by Mandy Baggot
Samantha was completely taken aback at the tone of Dave’s voice and the way he was tapping his fat finger to his watch as he came to the front doors. She was also a little surprised to see him dressed in a clean white shirt, a brand new Civic Hall waistcoat and a Dickie bow tie. He looked ridiculous, like a circus ringmaster with a gut like a Swiss gym ball.
‘Sorry I’m late Dave, but…’ Samantha began, moving towards him and trying to detach Gobby from her trousers.
‘It’s Mr Gordon to you and I won’t have any excuses about your grandmother being ill or your dog being run over. We run a tight ship here and punctuality is the key to our success,’ Dave boomed loudly.
Samantha looked at him, almost waiting for a punch line to the mad sketch he had just performed. Nothing happened. Dave just stood staring back at her. Gobby let out a loud miaow and hissed at Dave, arching his back in disapproval.
‘Get that matted thing away from the hall. The scrounging beast probably has worms,’ Dave snarled.
Samantha gave Gobby a pat and urged him to leave. Sensing he was going to achieve nothing by staying the cat turned tail and hot footed it up the street.
As they entered the foyer the telephone rang and Dave practically leapt to answer it.
‘Good morning, Woolston Civic Hall, Dave Gordon speaking, the manager. How can I assist you?’
Before Samantha’s jaw could drop open at Dave’s keenness to answer the phone and his jovial, if somewhat elongated introduction, she was aware of someone standing in the doorway of Dave’s office.
A tall, thin man dressed in a grey pinstriped suit was positioned behind the counter, picking up paperwork and studying the charts on the wall. He was carrying a clipboard and marked the piece of paper attached to it as Samantha caught his eye. His expression was unchanged and he reminded her of a pall bearer.
‘Hello,’ Samantha said, looking at the solemn man who continued looking sombre.
‘Good morning. You must be Miss Smith, Samantha Smith. Am I correct?’ the man enquired, peering down at Samantha from above his tiny, gold-rimmed glasses.
‘Yes, I’m Samantha Smith,’ Samantha responded, feeling a little like she was back at school.
‘Good. I’m Radcliffe, Nigel Radcliffe from the borough council - amenities division,’ the man introduced himself.
‘Oh,’ was the only reply Samantha could manage.
‘Your appointment is at twelve, in Mr Gordon’s office,’ Mr Radcliffe informed her and he made another pencil mark on his clipboard.
‘Appointment?’ Samantha queried.
‘Everyone’s being interviewed. We need as much information as possible to report our findings,’ Mr Radcliffe informed her cryptically.
‘Findings?’ Samantha asked again.
‘All will become clear at twelve. Don’t let me keep you any longer, I can hear you’re busy,’ Mr Radcliffe said as the other telephone line began to ring.
He moved away from her and drifted like a ghostly apparition towards Dave.
At least the presence of someone from the council explained Dave’s attempt to look smart and his attitude towards her being late. He was obviously worried about making a good impression. Though Samantha was surprised Dave hadn’t given her a warning about a visit from the council. For all his failings it was unlike him not to want all the stops pulled out.
When 12.00pm arrived she was in the middle of dealing with an awkward customer on the phone. It hadn’t been a good day. Mabel had slipped up on a stray piece of cauliflower cheese in the kitchen and had needed Rest Ice Compression and Elevation, Gobby had sicked up something that resembled curry just outside the main doors and they had had a drunk come in repetitively singing ‘We are Sailing’ and wanting to kiss all the female diners in the restaurant.
She knew Nigel Radcliffe was stood behind her now, the clipboard tight in his hands, waiting. The customer had bought tickets to the pantomime and wanted a refund. Samantha was trying her best to persuade them to exchange the tickets for a different show or take a gift voucher. She could feel Mr Radcliffe’s eyes boring into the back of her neck. She really didn’t need this pressure today, not with everything else that was on her mind, like three thousand five hundred and one iced Berry Fruits and her ridiculous infatuation with Jimmy Lloyd.
Just as she thought she was going to get a result from the caller and they were going to accept tickets for Jethro, she saw Jimmy and Dana come through the doors that led from the arena floor into the foyer.
‘I’ve told you time and time over I’m not doing it! When’s it gonna start sinking in?!’ Samantha heard Dana yell as Jimmy walked swiftly towards the exit.
Samantha turned her head slightly to watch.
‘For God’s sake stop shrieking and go away. I’ve got nothing else to say to you,’ Jimmy responded firmly, stopping in his tracks to turn and face his skating partner.
‘You can’t just walk out! We’ve gotta practice, you know we weren’t one hundred per cent last night,’ Dana carried on, dramatically sweeping back her long red hair.
‘No, we weren’t,’ Jimmy replied in an accusing tone.
‘And what the Hell is that supposed to mean?! It isn’t me who has the problem Jimmy - remember that,’ Dana screamed hysterically.
Samantha watched intently, half expecting a director to shout ‘cut’ and a make-up artist to appear and put shine control powder on both their faces.
Jimmy took a deep breath and then a step back.
‘I can’t be around you when you’re like this Dana,’ he told her coolly.
He turned away from her and proceeded to leave the hall.
Dana let out a frustrated sigh and then turned in Samantha’s direction, looking straight at her. Samantha felt her cheeks flushing and her headset suddenly slipped off her head and fell onto the desk with a loud crash as the cable caught her elbow. Dave’s Brylcream made it prone to slipping and it was even worse if you had conditioned your hair.
She hurriedly picked up the headset but to her dismay the caller was no longer on the other end of the line.
‘Miss Smith, it’s past twelve. I think it might be best if Mr Gordon telephoned that particular caller back don’t you?’ Mr Radcliffe’s headmasterly voice spoke from behind her.
Samantha turned round in her chair and gave the man from the council a sober nod of agreement.
‘Please go through,’ Mr Radcliffe spoke, putting out his arm and indicating towards Dave’s office.
Samantha, somewhat reluctantly, left her seat and walked into the manager’s office. He had certainly made an effort to tidy it up. The in-tray was almost empty, the pen pot was neat, the ‘Tits & Arse’ calendar had been taken down and there was no sign of any leftover food. There were no half eaten pastries or open packets of biscuits in sight. This meant Dave had been well aware of the visit from Mr Radcliffe. She had never seen Dave’s office this tidy - not since his assignation with the confectionary saleswoman. It was surprising that Dave hadn’t mentioned the visit though. She could have bought some flowers, brightened the place up a bit.
‘Please sit down Miss Smith,’ Mr Radcliffe spoke as he entered the room behind her and shut the door.
Samantha quickly sat down in the chair opposite Dave’s desk and watched Mr Radcliffe almost get swallowed up in Dave’s huge executive leather seat as he eased his small, wiry frame down into it. It was like Tom Thumb trying to sit down on a bouncy castle.
‘Now, I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumours about the changes the council are going to have to make, but I’m here today to carry out an official appraisal. I’d like to try and glean some information from you and your colleagues about the Civic Hall and the service it provides to the community. I’ve also been taking a look at the figures to establish if it’s still a viable entity,’ Mr Radcliffe spoke, looking straight at Samantha.
‘Rumours?’ Samantha queried, trying desperately to take in what he was telling her.
‘There was an article in one newspaper about the ac
tion we might be forced to take, due to a drop in budget for leisure and amenities, and about the possible closure of some facilities. But I want to assure you, as I have assured Mr Gordon and your colleagues, that nothing will be decided until we’ve carried out a full and thorough audit of the situation,’ Mr Radcliffe said.
‘Closure,’ Samantha muttered in no more than a whisper, a feeling of dread overwhelming her.
Closure! Closure meant the end of something, shutting of doors, boards going up.
‘Nothing’s been decided yet. As I said, I just need to see which of the amenities is the most cash consuming and which establishment is going to prosper with the revised budget we’ve been allocated in the new ten year vision plan,’ Mr Radcliffe told her.
Samantha felt like she had been stabbed. She could feel the colour draining from her face, her energy ebbing away and a state of paralysis hurriedly creeping over her. Was this what anaphylactic shock was? She’d always wondered. What was next? The inability to breathe? The windpipe closing up? Unconsciousness?
‘I’ve been looking at your sales records, they’re most commendable. But that said, is there anything else, in your opinion that could be done to boost these sales further? Or is there anything here that’s stopping the hall from fulfilling its potential?’ Mr Radcliffe questioned, picking up a pen and preparing to scribble Samantha’s response onto his clipboard.
She hadn’t heard what he said. She hadn’t been able to listen to anything after he had said ‘closure’. The fear was building. The laughter was rising in her stomach, her stomach was rising in her throat and her heart rate had sped up. She could no longer see Mr Radcliffe’s gold-rimmed glasses, nor his face, or his pin striped suit. In fact the whole room was starting to blur. She felt dizzy, sick, and faint, like someone who had spent too long in a hot tub drinking copious amounts of wine.
She laughed out loud and gripped her sides and then she coughed and gasped and tried to stand up. She flapped her arms like an aroused ostrich batting its wings and Mr Radcliffe, shocked and alarmed by her reaction, pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up to assist her.
‘Close the Civic Hall? Are you mad?! You can’t close the Civic Hall! That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard!’ Samantha screamed, as she gasped for breath and clutched at the handle of the door to Dave’s office. Her windpipe was tightening, she was sure of it.
‘Miss Smith, please sit down. You don’t look at all well, perhaps if you just…’ Mr Radcliffe suggested, coming round the desk to reach her.
With all the effort she had left, she opened the door of Dave’s office and struggled out into her workspace. She needed some fresh air. She felt like she was going to vomit, if the vomit could make it past her ever decreasing windpipe space and the breath catching in her throat. Perhaps she could make it outside and puke in the patch Gobby had made, at least that would mean less clearing up to do later.
‘Miss Smith, please come and sit down. I can see I’ve shocked you and I…’ Mr Radcliffe began, following Samantha as she made it out from behind the counter and into the foyer.
‘You can’t close the Civic Hall - you can’t close it because it’s - it’s my life,’ Samantha told him, her face now the colour of beetroot and her breathing erratic.
She felt the foyer spin and her eyes begin to close. The final thing she saw before she lost consciousness was Jimmy coming back through the main door.
Seven
She had nightmares about it. The fear stemmed from sitting all day on the front desk seeing countless elderly people collapse in front of her. It was either because it was too hot or too cold or they had stumbled or their friend had stumbled, causing a domino effect. Now she was going to be the casualty. Now people would be standing around her looking concerned, some hoping she wasn’t going to die in front of them, others hoping she was so they could post a video on You Tube. She didn’t want to open her eyes, she couldn’t. There would be the shame, the embarrassment, Jane in tears and Dave’s awful breath.
‘You missed our date this morning,’ a familiar voice spoke.
She was dreaming! Thank goodness! But no, she didn’t want to dream about him, it was against her rules. If she let the dream carry on she would see the Minstrel eyes and the nice hair and she would smell the mixture of musky eau de toilette and testosterone. She had to wake up.
Samantha slowly opened one eye and caught sight of the nice hair.
‘No!’ she exclaimed out loud.
The volume of her voice convinced her that it was far too loud to be in any dream and that meant the nice hair was really attached to the object of her affection and his presence wasn’t imagined.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ Jimmy asked as Samantha opened both eyes and hurriedly tried to move.
One of her arms was behind her back and the other was propping up her head. As she tried to move all she succeeded in doing was raising her chest slightly and bucking her top half like a break dancer attempting the Caterpillar.
‘Here, let me help you up,’ Jimmy urged, taking hold of her arms and assisting her in getting to her feet.
Everyone was staring. There were a group of people stood around her and she could see the customers dining in the restaurant had all put down their cutlery and were looking in her direction. She had never felt so embarrassed. She couldn’t stay there a moment longer being looked at and pitied.
Without saying another word Samantha hurriedly shook herself from Jimmy’s grasp, turned towards the exit and began to make her escape. She almost got as far as the door. She caught her foot on the matting and fell nose first onto the rough carpeting.
The ice skater was again the first person to reach her and offer assistance.
‘I think you need to slow down. Come and sit,’ Jimmy ordered, helping her to her feet and attempting to guide her back to a seat.
‘No! Look at all those people, looking at me. I can’t stay here, with them, like that - all looking,’ Samantha blurted out, tears welling up in her eyes as she saw customers begin to whisper amongst themselves about her. The pensioners, usually doddery and a concern of hers were now looking over their toasted tea cakes at her, pity in their cataract ridden eyes.
‘Then let’s go sit outside,’ Jimmy suggested quickly. He put an arm around her shoulders and hurried her away from the prying eyes.
‘I don’t need you to help me, I’m fine,’ Samantha said, shrugging his arm away from her shoulders.
‘Your nose is bleeding,’ Jimmy announced.
‘What?’ Samantha queried, immediately putting a hand to her face.
She touched her nose and then let out a scream as she saw her fingers were covered in bright, red blood. And then she felt it on her lips and in her mouth. The taste made her gag. Where was that closed up windpipe when she needed it?
‘Here, sit down and use this. Pinch your nostrils together,’ Jimmy ordered, directing her quickly to the nearest bench.
Samantha took the material that was offered and began mopping up her face. She hated blood, particularly her own. It all stemmed from playschool when Daniel Murphy had played an over enthusiastic game of Doctors and Nurses with a pair of scissors, some fishing line and one of his Action Man’s military bandages. The cross stitch had to be removed at A&E.
‘Pinch your nostrils together hard and keep it like that for ten minutes,’ Jimmy informed her, taking the material from her and holding her hand in place.
Samantha turned her head slightly to look at him and saw, to her horror, he was bare-chested. She couldn’t help but gasp out loud and her hand came away from her nose, letting more blood escape.
‘What are you doing? You’ve got to keep holding it for ten minutes and make it stop or you’ll be going to the emergency room,’ Jimmy ordered her.
‘Where’s your shirt?! You can’t sit here like that! This is a main street!’ Samantha exclaimed in horror.
‘What did you think was mopping up your blood? Come on Sam, keep it pinched,’ Jimmy told her, again using
his top to mop the blood from her face.
‘Please, go and get another shirt. There are shops, just there,’ Samantha told him, pointing and again taking her hands away from her nose.
‘Will you stop worrying about what I’m wearing and keep still?’ Jimmy spoke and he put his hands over hers and pinched her nose together tightly.
With her nostrils held together so tightly she could no longer speak. That meant there was nothing else to focus on but Jimmy’s torso. It was perfection. Not a hair in sight, well defined pecs and abdominal muscles. The combination was certainly an advertisement for ice skating as a form of exercise. And even better, there was no sign of a tattoo or nipple ring. It was the longest ten minutes of her life, sat next to a gorgeous man with no top on, in the middle of the high street, blood stains on her face, mute.
Finally Jimmy let go of her hands and allowed Samantha to stop pinching. He closely scrutinised her nose.
‘I think it’s stopped. Just don’t touch it or sneeze or cough or anything - not for a while at least,’ Jimmy instructed.
‘Well for how long? I mean you don’t always know when you’re going to need to cough or sneeze. What if it happens and I can’t stop it?’ Samantha queried, studying her bloodied fingers.
‘I have a car. How close is the nearest hospital?’ Jimmy asked her, putting on a serious expression.
‘I can’t go to a hospital, I can’t…’ Samantha began, feeling panicked once more.
‘Will you relax? It was a joke. Jeez, is there anything you aren’t scared of?’ Jimmy queried.
‘I’m not scared of hospitals, I just wouldn’t want to waste their time. I had a nose bleed that’s all. Thanks for your help and for your shirt, I can arrange to replace it and...’ Samantha began as she rose to her feet and tried not to look any more at Jimmy’s bare chest.
It was like a Greek Adonis meets the Chippendales.
‘There won’t be any need for that. I never really liked it anyway - unwanted gift. OK, the nosebleed I get, you hit your face on the floor, but the panic attacks are becoming a real issue,’ Jimmy told her, his tone serious.