The Importance of Being Ernestine

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Mata Hari and the other devious divas of history had nothing on me! The plotting with all its secret assignations and whispered telephone conversations was enormously satisfying. Yesterday’s heist had been somewhat nerve-racking given that Kathleen Ambleforth, the vicar’s wife, had failed to send the van at the appointed time to remove the loot. But now the stage was set.

All day I was exuberantly busy. In the morning I instructed the furniture men where to place the leather sofa that would have done Lord Peter Wimsey proud, made sure the tapestry armchair was angled just right and that the Georgian-style cabinet intended to hide the new computer was positioned squarely under the window. Seeing three burly men close to tears always brings out the best in me. In the space of fifteen minutes I produced three pots of tea, watched an entire fruitcake be demolished and did not snap when one of them took a chunk out of the wall. Immediately following their departure I hung the Scottish landscape paintings and the gilt-framed mirror, positioned the lamps and potted plants and tied back the topaz velvet curtains with tasseled cords.

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