Post by Hideous Dwarf on Jul 19, 2008 16:57:50 GMT
Assessing Mrs Goodhart
“Good morning… er… Mrs Goodhart, isn’t it?” The Assessment Officer dropped a heavy file of papers onto his desk and turned back the front cover. “If you’d care to be seated, Mrs Goodhart, I just want to run through the record to make sure there are no glaring discrepancies before we finally assign you. May I call you Eunice, by the way?”
“You may not!” The lady manoeuvred her ample frame across the room and stood for a moment contemplating the ornate, but decidedly fragile looking chair she was offered. “I suppose all this is really necessary, Mr… Mr…?
“I have no surname, Mrs Goodhart. I am simply known as John.”
“Then I will call you Mr John if you don’t mind, young man.” Mrs Goodhart did not approve of ‘first name’ familiarity, regarding it as a nasty, modern habit and one in which she did not indulge with her own husband, far less this office clerk. “And if that is my file you have there, Mr John, I doubt if you will find in it any cause for concern as to my suitability for acceptance.”
She leaned across the desk and tapped the file several times with a podgy finger before smothering the patient and uncomplaining chair with her enormous bulk.
“Whilst I have always tried to represent myself with the utmost modesty, I must insist that within your file you will find a rare catalogue of good endeavour. I have devoted my life to the Lord’s service, as you will know, and I take considerable pleasure – not pride, you will note, Mr John, but pleasure – in the knowledge that I have often lent the hand of Christian guidance to those poor souls who struggle with the devil’s temptations. And I might add, Mr John…”
“I thank thee, Lord, that I am not as other men…” the Assessment Officer mumbled quietly to himself.
“I beg your pardon, young man! I am a little hard of hearing.”
“I will try not to keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary, Mrs Goodhart.”
The Assessment Officer abandoned the green eyes – such a vivid green – and returned his attention to the bulging file. “You married at the age of thirty seven, by which time you appear to have established a considerable reputation for charitable works, and achieved some prominence in the organisation of Christian groups and societies.” He read from the summary list under the heading: ‘Works of Good Intent’. “The Youth For God Movement, Bible classes, Sunday School teacher, the Christian Fellowship (youth and women’s sections), and what’s this… Christian Women for Morality in Animal Husbandry?” He gave the lady an enquiring look.
“It was an organisation, which I founded, whose purpose was to persuade farmers to clothe their livestock in such a way that children and young people would not be needlessly offended or unfortunately influenced.”
The Assessment Officer could not restrain a smile.
“I do not find that in the least amusing, young man, nor do I find your misguided sense of humour particularly apposite to the circumstances of this interview.” The indignation had reached a rare intensity, even for Mrs Goodhart. “And your list should also have included the Band of Hope and Christians Against Pot, or do you, with your schoolboy humour, regard the evils of drink and drugs as subjects for jocularity?”
The Assessment Officer almost ducked in the face of such a salvo of invective. “Indeed not, Mrs Goodhart. I commend you most highly for your good works.” He felt already that he had done a days work and wondered how long he could safely parry the razor-sharp tongue of the good and redoubtable Mrs Goodhart. “However, I would like to remain with ‘Morality in Animal Husbandry’ for a moment longer. Do you not feel that putting clothes on cattle and sheep might be a little impracticable?
“All things are possible if the will is there, Mr John, and the correct moral attitude of course.” Mrs Goodhart spoke from a lofty height and with the conviction of the truly righteous minority. “It is unfortunate that farmers appear to regard promiscuity, and indeed, public fornication between God’s ignorant creatures, as acceptable behaviour. Our mission was to persuade them that indiscriminate associations between beasts and the indecent exposure of… of certain parts of their anatomy to public view are not in keeping with proper Christian attitudes.”
“And did you succeed?”
“No, we did not!”
The curtness of the reply clearly indicated the closing of the subject.
Mr John took great care to maintain a very straight face as he nodded, returning again to the file. “Now then, the Band of Hope. You do not approve of alcoholic drinks?”
“I do not approve of drinking to excess, Mr John, and I regard it as my Christian duty to campaign against the common trend, amongst working people in particular, towards extreme over-indulgence."
“And how was this campaign conducted?”
“With courage and vigilance, Mr John, courage and vigilance. Out on the streets where sin and the devil’s brew lurked in every hostelry and back street. Oh my, those were the glory days indeed, young man.” The vivid green eyes sparkled gleefully as the memories flooded back into Eunice Goodhart’s narrow mind. “Those nights we’d meet outside the Church and strike up a rousing hymn of Christian temperance as we marched through the town. We beat the drum for God, Mr John, for God, truth and sobriety.
“And how we raised our heads high in the face of scorn and vilification. Vilification, Mr John, from drunkards who spoke with Satan’s inebriate tongue, and from the landlords of the devil’s houses, as we marched and sang through their public bars. Fight the good fight and guide another hand to sign the pledge of abstinence. Great days!”
Mrs Goodhart began to hum a hymn of triumph, beating the air to time with her fist. “Hm hmmm hm hmmm hm hmmm hmmm, marching as to war; hmm hmmm hm hmmm…” And the Assessment Officer waited patiently for her to return from her journey of nostalgia before continuing his weary task.
“Yes, thank you Mrs Goodhart. Great days for you I’m sure.”
“Great days for the Lord, Mr John. I was merely the humble servant of the Almighty, carrying His good fight into the dens of sin and iniquity.”
“Yes… yes, Mrs Goodhart. Quite so.” He felt he could, with ample justification, cast considerable doubt upon her claim to humility, but he did not give voice to the thought. “And did you drink?” he asked, rather daringly.
“I did not ‘drink’ as you put it, young man. My husband and I occasionally took a small glass of wine with our dinner, and the Reverend would, on rare occasions, sip a small quantity of brandy afterwards. He never asked for a second helping.”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t, Mrs Goodhart.” The Assessment Officer hurried on to forestall the counter-attack yet forming on the formidable lady’s lips. “Now, the record shows no activity which is not connected with the Church. Is that a true record?”
“It is, Sir, although I think it strange that you should ask for confirmation that I did not indulge in un-Christian activities.”
The Assessment Officer’s air of calm detachment cracked a little as he drew a hand across his forehead. “To suggest that an activity is not connected with the Church is not to imply that it is necessarily an un-Christian activity, Mrs Goodhart. Not all life exists within the organisation of the Church.”
“All of mine did, Mr John. You must answer for your own preferences.”
Years of training in the skill of assessment based upon millennia of experience had not prepared John for Mrs Goodhart. True humility was welcome, fear and pleading distasteful, though common, but such supreme arrogance was rare enough to be considered remarkable. He fell silent, exerting upon his own thoughts the discipline of tolerance, that his decision should not be influenced either by his strong dislike of the examinee nor by her inexplicable attempts to goad him.
“I see that prior to your marriage to the Reverend Septimus Goodhart you had no other romantic associations. Would you care to comment on that?”
“I would indeed comment if I had the slightest idea what you mean to imply by ‘romantic associations’, or did you perhaps mean ‘assignations’?” Mrs Goodhart was beside herself, making the dreadful presence of one so formidable in the mere singular into a force to be hid from rather than reckoned with. “If you have some particular allegation to make, I suggest you come right out with it, unless you are just trying to be smutty.”
“Smutty, Mrs Goodhart?”
“Yes, Mr John. Smutty!”
“Humph. Let us move on, shall we, Mrs Goodhart? About your husband. Did you make him happy?”
“Happy? Of course he was happy. What in Heaven are you trying to imply now? I made absolutely certain he wanted for nothing. I ran his home with almost military correctness; all his meals served on time, the house immaculate, always, and everything organised in the minutest detail so that he could perform his ecclesiastical duties without a single distraction. I never gave him cause to complain, young man, and he knew it. I made sure of that.”
“I’m sure you did, Madam. You had no children. Was there a particular reason for that?
“We had no children because the Lord’s work allowed us little time for such personal indulgence. I would have liked a family, of course. I am a woman, you know. But sacrifices have to be made for the greater good of one’s fellow man, and for the furtherance of God’s good works. I have no regrets.”
“And did your husband have… regrets?”
Of course he didn’t. We discussed it, of course, but the Reverend quickly saw the wisdom of a Christian life uncluttered by the constraints of domestic encumbrances. The Church came first and last. He agreed with me absolutely on that as upon everything else.”
For a further hour the Assessment Officer sought to clarify various points of confusion or doubt regarding the record, only to have each question and comment skilfully misinterpreted by the good Mrs Goodhart. He felt, at the end, that even his dear friend Daniel might not have emerged from this den completely unscathed.
“Thank you, Mrs Goodhart,” he said at long last. “If you would care to wait in the reception lounge, I will complete my assessment and advise you of my decision as soon as possible.”
“See that you do, young man, although I really cannot see what prevents you from signing the form, or whatever you have to do, straight away. I have many dear friends and relatives who will be waiting expectantly to welcome me home, so kindly do not waste any more of my time.”
The Assessment Officer sighed a deep sigh and retired without another word to consider the difficult case of Eunice Goodhart. He entered the staff conference room to be met by a spontaneous round of applause from the group of his fellow officers who had watched his performance on the closed circuit monitor. His friend Thomas stepped forward and shook him warmly by the hand.
“Well done, John. One hour and twenty minutes and you didn’t hit her once. I knew you were the man to deal with Mrs G.”
“Wait a minute,” said John, “you knew about Mrs Goodhart?”
“Yes, John. I had one of her husband’s parishioners through last week bringing a sorry tale of woe, so when Mrs G’s name popped up out of the blue, I had her put on your list. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
Mr John felt no inclination to share in the laughter that swept through the rest of the company. “Very clever, Thomas, thank you very much. I’ll definitely do the same for you some day. And you can all repay me for my sore trial with a little good advice because, for the first time in many years, I must confess to being completely stumped.”
“Well, surely you’ll send her down!” said Thomas, displaying little evidence of his usual doubting nature.
John threw the heavy file down on the conference table. “Read that, Thomas, and then see how sure you are. According to her written record Mrs Goodhart is a more likely candidate for high office than for the other place. That woman hasn’t put a foot wrong in sixty years.”
“Oh yes she has… Once,” said Matthew, entering into the discussion.
“When was that?” asked John, searching through his memory of the file for some misdemeanour that might spoil an exemplary record and provide him with a just cause for rejection.
“Last night when she put her foot on the accelerator instead of the brake and demolished the village war memorial on her way here.”
“Very amusing,” said John as the others collapsed in a bout of unseemly mirth. “I would be grateful if you clowns would take this a little more seriously for a moment. I really do need some help on this one.”
Luke stepped forward in his role as senior assessor to bring a little much needed solemnity to the debate. “I really don’t see how you can pass her through, John. She really is a dreadful woman and there is some evidence from the ‘Record of Witnesses’ that she caused a lot of misery to those around her. And that only includes the accounts of those who preceded her on the journey.”
John drew a small sheaf of summaries from the file. “Direct beneficiaries of Mrs Goodhart’s ‘Feed the Hungry’ campaigns – 28,392, over 6,000 of those recorded as ‘lives saved’. Conversions to the Faith – 837. Mission to Prisoners – 242 offenders re-established in society. There are fourteen pages of such achievements and you want me to send her down because she has an unfortunate manner which upsets people. I simply cannot do it!”
“Then pass her through,” suggested Luke, shrugging his shoulders.
John paced the floor, wringing his hands, a witness to the depth of his confusion. “I can’t do that either, Luke. She’s a horrible woman.”
“Then you do indeed have a problem and I don’t see how we can help. You could refer it, of course; get a High Council ruling. Or take it directly to the Master.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“Quite. I haven’t had a referral for unicorn’s years and I don’t intend to let Mrs Goodhart place the first big question mark against my competence record.”
“You could talk to Paul; he has some wisdom in these matters.”
“Not likely. The last time I asked Paul for advice he sent me one of his letters and it took me nearly three hours to read it.”
A voice from the back reduced the murmur of debate to a whisper. “There is another alternative.”
“Who said that?” John searched the faces as the group parted to give the newcomer room. “Andrew… what alternative?”
“The door marked ‘RETURN’”
The faces looked from one to another and the company was silenced.
“The door… but that hasn’t been used for hundreds of years. In fact, I thought it had been taken out.”
“It hasn’t been used for one thousand nine hundred and forty seven years, to be precise,” said Andrew as he walked to the great control panel in front of the monitor and pressed a number of buttons, “but to the best of my knowledge it is still serviceable and still a usable option.”
The screen suddenly erupted into a display of runes and figures. “There you are, ‘Reincarnation Option code 47/B/310, last used in the year 23-41/7.”
“Can we still use it?” asked John, as though he might seriously consider doing so.
“No reason why not,” said Andrew, the scholar of the group, “I read up on it some years ago. The door was put in as an option, but the Master never liked the idea and decided to leave that whole approach to the other organisations. He used it himself, of course, before we all made the journey, but it was never used after that. It was never taken out and the High Council never got round to banning its use so there’s no reason why it can’t be used again.”
John retired from the group who seemed suddenly keen to see him risk earning disfavour from his superiors, as much for their own edification as to provide a solution to the Goodhart problem.
“It’s no good, Andrew, “ he said at last. First of all, how could I justify inflicting Mrs G. on a world which has only just rid itself of her, and secondly, can you just imagine the effect upon her poor husband of having his dear, departed wife turn up on the Vicarage doorstep not twenty four hours after her sad demise under four tons of granite memorial cross.?”
No problem, John,” Andrew replied, calling up the ‘Manual of Operation 47/B/310 onto his screen. “There you are. Just set the coordinates to Rebirth – Random Placement – New Receptacle As Available. There… that should do it. Pop your Mrs Goodhart through the door and she’ll begin a new life right from scratch and maybe even grow into a nice lady… or gentleman. Her previous record will stand on file of course, for when she comes through again next time.”
John fell silent, considering the weight of disapproval he might draw upon himself by what seemed to him to be a flagrant bending of the rules, whilst his fellows vied to heap encouragement upon him from the safe sanctuary of the innocent bystander.
“Go on, John. Do it. We’ll stand by you.”
“Yes, John. You said yourself you can’t pass her through as she is so you’ll be doing her a favour by giving her a second chance.”
“We’ll endorse it, John. Send her back…”
Under the barrage of enthusiasm John relented. “All right, I’ll do it. At least, as Andrew pointed out, it will give the dreadful Mrs Goodhart the chance to redeem herself… Eventually.
*****
The Reverend Septimus Goodhart left his bed in high spirits if a little the worse for wear after an over-generous dose of the Napolean spirit the previous night. He felt a little guilty at not feeling overmuch grief at the recent loss of his wife and he prayed continually for guidance, but he could not control his natural feelings, nor quell the joy he felt at being rendered a widower.
Wrapping a dressing gown about his shoulders he strolled downstairs to the vicarage kitchen where Verity, his much loved border collie (Mrs Goodhart had named her) wagged her tail happily at the sight of her master. The good Reverend knelt by the wicker basket and petted the bitch before turning his attention to her five roly-poly pups, and was delighted to see that their tiny eyes were at last open.
“They’re beautiful, Verity. You’re a clever old girl.”
He picked up each small lump in turn to examine it before returning it to mum.
“Now there’s a funny thing. I’ve never known that before. This little bitch has green eyes, just like Mrs Goodhart’s. I do believe I shall call you Eunice.”
“Good morning… er… Mrs Goodhart, isn’t it?” The Assessment Officer dropped a heavy file of papers onto his desk and turned back the front cover. “If you’d care to be seated, Mrs Goodhart, I just want to run through the record to make sure there are no glaring discrepancies before we finally assign you. May I call you Eunice, by the way?”
“You may not!” The lady manoeuvred her ample frame across the room and stood for a moment contemplating the ornate, but decidedly fragile looking chair she was offered. “I suppose all this is really necessary, Mr… Mr…?
“I have no surname, Mrs Goodhart. I am simply known as John.”
“Then I will call you Mr John if you don’t mind, young man.” Mrs Goodhart did not approve of ‘first name’ familiarity, regarding it as a nasty, modern habit and one in which she did not indulge with her own husband, far less this office clerk. “And if that is my file you have there, Mr John, I doubt if you will find in it any cause for concern as to my suitability for acceptance.”
She leaned across the desk and tapped the file several times with a podgy finger before smothering the patient and uncomplaining chair with her enormous bulk.
“Whilst I have always tried to represent myself with the utmost modesty, I must insist that within your file you will find a rare catalogue of good endeavour. I have devoted my life to the Lord’s service, as you will know, and I take considerable pleasure – not pride, you will note, Mr John, but pleasure – in the knowledge that I have often lent the hand of Christian guidance to those poor souls who struggle with the devil’s temptations. And I might add, Mr John…”
“I thank thee, Lord, that I am not as other men…” the Assessment Officer mumbled quietly to himself.
“I beg your pardon, young man! I am a little hard of hearing.”
“I will try not to keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary, Mrs Goodhart.”
The Assessment Officer abandoned the green eyes – such a vivid green – and returned his attention to the bulging file. “You married at the age of thirty seven, by which time you appear to have established a considerable reputation for charitable works, and achieved some prominence in the organisation of Christian groups and societies.” He read from the summary list under the heading: ‘Works of Good Intent’. “The Youth For God Movement, Bible classes, Sunday School teacher, the Christian Fellowship (youth and women’s sections), and what’s this… Christian Women for Morality in Animal Husbandry?” He gave the lady an enquiring look.
“It was an organisation, which I founded, whose purpose was to persuade farmers to clothe their livestock in such a way that children and young people would not be needlessly offended or unfortunately influenced.”
The Assessment Officer could not restrain a smile.
“I do not find that in the least amusing, young man, nor do I find your misguided sense of humour particularly apposite to the circumstances of this interview.” The indignation had reached a rare intensity, even for Mrs Goodhart. “And your list should also have included the Band of Hope and Christians Against Pot, or do you, with your schoolboy humour, regard the evils of drink and drugs as subjects for jocularity?”
The Assessment Officer almost ducked in the face of such a salvo of invective. “Indeed not, Mrs Goodhart. I commend you most highly for your good works.” He felt already that he had done a days work and wondered how long he could safely parry the razor-sharp tongue of the good and redoubtable Mrs Goodhart. “However, I would like to remain with ‘Morality in Animal Husbandry’ for a moment longer. Do you not feel that putting clothes on cattle and sheep might be a little impracticable?
“All things are possible if the will is there, Mr John, and the correct moral attitude of course.” Mrs Goodhart spoke from a lofty height and with the conviction of the truly righteous minority. “It is unfortunate that farmers appear to regard promiscuity, and indeed, public fornication between God’s ignorant creatures, as acceptable behaviour. Our mission was to persuade them that indiscriminate associations between beasts and the indecent exposure of… of certain parts of their anatomy to public view are not in keeping with proper Christian attitudes.”
“And did you succeed?”
“No, we did not!”
The curtness of the reply clearly indicated the closing of the subject.
Mr John took great care to maintain a very straight face as he nodded, returning again to the file. “Now then, the Band of Hope. You do not approve of alcoholic drinks?”
“I do not approve of drinking to excess, Mr John, and I regard it as my Christian duty to campaign against the common trend, amongst working people in particular, towards extreme over-indulgence."
“And how was this campaign conducted?”
“With courage and vigilance, Mr John, courage and vigilance. Out on the streets where sin and the devil’s brew lurked in every hostelry and back street. Oh my, those were the glory days indeed, young man.” The vivid green eyes sparkled gleefully as the memories flooded back into Eunice Goodhart’s narrow mind. “Those nights we’d meet outside the Church and strike up a rousing hymn of Christian temperance as we marched through the town. We beat the drum for God, Mr John, for God, truth and sobriety.
“And how we raised our heads high in the face of scorn and vilification. Vilification, Mr John, from drunkards who spoke with Satan’s inebriate tongue, and from the landlords of the devil’s houses, as we marched and sang through their public bars. Fight the good fight and guide another hand to sign the pledge of abstinence. Great days!”
Mrs Goodhart began to hum a hymn of triumph, beating the air to time with her fist. “Hm hmmm hm hmmm hm hmmm hmmm, marching as to war; hmm hmmm hm hmmm…” And the Assessment Officer waited patiently for her to return from her journey of nostalgia before continuing his weary task.
“Yes, thank you Mrs Goodhart. Great days for you I’m sure.”
“Great days for the Lord, Mr John. I was merely the humble servant of the Almighty, carrying His good fight into the dens of sin and iniquity.”
“Yes… yes, Mrs Goodhart. Quite so.” He felt he could, with ample justification, cast considerable doubt upon her claim to humility, but he did not give voice to the thought. “And did you drink?” he asked, rather daringly.
“I did not ‘drink’ as you put it, young man. My husband and I occasionally took a small glass of wine with our dinner, and the Reverend would, on rare occasions, sip a small quantity of brandy afterwards. He never asked for a second helping.”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t, Mrs Goodhart.” The Assessment Officer hurried on to forestall the counter-attack yet forming on the formidable lady’s lips. “Now, the record shows no activity which is not connected with the Church. Is that a true record?”
“It is, Sir, although I think it strange that you should ask for confirmation that I did not indulge in un-Christian activities.”
The Assessment Officer’s air of calm detachment cracked a little as he drew a hand across his forehead. “To suggest that an activity is not connected with the Church is not to imply that it is necessarily an un-Christian activity, Mrs Goodhart. Not all life exists within the organisation of the Church.”
“All of mine did, Mr John. You must answer for your own preferences.”
Years of training in the skill of assessment based upon millennia of experience had not prepared John for Mrs Goodhart. True humility was welcome, fear and pleading distasteful, though common, but such supreme arrogance was rare enough to be considered remarkable. He fell silent, exerting upon his own thoughts the discipline of tolerance, that his decision should not be influenced either by his strong dislike of the examinee nor by her inexplicable attempts to goad him.
“I see that prior to your marriage to the Reverend Septimus Goodhart you had no other romantic associations. Would you care to comment on that?”
“I would indeed comment if I had the slightest idea what you mean to imply by ‘romantic associations’, or did you perhaps mean ‘assignations’?” Mrs Goodhart was beside herself, making the dreadful presence of one so formidable in the mere singular into a force to be hid from rather than reckoned with. “If you have some particular allegation to make, I suggest you come right out with it, unless you are just trying to be smutty.”
“Smutty, Mrs Goodhart?”
“Yes, Mr John. Smutty!”
“Humph. Let us move on, shall we, Mrs Goodhart? About your husband. Did you make him happy?”
“Happy? Of course he was happy. What in Heaven are you trying to imply now? I made absolutely certain he wanted for nothing. I ran his home with almost military correctness; all his meals served on time, the house immaculate, always, and everything organised in the minutest detail so that he could perform his ecclesiastical duties without a single distraction. I never gave him cause to complain, young man, and he knew it. I made sure of that.”
“I’m sure you did, Madam. You had no children. Was there a particular reason for that?
“We had no children because the Lord’s work allowed us little time for such personal indulgence. I would have liked a family, of course. I am a woman, you know. But sacrifices have to be made for the greater good of one’s fellow man, and for the furtherance of God’s good works. I have no regrets.”
“And did your husband have… regrets?”
Of course he didn’t. We discussed it, of course, but the Reverend quickly saw the wisdom of a Christian life uncluttered by the constraints of domestic encumbrances. The Church came first and last. He agreed with me absolutely on that as upon everything else.”
For a further hour the Assessment Officer sought to clarify various points of confusion or doubt regarding the record, only to have each question and comment skilfully misinterpreted by the good Mrs Goodhart. He felt, at the end, that even his dear friend Daniel might not have emerged from this den completely unscathed.
“Thank you, Mrs Goodhart,” he said at long last. “If you would care to wait in the reception lounge, I will complete my assessment and advise you of my decision as soon as possible.”
“See that you do, young man, although I really cannot see what prevents you from signing the form, or whatever you have to do, straight away. I have many dear friends and relatives who will be waiting expectantly to welcome me home, so kindly do not waste any more of my time.”
The Assessment Officer sighed a deep sigh and retired without another word to consider the difficult case of Eunice Goodhart. He entered the staff conference room to be met by a spontaneous round of applause from the group of his fellow officers who had watched his performance on the closed circuit monitor. His friend Thomas stepped forward and shook him warmly by the hand.
“Well done, John. One hour and twenty minutes and you didn’t hit her once. I knew you were the man to deal with Mrs G.”
“Wait a minute,” said John, “you knew about Mrs Goodhart?”
“Yes, John. I had one of her husband’s parishioners through last week bringing a sorry tale of woe, so when Mrs G’s name popped up out of the blue, I had her put on your list. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
Mr John felt no inclination to share in the laughter that swept through the rest of the company. “Very clever, Thomas, thank you very much. I’ll definitely do the same for you some day. And you can all repay me for my sore trial with a little good advice because, for the first time in many years, I must confess to being completely stumped.”
“Well, surely you’ll send her down!” said Thomas, displaying little evidence of his usual doubting nature.
John threw the heavy file down on the conference table. “Read that, Thomas, and then see how sure you are. According to her written record Mrs Goodhart is a more likely candidate for high office than for the other place. That woman hasn’t put a foot wrong in sixty years.”
“Oh yes she has… Once,” said Matthew, entering into the discussion.
“When was that?” asked John, searching through his memory of the file for some misdemeanour that might spoil an exemplary record and provide him with a just cause for rejection.
“Last night when she put her foot on the accelerator instead of the brake and demolished the village war memorial on her way here.”
“Very amusing,” said John as the others collapsed in a bout of unseemly mirth. “I would be grateful if you clowns would take this a little more seriously for a moment. I really do need some help on this one.”
Luke stepped forward in his role as senior assessor to bring a little much needed solemnity to the debate. “I really don’t see how you can pass her through, John. She really is a dreadful woman and there is some evidence from the ‘Record of Witnesses’ that she caused a lot of misery to those around her. And that only includes the accounts of those who preceded her on the journey.”
John drew a small sheaf of summaries from the file. “Direct beneficiaries of Mrs Goodhart’s ‘Feed the Hungry’ campaigns – 28,392, over 6,000 of those recorded as ‘lives saved’. Conversions to the Faith – 837. Mission to Prisoners – 242 offenders re-established in society. There are fourteen pages of such achievements and you want me to send her down because she has an unfortunate manner which upsets people. I simply cannot do it!”
“Then pass her through,” suggested Luke, shrugging his shoulders.
John paced the floor, wringing his hands, a witness to the depth of his confusion. “I can’t do that either, Luke. She’s a horrible woman.”
“Then you do indeed have a problem and I don’t see how we can help. You could refer it, of course; get a High Council ruling. Or take it directly to the Master.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“Quite. I haven’t had a referral for unicorn’s years and I don’t intend to let Mrs Goodhart place the first big question mark against my competence record.”
“You could talk to Paul; he has some wisdom in these matters.”
“Not likely. The last time I asked Paul for advice he sent me one of his letters and it took me nearly three hours to read it.”
A voice from the back reduced the murmur of debate to a whisper. “There is another alternative.”
“Who said that?” John searched the faces as the group parted to give the newcomer room. “Andrew… what alternative?”
“The door marked ‘RETURN’”
The faces looked from one to another and the company was silenced.
“The door… but that hasn’t been used for hundreds of years. In fact, I thought it had been taken out.”
“It hasn’t been used for one thousand nine hundred and forty seven years, to be precise,” said Andrew as he walked to the great control panel in front of the monitor and pressed a number of buttons, “but to the best of my knowledge it is still serviceable and still a usable option.”
The screen suddenly erupted into a display of runes and figures. “There you are, ‘Reincarnation Option code 47/B/310, last used in the year 23-41/7.”
“Can we still use it?” asked John, as though he might seriously consider doing so.
“No reason why not,” said Andrew, the scholar of the group, “I read up on it some years ago. The door was put in as an option, but the Master never liked the idea and decided to leave that whole approach to the other organisations. He used it himself, of course, before we all made the journey, but it was never used after that. It was never taken out and the High Council never got round to banning its use so there’s no reason why it can’t be used again.”
John retired from the group who seemed suddenly keen to see him risk earning disfavour from his superiors, as much for their own edification as to provide a solution to the Goodhart problem.
“It’s no good, Andrew, “ he said at last. First of all, how could I justify inflicting Mrs G. on a world which has only just rid itself of her, and secondly, can you just imagine the effect upon her poor husband of having his dear, departed wife turn up on the Vicarage doorstep not twenty four hours after her sad demise under four tons of granite memorial cross.?”
No problem, John,” Andrew replied, calling up the ‘Manual of Operation 47/B/310 onto his screen. “There you are. Just set the coordinates to Rebirth – Random Placement – New Receptacle As Available. There… that should do it. Pop your Mrs Goodhart through the door and she’ll begin a new life right from scratch and maybe even grow into a nice lady… or gentleman. Her previous record will stand on file of course, for when she comes through again next time.”
John fell silent, considering the weight of disapproval he might draw upon himself by what seemed to him to be a flagrant bending of the rules, whilst his fellows vied to heap encouragement upon him from the safe sanctuary of the innocent bystander.
“Go on, John. Do it. We’ll stand by you.”
“Yes, John. You said yourself you can’t pass her through as she is so you’ll be doing her a favour by giving her a second chance.”
“We’ll endorse it, John. Send her back…”
Under the barrage of enthusiasm John relented. “All right, I’ll do it. At least, as Andrew pointed out, it will give the dreadful Mrs Goodhart the chance to redeem herself… Eventually.
*****
The Reverend Septimus Goodhart left his bed in high spirits if a little the worse for wear after an over-generous dose of the Napolean spirit the previous night. He felt a little guilty at not feeling overmuch grief at the recent loss of his wife and he prayed continually for guidance, but he could not control his natural feelings, nor quell the joy he felt at being rendered a widower.
Wrapping a dressing gown about his shoulders he strolled downstairs to the vicarage kitchen where Verity, his much loved border collie (Mrs Goodhart had named her) wagged her tail happily at the sight of her master. The good Reverend knelt by the wicker basket and petted the bitch before turning his attention to her five roly-poly pups, and was delighted to see that their tiny eyes were at last open.
“They’re beautiful, Verity. You’re a clever old girl.”
He picked up each small lump in turn to examine it before returning it to mum.
“Now there’s a funny thing. I’ve never known that before. This little bitch has green eyes, just like Mrs Goodhart’s. I do believe I shall call you Eunice.”