‘There is nothing wrong with—’
‘When I think of the work I put in to build up the network, then opening it out to gap-year students, helpers with learning difficulties, day-release prisoners from Austen Prison, not to mention—’
‘No one is diminishing your achievements, Sheila, but the heritage industry is now a highly sophisticated professional business.’
‘Are you suggesting my methods weren’t sophisticated?’ blazed Sheila Cartwright. ‘Are you calling me an amateur?’
‘I am saying,’ said Gina with great restraint, ‘that what you did worked wonderfully at the time. But that time was twenty years ago and, in the leisure industry particularly, times have changed.’
‘Leisure industry!’ Sheila Cartwright had considerable supplies of contempt and she loaded them all on to the two words. ‘Bracketts is not part of the leisure industry. Bracketts is a vision, the vision of Esmond Chadleigh, shared by me and by other lovers of his work. Heaven forbid that this beautiful place should ever be turned into a kind of literary Disneyworld.’
Her adversary knew the power of cheap rhetoric, but Gina Locke managed to sound calm as she pressed her point. ‘I agree, Sheila, and there is no danger of that happening. All I am saying is that Bracketts can’t continue to lurch from crisis to crisis. There are many more demands on potential sponsors and benefactors than there were twenty years ago, and in that time the business of fund-raising has become a deeply specialized one. Most other heritage organizations of this size employ professional fund-raisers, and I think such a post should be an accepted part of the management structure at—’
‘Management structure!’ Sheila Cartwright dug even deeper into her reserves of contempt to smother these two words. ‘That I’d ever hear an expression like that used in Bracketts! In the house of the man who wrote these words:
“Oh, spare me the fate of the pen-pushing man
In the comfortless gloom of his office,
Where there’s never a blot and it’s all spick-and-span,
And he never spills mid-morning coffees.
But grant me instead my own mess of a desk
With my books and my letters and clutter,
Where the tea has been spilt and the filing’s grotesque,
And the drawers may contain bread and butter.
And let me thank God that I don’t have to be
Like that miserable office-bound blighter.
I’m disorganized, messy, untidy – and free!
Thank God for the life of a writer!’”
Again it was cheap rhetoric. And again it worked. The quotation from one of Esmond Chadleigh’s most famous light verses brought an instinctive round of applause from the Trustees’ Meeting. They had been won round by someone who was no longer even a Trustee.
As the clapping died, Belinda Chadleigh smiled at no one in particular and said, ‘I like that poem.’
Chapter Three
Carole Seddon decided there was no time like the present. The squabblings and confrontations at the meeting had only strengthened her resolve to resign from her Trusteeship. She couldn’t pretend the same level of interest in the fate of Bracketts that had been shown by the other committee members. It was time for a dignified withdrawal.
As they left the main building, Carole hurried to catch up with Gina Locke, who was walking determinedly towards the converted stable block which now housed the Administrative Office. The Director didn’t have the air of a woman who had just suffered a humiliating defeat.
‘Gina, I just wanted to say sorry . . .’ Carole began.
‘No need to say sorry to me. Nothing that happened in that meeting was your fault. I was glad to have your support.’
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘Sheila may reckon she’s won this round, but she won’t win in the long term. She no longer has any power at Bracketts, and soon she’s going to have to come to terms with that.’
‘She seemed to have power over that meeting,’ said Carole.
‘Oh yes, she won a cheap propaganda victory with the Trustees, but she no longer has any influence in the day-to-day running of the place.’
‘Your tone could almost imply that the Trustees aren’t very important.’
Gina stopped, adjusted her papers, and looked up into Carole’s pale blue eyes. She hesitated for a second, then seemed to make the decision that she was on safe ground. ‘It would be rather offensive for me to say that, wouldn’t it? To such a new Trustee?’
Carole shrugged, and gave a reassuring grin. ‘My back is broad.’
‘All right then, I’ll tell you.’ Gina smiled. ‘In the overall scheme of things here at Bracketts, the Trustees aren’t that important. They have to be there – that’s part of the terms of the way the charity was set up – and some of them have very useful contacts, which can make my job a lot easier. But a lot of what they do is just rubber-stamping decisions that have already been made. The Bracketts Trustees are a very typically British institution, a system of checks and balances . . .’
‘There to provide the illusion of consultation and democracy . . .?’
‘Exactly.’ The Director smiled at Carole’s ready understanding of the situation. ‘So while in my job it would be very foolish of me to antagonize the Trustees – and while on major issues I must bow to their decisions . . . at least for the time being – most of the time I get on with running Bracketts exactly as I think it should be run. For heaven’s sake, the Trustees only meet six times a year. There’s the occasional exchange of letters and phone calls between meetings, but most of the time I can get on with my own job without any interference.’
‘The use of that word implies you’d be happier if there was no Board of Trustees.’
‘No question about that.’ Gina’s response was so instinctive that she felt she should perhaps soften it a bit. ‘I’m sorry, that’s the knee-jerk reaction you’d get from anyone in my position. Professional administrators always resent the presence of amateur advisory boards. That’s just one of the rules of business – as true in the heritage industry as it is anywhere else. From my point of view, the Trustees are just a pain in the butt.’
‘Well, thank you for being so frank,’ said Carole in mock-affront. ‘For telling me that, as a Trustee, I am entirely redundant.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not at all offended. In fact, what you’ve told me makes it rather easier for me to say what I was about to—’
‘No, the Trustees are a pain in the butt, but they exist,
