Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind Read Free

postgraduate intake, six researchers in all, congregates by one of eight sculptures in the neoclassical foyer. It’s a life-size statue of Ayn Rand—not Toniah’s favourite philosopher. She feels more comfortable by the neighbouring statue of Laura Cereta, the Italian humanist, a feminist of the early Renaissance.
    They await the arrival of vice president Elodie Maingey. It’s the first time they’ve met a member of the board, but everyone knows her lineage. The Academy of Restitution was the brainchild of her mother, who used her position as the American ambassador to the United Nations to promote the concept of women’s restitution. During the past fifteen years, the worst oversights of male-centric historicism have been corrected. Toniah brushes the back of her hand against the brass folds of Cereta’s robes. She hopes this morning’s encounter with Elodie Maingey will either convince her to stay or convince her to look for another job. She still feels bruised, disappointed that a teaching post didn’t materialize at her university department in Norwich. They had dragged out the decision, and she couldn’t wait; she’d needed a salary, fast. Falling back on her sister for financial support wasn’t an option. That wasn’t the way they operated.
    As the vice president approaches them, Toniah realizes that, subconsciously, she expected a tall woman. Elodie Maingey is slight and shorter than any of the new recruits.
    She launches straight in. “I wanted to meet you all here instead of the conference room for a specific reason. Look around this imposing foyer.” She carelessly sweeps her hand. “Isn’t it begging for more sculptures? If you prove yourselves over the coming twelve months and take a permanent post with us here at the Academy, you must think big . That’s what I want you to take away from our first meeting. Imagine. Any one of you, through your own research, could secure the overdue recognition of one woman’s life’s work. But you’ll only achieve that”—she wags her finger—“through persistence. Dogged persistence.”
    She turns, walks ahead and, with a forward wave, evidently expects everyone to fall in behind her. Toniah is accustomed to a solitary working life and feels out of place playing follow-my-leader. It seems childlike. But she reminds herself for the second time today—the first time was when she climbed the twenty-one stone steps to the Academy’s entrance—that well-paid jobs for art historians are as rare as hen’s teeth.

    They shuffle in and take seats around an antique mahogany table, positioned diagonally across the conference room; it’s clearly the only way the table will fit. Historical rarity valued above common sense, thinks Toniah. She’s quick to grab a seat facing the floor-to-ceiling window so she can look out towards Tower Bridge. Elodie remains standing.
    “So . . . now that you’ve completed the Academy’s induction process, let’s consider how you might get started on the real work. Maybe you already have specific women within your sights from your previous research—women who deserve to be lifted out of obscurity. If not, you can take as your starting point one of the Posthumous Awards granted by your own professional organizations.” She places her fingertips on the polished table and leans forward. “You see, my mother was a damned wily character. She wasn’t out to chastise, because she knew that would be counterproductive. When she launched the Decade of Professional Reflections, she knew the professions would oblige. It was simple enough to acknowledge a few names—women who’d been inadvertently overlooked . Today, we are still building on those formal acknowledgments.”
    She clasps her hands together. “Now, let’s face up to something.” She slowly scans the faces around the conference table. “Some of you will discover over the coming year—and you may not care to admit it to yourself, but we will point it out for