Trouble in the Town Hall (6 page)

So that, by the time I had fed my tyrants and myself, dressed in proper summer clothing (wool sweater and skirt), and put a bucket under the leak, I was in no sweet mood. I'd called my landlord's answering machine with little hope of a prompt response. Though keeping the roof in repair was clearly his responsibility, he'd been dodging my calls for some time, hoping I'd take the house off his hands soon. Well, I was doing all I could, dammit! Muttering to myself, I splashed across the Close to the bookshop.

Mrs. Williamson was puttering about the shop, replacing stock, dusting a shelf of poetry that was seldom touched. “Good morning, Dorothy. Frightful morning, actually, isn't it? We shan't have many customers today, I shouldn't think. Now tell me, how is poor Clarice? I couldn't quite make out just what sent her into such a tizz.”

“I'm not sure myself, but I think she was afraid her husband was going to get into trouble. I left her in Mrs. Finch's capable hands—d'you know Mrs. Finch?” She nodded. “Anyway, Clarice was very shaky when I last saw her. Have you heard from her this morning?”

“Mr. Pettifer rang up last evening to say she wouldn't be in, so I arranged for a substitute, though with the weather what it is, I doubt she'll be needed.”

“Well, I'd better hang these things up before I drip all over the stock, and then we'll see what there is to do.”

As I put my yellow slicker and hat on the peg in the staff room, Barbara Dean sailed in and my heart sank.

I don't know if Mrs. Dean (she's another one I don't dare call by her first name) set out deliberately to imitate Margaret Thatcher, or if they're just naturally sisters under the skin, but I do know that if Lady Thatcher ever wants a double she need look no farther than Sherebury. The resemblance extends far beyond the helmet of gray-blond hair, the rigid carriage, the steely eye; I haven't the slightest doubt Barbara Dean could run the country quite as efficiently as she runs the Sherebury Preservation Society and several other worthy organizations. She can be utterly charming when she wants to, but her ruthless capability reduces me to quivering jelly.

“Good gracious, Mrs. Martin, you are wet, aren't you?” She looked pointedly at the puddle forming under my slicker.

“Oh, dear, I suppose I should mop that up.” And why couldn't I say that being wet is a normal consequence of being out in the rain? Perhaps it was because she appeared to be only a bit damp around the edges. Typical.

“And how is your planning application coming along?” she inquired, shooting her perfectly furled umbrella into the stand. “I assume you are nearly ready to submit it?” She sits on the City Council, naturally, and its Planning Committee.

“Well, no, actually, I can't seem to get anyone to come and talk about what I want to do. And now the roof is leaking, and—”

“Oh, but that can't be allowed.” I knew she'd blame me. “You must deal with that at once, mustn't you, or there will be structural damage.” It was her best headmistress tone.

“Yes, but I
can't
deal with it.” Frustration bubbled over and I dared argue. “I don't own the house yet, so it's still the landlord's responsibility—and he's avoiding me because he hopes I'll be taking over soon. But until I get planning permission—
and
listed building permission—”

“No, no.” She waved her hands impatiently. “Simply to repair a roof you need neither, so long as the appearance isn't altered, of course. And you needn't consider your landlord. He is obliged to maintain a listed building; if he avoids his obligations, he can be made to comply. No, your real difficulty lies with the contractors, apparently, who refuse to provide you with plans and an estimate.”

“Well, it isn't exactly that they refuse, they just haven't gotten around to—”

“Quite. Obviously you must find someone else.”

“There isn't anyone else. I've checked with every—”

“Nonsense. There's always someone, if one looks in the right place. I shall ask the secretary of Planning Aid to phone you this afternoon; I'm sure she'll be of help.”

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.”