The Paper Trail
In which MyrtleLion's career advances further...
“What’s Aurelia?” Gosie pointed at the word on the board.
“No idea,” said @Boiledbeetle.
“You said they’d reconstruct it tomorrow,” said @Magpiecomplex.
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know what it is?” asked @AngleofRepose.
“No.”
MyrtleLion folded her arms. “But you’ve only been here five minutes.”
“Yes,” said Boily. “But I can read.”
She pointed at the entries. “Seeds. Maps. Paintings. Ledgers. Stonework. Architectural fragments. Those aren't components,” said Boily. “They're evidence. Seeds prove agriculture. Maps prove territory. Paintings prove culture. Ledgers prove administration. Stonework proves settlements.”
She tapped the board. “Whatever Aurelia is, they’re building a case for it.”
Gosie pointed at the next column. “What does Verified mean?”
Boily read the note beneath it. “Manifest and customs documentation review.”
Octavia looked back at the board. “If the final shipment passes review, Aurelia is complete.”
“Then we need to stop the verification,” said Gosie. “Where is the folder from the yacht?”
Angle looked around and spotted it on top of a shipping crate. It was still stuffed with brochures from Boily’s nest. She gingerly held up a harbour guide stained with Tunnock’s chocolate. “If Customs sees this, they can’t possibly verify anything.”
MyrtleLion frowned. “But if Talmere sees this, they'll know something's wrong.”
“True,” said Octavia. “We’ll need a proper submission for Talmere.”
Hedgehog brightened. “I still have the manifests.” She produced the thick sheaf of paperwork she had taken from the yacht. “I was saving them for bedtime.”
MyrtleLion accepted them automatically. A supervisor passing the office window saw the exchange and stopped dead. “You’re handling verification personally?”
“Apparently so,” said MyrtleLion.
The supervisor nodded as though this explained a great many things. “You'll want access to the boardroom.”
MyrtleLion tucked the manifests under one arm and started walking.
Everyone followed.
The executive boardroom contained a long polished table, twelve leather chairs and a view of the harbour.
By the time everyone arrived, lunch was already waiting. Soup appeared first, followed by sandwiches, followed by cold meats and sushi, then pastries. And then, shortly afterwards, what looked suspiciously like an entirely separate lunch. Nobody questioned this.
Across the room, several of the gerbils had discovered that the chairs rotated and were spinning in them joyfully until Goulash began to feel a little sick.
Magpiecomplex was quietly testing whether the silverware was being counted by distributing much of the cutlery about her person. So far no-one had noticed.
At the head of the table, MyrtleLion merely ticked and signed where indicated, while AngleofRepose, Hedgehog and Octavia worked through the manifests, customs declarations and reference numbers. Every few minutes another page arrived requiring confirmation that the previous page had, in fact, arrived.
MyrtleLion signed the final page and pushed the paperwork towards Octavia. “There.”
Octavia gathered the documents into a black binder. “The official submission for Talmere.”
Angle placed the recovered yacht folder onto the table and opened it. “And this one is for Customs.”
The remains of Boily’s nest spilled out. There were harbour brochures. Tide tables. A stained marina guide. Several loose pages bearing evidence of prolonged habitation.
The gerbils immediately stopped spinning on the chairs and got to work. Garland studied the pile with professional concern. Glacier produced divider tabs. Slowly. Gramaphone somehow acquired a laminator. Goulash sat in a chair and looked green.
The transformation began. A contents page appeared. Then section dividers. Then colour-coded tabs. The harbour brochures became Supporting Documentation. The tide tables became Appendix C. A particularly battered leaflet became Historical Reference Material.
The gerbils worked with complete seriousness. Graceful spent ten minutes adjusting a tab that was already straight. Glamour rejected a page because it lacked gravitas. Glockenspiel laminated a napkin.
Twenty minutes later the folder looked magnificent. Its contents remained largely harbour brochures.
MyrtleLion turned a few pages. The brochures appeared to have endured a difficult period in Boily’s care. Gateway to the World’s Best Sailing was missing a corner, Experience Plymouth’s Waterfront had acquired a chocolate stain across June, and Telling the Mayflower Story displayed several prominent tooth marks.
She closed the folder. “Looks official.” Glamour and Glockenspiel swelled with pride.
A Talmere compliance officer arrived shortly afterwards. He reviewed the official submission carefully, checking signatures, declarations and approvals before giving a satisfied nod. “Excellent.”
Then he noticed the second folder. “Customs copy?”
Octavia handed it over. He examined the cover. The contents page. The executive summary. Several impeccably tabbed sections. He nodded. “In order.” He signed the authorisation sheet and left with both folders.
As the door closed behind him, the gerbils began stealing office supplies. Pens vanished. Sugar packets followed. Notepads became scarce.
Governance departed with several sheets of flip-chart paper. Gravitas claimed a brass nameplate and Gutteral was carrying off a remote control that appeared to have no corresponding device anywhere in the building.
No-one noticed that Boily had slipped away.
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/the-paper-trail