My first assignment in London, as an accountant, was the audit of Regions Beyond Missionary Union.
The Methodist Centre comprised a large, marbled mausoleum of a building. There, I was introduced to Janice, the head accountant. She seemed to have stepped out of an Alfred Hitchcock film—an elderly, stooped, white-haired lady with not a strand out of place, neatly dressed in a white blouse and beige, home-spun cardigan. A gentle woman, the epitome of naïve helpfulness. You were never sure if she’d end up being the murder victim or the murderer at the end.
“We send missionaries to Papua New Guinea, Borneo, and Irian Jaya. Once, they were eaten alive, their heads shrunken by local tribesmen. Few returned to tell their tale.” Was she joking? I was bowled over at the missionaries’ temerity to believe their faith should encompass all peoples, including those whose lives and ways—a million miles away—were so totally incomprehensible to them.
I was led to a standard, spotless white, sterile office with a large window overlooking the main road, clogged with traffic. Tea—Earl Grey—and fingers of homemade shortbread were offered and downed before I could start.
The books were meticulously kept and enshrined within an enormous black, hide-bound ledger, seeming to date back to the time of David Livingstone. The work was no more daunting than the bookkeeping I had to master earlier in my training. Did I enjoy the work any better? Not really. Checking transactions to bank statements and individual donations to a register became a chore. But the redeeming factor was the interaction with the client. At my first job, I was closeted with a handful of silent, diligent, articled clerks, writing up books of account. Here, I could wander around all I wanted, puff out my chest and command instant attention conversing with anyone I wanted to.
Yet all I could think of was an image of heathen cannibals, secluded on a South Pacific island, hunkered down at the foot of a bubbling volcano, their noses punctured with a protruding wishbone, waiting patiently for the arrival of a boatful of strangers… and their next meal.
