Trouble in the Town Hall (7 page)

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?

“N
OW, 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 was 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.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Farrell,” said the Lord Mayor. “Would you like to try again?”

“What I've got to say is soon said. There's no need for all this talk. I've had a proposal on the table for nearly a year now to build a proper mall, with proper parking and access, at the old hop farm on the A28. There's your new clientele, Mavis. There's your traffic; you all know how much traffic the A28 carries every day of the week. No need to put the Town Hall to a silly use that was never intended. Preserve it; take the shopping out of town, where people want it nowadays. Everyone's pleased.”

Mr. Pettifer didn't look pleased at all, and jumped up to reply, but the Lord Mayor motioned to him with a frown, and he sat down, folding his arms across his chest, the alarming color rising again in his face.

There was a stirring in the group of workmen and then a middle-aged man with sparse gray hair, evidently chosen as their spokesman, forced his way out of a tightly packed row of seats and moved to the microphone.

“I'm Jem 'Iggins, Yer Worship,” he said, grasping the mike stand uneasily in gnarled hands. “And like a lot of us 'ere tonight, I'm out of work. And what me mates and me got ter say is, we don't none of us care where they builds whatever they're goin' to build, so long as we 'as a part in it. But it 'pears to us as if the work would be double, like, if they was to do them repairs to the Town Hall
and
build their shoppin' mall someplace else. And it stands to reason, don't it, that if we 'as more money, we'll spend more money, and that's good for trade, too. And—that's all.”

He turned away abruptly to an approving chorus from his mates, and now everyone was eager to speak. A few malcontents grumbled about various aspects of the problem, and a few more wandered far from the issue at hand, arguing about everything from civic government in general to environmental issues to animal rights, but most of the comments reiterated support for Mrs. Dean's preservation efforts, and the audience grew restive,

I stopped listening and concentrated on watching Pettifer. His color had returned to its normal hue, but his expression had set in a hard half smile. He had lost this battle, and he knew it, but he hadn't given up the war. Too good a politician to try to sway a crowd that had so obviously turned against him, he nevertheless sat erect in his chair, looking each speaker defiantly in the eye. Some of them faltered in mid-speech, and Pettifer looked grimly satisfied each time.

Finally the Lord Mayor decided to call a halt. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I think we have been able to air this matter thoroughly, and I thank you for your time and patience, and for your courtesy in listening to other points of view. You understand, of course, that as the Town Hall is a Grade I listed building, the Secretary of State will make the ultimate decision about its fate, but you may be sure he will have a report of this meeting. I notice, Mr. Thorpe, that you have made no contribution, and wonder if there is anything you would like to say to close the meeting.”

A bulky sort of man got up and moved back a row or two to the nearest mike, a used-car salesman smile on his face. “I have nothing to add, Lord Mayor. My name, for the record, is John Thorpe, and I am an estate agent.” He said it as John Gielgud might have said “I am an actor.”

“I feel it would be inappropriate for me to comment, since I am likely to be an interested party in dealing with leases for any new mall. I'm sure that all plans put forward today have merit, and simply wish to say, may the best man—or woman—” he sketched a little bow to Mrs. Dean “—win!” He turned away without looking at Pettifer, who was glaring balefully.

“Very well, then, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all again and declare this meeting adjourned.”

I creaked to my feet, stumbling a little. A steadying hand caught my elbow.

“Alan! Bless you, I thought my joints were going to give out on me altogether. My bones do not appreciate two hours of this kind of chair. What are you doing here? I didn't see you when I came in.”

“No, I drifted in late. I like to keep my finger on the community pulse, you know, especially when it's getting a trifle feverish—to mix a metaphor. What did you think of the meeting?”

I shivered a little. “It's very different from this sort of thing in America, of course. We'd have everybody yelling at each other. This was all very polite, but it was that terrible English politeness that can feel like being slammed into a meat locker. To tell the truth, it scared me a little. I can see why you're worried. Those workmen were ready to do something drastic, if Barbara Dean hadn't handled them so well—did you get here in time for that?”

Alan nodded. “Played them like a violin, didn't she? Stirring them up to a nice crescendo and then calming them down. A remarkable lady, our Barbara.”

I shivered again. “And that Mr. Farrell scares me.”

Alan hugged my shoulders. “You've been watching too many old horror videos, is your trouble. How about a drink to take the bogeyman away?”

“And a sandwich—I feel in need of sustenance. Alan, Mr. Pettifer isn't going to take this sitting down, I could tell. He was ready to kill that man Thorpe.”