It was nine-fifteen and later than usual when Mrs Prettejohn shuffled into Donald Musgrove’s dining room clutching a tray with his boiled egg and soldiers, and a small pot of Earl Grey. 

   “Your all-day breakfast, Professor.”

   “Very droll, Mrs P,” he said, wafting his hand at the cluttered table as he read his mail. “Over there’s fine.” 

   The housekeeper hovered in abeyance to watch her dishevelled employer decapitate his egg and offer her culinary criticism. 

   Crunch! 

Donald sliced through the shell with his butter knife and removed a neat dome, revealing the molten core and firm white albumen.

   “Hmm…” he said, savouring the moment. “Looks promising.”

   “I should say so,” she said, raking two overshot incisors over her bottom lip. 

   Donald sprinkled the golden yolk with a pinch of salt and ground pepper and held his breath as he dunked a pre-buttered toast stick. “Yes!” 

   The housekeeper sniffed as he raised the steaming morsel to his lips. 

   “Done to perfection.” 

   “Blimey, someone’s chirpy today.”

   He brandished a letter aloft. “Good news at last.”

   “Did your lottery numbers come up?” 

   “In a manner of speaking, Mrs P.”

   “Ah, I see,” she said, winking. “It’s about Roger’s dodgy bog.”

   “The decoupage toilet was a triumph, dear lady.”

   “That must be a relief for you.” 

   “A colossal weight off my mind,” he said, peering over his spectacles.

   “Will that be all?”

   “Yes, however…” He smiled. “I think you deserve the day off.”

   “I should give you an egg more often.”

    Mrs Prettejohn had more than earned a day’s respite from her household duties. If it wasn’t for her unwitting involvement, the professor would be leaving his exalted position in disgrace and forever cast aside as a has-been and a burn-out case.

*  *  *

   Donald’s university career had dazzled onlookers like a meteor soaring up and away. He’d risen from honours graduate and glittering alumnus to celebrated fellow and head of faculty, enjoying endless financial favours and decades of support from his old college. As Professor of Architecture and Design in Twentieth Century Politics, he’d cruised in the academic stratosphere for two decades. Donald was an expert in his field who attracted international students who queued up to listen to his lectures describing Albert Speer’s ‘starved’ Neo- Classicism and how his massive public buildings had transformed German cities. But crucially, his interest lay in the psychological impact on the population and how its effects couldn’t be divorced from the politics of the era. 

*  *  *

   Donald had taken his eminence for granted until in recent years when his career had stalled; he seldom packed lecture theatres and his publications had stopped being well received or even reviewed. His burning meteor’s bright light had dwindled, leaving a trail of spluttering embers in its wake. Its trajectory now described an alarming descent and was accelerating towards a distant horizon. Professor Musgrove needed a reason to be relevant and an immediate solution to his impending disappearance. 

*  *  *

   Help came in the most unexpected form; it was Mrs Prettejohn who’d revitalised his flagging career. Nobody needed to know how it had happened as much as whether it would withstand scrutiny in the long term. Donald’s career was founded on integrity and critical expertise; his encyclopaedic knowledge was unquestionable, having earned a reputation for being erudite, calculating and precise. His research was thorough and seldom challenged. When he’d located Speer’s diaries and sketch books, their authenticity wasn’t questioned. Similarly, Donald was present when his initial prototypes and cardboard scale models were discovered in a garage in Berlin. Professor Musgrove’s word was enough to vouch for them as genuine articles of significant and historic interest. They were documented as authentic and archived for posterity, with no second opinion.

*  *  *

Mrs Prettejohn’s unfortunate looks belied a shrewd and resourceful woman. She’d taken an active interest in Donald’s career and saw a brilliant mind but an indolent employer who’d coasted for many years on his past glories. In her role as housekeeper, she’d witnessed him unpacking items of historical interest and made her own mind up as to their alleged value. The professor often discussed his work with Mrs P and used her as a sounding board for common sense. However, he was often distracted by his work when she passed comment and almost disregarded her when she’d asked, “so what happened to the Great Dictators’ personal items?” 

   “Whatever do you mean?” he said, surprised by her question.

   “I mean,” she said, “someone must have inherited their houses and replaced their wash tubs or even the toilets.”

   Donald was dismissive at first, however Mrs Prettejohn wouldn’t let it lie. Each time she dusted his desk, she’d mutter something about how somebody must know where to find their old bath tubs or kitchenware.

   “What’s that you say, Mrs P?”

   “I’m wondering what happened to Mussolini’s toilet.”

   “Who’d be interested in his toilet, Mrs P?”

   “A toilet can say a lot about someone.”

   “How do you suppose it would do that?”

   “Well,” she said, switching off her hoover. “I imagine it would say loads if it was decorated in dahlias or painted Day-Glo pink.”

   “Mrs P…” said Donald, rubbing his chin. “You may have a point.”

*  *  *

A fruitful search of the internet for Italian designers of the 1940s revealed a young artist who’d been associated with The Great Dictator after being expelled from the Accademia di Belle Arti di Brera in Milan. The young Piero Fornasetti, influenced by Marcel Duchamp’s audacious upside-down urinal, had the stroke of genius to design a matching toilet and wash basin decorated in hand painted garlands reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. It was a tromp-l’oeil masterpiece, referencing an era of both beauty and elegance. Piero’s critics read his creation as a sly nod to Post-Modernism, before there was even a Modern to be posted. 

   Could it be that he had produced bespoke sanitary items for the leaders of the government? Donald researched further and found the young man had been commissioned to produce special porcelain items for notable members of the elite. Indeed, it didn’t take more than a week for Donald to locate a few such items. Verifying them as genuine would be a matter of research and comparison; authentic documentation would be required and a paper trail examined for traces of fraudulent activity. 

   Professor Musgrove visited several vendors in Europe before he heard a rumour about an original Fornasetti toilet, which belonged to the Great Dictator himself. Donald’s research revealed that the Allies had destroyed his last residence near Lake Como but removed a wash basin and matching toilet bowl out of harm’s way. With a renewed interest in Second World War ceramic pieces, Piero’s bathroom set had appeared on the market. Donald followed dozens of worthless leads until he discovered a potential match through a well-known fence.

“There’s a Fornasetti designed set for sale in the U.K.” whispered the fellow. “It hear it belongs to a collector in North London.”

   “How very convenient,” said Donald, smiling.

“Best snatch it up,” said the fence, tapping the side of his nose. “But be quick.”

   Things were looking up. It was worth a trip to the Borough of Haringey to check out the goods before they disappeared on the black market or sold as separate items and lost forever. If he could verify the artefacts as genuine, they’d set him up with a lifetime’s worth of study and the right to question many accepted theories about the 20th century’s dictators.

*  *  *

   However, Donald needed time to prepare himself to meet the College Rector to discuss his department’s budget and the new curriculum he’d promised to deliver a while back. The Rector was a bull-sized fellow who possessed a ruddy face like an over-inflated balloon that was ready to burst. He had invited Donald to justify his position at the end of the previous academic year and fearing the worst Donald’s inaction had caused a massive problem; the Rector was after his scalp. 

   Of course, now he had a new area of discourse to investigate, compare and document and a long-term solution. After voicing his strategy with his housekeeper, he’d outlined a series of lectures entitled ‘Designing for the Great Dictators’ and hoped it would be key to extending his career for a few more years. All he had to do was present it to the dreaded rector and his problems would be solved. Simple as that. 

   On the day, The Rector was welcoming and receptive to Donald’s ideas. 

   “Decoupage toilet seat, you say?”

   “Quite a revelation, sir, and---”

   “There has to be a strict caveat, dear boy.” The only condition he stipulated was the unquestionable verification of the items in question and a guarantee there’d be further pieces to support his thesis. “Is that understood?”

   “Yes,” said Donald, grinning like a cheeky school boy. “I give my word.”

 *  *  *

   As luck would have it, the day Donald expected to receive his Fornasetti ceramics coincided with the vital appointment with his bank manager. He was absent when the toilet set arrived at his house and begging his bank manager to consolidate his loans and extend his overdrafts. Mrs P supervised the road side delivery and charmed the driver to help her drag it off the wooden palette. Between them, they hauled it up the steps out of the rain. However, it was the driver who slipped on Donald’s shiny vestibule floor tiles and Mrs P who took the blame for shattering the ceramic bowl, chipping the pristine sink and splintering the decoupage seat.

   Donald wept when he saw the mess; his career had gone down the pan before his eyes. His last chance to reboot his career lay in glistening white shards in the hallway. He’d invested all his savings in this project and had The Rector to look forward to. 

   However, Mrs Prettejohn had an idea. “My son’s a dab hand at fixing stuff like this, may be…”

   With his head in his hands, Donald agreed to whatever she suggested. He had run out of options and rash as it seemed, he had little to lose that hadn’t already disappeared already.

   Roger arrived the next morning and Mrs P assisted him in loading the broken bowl and basin into his van while Donald remained in bed. He’d drunk to excess, hoping never to wake, and was nursing a belter behind the eyes when they disappeared down the road with his precious bathroom goods.

   A week passed before word came back from Roger; all was well, and he wanted to know when Donald would care to collect his restored items.

   “So, tell me where is it you live, Mrs P?”

   “Down the Farm.”

   “That sounds delightful, my dear.”

   “Not really, professor…”

   “But with cows and pigs and…”

   “Nah, it’s not like that…”

   “Do tell me—-”

   “It’s Broadwater Farm Estate, innit?”

The housing estate comprised twenty four-storey apartment buildings constructed on pillars under which were tenants’ vehicles and motorbikes chained to steel girders. The only wild life they encountered was hovering underneath the first floor dwellings, between concrete pillars; hooded teenagers scurrying about, engaged in furtive nocturnal pursuits.

   A chunky figure approached Donald’s car carrying a bubble-wrapped parcel.

   “Here’s your wash basin,” said Roger, halting by the boot. “D’ya want it in here, Prof.?”

   Donald pulled back the wrapping and examined the restored basin. He squinted his eyes while inspecting the quality of the glaze. He frowned as he extended his inspection and failed to detect any obvious defects, let alone cracks or blemishes.

   “I’ve got to admit,” said Donald, sighing. “This is flawless work.” 

   “We get requests to mend old ceramic like this all the time.” 

   “They don’t call him Roger the Dodger for nuffin, Professor.”

*  *  *

Professor Musgrove didn’t sleep well after escorting Mrs Prettejohn back home. It was bad enough witnessing the shady goings-on occurring on her estate, let alone encouraging further shenanigans. Donald was a vain creature at heart who hoped students of his work would hold him in acclaim for decades to come. 

He never imagined he’d dare compromise his reputation for short-term gain and put his name to dubious discoveries.

*  *  *

   It was seven-thirty when Mrs Prettejohn entered the breakfast room bearing a tray with two boiled eggs and soldiers, and a large pot of Earl Grey. 

   “Two eggs today, Mrs P?”

   “Yes,” she said, pouring his tea. “I have an idea…”

The End