Planning Aid, the voluntary bureau that is supposed to help steer applicants through the maze of the planning system, had been of remarkably little help so far. Of course, Barbara Dean hadn’t been the one asking.
“Thank you. I hope—”
“You must move quickly, of course, with respect to the roof, but as for the major renovations, as soon as you have plans I shall present them personally to the committee, and I think I can promise you will have your permission in short order.” Another small frown appeared. “The committee has been rather taken up with other matters, to be sure. Mr. Pettifer must be stopped from despoiling the Town Hall. I was rather in despair about it two days ago, I don’t mind admitting. However,” she coughed delicately, “er—current events have rather rendered the issue moot, for the moment.”
I was visited by sudden inspiration. “Things went Mr. Pettifer’s way at the Lord Mayor’s meeting, then?”
She looked at me sharply, but didn’t ask how I knew about the meeting. “Certainly the prevailing wind seemed to be blowing his way, discounting a few—er—personalities that were exchanged. However, that was only a small and hardly a disinterested group of people. If you are at all concerned about the Town Hall, I suggest you attend the public meeting this evening, where the matter will be thoroughly aired. Seven o’clock, in the Victoria Hall.”
The Victoria Hall, designed for concerts, was the largest meeting place in Sherebury outside the cathedral. They must be expecting a crowd.
“I’m very interested in the fate of the Town Hall. I’ll be there.”
I’d actually been allowed to complete a few sentences, I reflected as we went into the shop to deal with an unexpected busload of Japanese tourists. I was making progress.
I was also intrigued about what manner of “personalities” might have been exchanged Sunday night. In the mouth of a Barbara Dean, the phrase might mean anything from a nasty glare to fisticuffs. She allowed me no opening to ask, however, and, in fact, spoke to me only once more, just before lunch.
“I assume that you will be at home early this afternoon, Mrs. Martin? So that Planning Aid can ring you?”
It was obviously a royal command. I nodded humbly; it was all I could do not to tug my forelock.
The Planning Aid secretary, when she called about two-thirty, was much more approachable.
“Mrs. Dean asked me to ring you first thing this afternoon; I’m sorry I’m a bit late, but it took a little time to find the information you need. I did manage to reach Mr. Peabody—he’s the local chairman for listed building permission. He said you don’t need an architect just for the roof; roof repairs aren’t tricky so long as the proper materials are used. Any good builder will do, and there’s a new one in town you might try. He says he knows nothing about the man at all, but as he’s new, he might not be booked up. Do you have a pencil? Right, then his name is Herbert Benson and his number is Sherebury 43527. I do hope it’ll work out.”
Her warm concern was an agreeable change. If I owed it to Barbara Dean, I was duly grateful.
Now. Herbert Benson. The name sounded vaguely familiar, with some slightly unpleasant association. I teased my brain for a moment, but whatever it was just buried itself deeper, so I made the phone call. I didn’t have a lot of choice.
The man sounded nice enough and promised to come look at the roof on Thursday. I enjoyed leaving another message for the invisible landlord, informing him of his obligation in the matter of roof repairs, and set off for the Town Hall meeting a few hours later with a spring in my step.
I’d decided to walk, even though it was a stiffish pull to the university. The rain had let up a little, and I told myself parking would be impossible to find. My hat, quite a modest affair this time in pale-pink straw with a simple white ribbon, would be amply protected by my umbrella, and my shoes didn’t matter. I refused to admit, even to myself, my fear of driving in a country where they use the wrong side of the road and consider roundabouts to be the ideal intersection control. Myself, I find them indistinguishable from Dante’s circles of hell.
Cowardice or not, walking turned out to be a smart move. The parking lots really were jammed by the time I got there, and hardly any seats were left in the Victoria Hall, even though extra chairs had been set up in the back. I secured one of them, glad to sit down even on a folding wooden chair, settled my hat, and studied with interest the people milling around the great, uncomfortable box of a room. The floor sloped sharply toward the stage, so from my position behind the last row of theater-style seats I could see everyone, the backs of their heads if nothing else.
It was a strangely mixed crowd. The chattering classes were prominent. The women, dressed with what looked like an almost deliberate lack of chic, fiddled with their pearls and conversed in throttled, well-bred voices. Mine, as usual, was the only hat in evidence. The men, in rumpled tweed suits, looked as though they wished they could smoke the pipes that bulged in their pockets.
The other distinct element, sitting in a solid block and looking somewhat formidable, consisted of working-class men and a few women. Some of the men on the other side of the hall, the ones in suits, were eyeing the workers uneasily, and I, too, hoped that feelings wouldn’t run too high for civilized discussion. I settled back into my chair with some apprehension as the Lord Mayor walked onto the stage, chain of office and all, and everyone took their seats. This meeting was going to be interesting, at the very least.
The Lord Mayor was followed by Barbara Dean and Archibald Pettifer, who sat down, avoiding each other’s eyes, as the Lord Mayor moved up to the lectern.
He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, please . . . ah, thank you. I think we are ready to begin.
“As you all know, we in Sherebury have for some time been quite concerned about the fate of our Town Hall. It has, most regrettably, been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair owing to the lack of funds to restore it. Although grants have been sought, some of you may know that the final resort to English Heritage was unsuccessful; the cost of necessary repairs is estimated to run to millions of pounds, and since the Council simply cannot provide the city’s share, English Heritage have declined their help.
“This decision, rendered only in the past few days, has been a major blow to preservation efforts. However, as you may also know, an alternative proposal has been on the table for some time. This proposal, put forward by Mr. Pettifer—” the mayor nodded gravely to Pettifer, who nodded back “—is, briefly, that he use his own funds to restore the Town Hall, in several stages, in return for which he would be granted a ninety-nine-year lease on the building. There is, of course, a quid pro quo: The proposal is contingent upon his being allowed to effect certain nonstructural changes to the interior of the building so that he could put it to commercial use.”
There was a murmur at that, soft but menacing, and I saw Barbara Dean’s hands, clasped in her lap, make a convulsive little movement before she controlled them.
“Ah, I see that many of you are familiar with Mr. Pettifer’s plans,” said the mayor with just the hint of a smile. It was exactly the right touch; a chuckle passed lightly through the room and the tension dissipated—for the moment.
“Because the Town Hall decision is a matter so controversial, and so fundamental to the city, the chairman of the Planning Committee has invited me as your lord mayor to take the chair of this meeting. I have invited Mr. Pettifer, and Mrs. Dean, chairman of the Sherebury Preservation Society, to present their views on the matter. I think I may safely say that those views have points of difference.”
Again the crowd chuckled. I began to see why this man was such a successful politician.
“After their formal remarks, I shall open the floor for discussion. I ask those who wish to speak to come to one of the microphones, identify themselves, and keep their remarks brief, so that we may allow everyone a chance.
“Mr. Pettifer, will you begin?”
Pettifer, as he took the mayor’
s place at the lectern, cut rather a poor figure by contrast. Although the mayor’s suit was older and his hair thinner, his tall, spare figure and ascetic face held a dignity that made his elaborate chain of office seem a natural part of his ensemble. Pettifer’s tailoring was impeccable, his shoes were polished to a high gloss, but there was nothing he could do about a florid complexion or a tendency to embonpoint. I was reminded of a Kewpie doll trying to be impressive, and suddenly, most unexpectedly, I felt a little sorry for him.
“My friends,” he said in the unctuous tones that had doubtless won him votes over the years, “I see no need to belabor the points our esteemed lord mayor has made so eloquently. The facts are very clear indeed. Our Town Hall is falling down. Although the exterior walls remain sound, the roof and the interior are in sorry condition. I am fully prepared to present the reports of the inspectors should you wish to take the time, but there is no disagreement about their verdict. If the necessary repairs are not made, and made soon, this precious monument to Sherebury’s illustrious history will be lost forever.
“You will note that I have referred to the exalted status of the building in order to take the words out of the mouth of my distinguished opponent.” He bowed and smiled at Barbara Dean as the crowd tittered; her smile in return was a mere baring of teeth.
“My friends, I am a builder by trade. I would venture to say that no one—I repeat, no one—in Sherebury is more aware than I of the great beauty and exemplary workmanship represented by the Town Hall. I revere its builders as the geniuses they were. BUT!” He raised an admonitory finger. “As I venerate the building, so I am convinced that it is a living building, deserving, and indeed requiring, to be of use. Did its builders intend it to be an object of worship? No! They constructed it for use, use by the journeymen of the town of Sherebury, by ordinary people like you and me.”
He looked directly at the group of workmen, who responded with nods and nudgings and one muted cry of “’Ear, ’ear!” from a walrus-mustached man standing against the wall.
Encouraged, Pettifer leaned forward and rested his forearms on the lectern. “Now, we all know that Sherebury is in economic trouble. Hundreds of able-bodied men in our small community are unable to find work; hundreds more have left with their wives and families to seek a better life elsewhere. Can we afford to let this situation continue? Can we afford to allow our strongest and best workers to remain in despair, or depart in disgust? My friends, I say we cannot, and I have a solution. Put them to work on the Town Hall! Bring new business to town, new commerce in my Town Hall Mall. Rescue, not just a fine building, but the spirit of Sherebury!”
The rising murmurs of approval from the workmen erupted in a little chorus of cheers. The rest of the room sat in chilly silence as Pettifer sat down and Barbara Dean stepped forward, every silver hair lacquered into place, every line of her powder blue suit firmly under control.
“You’re quite a powerful speaker, sir,” she said with a ferocious smile. “I wonder you don’t go into Parliament.” The quote from Dickens was a nasty little dig at Pettifer’s political ambitions. His face turned puce as he bowed coldly.
“I am sure, however, that your audience is too intelligent to be swayed by political posturings. Let us return to our senses, ladies and gentlemen, from which we have been invited to take leave, and consider. Mr. Pettifer pretends that he has two motives, both philanthropic: He wishes to preserve the fabric of the Town Hall and he wishes to assume the role of Father Christmas to the workingmen of Sherebury. I submit that, although he does bear some physical resemblance—” she stared meaningfully at Pettifer’s little paunch and raised a giggle or two “—his essential characteristic is more Scroogelike.
“We are all heartily sick and tired of militaristic governments throughout the world who for so many years have insisted that the way to preserve the peace is by making war. I submit that Mr. Pettifer’s plan to preserve the Town Hall by despoiling it falls into the same category of logic. I submit that those workmen whom he is so anxious to protect could be as fully employed in the proper restoration of the Town Hall as in its desecration.
“Can anyone doubt that Mr. Pettifer’s real motives are much simpler? Profit and personal aggrandizement are far more likely to drive such a man than philanthropy. I would ask you to consider Mr. Pettifer’s plans, of which most of you are aware, to build what he refers to as ‘University Housing.’ He has sought planning permission to pull down a row of perfectly sound houses which rent cheaply—to students, for the most part—and put up cracker boxes in their stead. Can we doubt that the rents will be far higher? Can we doubt that the profits will be far higher than if the existing houses were simply renovated?
“This is the man who asks you to give the Town Hall into his hands. I ask you all: Is there anyone here who can point to any action in Mr. Pettifer’s past that shows his concern for the public good? Is he a notable contributor to any charity? Has he, in fact, ever given a shilling to the poor or even rescued a stray dog?”
The murmurs had been growing, and now one workman spoke loudly enough to be heard. “Sacked me once, ’ee did, for nothin’ at all!” The mood of the crowd had changed, as is the fickle way of crowds. As the level of sound in the room rose and took on an ugly undertone, I felt a moment of panic. Was this meeting going to degenerate into a riot?
5
“NOW, LADIES AND gentlemen.” Mrs. Dean raised her hands in placatory fashion, and spoke in tones that were honeyed, clear, and low enough that people were forced to hush in order to hear her. Clever, I thought. The workmen sat down again.
“You must not think that I wish to assassinate Mr. Pettifer’s character.” Chuckles and a couple of jeers. “No, indeed. If that were my purpose, I have more serviceable weapons at my command.” More laughter, with a mean-tempered edge to it. I thought for a moment that she was going to refer to the murder, and Pettifer looked up sharply, but Dean was apparently not prepared to stoop so low. Or maybe she thought the insinuation was sufficient.
She went on. “I am simply trying to impress upon you that he is not the man we need for the job at hand, which is to save the Town Hall. I have a plan, ladies and gentlemen, and I ask you to listen carefully and—without prejudice—decide whether it is not a better plan for the purpose.”
The languid majority sat up and perked their ears.
“Until now we have put our faith in grants from outside Sherebury. As the Lord Mayor has told you, all these appeals have come to naught. It is time to look to our own community, time to take our fate into our own hands. I have, therefore, in the past several days, had conversations with the leaders of Sherebury: political, religious, commercial, and educational. Everyone was most eager to cooperate in a massive fund drive for the preservation of one of Sherebury’s most important pieces of history. To be specific: Our lord mayor, Councillor Daniel Clarke, has agreed to open his home for a fête in aid of the cause. The Very Reverend Mr. Kenneth Allenby, Dean of the Cathedral, proposed that one night of the forthcoming Cathedral Music Festival be dedicated to the Town Hall, with all proceeds being donated to the fund. A number of businessmen and women have agreed to allow solicitation of funds at their places of business, and many have promised personal or corporate donations, as well. And finally, the vice chancellor of Sherebury University has agreed to enlist the aid of a number of students, not only as solicitors, but in the planning of benefit projects.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if this much support can be generated in a few days, is there any question that we can raise our share of the necessary funds? We must prove to English Heritage that Sherebury has the will to save the Town Hall. We must do it, and we shall!”
The crowd was with her now. Cheers and shouts of “Hear, hear!” sounded from all sides. As the Lord Mayor began to restore order, rapping on the lectern, and the people resumed their seats, one woman rose from her seat on the aisle and marched to the nearest microphone. I recognized her after a moment as the owner of a gift shop in the High Street. She w
as dressed in a bright yellow suit, somewhat too tight, and her fiercely red hair positively bristled. She raised her voice.
“Lord Mayor, may I speak?”
“Certainly, certainly, everyone must have a chance to be heard—if you will please be seated—your attention, please!”
The woman at the microphone began to speak before all the noise had abated, but her angry tones cut through.
“And what about me, I’d like to know? Me and all the other shopkeepers in town? Where do we fit into this lovely scheme? It’s all very well to save a building, but what’s the point if there’s nobody to use it?”
The Mayor interrupted her. “For the record, will you identify yourself, please?”
“Mavis Underwood, as you know. I keep the gift shop in the High Street, and three more in Seldon, Watsford, and King’s Abbot, and you all know that, too. And you know how business is in Sherebury High Street. Or if you don’t, I’ll tell you. It scarcely exists. This month my receipts won’t meet my rent, and not for the first time, and the other merchants will tell you the same. How much longer can we operate at a loss?” There was a little murmur of agreement from various quarters of the room.
“At the end of the day, the Sherebury shop is an albatross, dragging the rest down. I need—we all need—new clientele, and a new mall will bring them. The Town Hall Mall—that’s different than the rest; it’ll draw the punters. What’ll an empty building draw? Flies!”
She took a deep breath, audible over the sound system, and was clearly prepared to go on in the same vein, but the Lord Mayor cut her off neatly.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Underwood. Your point of view is a valuable one, which I’m sure represents the thoughts of many here.” He turned toward a microphone on the other side of the room. “Mr. Farrell, have you something to say?”
“William Farrell, contractor.” He spoke in a deep growl that boomed out over the loudspeakers and set up an excruciating shriek of feedback. While someone tried to adjust the volume, I studied the man with interest. He was standing at a microphone near the back of the room, and although I couldn’t see most of his face, I could see the tension in his prominent jaw. He was altogether a formidable-looking person, tall and powerfully built, with dark hair and a hulking sort of squareness to his shoulders that reminded me uncomfortably of Boris Karloff.
Trouble in the Town Hall Page 5