It was a low, kidney-colored building, erected in the late 1970s apparently with no aesthetic considerations either inside or out, merely a badly heated shell in which Merham’s One O’Clock Club, Tuesday Social, bingo, and a few mothers and toddlers fought politely for days and space in which to arrange the orange chairs and serve orange squash, cheap biscuits, and tea from its temperamental and oversize urn.
On the walls of its entrance lobby, photocopied sheets of paper advertised a Dial-a-Bus service, a confidential drug-advice line, and a new play session for children with mental or physical handicaps. Plus a smaller notice, unseen by the former DJ, noting that this Thursday’s bingo evening would be canceled. Dominating all these was a new poster, more than twice their size, with
SOS—SAVE OUR STANDARDS
stenciled on in lilac ink. The residents of Merham, it exhorted, needed to call a halt to the damaging development of what it inexplicably called the “actress’s house,” in order to protect its young people and Merham’s traditional way of life.
Daisy looked at this, at the audience of largely middle-aged people with their backs to her, shuffling into seats and looking expectantly at the stage, and fought the urge to turn around and retreat to the relative safety of Arcadia. She was prevented only by the equally terrifying prospect that both Jones’s and Mrs. Bernard’s visions of her were right: that she was weak, spineless, flaky. Not up to it. She hauled Ellie, simultaneously stripping her of Mrs. Bernard’s perennial multitude of layers, out of her pram, tucked it into the corner of the hallway, and then sat as unobtrusively as she could at the rear of the hall while the local mayor, a short, broad man who took evident pleasure in handling his chain of office, with a minimum of fuss introduced Sylvia Rowan.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll keep this short, as I know you’re all anxious to be home.” Mrs. Rowan, resplendent in a boxy red jacket and pleated skirt, stood at the head of the hall, her hands clutching each other under her bosom. “But I’d like to thank you for such a splendid turnout. It just goes to show that community spirit is not dead in some parts of our beloved country!” She paused and smiled, as if waiting for applause, but then, sensing only the dullest murmur of agreement, plowed on.
“Now, I’ve called this meeting because, as you know, we have spent many years protecting Merham from going the way of the likes of Clacton or Southend. We have, despite considerable opposition, always managed to restrict the circumstances in which alcohol can be sold publicly in this town. Some may think us backward, but I like to think we in Merham have kept a certain family feel, a certain standard to our little town, by not allowing it to become just another row of pubs and nightclubs.”
She smiled at a muffled “hear hear,” from the back. Daisy, jiggling Ellie gently, closed her eyes.
“Merham is, I feel, simply one of the most pleasant seaside towns in England. For those who wish to drink, there are the restaurants, run by Mr. and Mrs. Delfino here, the Indian restaurant, and ourselves at the Riviera Hotel. That has always been more than sufficient for our town’s inhabitants and has kept away the—shall we say—rougher elements that are traditionally attracted to seaside towns. But now”—she paused, looked around—“we are under threat.”
The room grew quieter, only the occasional scrape of a shoe or the shrill ring of a mobile phone breaking the silence.
“We are all glad, I’m sure, to see one of our finest buildings being renovated. And I am told by the district planning officer that everything being done to the house is entirely in keeping with its history. Although, those of us who know the house’s history will be wondering quite what that means!” She let out a nervous little laugh, echoed by some of the older people in the room. “But, as you are aware by now, this is not going to be for private use. The actress’s house, as we older residents know it, is going to become a hotel for Londoners. Created by the owner of a nightclub in Soho, no less, who wants a place for his type to stay outside the city. Now, some of us may question whether we really need Soho types headed down here and using Merham as their private playground, but, as if that were not bad enough, the new owner is applying for permission for”—she paused and checked a piece of paper in her hand—“a helipad. So you can imagine the noise
that
is going to create, with helicopters landing at all hours of the day or night. And not just one but two bars, with extended opening hours. So that all sorts can wander around the grounds drunk as you like and quite possibly bringing drugs and who knows what into our little town. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I for one am not willing to stand for it. I think we should lobby our local MP and our planning officer and get them to withdraw permission for a hotel here. Merham doesn’t need it and certainly doesn’t want it!” She ended with a flourish, waving the crumpled sheet of paper above her head.
Daisy glanced around her at the mild noddings of approval and felt her heart sink.
The mayor stood at the front, thanking a flushed Mrs. Rowan for her “passionate words” and asking if anyone else present had something to add. Daisy felt her hand rise and the sudden turning of two hundred expectant pairs of eyes on to her.
“Er, I’m Daisy Parsons, and I’m the designer who’s—”
“Speak up!” came a call from the front. “We can’t hear you.”
Daisy moved into the walkway between the two banks of chairs and took a deep breath. The air was smoky, charged with the mingling of several inexpensive perfumes.
“I’m the designer in charge of renovating Arcadia House. And I’ve listened very carefully to what Mrs. Rowan has to say.” She kept her eyes focused just above their heads, so that she didn’t actually have to see anyone. If she noted their expressions, she knew she would grind to a halt.
“I understand that you feel very strongly about the house, and that’s entirely admirable. It’s a beautiful house, and if anyone wants to come—”
“Louder! We still can’t hear you!”
Daisy closed her eyes. Breathed hard. “If anyone wants to come and see what we’re doing, you’d be more than welcome. In fact, I’d love to hear from anyone who knows the house’s history or its previous inhabitants, because we want to build elements of its past back into the new decor. Although it’s not listed as a historic building, we really are being incredibly sympathetic to the ethos behind its design.”
On her hip, Ellie shifted, her eyes bright and round as glass buttons.
“Mrs. Rowan is right, there is an application in for a helipad. But that would be hidden from the town’s view, would only operate within a limited time frame, and, frankly, I don’t think we’ll end up building it anyway. I’m sure most visitors will just come by car or train.” She looked around at the unmoved faces, and barreled on.
“And, yes, we have applied for licensing for two bars, one inside and one out. But the kinds of people who are going to come to Arcadia are not drunken yahoos, they’re not the kinds who are going to start getting drunk on cheap cider and having fights down on the seafront. These are wealthy, civilized people who just want a gin and tonic and a bottle of wine with their meal. To be frank, you probably won’t even know they’re here.”
“Noise carries from that house,” interrupted Sylvia Rowan. “If you’ve got a bar outside, there’ll be music of all sorts, and if the wind is blowing the right way, the whole town will have to listen to it.”
“I’m sure we can work something out, if you tell the owner your concerns.”
“What you don’t understand, Miss Parsons, is that we’ve seen it all before. We’ve had parties and city types up at that house, and we didn’t like it then.”A murmur of agreement crossed the room. “And that’s without the impact it will have on our existing restaurants.”
“It will bring more trade to your restaurants. To the town.”
Ellie suddenly, unaccountably, started to wail. Daisy began jiggling her, trying to focus on the argument above the abrasive sound of her crying.
“And draw existing trade away.”
“I really don’t think they’re the same sort of market.” Daisy, standing in the middle of the hall, didn’t think she’d ever felt so alone in her whole life.
“Oh? And what are you saying our sort of market is, then?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Sylvia. You know very well that the kind of people who come for Sunday tea at your precious hotel are hardly going to be playing drum and bass or whatever it’s called at some modern bar.”
Daisy glanced to her left to see Mrs. Bernard standing up several rows away, Camille and Hal seated beside her, her husband several seats along. The older woman turned, taking in the faces of those people around her.
“This town is dying,” she said slowly and deliberately, so that the place fell silent. “This place is on its last legs, and we all know it. The school is under threat, half the shops on High Street are boarded up or given over to charities, and our market is shrinking by the week because there aren’t enough customers here to keep the stallholders afloat. Even our bed and breakfasts are vanishing. So we need to stop looking backward, stop opposing every prospect of change, and start letting in a bit of fresh air.”
She looked over at Daisy, who had stuck her little finger in Ellie’s mouth and was rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.
“We might not feel entirely comfortable having newcomers in our midst, but we’re going to have to attract someone if our businesses are to survive, if our young people can build a future here. And better wealthy people from London than no people at all.”
“Wouldn’t have happened if the Guest House Association had still been here,” said an elderly woman in the front row.
“And what happened to the Guest House Association? It died because there weren’t enough guesthouses to make an association worthwhile.”
Mrs. Bernard turned and looked scornfully at Sylvia Rowan. “How many of you have seen your takings or your earnings go up in the last five years? Well, come on?”
There was a general murmuring and shaking of heads.
“Exactly. And this is because we’ve become backward-looking and unwelcoming. You ask the landladies—we don’t even have enough charm to attract families anymore, our lifeblood. So we need to embrace change, not reject it. You go away and think about that before you start trying to pull the rug out from under our new businesses.”
There was a faint smattering of applause.
“Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”
Mrs. Bernard turned to face Sylvia Rowan.
Mrs. Rowan looked her straight in the eye. “That developer has probably paid you enough for the house. And by all accounts he’s paying you still. So you’re hardly going to be impartial.”
“If you don’t know me well enough by now, Sylvia Holden, to know that I know my own mind, then you’re an even sillier woman than you were a girl. And that’s saying something.”
There was some surreptitious laughter at the back of the hall.
“Yes, well, we all know what kind of a girl—”
“Ladies, ladies . . . that’s quite enough.” The mayor, perhaps fearful of menopausal fisticuffs, placed himself firmly between the two women. Daisy, meanwhile, stared at them, shocked at the naked enmity in their faces.
“Thank you, thank you. I’m sure you’ve both given us plenty to think about. Perhaps we should take a vote now—”
“You don’t think we’ve forgotten, do you? Just because no one talks about it anymore, doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten.”
“Mrs. Rowan—please—we’ll take a vote and see which way the land lies before we move on to anything else. Hands up, all those who are against, or shall we say not entirely supportive of, the Arcadia redevelopment.”
“You need to stop living in the past, you silly old woman.” Mrs. Bernard, her voice a stage whisper, took her seat next to her husband. He leaned over, whispered something, and patted her hand.
Daisy held her breath and gazed around the room. Almost three-quarters, by her reckoning.
“Those for?”
She walked over to the pram and placed her protesting daughter inside. She had done what she’d promised. Now it was nearly Ellie’s bedtime, and she suddenly wanted to be at the place she had, in the absence of anywhere else, begun to think of as home.
“Y
OU’RE NOT LETTING YOURSELF GET EVEN MORE
bloody miserable, are you?”
Daisy looked up from her glass of wine. Mrs. Bernard was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, a sheaf of folders under her arm.
Daisy had been lying on the sofa, Daniel’s letter in hand, listening to the radio and feeling even more bloody miserable, as Mrs. Bernard put it, again. Now she pushed herself upright and made room for the older woman to sit down.
“A bit, I guess,” she said, raising a vague smile. “I didn’t realize there was quite so much opposition.”
“Sylvia Rowan’s against it.”
“But there’s a lot of bad feeling. It’s actually a bit unnerving. . . .” She took a deep breath.
“You’re wondering if it’s all worth it.”
Daisy looked down. Took another deep breath.
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to worry about that lot,” Mrs. Bernard scoffed. “Don’t forget, it was only the local busybodies turned up. And those who thought it was the bingo. All those who stayed away probably couldn’t give a stuff one way or the other. And they’ll have a job withdrawing permission once it’s been granted, whatever that silly woman thinks.”
She looked at Daisy, her expression briefly questioning. The casual observer might even have said concerned.
She studied her hands meditatively. “First time I’ve spoken to that family in getting on forty years. You’d be surprised at how easy that is, even in a small town. Oh, they all talk to Camille, of course. She knows everything that goes on around here. But she knows I’m not interested. She keeps it to herself. Anyway . . .” She let out a short sigh. “I just wanted to say you don’t want to go jacking it all in. Not now.”
There was a short silence. Upstairs Ellie moaned in her sleep, the sound sending a ripple of colored lights over the baby monitor.
“Maybe not. Thanks . . . and thanks for coming and speaking up. It . . . it was good of you.”