Read Online The Final Crumpet by Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey - Free Book Online
Authors: Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey
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said, clearly expecting Stuart to concur.
Stuart, however, frowned at his yellow pad. “You responded in a way that cut off further discussion—I would have preferred a more flexible answer, and…”
Nigel didn’t give Stuart an opportunity to finish. “The question didn’t invite a wishy-washy answer. I explained that the mission of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is to offer exhibits that illuminate the history of tea. Consequently, because there’s no connection between Mr. Makepeace’s disappearance and the history of tea, the museum has no earthly reason to create an Etienne Makepeace exhibit.”
“Nevertheless,” Stuart said, “I would have preferred a less authoritarian answer—an answer delivered by the museum’s curator, who, after all, is the executive responsible for creating new exhibits.”
Flick saw Nigel peer guiltily at her; she replied with a friendly wink. She remembered feeling relieved when Nigel decided to field the question by himself. It took time and deliberation to make decisions about new exhibits. Anything she said would have been a shoot-from-the-hip answer. Nigel’s forceful response proved the point—although it did come across as a bit “authoritarian,”
Even so, he risked taking a shot and deserves your support.
“I thought about chiming in,” she said. “I was going to add, I can’t imagine why we’d want an exhibit on Etienne Makepeace, but then Earl began to squawk.”
“Three cheers for the blessed bird.” Stuart set his yellow pad next to his feet. “He interrupted at precisely the moment the media ran out of sensible questions. I may invite him to every news conference I organize.”
Nigel turned to Flick “Did you have any idea what the avian ruckus was all about?”
She shook her head. “That loud clucking sound Earl kept making is brand-new to me. I don’t know anything about parrots—or their vocalizations.”
“Whatever he was trying to say, the reporters seemed fascinated,” Nigel said. “They lifted his tablecloth and forgot about the two of us.”
“Earl was probably chirping, ‘take my picture,’ ” Stuart said. “I think your bird craves attention. He seemed to be posing when the photographers cranked up their cameras. He looked like he enjoyed all those flash units going off in his face—at least until Cha-Cha arrived on the scene. That dog is a bigger show-off than the parrot.”
“I wish our pets could do the BBC interview you scheduled for me.” Flick emptied her mug. “I have just enough time to get myself another cuppa and run a comb through my hair before the arrival of…” She felt herself frowning at Stuart. “Did you tell me the reporter’s name?”
Stuart frowned back. “Now that you mention it, I don’t know it.”
Thirty minutes later, Flick welcomed Harry Simpson, the BBC interviewer, a tall, slightly stooped, ruddy-faced man in his late twenties. He had a thick crop of dark hair and piercing, intelligent eyes. Harry, in turn, introduced Paco, a short, swarthy cameraman who seemed barely out of his teens. Flick never learned Paco’s last name.
“We haven’t done a full-blown feature on the museum in decades,” Harry said, as he looked around the lobby, “so everything in the place will be new to our viewers. Paco and I decided that the best way to organize our interview today is around a five-quid tour of the facility. Whenever we reach a photogenic locale, I’ll ask you an appropriate question or two on-camera. Back at the studio, we’ll edit the various snippets together to create an intelligible story. What do you think?”
“I love it!” Flick said. “Just promise me that you will discard all footage of my knees shaking or my voice quivering.”
Harry offered his hand along with a dazzling, professional smile. “We have a deal.”
Paco slung several battery packs around his neck and hefted a large digicam to his shoulder. He flipped a switch; a surprisingly small flood lamp atop the
Stuart, however, frowned at his yellow pad. “You responded in a way that cut off further discussion—I would have preferred a more flexible answer, and…”
Nigel didn’t give Stuart an opportunity to finish. “The question didn’t invite a wishy-washy answer. I explained that the mission of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is to offer exhibits that illuminate the history of tea. Consequently, because there’s no connection between Mr. Makepeace’s disappearance and the history of tea, the museum has no earthly reason to create an Etienne Makepeace exhibit.”
“Nevertheless,” Stuart said, “I would have preferred a less authoritarian answer—an answer delivered by the museum’s curator, who, after all, is the executive responsible for creating new exhibits.”
Flick saw Nigel peer guiltily at her; she replied with a friendly wink. She remembered feeling relieved when Nigel decided to field the question by himself. It took time and deliberation to make decisions about new exhibits. Anything she said would have been a shoot-from-the-hip answer. Nigel’s forceful response proved the point—although it did come across as a bit “authoritarian,”
Even so, he risked taking a shot and deserves your support.
“I thought about chiming in,” she said. “I was going to add, I can’t imagine why we’d want an exhibit on Etienne Makepeace, but then Earl began to squawk.”
“Three cheers for the blessed bird.” Stuart set his yellow pad next to his feet. “He interrupted at precisely the moment the media ran out of sensible questions. I may invite him to every news conference I organize.”
Nigel turned to Flick “Did you have any idea what the avian ruckus was all about?”
She shook her head. “That loud clucking sound Earl kept making is brand-new to me. I don’t know anything about parrots—or their vocalizations.”
“Whatever he was trying to say, the reporters seemed fascinated,” Nigel said. “They lifted his tablecloth and forgot about the two of us.”
“Earl was probably chirping, ‘take my picture,’ ” Stuart said. “I think your bird craves attention. He seemed to be posing when the photographers cranked up their cameras. He looked like he enjoyed all those flash units going off in his face—at least until Cha-Cha arrived on the scene. That dog is a bigger show-off than the parrot.”
“I wish our pets could do the BBC interview you scheduled for me.” Flick emptied her mug. “I have just enough time to get myself another cuppa and run a comb through my hair before the arrival of…” She felt herself frowning at Stuart. “Did you tell me the reporter’s name?”
Stuart frowned back. “Now that you mention it, I don’t know it.”
Thirty minutes later, Flick welcomed Harry Simpson, the BBC interviewer, a tall, slightly stooped, ruddy-faced man in his late twenties. He had a thick crop of dark hair and piercing, intelligent eyes. Harry, in turn, introduced Paco, a short, swarthy cameraman who seemed barely out of his teens. Flick never learned Paco’s last name.
“We haven’t done a full-blown feature on the museum in decades,” Harry said, as he looked around the lobby, “so everything in the place will be new to our viewers. Paco and I decided that the best way to organize our interview today is around a five-quid tour of the facility. Whenever we reach a photogenic locale, I’ll ask you an appropriate question or two on-camera. Back at the studio, we’ll edit the various snippets together to create an intelligible story. What do you think?”
“I love it!” Flick said. “Just promise me that you will discard all footage of my knees shaking or my voice quivering.”
Harry offered his hand along with a dazzling, professional smile. “We have a deal.”
Paco slung several battery packs around his neck and hefted a large digicam to his shoulder. He flipped a switch; a surprisingly small flood lamp atop the
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