‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ Izz says, but I’m less certain.
‘Even after these initial repairs,’ Mr Collins carries on, ‘it’s uncertain whether the hall will become a functioning community venue again.’
‘The council,’ Scrimengor takes over, ‘conducted a cost-benefit audit over the past year and found the building was only in use for eighty days.’
‘Because it’s freezing most of the time,’ Izz puts in. ‘You just said yourself the heating needs replacing.’ Nobody reacts to this.
‘Then there’s the problem of restoring the mural,’ Scrimengor says. ‘Not an easy or a cheap thing to do. We’d need specialist conservators in.’
‘OK, and can we not do all that and reopen as a community venue?’ comes a voice and, to my amazement, it’s Sully.
Mr Scrimengor is unrolling a large sheet of paper taken from somewhere under his desk and using the still-muted Rodney’s laptop to hold it flat on the table. At the moment, the screen’s showing an extreme close-up of Carruthers’s neck, flushed red with annoyance, as he fiddles with cables and settings.
‘The roof fall is perhaps… timely.’ Scrimengor says, then clears his throat.
‘Timely? How?’ I want to know.
‘Councilman Carruthers, myself, and other members of the council had already begun a consultation with an architect to work out the cost and benefits to the community of turning the village hall into a dwelling.’
‘A house!’ My mouth shouts before my brain knows what it’s doing.
Mr Carruthers is still very close to the camera. I can see he’s speaking too, but there’s still no sound coming out.
‘What Carruthers is trying to say,’ Scrimengor begins, ‘is that the shell of the building, apart from the roof, is in good condition. Isn’t that correct, Mr Collins?’ The hard hat bobs in accord. ‘And perhaps, the only option is, sadly, gutting the place to create units.’
He doesn’t look sad.
‘To sell?’ I say.
‘Of course, to sell.’
‘How many properties?’ I press.
‘Well… perhaps, one?’
‘One?’ Izz butts in. ‘The building’s easily big enough for three or fourunits, if making homes for local people really is your aim here.’
‘Mr Collins has assured me he will have the plans ready for public consultation on Monday.’
‘So a community hall that belongs to a whole village can become one big palace for one person?’ I say. ‘And a rich one at that? Not even flats for the young people who have to leave because they can’t afford a property here, what with all the holiday homes and the surge in property prices?’
Izz is on her feet now. ‘I love…’ she begins before checking herself. ‘We, the people of Wheaton, love our village hall. We’d use it year round if it was warmer.’
‘Put that in the minutes,’ I tell Mrs Slaughter, and she obliges.
Izz plops into her seat again. This is all water off a duck’s oily back to Scrimengor. He’s a picture of calm. ‘I think you’ll find,’ he says, ‘there’ll be more community support for turning a condemned, barely-used building into a watertight, functioning home than you anticipate, Miss Frost.’
The ‘Miss’ is said so sharply I hear everything it implies. You, Miss Frost, twice divorced and single again, are meddling, and no number of little misses can save the hall now.
I’m winded, I admit. While I’m gathering my strength for a second assault, Izz slips me a conciliatory boiled sweet, and Fern timidly raises her index finger.
We all look at her, amazed, and Leo Bold’s teacherly instincts kick in and he gives her permission to speak. ‘Go ahead,’ he urges.
Fern’s voice quivers but it’s loud enough to reach the stage if not, perhaps, Carruthers’s speakers. He’s given up and sat back in his chair with his arms folded like a man who’s washed his hands of the whole thing already.
‘Peopleareinterested in the village hall, actually. My followers are interested,’ announces Fern.
Mr Scrimengor lifts his cuff to look at his watch.
