Monday Fiction Fiesta - 'Mission Statement'

Good morning.

Tonight I have a planning meeting at East Leeds FM about my radio show. Looking forward to it, to getting to know the other show hosts a little better.  I'm becoming known as 'the one who brings cake'.

So, loosely connected (random group of people around a table), but really harking back to a church away day I was part of over a decade ago, here is today's story.

We're back in The Bookship again and poor Bosslady has to cope with yet another meeting of the Lighthouse Writers...

Mission Statement

The rattling on the door was insistent, annoying.  I was about to call through to Luke to investigate when the phone at the counter rang and I heard his crisp, polite voice answering it.

‘Good morning, ‘The Bookship’… not for another hour… we open at ten…’

Evan was unpacking a delivery below, so it was down to me to answer the door.

Three women with belligerent expressions were trying to get into the Bookship despite the ‘Closed’ sign. I recognised them as members of the Lighthouse Writers; they’d been customers for years and should know our opening hours by now.

‘We’re closed,’ I called through the thick glass.

‘What?’

‘Closed. Open at ten.’

‘We’ve booked The Table…’

‘From 10.30,’ I said in my Stern Voice.  They waited a moment or two before realising today I meant it, and wandered off.

‘Bosslady?  I’ve the secretary of Lighthouse Writers on…’

Luke had his finger on the ‘mute’ button, his eyes full of puppy-dog appeal for rescue.  I snagged the phone from his hand.

‘Can I help?’ I asked.

‘Belinda Summers here… Have our advance party arrived?’

‘I’ve just turned away three ladies since we’re not open yet…’

‘Oh but, we thought, as it’s for the Littlerature Festival…’

‘That I’d be open earlier?’ I interrupted. ‘No, from 10 as usual. The Table will be ready from 10.30, good morning.’

I handed Luke the phone and he set it down, his grey eyes dancing humour.

‘Shall I start setting up, Bosslady?’ he asked.  My name is Emily, but as that makes people think I’m twenty years older than I really am, I shorten it to Em which is a bit less aging.  But I quite like the boys calling me ‘Bosslady’; it’s a term of affectionate respect.  I hope.

Of course, ‘boys’ is a misnomer.  Luke’s in his thirties and Evan a little younger.  Employees, although I prefer to think of them as minions.  Even if it is me brewing up.

Luke is of medium height, sharp and smart, appealing in a dangerous kind of way.  His hair is that light, white blond generally associated with Bond assassins.  Evan’s dark hair is determinedly boy band in style.  He broods for effect, but his work is always spot-on. 

And The Bookship?  Well, I got the barge for a pittance and sweet-talked planning permission to anchor it solidly on dry land and turn it into my current venture.  We’re moored on a wide green bank overlooking the Dee Estuary on the Thurstaston side of West Kirby. 

I keep a small run of new books, local interest featuring strongly, but most of the space is given over to pre-loved volumes.  In the bows I’ve had seating fitted around the natural angles, and it was here that Luke was setting up The Table, a hireable space for local community groups.

I carried the tray of coffee through and called Evan up from unpacking.  We gathered at one end of The Table.

‘Lighthouse Writers,’ I said, reading from the diary.  ‘We’ll have to let them in a bit early.  I understand they’re planning something for the Literature Festival…’

Luke’s eyes danced. ‘Littlerature,’ he enunciated, earning my best Bosslady Scowl.

‘That’s just the sort of self-deprecating, twee prose that gives them a bad name!’ I said.  ‘I wish they’d find themselves a real lighthouse…’

The boys grinned.  I gathered the now empty mugs onto the tray.

‘Here, Bosslady.’  Luke took it from me.  ‘I’ll wash up.’

‘I’ve that delivery to finish checking,’ Evan said, heading for the stairs.  I’d have been more grateful if I hadn’t known they were trying to avoid the arrival of the Lighthouse Writers.

At quarter to ten the writers were back in force, looking affronted and annoyed that we still weren’t open. I rattled the keys as I let them in. 

Their numbers varied, but today there were eight of them heading for The Table.

‘Were you wanting to start early?’ I asked.

‘I would have thought you would be more supportive of this Littlerature Festival!’ Belinda said.  ‘After all, it’s bringing you lots of business!’

‘I am supporting it,’ I said.  ‘I’m hosting a poetry evening…’

‘Well, it’s news to me!’ She squashed herself into the last free space on The Table.  ‘We’d better get on; we should have started half an hour ago…’

I retreated behind the counter where her glare was slightly less scorching.  I could still hear everything, though.

‘Frank, you were going to list some topics for the workshop…?’

Frank cleared his throat.

‘Well, I thought, as we want new members, we could set an exercise in the workshop…’

I heard this every week from them; they wanted new members. Sometimes they got them; people would come back a second time, too.  But for some reason, never for a third time.

 Frank was warming to his theme.  ‘Something easy so they can all join in… ‘Love’ is a good one…’

‘Oh, no… not love.  People will write dreadful poetry or smut or things in bad taste…’ Belinda announced.  ‘No, I don’t think setting a topic is a good idea.   Really, the things you come up with! We can read our own work out and…’

‘Excuse me…’

It was a small voice, and it was right in front of me, and I’d been so busy eavesdropping I hadn’t noticed I had a customer; a self-contained young woman with a quiet air of shyness.

‘I’m sorry, miles away!’ I smiled apology.  ‘Can I help?’

‘I heard there’s a writing group meeting here this morning, looking for new members?’

‘Yes.’ I nodded towards The Table.  ‘The Lighthouse Writers.  I’ll introduce you, if you like?’

‘They look a bit busy…’

‘They’re a little involved at the moment planning for the LitFest…  They’ll be breaking for tea and biscuits soon, though, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘I think I’d like to just listen in first, anyway.’

‘Whatever we do should reflect our mission statement,’ Belinda was saying.

‘Have we got one?’ Diane asked.

‘Of course we do: ‘To shine like a beacon of hope, drawing writers into the light of our mutual support.  To share our wisdom so none founder on the reefs of mediocrity…’

My sudden coughing fit drew a number of baleful glares in my direction as I masked an inappropriate giggle. The would-be writer’s mouth twitched.

‘Moving on…’ Belinda took charge again.  ‘What I think we should do is all take a word from the Mission Statement and use it as inspiration… and we all present our work at the workshop. We’ll be demonstrating to potential new members…  We wouldn’t want to put them off by sounding too good, but we need to make sure we don’t get anyone unsuitable.  Remember, we want to be supportive and welcoming…’

‘I’ll write a poem,’ Frank announced.  ‘I’ll take the word ‘Wisdom’…’

‘Really?’ Belinda said.  ‘How are you going to rhyme that?’

‘Assonance…’

‘There’s no reason for bad language!’

‘Look, don’t bother introducing me,’ the girl said.  ‘I think I’d rather founder on the reefs of mediocrity!’

‘Have you seen this?’ I asked, fishing a couple of leaflets out of the rack near the till.  ‘There’s an open mike poetry night here as part of the LitFest, you’ll be very welcome. Lighthouse Writers won’t be here, though – it’s the same evening as their event.’

Raised voices from The Table interrupted.

‘Well you couldn’t find a rhyme with both hands, Frank!’

‘At least I know how to scan properly! That Haiku you presented with three verses of four lines each…’

‘It was experimental!’

‘Well, we don’t do experiments at Lighthouse Writers; we’re traditional!’

‘Here are details of a couple of other local groups,’ I said as the mudslinging continued at The Table.  The one at Hoylake is very well thought of.  I think you’re wise to avoid Lighthouse...’

‘Isn’t that what lighthouses are for?’ she said.  ‘To keep you away?’

I laughed.  ‘Yes, I suppose they are. Do you think they realise?’

‘…don’t know why I bother with this group – I’ve a good mind to join the Caldy lot…’

‘Your problem, Belinda, is you’re a big fish in a small pond…’

‘Who are you calling ‘big’..?.’

The girl shook her head.  ‘You’re sure they’re not coming to your poetry night?’

‘No. Way past their bedtimes. See you then?’

She nodded.  ‘Thanks – you’ve been very helpful.’

At The Table, Frank had turned puce, and Belinda was trembling with fury. It looked about to topple over into violence at any moment. I sauntered over, pretending I hadn’t heard a word.

‘Yes?’ Belinda snapped.

‘Just wondering when you’d like your tea?’

‘Oh… any time will do.  Now. Next on the list… how do we go about keeping new members once we have them…?’