“Right, I just wanted to have a look!”
“Team, Ive got two bits of news for you!” announced Margaret, sweeping her gaze meaningfully across the museum staff.
“Good news, I hope, Margaret?” piped up Emily, one of the tour guides, from her seat.
“I believe so! First off, weve got a group visiting in three days.”
“Big surprise,” snorted Brenda, the caretaker. “Another bunch of schoolkids, no doubt. Theyll leave nothing but rubbish and chaos behind!”
“Too right!” chimed in Frank, the museums security guard and, incidentally, Brendas husband.
“No, not schoolchildren! This time, its a delegation from one of the countrys biggest car manufacturers. And its our job, dear colleagues, to make their visit to the historic manor as engaging as possible. So they leave here with nothing but wonderful memories.”
Frank perked up.
“Youve hit the nail on the head, Margaret! Memoriesthats the word! Remember that lot from the bearing factory back in March? Theyd had a few too many memories before they even got here! We spent days traipsing through the woods rounding them up! Theyre not here for the culturejust a day off!”
“Frank, your negativity is completely out of place!” Margaret cut in sharply. “We are the custodians of the legacy of the great writer James Whitmore-Addington. Our duty is to share his genius with the world, to honour his memory, and preserve the very place where he created his masterpieces!”
“And who, pray tell, besides us lot, has even heard of this Whitmore-Addington?” Frank shot back, clearly in high spirits and itching to stir the pot.
“I object!” interjected Charles, the local historian and tour guide. “Whitmore-Addington is a literary legend in these parts!”
“Whats the second bit of news?” Emily interrupted, and the room fell silent.
Margaret paused theatrically, letting the suspense build, then declared:
“Were getting a new director!”
“Thank heavens!” exclaimed Doris, the cleaner, clapping her hands. “About time!”
The room buzzed with fresh energy. Questions flew at MargaretWho is it? Wheres he from? What organisation? The women were particularly keen to know his age and, of course, marital status. The handful of men on staff initially tensed, then brightened at the thought of another bloke joining their ranks.
“I know nothing!” Margaret cut them off. She raised a finger dramatically. “I got a call from HQ saying a new director will arrive shortlysurname Harrison. Thats all I know! Could be a man or a woman!”
Chatting excitedly about the impending changes, the staff dispersed. The prospect of something new thrilled themafter years of the same routine, this was a welcome shake-up. From March to October, the core team lived and worked on the estate.
Tour guides like Victoria and Emily, historian Charles, and Margaretwho doubled as acting directorwould retreat to the mainland for winter. Only Brenda and Frank, the caretakers, and Doris (who happened to be Franks mother-in-law) stayed behind.
Margaret was especially relieved. She was exhausted from juggling her accounting duties with managing the estate, solving logistical headaches, and pleading with regional authorities to send someoneanyonewilling to take charge of this remote outpost.
“You see, Margaret, the conditions are tough,” officials would apologise. “People agree at first, then back out once they hear the details!”
So, to ensure this Mr. (or Ms.) Harrison didnt bolt on arrivalMargaret prayed it was a manthey decided on a deep clean beforehand.
The next day, from dawn till dusk, the entire manor staff scrubbed and polished every corner.
“Emily, could you wipe down the umbrella stand again?” fussed Victoria. “You know how precious it was to Mr. Whitmore-Addington!”
“Frank, for goodness sake, move your drill from the writers gazebo!” Brenda yelled from the window. “If those car blokes see it, theyll nick it!”
On the scheduled day, a boat appeared on the horizon, its creaky hull carrying the visitors on the crisp river breeze.
Squinting at the approaching vessel, Margaret delivered final instructions:
“Charles, please dont take them to the far end of the islandits marshland. Last time, someone lost a trainer or sank knee-deep in mud. And Emily, dont let anyone sit on the writers bed!”
“Well, if Victoria didnt keep telling everyone thats where Whitmore-Addington conceived all eight of his children, thered be fewer volunteers!” Charles chuckled, mildly irked by the interference.
The boat docked, and the car factory workers spilled onto the shore.
“Frank, not a drop, you hear me?” Brenda hissed under her breath.
The lively crowd, eager for solid ground after the choppy ride, split into groups. Some followed Victoria into the writers house; others trailed Charles for a nature walk.
“Now, we enter the sanctumthe study where James Whitmore-Addington penned his timeless works,” Victoria intoned, heels clicking.
“These very woods inspired our celebrated local, whose name is etched in literary history,” Charles proclaimed, pushing through sun-bleached undergrowth.
“Please dont sit on the bed! Its a museum piece!” Emily pleaded, flushing.
“Ill tan your hide if I catch you eating seeds in the yard!” Doris scolded.
Margaret sat in the study, enjoying the hum of activity. Days like these breathed life into the manor.
Suddenly, a cry echoed: “Stop, thief!” It was Emilys voice, timid but urgent.
Margaret bolted up. Victorias heels and Doriss slippers were already thundering down the hall.
In the study stood a young man in jeans and a trendy windbreaker. At his feet lay a notebooka replica of Whitmore-Addingtons, placed for display. Beside him, a flustered Emily begged, “Please put it back! You cant touch anything here!”
Victoria stepped forward, righteous fury in her eyes.
“How dare you! This is Whitmore-Addingtons notebookthe only draft of his unfinished novel, Anchored Souls!”
“I only wanted a look!” the man protested weakly.
“Liar! Were you planning to steal it? Vandalise it?” Victoria advanced.
“I just wanted to see!” he repeated.
“Your ID, now!” she barked like a sergeant.
He handed over his passport. Victoria studied it with theatrical gravity, then declared, “Were filing a report, Mr. Harrisonfor damaging museum property.”
Before she could continue, Margaret snatched the passportand gasped.
“Welcome Director Harrison,” she stammered.
***
“Apologies, Edward,” Victoria muttered, escorting the new boss to his office. “We didnt expect you to arrive incognito.”
“Not at all,” he laughed. “Now I know security here is top-notch! Keep it up!”
