures of the UK exhibition. As soon as it read about the paintings and artefacts to be displayed in Manchester Art Gallery it became agitated with joy. I was to take it to the exhibition without delay and must ensure that our visit took full advantage of Mr Halle’s orchestral performances and the various organ recitals scheduled throughout the day, which the Victorian child had circled in the much-handled programme.

I hadn’t been to an art gallery myself since I was dragged there by my school, but I agreed to give it a go.

When we got into the city centre I was amazed. The streets were full of them, Victorian children just like mine, each with a bemused parent trailing behind as they raced towards the gallery. I had no idea so many Victorian children existed; there were hundreds, and whilst we waited in the queue, I got talking to one of the other parents. He’d got his Victorian child from the same Internet advert, and was having the same problem keeping it entertained. It was great to share my problems with another parent, and later that day as we trooped home and I watched my Victorian child jabbering away with the other Victorian children about the paintings and the sculptures, I began to wonder whether I should read up about the behaviour of Victorian fathers. I could grow an elaborate moustache, perhaps invest in special wax. The idea appealed and, recalling one of the tunes from the organ recital, I began to whistle through my teeth, which the Victorian child said was a vulgar affectation and exceedingly annoying to the ear. It was then I realised that the child was middle-class, too, and I went upstairs to look for the contract.

I liked everything

Here was another. In glaring white trainers and nylon football shirt he stood in a numb trance before Landseer’s "Dignity and Impudence". Cute animals. How predictable.. The man was off one of the factory trips, one of the hard-to-reach, a C2, D, and E. We were to embrace them, welcome them in. And if you thought C2, D and E was C3POs less cheeky brother you’d be disappointed. Socio-economic group. Low income, low attainment, low, low, low. But not as low as you think. Dorothy, Principal Visitor Services Manager, told us with pride that C2, D and Es were not all off rough estates, oh no. Many of the gallery’s technicians and visitor service staff were C2, D and E. So we shouldn’t worry.

It was nice to know I was lower class. I’d always thought I might be – my preference of Salad Cream over mayonnaise provided a clue - but it was good to have it confirmed.

The man’s eyes roamed all over Landseer’s painting. He traced the brush marks with his fingers in the air. He looked away then quickly back again - to see if the eyes would follow him, perhaps? He stroked his chin as though something inside him was being slowly absorbed. Then he emitted a low moaning sound and, abruptly, tears began to flow. He sat down and put his head in his hands.

What was the point? Allowing these people in was like feeding strong meat to infants.

I went over. He looked up at me with pale blue eyes that shone with tears.

I smiled. ‘Our Landseer has made an impression.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was standing in a gorgeous cathedral. Silvery voices sang.’

This was preposterous. The man’s responses were false, exaggerated for my benefit. Another fake. Had to be.

‘You do realise,’ I said, ‘that this exhibition is limited to those community members who demonstrate deep, meaningful responses to the works of art. I’m sure, sir, that your responses to the art works are real, but I’m afraid you’ve been selected for a random test.’

We found a private room and I began my interrogation.

‘It wasn’t just the Fuseli,’ he explained. ‘I liked everything,’ and he elaborated on his love of the visual arts, peppering his monologue with academic quotes off the Internet.

We looked at each other across the desk. I knew and he knew I knew.

‘So what are we to do with you, Mr-‘

‘Rainford.’

‘Mr Rainford. You realise that faking a response to a publicly funded work of art is a serious offence?’

His pale blue eyes unblinkingly held my gaze.

‘Why pretend Mr Rainford?’

He leaned back in his chair, his arms loose at his sides. ‘The attribution of some of the work in this exhibition is appalling. Take the so-called Manchester Madonna. And some of the Giottos -’

‘Stop right there, mister. I am not here to defend this particular hang. Mr Rainford, you have been uncovered as a fraud and you know our policy very well. We are a public gallery and as such are responsible for ensuring that engagement between members of the public and our works of art is meaningful. We are accountable to the public purse, to the tax payer, to the community - to you, in fact, Mr Rainford. We would lose our accreditation with the museum association in a flash if we allowed members of the public to swoon about in front of our pictures like that. We all remember what happened in Bury.’

Mr Rainford leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘Many art works in galleries are forgeries. So why should I not forge my response? Art is for forging. I not only forge my responses, I forge art works too. Many works. I have forged works of art which have elicited intense emotional responses. Which is the fake? The response or the art? Everything about art can be forged. Using actors I forged the people who came to look at the art, sending them into galleries to nod their heads and murmur approval. It was easy. I became bored. I began to forge other things in the galleries. In one city I forged the interpretation panels. In another I forged the way-marking signs. In one town I forged the cakes in the gallery café. In another city I replaced every doorknob with an identical replica. No one guessed. In a town in the West Midlands I forged a whole gallery. Only the art was real, and no one realised. I forged the money used to pay artists. I forged artists too - trained people to paint and sculpt then sent them into galleries to present work, deliver talks, run workshops. Then I moved on to the staff. How did we know the gallery staff were real? Staff could be as easily forged as some of the works of art for which they cared. After all, can you remember, Rosemary, when you began working at this Gallery?’

He knew my name. I tried to think back to a time before I worked here, but Mr Rainford was right. Everything before that point was hazy. It seemed I had always been here.

‘It’s true, Rosemary. You’ve been working for me. Now you meet your creator.’ He squeezed my cheek between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I made you well. You spotted me right away as a faker. Found me out. You were meant to. My work was of the highest standard, as ever. Well, well. The forged art curator and forged aficionado. What will we do?’

I looked into his pale blue eyes. The eyes that had pretended to draw so such meaning from the paintings were drawing things from me. Something relaxed inside me, as if a tightened muscle I was previously unaware of had slackened. I wasn’t real. Nothing mattered. I reached across the table and touched Mr Rainford’s hand.

‘If it’s all a game, then let’s play,’ I said. ‘You and I will play well together.’