Attendant for Scale

Words by Cole Beauchamp

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

At the British Museum, they queue for hours to gaze on its wrinkled gills, its gaping mouth, its squinty eyes. I count them in, taking care to reassure the little ones, fists shoved in mouths, that it can’t hurt them.

In the hiss of gas lights, people shuffle and gasp their way, single file, past glass-fronted cabinets and curiosities. The underground room is stuffed with predator and prey: antelope heads lined up like crowns atop the cabinet, shelves stacked with shrews, meerkats, genets and mongooses.

Amidst it all, a basking shark, its cavernous mouth wide enough to swallow a man whole. On one side, the gills yawn open like ribbons.

Who preserves a shark without teeth? That was my first thought the day it arrived. But as I neared, I discerned hundreds of tiny teeth, no bigger than a quarter of an inch. I popped with questions for the curator, Mr. Whitelby, when he ambled by. But despite the museum being open to “all studious and curious persons,” he tugged on his imperial silk tie and fixed me with an aloof gaze. “Just count them in, Mr. Douglas, there’s a good man.”

Why not train the attendants, I asked my wife that night? We could be a source of knowledge, share information with the public. She clacks down our bowls of stew, her face pinched in those grooves I know so well. “At four shillings a week, it’s no concern of yours.” Her list of what does not concern me, written out, would fall to the floor.

I find excuses to enter the library during my lunch hour, and learn the basking shark is the second largest shark in the world, cruising the ocean with its mouth open, catching plankton in its miniscule teeth. You don’t have to be an apex predator to survive. To thrive.

Today, a famous photographer, Mr. Frederick York, comes before the doors open. He sets up his big box camera with a great deal of fuss and bluster. Pale light flickers across the walls; the lamplighter damaged the mantle earlier in the week.

Mr. Whitleby waltzes in to assure him the repairman is on his way, frowns at his pocket watch and waves in my direction, declaring that I will provide any other assistance required. On his way out, he runs a white gloved finger along a cabinet, nods to himself in satisfaction and leaves the room.

I stand to attention while the photographer drapes black cloths here and there, measuring the distance from his camera to the shark in slow, precise steps, one polished brogue in front of the other. I gaze around the room with fresh eyes, wondering how it might appear to him. Being here day after day, I have my favourites. The impala, with their speed, their heightened sense of hearing. It’s a strange room: death interrupted.

“No no no no.” The photographer rubs his moustache in vexed little strokes while he considers the tableau before him. Motioning me to assist, he begins dragging my chair across the floor, making a mark Mr Whitleby would no doubt count against me. I grab for the legs and help him position it so close it practically touches the shark’s pectoral fin.

“Much improved. Do sit, Mr. Douglas.”

“I can’t do my job here.” It’s my responsibility to count the public in and keep the order. Only three of us in the entire building are allowed to be seated while working and I’m one of them. I know the grain of the oak, every groove, the patches where the polish has worn clean through.

“That’s not why you’re here,” says the photographer. He bids me still, warns the exposure will take a full five minutes. I cross my arms to steady myself, my left side weakened by a childhood bout of scarlet fever.

“Why am I here?” I ask before he presses the shutter the second time.

“You’re here for scale.”

About the author

Cole Beauchamp (she/her) is a copywriter by day and fiction writer by night. She was recently shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award and her work appears/is soon to appear in Janus Literary, Ellipsis Zine, Free Flash Fiction, Lost Balloon and Damnation Lit. She lives in London with her girlfriend, two children and an exuberant Maltipoo. You can find her on twitter at @nomad_sw18

About the artist

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating whimsical art and illustrations since a child; her inspiration comes from the cartoons, comic strips and animated movies she grew up with. In 2016, Yaleeza began expanding her art into her own business named Rowan Ink. It began with a simple pair of hand-painted, custom-made shoes for a friend’s birthday. Through her artistic journey she has expanded into different art mediums, but her true passion is sketching, illustrating and painting. Yaleeza currently resides in the south side of Indianapolis with her husband, her dog, and her cat. You can find her current artwork at Rowaninkstudio.com.