‘Right, let’s get this started,’ Scrimengor says, taking a chair from the row and placing it on the stage facing us plebs.
Izz immediately takes a bag of rhubarb-and-custard boiled sweets from her coat pocket and hands them around like we’re at the cinema.
Sully is fiddling about with a power cable, setting up a council-issue laptop in front of his grandad.
‘Wholly unnecessary,’ Mr Scrimengor grumps as a connection is made and we all enjoy the sight of councilman Rodney Carruthers’s nostrils as he struggles with his camera angles all the way down in Devon. His lips are working but there’s no sound at all.
‘You’re on mute, Rodney,’ tolls Mrs Slaughter, pulling a chair up onto the stage and instructing Leo (politely, mind) to please bring her a table of her own so she can keep minutes, and to his credit, he springs to his feet in an obliging manner, hefting a table for her. Young Sully stands up equally as fast to assist him. The men nod to each other once they set it down and, for the very briefest of seconds, I think they hesitate under the other’s gaze, but it’s over before I know it, and they retreat to opposite ends of our row in the cheap seats.
A quick glance at Lucy tells me she saw the spark too, and I smile at her. I wish I hadn’t teased her about fancying Sully that day we went to the cash and carry, but a spell of being single might be just what she needs. Even with all the drama today, she looks better rested than the day she arrived here and there’s some pink returning to her cheeks at last. She’s sucking one of Izz’s boiled sweets. I refrain because I’ll have to speak.
‘You’re still muted, Rodney,’ the secretary says. ‘Have you got your mic switched on? Check your settings.’
We all watch the screen as Carruthers gets up from his spot in front of his computer, revealing to everyone present he’s wearing bright Bermuda shorts beneath a hastily thrown-on, I imagine, shirt and tie. Izz splutters a laugh, Lucy hangs her head out of respect, and I catch Mrs Slaughter’s wickedly twinkling eyes. When he’s down The Salutation, he’s forever banging on about his Devonshire holiday home with its Jacuzzi and sauna room. No prizes for guessing where he was when he got the agenda sent through.
‘Any apologies?’ the secretary asks the room, the picture of professional integrity.
Izz’s eyes are upon me when she says, ‘Patrick Wootton of the gingerbread grotto committee sends his apologies. He’s working tonight.’
Izz told me he’d set off for work once I was soundly asleep, still blaming himself for not reporting the leaked pipe above the cloakroom. He’ll be at Dunham Gravey now, probably feeling rotten about this whole thing.
‘Can we get on with it, please?’ Mr Scrimengor complains. ‘And for the benefit of the minutes, let the record show Mr Collins, the council buildings surveyor, is in attendance as our guest expert.’
Mrs Slaughter makes a note. I stare along the row at the hard-hat and suit-wearing Collins, but he keeps his eyes on the front, a survival strategy learned at planning meetings over the years, I suppose, to avoid irate NIMBYs at war over unruly conifers and boundary disputes. The fight over who’s responsible for the back alley behind Izz’s cafe has been raging for years now, and I’ve seen how heated these things can get. One time, a few years back, Errol Burford launched a chair across the meeting room swept up in a rage about Mr and Mrs Sadler’s Leylandii being an eyesore, despite repeated pleas they cut the thing to a respectable height, and he hasn’t lived it down since.
‘Why am I here and not sorting my delivery men’s pay packets, as I should be right now?’ Scrimengor barks.
Sully looks sheepish and keeps his head down like he doesn’t want people to think he’s with the angry old bloke.
‘Ah! This must be my cue,’ I say. I feel moved to stand up, only I’ve no idea if that’s what you’re meant to do at one of these things, I’ve only been to two or three, but I’m on my feet and everyone’s looking at me, so here goes.
‘I called for this emergency meeting because the community needs to know the council’s plans for the hall. If it’s condemned, does that mean it’s finally getting the extensive programme of renovations and repair it deserves?’
I direct this to the side of Mr Collins’s face, and when he doesn’t look at me, I turn to Scrimengor himself.
Izz stands too and asks, ‘We just need to know, please, if the hall’s ever going to reopen, either as our exhibition space or as a properly restored heritage and leisure attraction for Wheaton.’
‘And, um, we also wondered,’ I add, thinking of the hasty repair job we did on the cloakroom leak, ‘if somebody could shed any more light on what actually brought the roof down, um, please.’
We drop into our seats again. Izz pats my hand proudly.
As I’m catching my breath, the door gusts open and in drifts Fern in a charming kind of Victorian doll nightie, lace-up boots, and a long crocheted cardigan belted with brown leather. She looks more like a flower fairy every time I see her, and the sight of her tiptoeing, pink-cheeked, into a chair on the end of the row warms my heart. The girl really does care about us and our gingerbread venture. You have to give her that.
‘Perhaps my colleague can help answer your questions,’ Mr Scrimengor says, drawing his face into what I think passes for a smile for him. Whatever it is, it’s disconcerting.
His words activate something within Mr Collins who immediately turns in his seat to address me.
‘After concluding a full structural survey this morning, we, as you know, saw fit to condemn the hall,’ he says in a thick Brummie accent. ‘It was found that load-bearing attic beams were badly rotted. We’re fortunate it happened overnight and not when the hall was full of locals.’
I feel Izz’s shoulders drop and I sag with relief. It wasn’t us. We’re not to blame for the roof fall. I want to text Patrick but don’t want to appear suspicious.
‘And will it reopen?’ Izz pushes.
Mr Collins looks to Scrimengor who gives him a nod.
‘The building requires extensive repairs,’ he begins. ‘Obviously, a new roof is required; all the old wood will need replacing. It’ll be under scaffold for a long time. The council has concluded it will need a full electrical overhaul and new plumbing to bring it into line with new building regulations.’
‘Two birds, one stone,’ Mr Scrimengor puts in, his lips contorting once again into an odd smile.
