The air in the museum was thick with anticipation as Eleanor Whitmore, the acting director, cleared her throat dramatically.
“Colleagues, I have two announcements!” she declared, her gaze sweeping over the staff.
“Good ones, I hope, Eleanor?” piped up the young tour guide, Penelope, from her seat.
“I should think so! Firstin three days, well have guests arriving.”
“Hardly news,” grumbled the caretaker, Aunt Margaret, crossing her arms. “Another gaggle of schoolchildren, no doubt. They leave nothing but crumbs and chaos!”
“Too true,” agreed Uncle Albert, the museums watchman and Margarets husband.
“No, not schoolchildren,” Eleanor corrected. “This time, its a delegation from one of the countrys finest automotive manufacturers. Our task, dear colleagues, is to ensure their visit to our historic estate is nothing short of unforgettable. They must leave with memories to cherishnot regrets.”
Uncle Albert perked up.
“Memoriesoh, thats rich! Remember when the lot from the gearbox factory came in March? Theyd had their fill of memories before they even stepped off the ferry! We spent days rounding them up from the woods. Do they even care about culture? Or is this just a paid day out?”
“Your cynicism is most unhelpful, Albert,” Eleanor chided. “We are the custodians of the great writer Thaddeus Whitcombe-Wilberforce. It is our duty to share his legacy, to honour the very place where his genius flourished!”
“And who, pray tell, outside this island has even heard of Whitcombe-Wilberforce?” Albert retorted, emboldened by some mischievous spirit.
“Objection!” interjected the resident historian, Reginald Pemberton. “Whitcombe-Wilberforce is a luminary of our literary heritage!”
“Whats the second announcement?” Penelope cut in, silencing the debate.
Eleanor paused, relishing the suspense before delivering the coup de grâce.
“Were getting a new director!”
“About time!” exclaimed the cleaning lady, Mrs. Higgins, clapping her hands.
The room buzzed with renewed energy. Questions flew like startled pigeonsWhere did he come from? Whats his background? The ladies, outnumbering the men by a wide margin, were particularly keen on his age and marital status. The few male staff members first stiffened, then brightened at the prospect of reinforcements.
“I know nothing else!” Eleanor declared, raising a finger. “I received a callsimply that a Mr. Harrington will arrive shortly. Or perhaps a Ms. Harrington! Thats all.”
As the staff dispersed, murmuring of change, a giddy excitement filled the air. For years, their little island museum had been a quiet backwater, untouched by time. From spring to autumn, the core stafftour guides Penelope and Beatrice, historian Reginald, and Eleanor, juggling both accounts and directorshiplived on the island. Only Margaret and Albert, along with Mrs. Higgins (who happened to be Alberts mother-in-law), remained through winter.
No one was happier about the new director than Eleanor. She was exhausted from managing both finances and the estates endless crises. Few wanted the jobwhod trade city comforts for this windswept relic? The county council had promised replacements for years, yet the post remained vacant.
“You must understand, Eleanor,” the latest bureaucrat had sighed. “The conditions aredifficult. Candidates agree, then learn the details and bolt!”
So, to ensure Mr. Harrington didnt flee upon arrival (Eleanor prayed it was a man), a deep clean was ordered.
The next day, from dawn till dusk, the estate gleamed under frantic polishing.
“Penelope, do wipe down the umbrella stand again!” fretted Beatrice. “You know how dearly Thaddeus Whitcombe-Wilberforce treasured it!”
“Albert, for heavens sake, remove that blasted screwdriver from the writers gazebo!” Margaret bellowed from the window. “If those factory men spot it, theyll nick it!”
At last, the ferry appeared on the horizon, its creaking hull carrying the boisterous delegation.
Squinting at the approaching vessel, Eleanor issued final instructions.
“Reginald, I implore youkeep them away from the marshlands. Last time, someone lost a shoe. And Penelope, be firmno sitting on the writers bed!”
“Well, if Beatrice didnt insist on mentioning its where Whitcombe-Wilberforce conceived all twelve of his children, thered be fewer volunteers!” Reginald chuckled, nettled by the micromanagement.
The ferry docked, and the factory workers spilled onto the shore.
“Albert, not a single welcome drink, mind!” Margaret hissed.
The crowd splitsome followed Beatrice into the writers house, others trotted after Reginald to admire the islands scenery.
“Behold the sanctum sanctorumthe study where Thaddeus Whitcombe-Wilberforce penned his immortal works,” Beatrice intoned, heels clicking.
“These very woods inspired our literary giant, whose name shines in the annals of English letters,” Reginald proclaimed, pushing through sun-scorched thickets.
“Please dont sit on the bedits a priceless relic!” Penelope pleaded, flushing.
“Ill box your ears if I catch you spitting seeds in the yard!” Mrs. Higgins scolded.
Eleanor, in the study, savoured the lively hum. Days like these breathed life into the old walls.
Thena cry. “Stop, thief!”
Penelopes voice, tremulous but urgent.
Eleanor bolted up. Down the hall, Beatrices heels clattered, Mrs. Higgins slippers slapped.
In the study stood a young man in jeans and a sleek windbreaker. At his feet lay the writers notebooka replica, of course, but still sacrosanct. Beside him, Penelope wrung her hands.
“Pleaseput it back! You mustnt touch anything!”
Beatrice surged forward, righteous fury in her eyes.
“How dare you! This is Whitcombe-Wilberforces notebookthe sole surviving draft of *Anchors of the Soul*!”
“I just wanted a look!” the man protested weakly.
“What were you planningtheft? Vandalism?”
“I only wanted to see!”
“Your papers, sir!” Beatrice barked like a sergeant major.
The man fished out his passport. Beatrice scrutinised it with theatrical gravity, adjusting her spectacles.
“Well be filing a report, Mr. Harrington. Damage to museum property.”
Then Eleanor snatched the passport. Her eyes widened.
“Welcome, Director Harrington,” she stammered.
***
“My deepest apologies, Mr. Harrington,” Beatrice mumbled, escorting him to his office.
“Think nothing of it, Beatrice,” he laughed. “At least I know security here is impeccable!”
