The room fell silent as Eleanor Harrington, the museums stern-faced manager, surveyed her team with an air of gravity.
“Colleagues, I have two announcements,” she declared, her voice cutting through the quiet.
“Lets hope theyre good, Eleanor?” piped up Emily, one of the guides, her tone hopeful.
“Id like to think so,” Eleanor replied. “Firstwe have a tour group arriving in three days.”
A snort came from the corner. “Big surprise,” muttered Margaret, the head of maintenance. “Another busload of schoolchildren. All they ever leave behind is rubbish and chaos!”
“Too right,” grumbled Walter, the museums caretaker and Margarets husband.
Eleanors lips thinned. “Not schoolchildren. This time, its a delegation from one of the countrys leading automotive manufacturers. And its our duty, as custodians of this historic estate, to ensure their visit is nothing short of remarkable. We want them to leave with memories theyll treasure.”
Walter leaned forward, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Oh, ‘treasure,’ is it? Remember that lot from the bearing factory back in March? They ‘treasured’ their visit so much, we spent days rounding them up from the woods! They dont come for culturethey come for a day off!”
Eleanors eyes flashed. “Your cynicism is unwelcome, Walter. We are the keepers of the legacy of Reginald Whitmore-Smythe, one of Englands greatest literary minds. Our purpose is to share his genius with the worldto honour his memory and preserve the very place where his masterpieces were born!”
“And who outside this rooms ever heard of Reginald Whitmore-Smythe?” Walter shot back, emboldened by the mood.
A sharp voice cut in. “I object!” interrupted Timothy, the museums resident historian. “Whitmore-Smythe is a legend in this county!”
Emily clapped her hands. “And the second announcement?”
The room hushed. Eleanor let the silence linger, heightening the tension before she spoke.
“Were getting a new director.”
“Thank heavens!” gasped Doris, the cleaner, throwing her hands up. “About time!”
The staff eruptedquestions flying about the newcomers name, background, even marital status. The men, vastly outnumbered, perked up at the thought of fresh company.
“I know nothing else!” Eleanor snapped, halting the interrogation. She raised a finger. “I received a call from headquarters. The new directors surname is Fairchild. Thats all I knowwhether its a he or a she.”
As the team dispersed, buzzing with anticipation, a rare energy filled the air. For years, life in the museum had been stagnant. Between March and October, most staff lived on the estateguides, historians, even Eleanor herself, whod been acting as director. Only Walter, Margaret, and Doris, who was also Walters mother-in-law, stayed year-round.
Eleanor, exhausted from juggling finances and management, secretly rejoiced. No one ever wanted this remote posting, no matter the title. Headquarters had dangled promises, but the staffing crisis dragged on.
“You must understand, Eleanor,” officials would say, “the conditions are difficult. Candidates agree, then change their minds.”
So, fearing Fairchild might bolt upon arrival, Eleanor ordered a deep clean.
The next day, the estate gleamed under relentless scrubbing.
“Emily, polish the umbrella stand again!” fussed Victoria, another guide. “You know how dearly Reginald Whitmore-Smythe cherished it!”
“Walter, for heavens sake, move your drill from the summerhouse!” Margaret barked from the window. “Those factory men will walk off with it!”
At dawn on the appointed day, a boat appeared on the horizon, its hull groaning under the weight of passengers.
Eleanor issued final orders.
“Timothy, no leading guests to the marsh. Last time, someone lost a shoe. And Emilydont let anyone sit on the bed!”
Timothy chuckled. “Might help if Victoria stopped mentioning its where Whitmore-Smythe conceived all eight of his children.”
As the boat docked, a lively crowd spilled onto the shore.
“Walternot a drop of drink today!” Margaret hissed.
The visitors splitsome following Victoria into the house, others trailing Timothy toward the gardens.
“Behold the writers sacred spacehis study,” Victoria intoned. “Here, Whitmore-Smythe penned his immortal works.”
“These very woods inspired our great literary son,” Timothy proclaimed, wading through golden summer grass.
“Dont touch the bedits priceless!” Emily pleaded, flustered.
Eleanor, listening from the study, savoured the rare buzz.
Thena cry. “Stop, thief!”
She bolted into the hall, where Victoria and Doris were already charging toward the commotion.
A young man in jeans and a sleek windbreaker stood frozen, a notebook at his feet. Emily, red-faced, begged, “Put it back! You cant touch anything!”
Victoria stormed forward. “Have you no shame? This is Whitmore-Smythes notebookhis unfinished masterpiece, *Anchors of the Soul*!”
“I just wanted to look!” he stammered.
“Your documents, now!” Victoria demanded, every inch the enforcer.
The man fished out his passport.
Victoria scrutinised itthen froze. Eleanor snatched it from her, her breath catching.
“Welcome, Director Fairchild,” she murmured.
***
Victoria wrung her hands. “Do forgive us, Mr. Fairchild! We never imagined youd arrive like this.”
The new director laughed. “No harm done, Victoria. If anything, Im impressed by the vigilance. Keep it up.”
