“Bureau people will be arriving soon to look at Ashwood. They will bring a cook to stay with us while I interview others for a permanent assignment. This might be a bumpy week. I’ll need you to trust me.”
The older children listened. None of us had lived through estate management turnover. In that, we were the same.
“We’ll eat together then the outside crew may go to their regular duties. The rest of us are going to work on getting the food preparation areas ready for a guest cook. Let’s all give Lana a hand for her hard work feeding you these past months.”
I clapped my hands. They followed.
“Grab a bowl and line up for oatmeal. With raisins, if you like. There’s milk on the table and tea. If there’s any oatmeal left, you may help yourself to a second serving. And, by the way, it’s okay with me if you talk at the table as long as you keep your voices down.”
They chattered while waiting, excited about more hot food this morning after the unexpected eggs at dinner last night. Ten years of bad economic issues, and our children now grow up hoping, not expecting, they will have enough food to fill their stomachs. This crew would be willing to stay with me through tougher times if I could build trust with an extra bowl of oatmeal each morning.
When the outdoor workers left, I set the inside crew to work cleaning the kitchen. Their silence bothered the former teacher in me, and I decided to take advantage of their time together to help all of them with home schooling lessons. “I think we could have a bit of fun,” I suggested. “Let’s have each of you take a turn reciting or singing one of your learning lists. Amber, can you sing the alphabet song?”
“Of course, I can.” Her dark eyes flashed in a face that looked pale and thinner by daylight.
“Well, start us, and we’ll all join in. Then Jasmine can lead with something she’s learned.”
Amber obeyed, loud and with enthusiasm. The front door chimes sounded, calling me to greet the Bureau team. The workers continued singing as I left.
Their voices could not be heard in the foyer as I opened the door to six people—five dressed in a similar navy coats and pants, each carrying a Bureau-issued briefcase plus an overnight case. Short, tall, male or female, Asian or Caucasian or Indian, their uniforms created a first impression of conformity. The auditors.
The sixth person, a tall man with rich chocolate-color skin, wore personal clothes. He stood slightly apart from the Bureau team, assessing the great gray stucco house with tired gold-brown eyes set deep under heavy lids, one drooping above a high cheekbone. I wondered if the residence appeared as unwelcoming this morning as when I arrived.
One of the five dressed in navy stepped forward. “Matron Anne, I am Chief Auditor Milan.” We nodded, the old-fashioned custom of handshakes having disappeared with the 2014 flu pandemic. Milan’s head dipped farther than mine, recognition of my gold earpiece and authority at Ashwood. His navy-clad team repeated the routine as they introduced themselves. Milan extended a hand toward the last man waiting at the door.
“And I would be Terrell, Ashwood’s new cook, which is why I don’t look like them. I don’t wear navy.” He dipped his head more as if in greeting than formal recognition.
Since the work areas of Ashwood’s architectural footprint resembled many other estates, the Bureau crew swapped shoes for inside slippers at the front door, then made their way to the office area. Terrell lagged behind, with questions about where to send provisions carried in the Bureau transport. I suggested we ask Lana.
With the audit team out of the foyer, the children’s voices, now singing simple nursery rhymes, carried through the residence.
“Storage and cleanliness protocols really deteriorated in the food area, so I assigned all the inside workers there this morning,” I explained. “I taught elementary school for years. Children concentrate better when there is music. They’re singing recent lessons.”
“You’ll introduce me to the child who’s been doing the cooking?” Terrell asked.
“That’s Lana.” With a long, easy stride, he walked at my side in silence.
The kitchen area looked like a room under construction, with one girl organizing dishes on a counter, a boy on hands and knees scrubbing a corner, another girl deep in the oven with a bucket near her side, and Amber cleaning lower cabinet fronts.
I made a small gesture toward Lana working under the sinks. “There’s Ashwood’s cook. She’s the oldest girl.” I turned back to Terrell, back to those tired eyes. “Her file says she was trained for cleaning supervision. Since Matron Barbara claimed to not be able to cook and Magda, our agronomist, wasn’t allowed to work with the girl, I’m not sure how Lana learned to manage meals.”
“She’s not a rich girl, so she learns what she needs to do to survive,” he said while watching her. “Poor people been doing that since history began.”
I couldn’t find words to respond. Child workers came from many backgrounds—low income urban working families, lower intellectual working families, single-parent families. The kids worked in a fairly comfortable environment while Bureau professionals, like me, assessed their future capability and provided an education. Their earnings were divided between their families and annuities. Four times a year, some child workers could visit home if parents were able to provide approved care and supervision.
“That sounds like a twentieth-century thought,” is what I finally said.
“Well, let’s just see what the United States feels like when this generation steps up to run the country. Little more than indentured servants for the intelligentsia.” Terrell sighed. “You don’t have to agree or disagree. You and I are just part of the big machine built to keep this country going by feeding and taking care of the new power people. I get to cook and work in beautiful kitchens and teach kids how to make a living. Not bad for someone with a few decades of knocking around under his belt, but it’s not a life for these young ones.”
Before Terrell shared any additional risky social thoughts, I clapped my hands to grab the workers’ attention. They stopped all activities.
“You’re doing well,” I said. “The floors and cabinet doors look better, and I like how you are working together to get dishes and utensils where they should be stored. Let’s take a break so you can meet Cook Terrell, who will be working at Ashwood while the Bureau staff is here.”
He bowed toward the children, his hands folded together high on his chest. “Thank you, Matron. I am pleased to be in this beautiful estate and look forward to working with all of you. There’s just one thing I need to correct about what Matron said. I’ll be staying here after those Bureau folks leave, so let’s get acquainted.”
The man had wandered off script without forewarning. He kept talking, not slowing down to give me the time to pull him aside to clarify his comment.
He repeated his earlier head dip, this time toward Lana, all the children watching his smooth and masterful presentation. “Lana, how about you show me where the provisions’ boxes should be delivered so I can give the transport driver directions. Then we need to start planning meals.”
7
In my years as a teacher, I observed times when adults teetered on the edge of disagreement, and quiet overtook the children as if their very breathing could start a frightening scene. Caught by surprise, I worked to keep a straight face when Terrell corrected my introduction. A man, probably twenty years my senior, with a voice that soothed like warm honey running down a scratchy throat now challenged my shaky ego. Not really the children’s problem unless we made it so.
“If you’ve had the time to determine which one of these fine young people is assigned to kitchen, I can start working,” Terrell said, still wearing a too-large wool coat, a scarf around his neck and outdoor boots in the warmest room of the residence. “Provisions are ready to unload from the transport. My things will come later—I understood food to be a higher priority than knives and such.”
Then he smiled, and his naturally thin face invited everyone to do the same. He
spoke directly to me. “I got strict instructions to feed those big Bureau folks three squares a day. So I’ll just run this kitchen as day-to-day cooking central and stay out of your hair while you get the dirt of this estate on your feet.”
All eyes turned toward me. My instincts said to trust Terrell. Whether he was temporarily assigned to Ashwood, or truly our new cook, made no difference for the rest of that day. From the corner of my eye I saw Milan walking toward the kitchen.
“Thank you, Cook Terrell. I’m looking forward to talking more. For the morning, I’d like the crew to continue their cleaning and re-organizing.” I started to step away, then halted and put an arm around Lana. “You know the kitchen best. Give Cook a tour and be his assistant.” Tension slipped from the room. A brush dipped into a bucket of water, slippered feet moved again from one counter toward another.
I bowed slightly to Terrell, he extended a hand. “We’re all going to living in the same place,” he said, “and I’ll have my hands in your food, so I think it’s safe to shake with me. Don’t you worry about the kitchen, just go get ’em, Matron.”
The trained side of me wanted to point out he would be wearing gloves while preparing food, but I needed a human touch in this Ashwood mess. I reached then relaxed, momentarily comforted by the old tradition of a firm hand wrapped around mine.
“One last thing, Cook Terrell. There are boxes in the cold storage marked ‘Jensen,’ with today’s date. Magda believes someone will be here for them. The content of those boxes is not to leave this estate. If someone does come looking for those goods, please call me. In the meantime, feel free to cook with anything you find.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Maybe I’ll look into those boxes first.”
“Plenty of fresh produce and dairy products. We used a couple of dozen eggs last night.” I volunteered. “Why don’t you join Magda and me later this morning to talk about our food production needs?”
“Thanks for the invite. My priority has to be serving the midday meal at twelve. I’m thinking to seat the kids and staff in the workers’ room and put you with Auditor Milan’s crew in the dining room.”
“If we don’t eat at our desks that sounds fine,” Milan affirmed. “Now, we need Matron in the office.”
We walked the short distance without speaking. He strode along the hallway, a medium-tall, stoop-shouldered man. His thick blonde hair had that dingy, fading quality of middle-aged people, and I wondered if the constant travel of his job kept him away from children of his own. He wore a wedding band on his left ring finger. Marriage was out of my future until I completed my five-year Ashwood commitment. The thought refocused me.
“Is there any new information I should know from the Bureau?” I asked as we neared the office. “Like, who is the Jensen named on those boxes?”
He cleared this throat. “I’d like to go over report forms with the team in the estate office. I plan to have one of the team review food production information with the estate agronomist and livestock manager, as well as inventory provisions with Cook Terrell. Then we can start working on identifying irregularities.”
“I prefer the East Coast estate reporting format,” I said in a kind but direct voice. “You didn’t answer my question about ‘Jensen.’”
He stepped into an alcove near the office, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. “Senior Executive Director Jensen is a highly placed individual within the Bureau of Human Capital Management.” He looked to the floor, then back in my direction. “It appears that in exchange for regular shipments of Ashwood goods, this individual offered Matron Barbara the possibility of having her financial assets recalculated and a clear visa.”
Barbara’s bitter comments about miscalculated resources separating her from freedom came to mind. At the same time I thought that perhaps there was some good fortune to being a person with no family or fortune. But Milan’s story didn’t ring quite true.
“If this individual is highly enough placed, doesn’t he have his own estate resources?” I asked. “According to Magda, there are others picking up boxes of Ashwood supplies beyond this Jensen.”
One eyebrow rose. Milan seemed to weigh his response. “On the food underground, the Ashwood name has earned a reputation for quality and, therefore, significant money. Some would say Matron Barbara sold the products illegally. Some might see Jensen’s actions as inappropriate. All depends on how the paperwork trail is built.” Milan stopped, cleared his throat again.
So a poor young woman like me with no friends or family in any position of power or influence held the trump card on credentials. Top grades, quality recommendations, teaching certificate, voluntary surrogate were good details, but it may have been more important that I was a nobody.
“Well, I’m glad there are people in public opinion positions to create a positive spin on this situation,” I said. “It’s probably best we not say anything to anyone else. If you look at the children, you’ll see who hasn’t been eating the Ashwood food that sold on the black market.”
“Certainly, Matron.” Milan tipped his head slightly.
I decided I liked that small show of respect for my authority. “When will you be ready to review the first reports? I need to inventory food supplies with Magda before Cook begins meal planning.”
“One thing you should know about Cook Terrell, Matron. He comes to Ashwood with all resources covered.” Milan stopped, letting the importance of his words settle. “For twelve months, the estate gains an experienced cook without expenses.”
Even a rookie like me knew the Bureau would not give Ashwood an experienced cook as a gift. I looked for a way to delay responding, pulled out my data pad to check the time. It might be politically risky to ask Milan, a possible Bureau hack, what strings came attached to the man in Ashwood’s kitchen. Impossible that it was only half past nine.
“That’s interesting,” I said.
Milan nodded as if in agreement. “From our transport ride together, I suspect your new cook might hold some late twentieth-century values, but his file is ranked in the top tier, like yours.” Milan’s face told me nothing about his thoughts. “I was told that an estate was disbanded rather abruptly when the directors assumed an indefinite assignment in Malaysia. A cook training program is taking over the estate. Cook Terrell, while an excellent cook, isn’t instructor-qualified.”
Moving out of the alcove, I could see a slice of sunlight from the kitchen splash loosely into the dining room entrance. I looked toward the ceiling, followed the bright light from the solar tubes to the gray, or maybe green, slate floors where we stood. A funny thing how natural light could disguise the true color of the very surfaces it illuminated. My inside-the-residence, right-hand staff member could be a Bureau plant or a true gift for Ashwood, but I might never know which.
“I’m sure you need to be with your team, and I have much to do,” I said. “While you are all using the estate office, I’ll work in my quarters. Amber can show you where to find me.”
In morning light, my main room was lovely. The wood floors reminded me of my mother’s home. As I sat down, I looked out the windows, beyond a small terrace area, toward Ashwood’s greenhouses which stood a fair distance from the residence. Turning back to my desk, I pulled up Terrell’s Bureau file. Impressive, but I wanted to choose at least one member of my estate management team. I decided to meet Magda without Terrell and prepared a list of questions, struggling to stay focused on vegetables and fruit when I wanted to plumb for her knowledge of this place.
“Matron Anne, please respond.” My earpiece activated with a Bureau contact.
I swiveled my chair to look out the window while talking. “Yes,” I answered, “I’m here.”
“Auditor Milan’s team has settled in. He mentioned you may be displeased with Cook Terrell?”
Nothing about the word “audit” implied a pleasant experience. Even if I wished to behave as if Milan was onsite under my guidance, his loyalty was to someone behind this disassociated voice.
> “I thought we had an agreement that the Bureau would send a temporary cook to support the audit team’s needs and generate candidates for the permanent assignment.” In the distance I could see young workers, including children from the surrounding area who worked half days, moving between the greenhouses. I wondered if Magda had adequate resources to push production.
“It isn’t in anyone’s best interests to pay wages to a qualified individual who doesn’t have a work assignment,” my Bureau contact said. “Do you have concerns about Cook Terrell’s file?”
“His file includes some irregular work history before assignments began,” I said while trying to frame what bothered me about the man. “He made a few politically sensitive comments, which makes me wonder what influence he might have on Ashwood’s workers.”
“Freedom of speech is the right of every person in the United States, Matron Anne. Full employment policy doesn’t negate that we live in a thriving democracy. With your counsel, this will be a good civics lesson for the children.”
I glanced at my monitor, expecting to see a scolding avatar and was disappointed by the pattern of slow blurry colors. “I would appreciate having a choice of candidates for this important position.”
“Ashwood has no ability to financially support a cook.” The voice remained cool, level. “If you’d prefer you could eliminate the children’s tutor and the newborn’s nanny to fund the cook of your choice. Of course, you’d have to fill the other roles yourself. Maybe you’d like that.” Did I hear a change of pitch in my contact? “There was a note in your file that you expressed regret at not raising your surrogate infant.”
There was silence. I pulled on my Bureau face of neutrality.
“But that’s one of your strengths, Matron Anne. You always want choices.”
Before years of training, I might have smashed the speakers, or walked away and schemed of retaliation. Thanks to Sandra, I now understood that what had been said was a test of my ability to stand alone.
Ashwood Page 5