by Lucy Dillon
Rather than the building, though, it was the people who’d proposed, designed and built it who emerged. First, Lady Cartwright, white haired despite her young face, dignified and smart in her widow’s weeds, as she chaired the committee of equally firm-jawed, bolster-bosomed Longhampton ladies. Katie read through the minuted discussions about balancing the serious commemoration with a celebration of life; how local materials, and local craftsmen would be used wherever possible. She imagined the labour it would have generated in the shell-shocked town, and the social buzz there must have been on its opening day, the main hall smelling of new wood and fresh paint and polish. Fresh flowers, she read in a note, had come specially from Mrs Clarence Bonnington’s own hothouse, and each stained-glass window had a neatly tabulated copper subscription plaque.
Then there were photographs: a posed row of little girls from the 1930s in sailor suits; a ballet class of skinny post-war youngsters; a black and white snap of Longhampton’s formation ballroom dancers from the 1960s, the men in awkward black tie, and the ladies’ puffball fruit-crème-coloured dresses water coloured in by some enthusiastic hand. More snaps of visiting big bands, a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta from 1948, some teddy boys from 1960, a dark-haired prima ballerina, en pointe, her skinny legs tense with effort, but her face shining, no date.
Katie sat back in the library chair with watery eyes – she was getting that proud-to-be-British brass band, male voice choir-inspired wobble. It wasn’t just a building, it was Longhampton’s dusty social heart. There were shreds of that still there in the building – they should be restoring it, not knocking it down!
She signed out what she could, photocopied the rest, then stuffed the thick files into her shoulder bag, and walked back to the office. As she typed and checked leases for the rest of the day, half her mind stayed on the Memorial Hall, and what she could do to save it. What she should do, if it was right to save it.
Katie was normally very good at using work to push all other thoughts out of her head, but despite her clandestine scurry of Hall activity, as the clock ticked nearer to hometime, it was impossible. All she could think of, apart from a wrecking ball smashing into the stained glass and it all being her fault, was Jack’s soft face, and Hannah’s almost-a-little-girl attitudes, and at five-thirty on the dot, she scooted out of the office, to be by the phone.
When she got in and saw Jack’s yellow snuggler that Ross had left in the tumble dryer, she had to fight back the desire to get in the car and drive straight there with it.
She stood by the phone with it in her hands.
What would they be doing now? Why hadn’t they phoned? Had Ross remembered to pack Hannah’s Baalamb too?
Stop it, she thought, pushing her hands into her hair. Calm down. There’s no point phoning him in a state and getting into a row.
Katie took off her coat, and poured herself a glass of wine – which she could, as much as she liked, since there was no one else here to look after – and dumped her bag on the table.
Ten to six. Jack’s bedtime, nearly. She couldn’t fight it any more, and rang Ross’s mobile.
When he didn’t answer, she made an effort to sound light and cheerful. ‘Hi, it’s me. Just ringing to check everything’s OK. You left Jack’s snuggler in the dryer, and I know he can’t get to sleep without it, so call me back if you want me to drive over with it.’
That’s stupid, she thought. How could I possibly drive over with it now?
And it sounded bossy.
‘Um, I hope you’re having a lovely time, all of you . . .’
How could they be, what with both Jo and Ross reeling? The kids would be picking up on it too. Hannah could sense Katie’s PMT like whales picked up earthquakes – she usually played up, just to join in the shouting.
‘And that the rooms are as nice as they looked in the brochure . . .’
That’s right, Katie, remind him who paid for it – well done.
‘And, er . . .’ She was close to tears now. ‘And maybe if the kids aren’t in bed, they could ring me to say they’re all right?’
As she hung up, the front doorbell rang.
A quick, bright hope sprang up inside Katie’s chest. Maybe they’ve come back, she thought, hating herself for her selfishness. Maybe the children missed me so much they wanted to come home! And maybe Ross will be standing there too, and he’ll have sorted himself out, and grown a backbone, and we won’t have to break up after all . . .
At the door was Mrs Armstrong, from Hannah’s school.
Bridget, Katie corrected herself, as she rearranged her face into a friendly expression.
‘Hello!’ she said, and at once her brain diverted into new panic: had something happened at school?
‘Hello!’ said Bridget, and her sharp brown eyes softened at the sight of Katie’s smudged eyeliner. ‘Oh dear, have I called at a bad time?’
‘No, no!’ That sounded a bit too emphatic, thought Katie. She tried to smile, to soften the effect, but it didn’t feel right on her face, and from Bridget’s concerned expression, it obviously only made things worse.
‘You’re sure? Oh, it’s not about Hannah!’ She put a hand on Katie’s forearm. ‘Don’t worry! That’s the awful thing about being a teacher – it’s like being a policeman. People expect the worst when you turn up at the house!’
‘Right, no, good,’ said Katie, running a hand through her fine hair. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long day. The kids have gone off for a little holiday with Ross, and I . . . I’m working late.’
‘Oh, well, I won’t keep you – I just popped round to bring you this, since you weren’t at class last night,’ said Bridget, reaching into her battered shoulder bag, and pulling out a CD. ‘Angelica handed these compact discs out – they’re for the display. One for you two, one for Jo and Greg.’
‘Display?’ Katie couldn’t care less, and yet at the same time, something in her rallied.
Bridget smiled sympathetically. ‘I know. As if we don’t have enough on our plates! She wants us to do a display, at the Christmas social dance – get our moment in the spotlight. I’m sure she’ll explain it to you properly at the next class, but she told us all to put these on in our cars and imagine we’re dancing while we’re driving to Tesco.’ Bridget did a wickedly accurate impression of Angelica’s London vowels at that point and Katie smiled.
‘I’d love to see you and Frank dancing a solo,’ she said, glad of something nice to say, and meaning it. ‘You’re far better than the rest of us.’
‘Well, after all these years we ought to be,’ sighed Bridget. ‘And of course my mother – and Frank’s mother, come to that – used to spend most of her weekends at the Memorial Hall. It’s the only reason Frank’s any good,’ she added, with a confiding half-wink. ‘His mum told him how easy it would be to find girls if he could dance, so he learned pretty quickly. I think he tried to tell Chris something similar, in a pep talk, you know, but I don’t reckon it’s the same these days.’
‘You used to go to the Memorial Hall in the old days?’ asked Katie, suddenly interested.
‘Oh, yes. Well, on and off. Everyone did, right up until . . . ooh, the late seventies, I suppose. There wasn’t much else to do round here. Everyone danced.’
‘Bridget, have you got time to come in for a quick cup of tea?’ Katie opened the front door a little wider. ‘There’s something I’d love your opinion on.’
‘Ah, I remember this!’ Bridget’s eyes widened over the photographs. ‘Look, that’s my mum’s friend Jean. There, with the beehive. She was one of the best girls on the sequence-dancing team. Oh . . . look at those dresses. They really were good, you know. They used to do a marvellous Viennese waltz, where they’d be spinning round and round and their big net underskirts would swirl up to here, and then suddenly they’d all stop, like clockwork, and set off in the opposite direction. Like spinning tops. They went to Blackpool, you know – won all sorts of prizes.’ She sighed. ‘You wouldn’t think it was punk rock and what-have-you in London then.
Time moves slowly round here.’
She checked her watch as Katie handed her another photo, and she gave her a remorseful look over the top. ‘Speaking of which, I should be getting back, really. Leaving Frank to get his own supper. He’d live off ham and chips if he could, that man. Not like your husband – men today are so much more self-sufficient, aren’t they?’
Katie flinched and she knew Bridget’s sharp eyes had spotted it.
‘Can’t Lauren make supper?’ she asked, before Bridget could say anything. Katie passed her another photograph of some ballerinas, and she cooed with nostalgia.
‘Look! Those radiators haven’t changed! No, she’s out with Chris tonight – said she had something important to discuss with him.’ Bridget pulled a wry face. ‘It’ll probably be about bridesmaids again, bless her. The only time she’s not thinking about this wedding is when she’s asleep. Not that she’s much better than Frank in the kitchen – if it doesn’t come in a sealed packet, our Lauren’s not interested. Frank’ll just have to fend for himself. Anyway,’ she patted Katie’s arm, ‘this is a lovely unexpected trip down memory lane.’
Lucky Lauren, thought Katie, wistful for a second, having Bridget for a mum. They’d only been sitting at her kitchen table for half an hour, and already Bridget had told her about how she and Frank met at a dance she’d gone to with his best friend, Martin. She’d spotted Hannah’s paintings on the fridge door, and warmed Katie’s heart by telling her how many friends Hannah had in her class.
‘Are you doing a research project, then?’ asked Bridget, gesturing at the papers.
‘Not exactly. Listen, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s a chance the hall might be demolished,’ Katie blurted out.
‘What? No!’ Bridget let the photographs drop from her fingers.
‘’Fraid so. It’s for work – I’m analysing a couple of sites for a new regeneration development, and the hall’s right inside the boundary line of the town centre proposal. To be honest, there’s a lot of . . .’ Katie searched for the right, non-slanderous word, although the more she thought about it, the dodgier Eddie’s interests seemed to get. ‘A lot of enthusiasm for the town site, and I can see the benefits of doing it that way, but what’s the point in regenerating the town if you have to flatten everything that makes it distinctive?’ She shrugged, seeing Bridget’s horrified expression. ‘That’s the way it goes, I’m sorry to say – developers are very black and white when it comes down to cash.’
‘But surely it’s a listed building?’ She picked up a photograph of the exterior. ‘I mean, just look at that brickwork!’
Katie shook her head. ‘No, I thought it would be too, but it’s not. But if there’s some kind of listing assessment in progress, you know, due to public interest,’ she added, slowly, ‘then obviously that would make a difference to the feasibility study. And I thought maybe . . .’
‘Ah,’ said Bridget, catching on. ‘Maybe if some letters were written? By interested supporters and keen users of the hall?’
Katie nodded, encouraged by Bridget’s keen expression. If the objections came from independent sources, Eddie could hardly brush them away, as she knew he’d try to if she raised them. He had an answer for anything, and a manner that didn’t encourage argument, but would the council risk looking like Philistines, with local elections coming up next spring? It was worth a try.
‘It’s quite tricky because there’s really only so much I can say in my report, especially since the building’s been allowed to get quite run-down. But if there was a lot of local support for restoring it, or giving it some kind of heritage status . . .’
Bridget’s brown eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll get right on to it. I used to teach the deputy editor of the Longhampton News – I bet he’d be very interested in setting up a campaign to save it. And then we can do some kind of project on it at school, and—’
‘Bridget, we have to be quite discreet about this,’ warned Katie. ‘It’s quite political – if my boss found out I’d been trying to derail his plans, he could, well, make things really difficult for me.’ She clamped her mouth shut, realising she’d said a bit too much.
That was because of Bridget and the soothing, comforting atmosphere she created around her. Katie felt temporarily sheltered from all the stress whirling around in the back of her mind, just by seeing Bridget on the other side of the table – warm, and capable, and kindly. She gave off that reassuring confidence that things could be fixed.
‘Leave it with me,’ said Bridget, tidying the photographs into a pile. ‘It’ll give me something else to think about other than this blessed wedding of Lauren’s. Honestly, they never really leave, children! You must be missing your two little ones,’ she added. ‘Although, it’s nice to get a few nights of peace, isn’t it?’ She leaned over the table conspiratorially. ‘I don’t know a mum who doesn’t, secretly!’
Now the conversation had moved off the distracting topic of the Hall, the nervous misery she’d been keeping at bay crashed back over Katie, swamping all other thoughts. Her heart turned too light in her chest as she thought of Jack, without his snuggler.
Ross still hasn’t returned my call, she thought.
‘Something up?’ asked Bridget, innocently.
Don’t, Katie told herself, fiercely. Hannah’s future teacher is not the person to unburden yourself to.
But who was? Ross was her best friend. He still was, really. He was the person she’d have gone to in the past when she felt hurt and lost, and now she’d never have that again. The loss of it made her feel sick.
‘Are you all right, love?’ asked Bridget. ‘Have I put my foot in it?’
Katie pulled herself together.
‘Actually,’ she managed, ‘I’m feeling terrible. It’s Hannah and Ross’s birthday tomorrow, and I should be there with them, but I have to be at work. For this meeting. They’ll be back on Saturday, but . . . I feel like I’ve let them down.’ Katie bit her lip.
‘Drive over after work tomorrow and have the party then!’ said Bridget at once. ‘I’m sure one late bedtime won’t hurt!’
‘No,’ said Katie, looking down at the photographs. ‘It’s . . . I can’t.’
Bridget paused, in case she wanted to elaborate.
Don’t! Keep it in!
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Then I’m sure Hannah won’t mind having another treat on Saturday,’ replied Bridget, sensing that Katie wanted to glide over something. ‘Lucky her. Will you be coming along to the social dance tomorrow night, in that case? We can drop some hints to the others about the letter writing!’
Katie smiled, gratefully. ‘Yes. Yes, we can.’
‘Do you need a lift there?’
‘No,’ said Katie, getting up from the table. She didn’t have much time before her composure went to pieces again, and kind as Bridget was, she had some pride left. Somehow, not breaking down in front of Bridget gave her enough focus to pull herself together. ‘No, I’ll make my own way there.’
Bridget turned back at the door, her eyes full of concern, as if she wanted to give Katie a final chance to confess whatever it was that was upsetting her, but Katie had a grip of herself.
She smiled firmly and Bridget’s heart ached at the tension in Katie’s tired eyes.
Something was obviously wrong there, but Bridget knew better than to ask. She’d seen so many weary, wound-up mothers over the years and longed to tell Katie that it would pass, but she sensed that wasn’t what Katie wanted to hear. She looked, to Bridget anyway, like someone who would feel bad whatever she did.
‘Thanks for bringing the CD round,’ said Katie. ‘I’ll listen to it in the car.’
‘Thank you for the tea,’ said Bridget. ‘And the nostalgia! See you tomorrow.’
Katie closed the door, and suddenly she was alone in her house again. It was only when Bridget’s car had driven away that Katie realised she’d been too discreet to ask where the four of them had got to last night.
It’s like
being on pause, she thought. I can’t think about anything or take any steps until Ross gets back. Even now he’s being totally passive aggressive.
The text alert bleeped on her phone and she scrambled to read it.
It was from Ross. ‘Kids asleep – worn out. Will get them to call in the morning. Snuggler in tumble dryer is old.’
It was the last part that drove a shard of glass into Katie’s heart.
23
‘I reckon that went well, considering,’ said Eddie, yanking off his tie as he waddled out of the committee room.
‘Considering what?’ Katie demanded.
She was still reeling from the presentation. Not the presentation itself – she’d done loads of them over the years – but by the unsettling way Eddie kept interrupting on key points, hustling her over details, and then putting her right on the spot about other aspects, that he knew she wouldn’t have had time to research.
Like that business with the environmental assessment of the out-of-town site – a process he’d been perfectly fine with just last week.
But curiously, she couldn’t get as upset as she normally would, not when at least half her brain was constantly thinking about Ross and Hannah’s birthdays, and whether they were having a good time and missing her.
‘We’d need more time to prepare findings, yes,’ she’d said, and added, before Eddie could speak again, ‘but I think there are listed-building issues regarding certain areas within the town centre site.’
Eddie had spun round at that, and fixed her with a froggy glare. ‘Nick never mentioned that.’
‘Well, like you say, Eddie, there are always new shoots in the information garden,’ Katie had said, and moved on to the problems of long-lease residential tenants.
Eddie stopped now, in front of the chocolate machine, and fed in a handful of small change from his pocket. ‘It went well, considering your nonsense about listed buildings. I don’t think you understand how much is on the line here, Kate. We’re talking millions.’
‘I said in the meeting,’ said Katie, levelly, ‘I haven’t had time to co-ordinate comprehensive reports. I’m just covering all bases.’