‘Hey, what is that?’ I shout out, but the crew take no notice of me.
‘It’s a waiver, I think?’ Izz calls back over their heads.
‘Standard permissions,’ I hear Headphones telling her – a little tersely, to my mind.
Within seconds, someone’s counting down, and there’s a lull in the crowd’s murmuring.
‘Good morning, West Midlands,’ the interviewer announces in a sprightly burst. ‘I’m Annabella Gormley, and welcome to Wheaton Village Hall which was condemned last week by the local council who have plans to redevelop the site for luxury properties. I’m joined by…’ – Annabella looks at the notes in her hand – ‘Isobel Armstrong, local lollipop lady. Can you tell me what the hall means to you?’
Izz stares down at the microphone that the woman’s thrust under her nose. The cameraman moves in closer.
‘I, uh…’ she begins tremulously, glancing over to me, helpless here in the crowd. ‘I, uh… I danced here all through my teens. It was a big part of my life. Uh… we would watch movies projected onto the wall of the foyer.’ She shakes her head, frustrated with herself, but the interviewer seems happy with that. She’s already moved on to the next question.
Izz looks breathless. I manoeuvre myself so I can watch what’s being broadcast in one of many little screens stationed around the cameraman. A red ticker tape of headline news runs along the bottom of the monitor while aCotswold’s Focus Featurelogo rotates in the top corner. I throw Izz a thumbs up, though she doesn’t see.
‘Viewers might recognise you as the woman at the centre of a viral video in which you appeal against the hall’s closure. Why do you think the hall should stay open for the community?’
Izz is shaking her head over the mic. She gulps, her eyes darting around across the crowd then back to the interviewer in a silent appeal for mercy. ‘I… I…’ she stammers. ‘The hall is ours,’ is all she manages, before the interviewer, sensing failure, turns away from Izz, leaving her unsure what to do in the back of shot.
‘Also joining us this morning are Councillors Scavenger and Carruthers, the men behind the controversial planning process that could see this historic community asset gutted and turned into luxury dwellings. Good morning, gentlemen.’
‘It’s Scrimengor,’ grumbles the old baker as soon as the camera finds him on the edge of the crowd.
‘How do you feel about Ms Armstrong and her viral fundraiser bringing one hundred thousand pounds in donations from across the world in a matter of days?’
‘Have they?’ gulps Mr Scrimengor, looking a tiny bit impressed in spite of the shock.
‘According to their fundraising totaliser this morning, they have,’ Annabella tells him.
I recall Fern filming the exhibit late last night. She must have posted it already. Could that be the reason for this latest jump in donations?
Rodney Carruthers takes the mic from the interviewer like this is his TV show.
‘That’s not going to be enough to save the hall, sadly. It would require more than double that to carry out the repairs needed and get it up to a standard safe for community events. We’re talking dangerous levels of corroded pipework, falling plaster, ancient electrics and now a perilously water-damaged floor. The place is a death-trap. What it needs is investment with a construction partner willing to plough in funds. We’re working with the very best architects to see our planning application come to fruition and conserve this magnificent building for generations to come.’
‘Yes, the shell, maybe.’ Izz steps up, surprising me with her courage. ‘You want to gut the place. It won’t be a community space any longer. We want to be having clubs and sports and parties and dancing here for another seventy years.’
The small crowd cheers.
Annabella turns back to Izz with a gleam in her eye like this woman isn’t quite the lost cause she thought she was. ‘Ms Armstrong, there’s been much speculation about the whereabouts of one village resident, Alexi Thorne. I’m hearing in my ear that the studio are running some of that viral footage of the pair of you now, so if any viewers have been sleeping under a rock and don’t recognise you, they’ll be able to see the video. You were romantically linked with Alexi Thorne? Are you hoping for a reunion now you’ve made Wheaton famous?’
‘What?’ Izz gasps, her hand at her chest, all her confidence bursting like a bubble.
‘And what do you say to rumours that the claims made by some members of the public online, that Alexi has been located living in England, are merely the work of malicious trolls?’
‘Trolls?’ Izz repeats.
‘Hoaxers? Liars?’ Annabella presses.
‘That’s enough,’ I shout, barging through the crowds and up the hall steps to rescue my friend.
Patrick, refusing to drop my hand, comes with me and we form a sort of human shield between Izz and the interviewer.
‘And who are you?’ the woman asks me.
It’s at this moment I realise the camera is right in my face. Upon the monitor over the cameraman’s shoulder, I see myself plastered with yesterday’s mascara in Alice Cooper streaks down my face. My Avon extra-lasting lipstick in ‘Devil Red’ has, since I reapplied it at nine last night, made its way across my mouth in a wide smudge, and my hair is tufted up at the back where I slept on it. I’m trying to sort it out with a rake of my hands and a tissue scrubbed at my face but the damage is well and truly done and there’s a mic in my hand somehow.
‘Thanks for asking, um, Annabella. I’m Margi Frost.’ I look at the crowd and not the camera. ‘My mum set up the Wheaton gingerbread village display to fundraise for the community over sixty years ago.’ I’m getting into my stride now. ‘The grotto was staged here in Wheaton Village Hall until it was condemned by the council, and now me, Izz and Patrick here, we run the gingerbread village together. All of Wheaton got involved this year and we’re set up at our temporary venue in the school gymnasium where friends of the Wheaton Village Hall are still queueing up to drop off their gingerbread bakes to add to our wonderful display.’
