“Right, I just wanted to have a look!”
“Colleagues, I have two bits of news for you!” announced Laura, the head of the museum, sweeping her gaze meaningfully over the staff.
“Good news, I hope, Laura?” piped up the tour guide, Natalie, from her seat.
“I should think so! First, were expecting a group in three days.”
“Thats hardly news!” huffed the caretaker, Auntie Gail. “Another bunch of schoolkids, I suppose. Nothing but mess and chaos wherever they go!”
“Too right!” agreed Uncle Vic, the museum watchman and, incidentally, Auntie Gails husband.
“No, not schoolchildren! This time, its a delegation from one of the countrys automobile manufacturers. And its our job, dear colleagues, to make their visit to the manor museum as engaging as possible. So they leave here with nothing but pleasant memories.”
Uncle Vic perked up.
“Youve hit the nail on the head, Laura! ‘Memories’thats the word! Remember that group from the bearing factory back in March? Theyd had their fill of ‘memories’ before they even got here. And then we had to clean up after them all over the woods! Theyre not here for the culture, are they? Just an excuse for a day off!”
“Your scepticism is entirely uncalled for, Victor!” Laura cut him off sharply. “We are the custodians of the great writer James Whitmore-Spencers legacy. Our foremost duty is to share knowledge of this remarkable man with the massesto honour his memory and preserve the very place where he crafted his masterpieces for future generations!”
“Honestly, whos even heard of this Whitmore-Spencer fellow besides us?” muttered the watchman. He was in high spirits today and couldnt resist needling his superiors.
“I protest!” interjected the local historian and tour guide, Charles Arnold. “Whitmore-Spencer is a celebrated figure in our region!”
“And whats the second bit of news?” Natalie cut in, silencing the room as everyone turned expectantly to Laura.
With a theatrical pause, she let the tension build before finally declaring:
“Were getting a new director!”
“Thank heavens!” exclaimed the cleaner, Auntie Kate, throwing up her hands. “About time too!”
The staff buzzed with renewed energy, peppering Laura with questions.
“Who is he? Wheres he from? Which organisation?”
The ladies were particularly curious about the new directors age and, of course, marital status. The handful of men on the museum staff, vastly outnumbered, first stiffened at the newsthen brightened at the thought of another man joining their ranks.
“I know nothing more!” Laura cut off the interrogation.
She raised a finger solemnly and explained:
“I had a call from head office. They said the new director will arrive shortlynames Wilson. And thats all I know. Could be a he or a she!”
Chattering excitedly about the impending changes, the staff dispersed to their duties, filled with the thrill of something new. For years, their quiet island existence had been uneventful. From March to October, the core team lived and worked at the museum.
The manor guidesVictoria and Nataliealongside Charles, the islands historian, and Laura, the acting director and accountant, would return to the mainland for the winter. Only Auntie Gail and Uncle Vic, the caretakers, remained behindalong with the cleaner, Auntie Kate, who also happened to be Uncle Vics mother-in-law.
Laura was most relieved about the new director. She was exhausted from juggling her accounting duties with running the island estate, solving logistical, staffing, and maintenance problems. No one wanted to come out to this remote place, even for a leadership role. The regional office had been full of promises, but the staffing crisis at the James Whitmore-Spencer Museum dragged on.
“You must understand, Laura, the conditions here are difficult. People agree at first, then they learn the details and back out!” the latest official had explained when Laura begged for a director.
So, to ensure Mr. Wilson didnt turn tail on arrival (Laura still hoped it would be a man), they decided to give the place a thorough clean before he came.
From dawn till late that night, the entire manor staff scrubbed and polished every corner.
“Natalie, would you mind wiping down the umbrella stand in the hall again?” fussed Victoria. “You know how much James Whitmore-Spencer treasured that piece!”
“Vic, for heavens sake, clear your drill out of the writers gazebo!” Auntie Gail bellowed from the window. “If those factory workers see it, theyll nick it!”
On the appointed day, a boat appeared on the horizon, its creaking hull carrying the visitors on the fresh river breeze.
Squinting at the approaching vessel, Laura issued final instructions.
“Charles, I must insist you dont take the guests to the far end of the island. Its marshy therelast time someone lost a trainer or sank knee-deep in mud. And Natalie, dont let anyone sit on the writers bed!”
“Well, if Victoria didnt tell everyone thats where Whitmore-Spencer conceived all eight of his children, thered be fewer volunteers!” chuckled Charles, slightly nettled by the interference in his tour plan.
Finally, the boat docked at the little island pier, and the factory workers spilled onto the shore.
“Vic, not a drop of ‘welcome drinks,’ mind!” Auntie Gail hissed under her breath.
The lively crowd, glad to be on solid ground after the choppy ride, split into groups. Some followed Victoria into the writers house, while others set off with Charles to explore the islands natural beauty.
“We now enter the sanctum sanctorumthe writers study. It was here that James Whitmore-Spencer penned his immortal works,” Victoria announced grandly from her heeled height.
“These very landscapes inspired our celebrated local son, whose name is etched in gold in the nations literary history,” Charles informed the factory workers, pushing through sun-yellowed thickets.
“Please dont sit on the bed! Its a museum piece!” Natalie pleaded, flushing.
“Ill have you shelling seeds in the yard if youre not careful!” scolded Auntie Kate.
Laura sat in the study, enjoying the lively sounds drifting from the house and garden. On days like these, the manor pulsed with energy, and she loved the bustle that disrupted their usual tranquil routine.
Suddenly, a cry echoed from inside: “Stop, thief!” It sounded like Natalies timid voice.
Laura bolted from her desk as fast as her generous frame allowed. Victorias heels and Auntie Kates slippers were already clattering down the hall.
In the middle of the study stood a young man in jeans and a stylish windbreaker. At his feet, like a downed bird, lay the great writers notebookor rather, a convincing replica. The real thing would never be left out in the open. Nearby stood a flustered Natalie, more pleading than scolding.
“Please put it back! You mustnt touch anything here!”
Assessing the scene, Victoria stepped forward. Upholding the museums dignity was her specialty.
“Have you no shame? This is James Whitmore-Spencers notebookthe only surviving draft of his unfinished novel, ‘Souls Anchorage’!”
“I just wanted to look!” the man protested weakly.
“Why did you take it? Did you mean to steal it? Deface it?” Victoria pressed, genuine outrage in her voice.
“I just wanted to look!” he repeated.
“Your papers, sir!” she barked like a proper constable.
Seizing the moment, the young man fished out his passport.
Victoria opened it ceremoniously, perched her gold-rimmed spectacles on her nose, and scrutinised his details. The name meant nothing to her, but she knew the power of a stern examination. After a suitably dramatic pause, she declared:
“Well be filing a report, Mr. Wilson! Damage to museum property.”
Before she could add further gravitas, Laura snatched the passport and stared at the page.
“Welcome, Director Wilson!” she stammered.
***
“Do forgive me, Mr. Wilson!” Victoria muttered, escorting the new director to his office. “We had no idea youd arrive with the tour group.”
“Not at all, dear Victoria,” he laughed. “At least Ive seen firsthand how diligently this place is run! Keep it up!”
