An Improper English Mission, page 6
“Bugger!” he said.
“Wrong direction?” asked Olympia with not a little trepidation.
“Wrong map,” said Frederick.
In a little room off the kitchen the cook, Mrs. Loring, and Margery Mosely were having a second cup of tea and a hushed conversation.
“She’ll no doubt be here tomorrow afternoon when the new group arrives. She usually does. Her Royal Highness insists on greeting them all herself.”
“So what should I be doing in the meanwhile?”
“Nothing straight away. Let her get the new lot settled in. You feed them supper and fill them up with your famous sticky toffee pudding. That way we’ll have them full and happy, and all will be right with the world.”
“Then what?”
“Things happen, don’t they?”
Margery drank down the last of her tea and began collecting her things.
“I’ll just rinse out this cup and leave it on the drainboard.”
“Leave it in the sink. The girls will still be doing the lunch dishes. Let them earn their keep for once.”
Margery was heading back to her office when Olympia and Frederick came staggering in, soaked and bedraggled, through the front door.
“Well, you two are a sight,” said Margery.
“We got ourselves rather lost,” said Frederick.
“More like we took the wrong map,” growled Olympia as sweetly as she could.
“Ohhhh, there’s a bit of bad luck.” Margery tsk-ed a few times and shook her head.
“Then it started to rain, and we didn’t have a brolly.” Frederick was looking and sounding more piteous by the minute.
“It was predicted; you should have taken one. We always keep extra brollies and wooly jumpers for the guests.”
“What, and plan ahead? Surely you jest, Mrs. Mosely. Clearly, you don’t know my husband very well.”
“Olympia!”
“Sorry, darling. I need a hot shower and some dry clothes right this minute.” Olympia stalked off in the direction of her room, leaving Frederick dripping on the floor and Mrs. Mosely tight-lipped.
“Americans,” said Frederick, desperately trying to save face. “They’ve got no sense of adventure.”
“Aye,” said Margery Mosely.
Chapter Eight
On Sunday midday, as planned, Celia and Richard drove from their home to The Moorlands. She, being the faster driver of the two, arrived first, and he pulled in shortly after in his own car. He planned to stay the week at The Moorlands, and she needed to go back and forth to see to the dog and the plants. Once they learned that Olympia and Frederick had already been checked in, the two went and found them finishing their lunch in the dining room.
The Attisons were full of apologies for not coming in earlier, but Olympia firmly assured them it was her specific request that their personal time not be disturbed. She went on to say that she and Frederick needed to reset their body clocks to UK time and have a little opportunity to ramble around on their own. Mercifully, she left out the part about their getting lost, soaked and frozen. Some things are better left unsaid, and it was still a very tender subject.
Frederick pulled out a chair and invited them to join them at the table, but Celia quickly waved him off. She looked down at her watch.
“The others won’t be here for at least an hour, so why don’t you both come and join me in my office for some tea and biscuits? That way the ladies can clear up the dining room, and we won’t be in their way.”
“What a good idea. You all go on ahead. I’ll clear our things off the table and catch you up in two shakes,” said Frederick.
“Do you know where my office is?” asked Celia.
“I do. That woman, Mrs. Mosely, took us in there when we arrived on Friday. She wrote us into the book and then showed us to our room. Very efficient.”
“She’s all of that,” said Celia.
By the time Frederick walked into Celia’s office, the others were well into their tea and onto their second biscuit.
“What took you so long? I thought you were coming right behind us.”
“I decided to stay and finish my pudding and have a quick look at the crossword.”
“That’s fine; we were just catching each other up.”
“It seems a long time, and at the same time it seems like yesterday that we last saw each other,” said Richard.
Olympia smiled fondly in his direction. “That’s the way it is with good friends. We’ve gone our separate ways over these several years, but it’s clear the common ground is still there. But listen to me, there’s time for catching up later. I suppose you want to go over the so-called operating instructions for the conference before the others get here, do you not?”
Celia shook her head. “Actually, I have something considerably less official than that I want to talk about. Has Richard said anything to you about what may or may not be happening here?”
Richard’s eyebrows joined forces in the middle of his face, and Olympia took the cue. She didn’t want to tell an outright lie, but she could speak the truth very carefully.
“When he first called me, Richard did say there were some, er, issues here at The Moorlands that could be of some future concern. Because of that he said we would be keeping a very tight hold on the conference budget, but it shouldn’t really affect the quality of our program as long as I didn’t expect to get paid. Did I miss anything, Richard?”
Back to you, brother, she thought.
“That’s pretty much it, Olympia. The Moorlands, like most charitable organizations, is suffering financially, but then so is just about everything in this current economy.”
Then Celia held up her hand. “There is more, and to be honest I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell you or anyone other than Richard. But hearing you two talk just now, and hearing what’s happened in some of your churches, it’s possible you might be able to give us some insight that someone on the inside of the operation might not be able to offer.”
Olympia cocked her head to one side. “I can try, Celia, but it would help if you could tell me a little more of what I should be looking for.”
Celia leaned forward in her chair and lowered her voice. “Moorlands is having financial problems, huge ones, but I’ve come to think the issue is not about balancing the budget. We’ve had to spend down some of the endowment, but lots of places are forced to do that. No, I think it’s deeper and wider than cash flow. We get enough people using The Moorlands for conferences, retreats and even weddings to make a go of it, and yet we’re going under. It’s clear to me we’re leaking money from somewhere, and I don’t think it’s just started. I think it has been going on for some time.”
“Not that you’ve asked me,” said Frederick, “but it sounds to me like you need to take a good look at the books, perhaps call in an outside auditor. That’s what I’d do.”
“That’s exactly what I suggested to the board.”
“What did they say?” asked Olympia.
“A lot of gasps and ‘can’t be’ and ‘surely not’ and even one ‘surely you are not accusing one of us?’ But after a long dark silence, the idea was tabled with suggestions that perhaps they ought to form a committee, and yes, someday they would look into it, but certainly not now.”
“Then what?”
“Then everything I did or said became suspect. They thought I had taken against all of them, and then things started happening.”
“Tell them what kinds of things,” prompted her husband.
Celia frowned. “This is where it becomes unclear. Little things: drains clogging, burnt food, rooms not made up when they were supposed to be. Nothing that in and of itself would have been anything more than a minor inconvenience, but collectively they mount up. It’s starting to make me look incompetent, and it’s damaging the reputation of The Moorlands.”
Olympia nodded but said nothing. She’d seen this kind of thing before. It was the worst kind of passive aggression. Never do anything overt, but just let everything slow down and slide away until it’s beyond repair, and then walk away from the rubble, claiming not to have any idea how it happened.
“It’s amazing what people will say when they think you’re part of the wallpaper,” said Frederick.
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Richard.
“Just that. I’m of no account. I’m not a minister, and I’m not registered for the conference. I’m not even foreign and therefore totally unworthy of note. Just another bloke from the countryside with no pedigree, here for a free week while the wife is giving a workshop. I might as well have been a milk jug for all the heed they paid to me.”
“What are you saying, Frederick?”
“I’m saying that because they took absolutely no notice of me when I was finishing my lunch, they carried on as though I wasn’t there. The Mosely woman and the cook were having a bit of a natter in the back room off the kitchen. I couldn’t make out the words, but whatever it was, it sounded serious.”
“How could you tell?” asked Celia.
“One can easily tell if a conversation is serious or not, no laughter, hushed and guarded low tones. Mosely had a scowl a foot wide on her when she came into the dining room. She walked right by me without a glance.”
Celia looked annoyed. “I’ll have to speak to her about that. All the staff, from the top to the bottom, are supposed to make the guests here feel comfortable and welcome at all times.”
“Actually, Celia, if it’s all the same to you I’d rather you said nothing and let them carry on as they will. If they think I’m not worthy of notice, then they won’t be guarded in my presence. They’re all on their best behavior when any of you lot are in the room.”
“I think I see what you’re getting at,” said Richard.
Celia pointed to the clock on the wall and then turned to Olympia. “We don’t have much time before people will be starting to arrive. I wonder if you and Frederick would simply spend the week watching and listening. I’ll admit the whole thing has made me so anxious I’m having stomach problems. Then I ask myself if I’m imagining things, and it’s just that I got off on the wrong foot when I first arrived, and they are not about to let me forget it.” She paused. “But I don’t know which.”
Olympia raised her hand like a school girl. “Maybe we could get together again later in the week and compare notes?”
“I’d love to be proven wrong,” said Celia.
Olympia put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’ll do my best.”
Celia smiled and stood up. “It’s time we went out and started meeting and greeting the incoming guests.”
“Let battle commence,” said Frederick.
“This is just a matter of inquiry, my dear, not a holy war.”
“I’m not so sure about that."
By late in the afternoon on Sunday the last two conferees, Rosemary Lewis and Steve Warner, had been duly registered and shown up to their rooms. They cheerily apologized to all and sundry for being so slow in getting there, claiming unfamiliar roads and unclear local maps. Olympia nodded sympathetically but wisely held her own counsel. Her mother had always said discretion was the better part of valor. In this case, her discretion was keeping charitably quiet, not pouring salt in a still fresh wound. Getting lost was not a laughing matter.
With some free time remaining until dinner, a few of them elected to go out and explore the one-lane village of Little Humblesby. The others went in search of a cup of tea and a comfortable chair where they could unwind and wait for the dinner bell.
Once it sounded, Richard and Celia Attison and Olympia and Frederick joined the cluster of hungry souls gathered at the door of the dining room. Olympia was standing off to the side, listening to the chatter and watching the body language. They were an interesting lot. Most were parish ministers, but two were lay leaders of small parishes which could not afford to retain a proper minister. Usually congregations like this managed to hold themselves together by sharing common vision along with a dogged determination to keep going in an increasingly secular world.
It’s the same the whole world over, she thought, watching them all and catching fragments of their conversations. So many people are looking for something to hold onto and believe in that gives meaning to their lives. The difficulty so often comes in trying to agree on how to conduct the search and, even more basic than that, what is the nature of the search itself.
“I suppose the conversation has to begin with what we are looking for.”
“What was that?” asked Frederick.
Olympia shook her head and held up her hand. “Sorry, love, I guess I was thinking out loud. Oh, look, they’ve opened the door, and I smell food.” She lifted her head and sniffed appreciatively. “M-m-m-m.”
The conferees moved into the dining room and made their way to the two round tables that were set up for them. They were the only guests in residence and thus had the whole place to themselves. The room was institutionally cheerful with pale yellow walls, white oft-mended cloths on the tables and a basket of artificial flowers in the middle of each one. The window wall had no curtains, only pull shades to keep out the sun when needed. It was the view that made this room inviting and wonderful. The windows opened out onto the moorlands, a vast undulating sweep of gorse and sheep-sprinkled hillsides and valleys. Olympia moved quickly to a seat where she could look out over all this and unfolded her napkin in her lap.
After the serving bowls and platters were set in place on the tables, Rosemary Lewis was the first to introduce herself. She said she was a social worker by profession and the lay leader of a small congregation in The Potteries. When they needed a minister for a wedding or a funeral, Richard Attison did the honors.
“Potteries? That’s one I haven’t heard of,” said Olympia.
“Oh, that’s the local name. Many of the major pottery and porcelain factories were located in Staffordshire and around Stoke. Huge natural clay deposits and such in the area. No doubt you’ve heard of Josiah Wedgewood,” she said with an authoritative smile.
“I have indeed,” said Olympia.
“He was an early benefactor of our chapel,” said Rosemary.
“You do like to bring that up, don’t you? I guess it’s my turn. I’m Gillian Steele, and I’m a parish minister in a village that’s east of here near Skipton. They are a lovely group of people, but we need some new ideas. I’ve come for that reason and to be with other ministers for a while. It gets lonely out there sometimes.”
Olympia nodded sympathetically. She knew exactly what Gillian meant, but before she could speak to the subject the woman sitting to Olympia’s left introduced herself.
“I’m Janet Lofton, and I think I’m the junior member here. I’m thinking about taking an advanced degree, but every time I mention it my congregation gives me ten more reasons why I shouldn’t, and I stay on. So like you, Gillian, I need some new ideas and maybe some energy to go along with it.”
The man sitting next to Rosemary was next. “I’m Stephen Warner, and I serve part time in a chapel outside of Manchester. I have a wife, a son and two cats, and I’d love to visit the States some time.”
I’ll put him on file later, thought Olympia. He gets extra points for cats and for wanting to come to the States. Maybe they could do a pulpit swap sometime. Then she remembered she didn’t exactly have a pulpit she could swap. Never mind! She would have a conversation with him sometime in the coming week.
Olympia wished she could be at both tables so she could have a sense of who they all were before they got started later that evening. She could hear the people at the next table doing the same thing. Some were more assertive in tone and manner and others less so, but the ritual of introducing themselves was well underway. They were a group of twelve—ten really if you didn’t count Frederick and Celia. But these twelve would likely be having meals and tea and talking breaks together over the next six days. It wasn’t much time.
Suddenly the task before her began to feel overwhelming. Could she really be an effective workshop leader in the conference and at the same time keep an ear to the wall of The Moorlands? Then she remembered the offer Frederick had made on the plane. Of course! He might be the man who took the wrong map on their walk yesterday. He might be the man who got them hopelessly lost and then soaked to the skin when the predicted showers caught them a mile from home. But he was also the man who uncharacteristically flagged down a passing motorist and asked for a lift back to The Moorlands. Yes, Frederick would be the secret ingredient in her improper little mission.
“Yup, that’ll work all right.”
“What was that?” asked Frederick.
“Talking to myself again, I guess.”
“And are you going to let your husband in on your little secret?”
“In due time, she said, and then she sneezed.
“Oh, dear, you’re not catching cold are you?” He looked concerned.
Olympia muttered under her breath, “And for your health and safety, my marvelous and meandering English darling, I hope the hell I’m not.”
“Say again?”
“Ask me in the morning, Frederick. Meanwhile, what is this I see before me?”
Annette Darcie, the dining room hostess and supervisor had just placed a plate of something dark and shining and steaming with caramel and nuts before her. The smell alone was intoxicating.
“Ahhhhhh,” sighed Stephen Warner, “sticky toffee pudding with pouring cream. Don’t wake me now. I think I’ve just died and gone to heaven.”
“I believe a chorus of ‘yums’ just went ‘round the table,” said Frederick, looking just as blissful as the rest of them and spooning up a mouthful out of the mound of calories set before him.
Olympia hesitated. “Sticky toffee pudding? It certainly smells delicious, but it doesn’t look like pudding. It’s a piece of cake with some sauce on it. Pudding is soft and gooey.”
Richard Attison called over from the next table. “Try it, Olympia. It’s England’s secret and most potent weapon. We could win wars with this stuff, but we like it too much to give any away.”
