The Ballroom Class (37 page)

After three hours’ solid reading, Katie knew most of the town centre land had belonged to local landowners, the Memorial Hall-building Cartwright family, whose line ended with Lady Eliza’s three daughters. Little Ada died of flu, and Clementine and Felicity never married. The smart family villa became part of the hospital while most of the land was sold off to pay death duties, some to the council for the housing development and some to a consortium for the shops. Katie knew that when the flats were thrown up in 1954, they’d been the first council housing locally to have fitted kitchens but there had been well-disguised mumblings about the state of the foundations. When she opened the tenth file, her heart stopped in her chest.

The Memorial Hall was right on the edge of the proposed development site, and a Post-it note in Nick Felix’s handwriting had been slapped carelessly on top. He’d scrawled: ‘in recorded disrepair – roof decayed, unsafe heating’. Which was as near to flattening it as if he’d gone round with a bulldozer and driven through the porch with its dusty aspidistras.

An unconscious breath whistled out of her. Could they do that? Surely it was listed. Those stained-glass windows alone were rare enough in Longhampton to warrant protection, and as a subscription building, erected in the memory of Longhampton’s war dead, it had historic importance, surely? It was beautiful!

Katie flicked through the file: there was still so much paperwork – the deeds, notes about ownership, notes about what that area would be used for in the regeneration, but nothing about listed status. The land for the hall had been a personal gift from Lady Cartwright to the Memorial Hall Building Committee, and that was it.

She sat back in her chair and picked up her mug, barely registering how cold the coffee now was. Katie was the last person to get sentimental about buildings, but something about the casual way Nick had just condemned the hall outraged her. He clearly hadn’t been there. He couldn’t have seen the hand-painted friezes, or that incredible old glitterball – and he definitely couldn’t have seen the way it went from simple community hall to a time-machine on the social nights, when those enthusiastic jivers and quicksteppers in all their once-a-week finery transformed the place back to whatever glory it had had in 1955. People
loved
that place. It wasn’t as if it was some manky old prefab scout hut. Even the clanky, freezing loos with that hard toilet paper were like a trip to another age.

Her chest ached as the dancing class flashed in front of her eyes: images of Ross sliding expertly into the steps while she stumbled, of Angelica making her feel hopeless, and of Jo cha-cha-cha-ing, so happily, with her curls bouncing, before Greg ruined everything for her. Katie pushed it all away, and made herself look at the hard facts in front of her.

The developers were planning to build houses around that area. New first-time buyer flats, neat 2-bed units, with rock-solid foundations this time. Shops would be one thing, but houses? How could she, in all fairness, claim a memorial hall that maybe two hundred people used, was more important than council housing? It just wasn’t.

But if they preserved the hall, and built
around
it, she argued, pressing her fingers to her temples, trying to think professionally, it would be right in the middle of a community again. With some upgrading, it could be an arts centre or a performance space – weren’t the Community Arts Committee always going on about how few venues the council made available?

The phone rang and she jumped in her skin, grabbing the receiver and hoping for the first time ever that it was a personal call.

It wasn’t. It was Eddie. ‘Just checking you got those files from Nick?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

‘Still all right for tomorrow? Because,’ Eddie coughed his irritating phlegmy cough, ‘I thought I should check, before the meeting  . . . There aren’t going to be any wrinkles on that town centre site?’

‘Eddie, I can’t tell that yet.’ Katie felt the weight return to her shoulders. ‘I mean, I’ve got some queries, but it’s only meant to be a preliminary meeting, isn’t it?’

‘Well, technically, yes, the main meeting’s Friday next. That’s the one all the do-gooders’ll be at, but this is the real inner circle one, if you like. What I mean is  . . .’ Katie recognised that tone. It was Eddie’s ‘don’t make any problems’ tone. ‘We really want to get this green lit early-doors so the deal can go ahead for this quarter, don’t we?’

We, thought Katie? Who exactly is the we here?

Eddie had some interesting connections when it came to golfing partners. Katie didn’t think she’d be surprised at all if it turned out that he had something to do with the developers buying the land off the council. Properly hidden, of course.

‘If I run into anything I’ll bring it up as soon as I can,’ she said. After all these years, she’d got pretty adept at covering her back, at the same time as being totally non-committal. The trouble was, so had everyone else.

‘That’s my girl,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this for you.’ And he hung up.

Katie narrowed her eyes at the phone, and dialled Ross’s mobile number again, so she could say hello to the kids.

It was turned off. And Jo wasn’t answering hers.

Outside the Abbey building society, with the money transferred and the mortgage set up, Lauren flung her arms round her father, and nearly knocked him over with the force of her gratitude.

‘Thanks, Dad!’ she said, her blue eyes sparkling just like they had on Christmas mornings when she’d been surrounded with parcels bigger than she was. ‘You are so the best dad ever!’

‘Don’t forget your mum,’ Frank reminded her, taking the umbrella so she didn’t have anyone’s eye out with it, waving it around like that. ‘It’s her money too, you know.’

‘I know! Course I’m grateful to Mum too. I’m grateful to both of you – I’m dead lucky.’

But Frank could tell Lauren was already thinking about curtains and carpets – and he couldn’t blame her. It was a bit of a thrill, getting your foot on the ladder. He remembered how he and Bridget had felt, moving into their own first little flat, when they weren’t that much older than Lauren was now.

Twenty-two. It had seemed very old then. Now, of course, Frank thought twenty-two sounded barely out of nappies.

They’d set off walking back to the surgery, so Lauren wouldn’t run over her lunchbreak, when she paused and looked at him. ‘Mum does know, doesn’t she? I mean, you have had a chance to talk to her about this?’

‘Sort of,’ hedged Frank. ‘I told her this morning that you and Chris had the chance to get on this scheme and she thought it was a great idea. A good investment, she said. And I know she wouldn’t like the idea of Irene putting up the whole deposit.’

If Frank was being honest, he hadn’t said much more than that. Bridget had been in a mad rush about her Christmas play meeting, and he wasn’t sure she’d been listening anyway. But it wasn’t like he couldn’t make financial decisions on his own. She had enough on her plate as it was.

‘Your mother and I don’t need each other’s permission to do things!’ he said, and realised he was only half joking. Retirement had put him in the totally new position of being the one without somewhere to go during the day, and it didn’t sit easily.

‘Oh, I don’t mean
that
– I mean I don’t want her thinking I’m moving out in a rush because I don’t like living at home,’ Lauren went on, widening her eyes. ‘I don’t want her getting upset, and taking it personally. Should I get her some chocs or something?’

‘She won’t think that. It’s been lovely having you back, but your mother and I quite enjoy each other’s company, you know. Anyway,’ he said, squeezing Lauren’s arm, ‘it’s only fair to let your old dad sort out the boring stuff for you, what with your mum rushed off her feet with bridesmaids’ dresses and what-have-you. Eh?’

Lauren stopped, and gave him a hug. ‘Aw! Don’t feel left out!’ she said. ‘You’re my dance coach!’ She paused. ‘Come to think of it, maybe that’s what Chris needs. Mum as his dance coach. I don’t think he likes Baxter much, not since he made those remarks about men with earrings. Do you think she would?’

‘I’ll have a word,’ said Frank.

Maybe it was delaying tactics to avoid going back to work, but Katie found herself heading towards the library on her way back from the deli at lunchtime.

Longhampton’s Local History section wasn’t large, but she called up whatever documents they had about the Memorial Hall. There was, it turned out, a whole archive box. And under the harsh yellow strip light, the faded documents and crinkled old silver-plate photographs started to tell a more colourful story to Katie, as gradually, letter by letter, the Memorial Hall sprang to human life in her imagination.

Rather than the building, though, it was the people who’d proposed, designed and built it who emerged. First, Lady Cartwright, white haired despite her young face, dignified and smart in her widow’s weeds, as she chaired the committee of equally firm-jawed, bolster-bosomed Longhampton ladies. Katie read through the minuted discussions about balancing the serious commemoration with a celebration of life; how local materials, and local craftsmen would be used wherever possible. She imagined the labour it would have generated in the shell-shocked town, and the social buzz there must have been on its opening day, the main hall smelling of new wood and fresh paint and polish. Fresh flowers, she read in a note, had come specially from Mrs Clarence Bonnington’s own hothouse, and each stained-glass window had a neatly tabulated copper subscription plaque.

Then there were photographs: a posed row of little girls from the 1930s in sailor suits; a ballet class of skinny post-war youngsters; a black and white snap of Longhampton’s formation ballroom dancers from the 1960s, the men in awkward black tie, and the ladies’ puffball fruit-crème-coloured dresses water coloured in by some enthusiastic hand. More snaps of visiting big bands, a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta from 1948, some teddy boys from 1960, a dark-haired prima ballerina,
en pointe
, her skinny legs tense with effort, but her face shining, no date.

Katie sat back in the library chair with watery eyes – she was getting that proud-to-be-British brass band, male voice choir-inspired wobble. It wasn’t just a building, it was Longhampton’s dusty social heart. There were shreds of that still there in the building – they should be restoring it, not knocking it down!

She signed out what she could, photocopied the rest, then stuffed the thick files into her shoulder bag, and walked back to the office. As she typed and checked leases for the rest of the day, half her mind stayed on the Memorial Hall, and what she could do to save it. What she
should
do, if it was right to save it.

Katie was normally very good at using work to push all other thoughts out of her head, but despite her clandestine scurry of Hall activity, as the clock ticked nearer to hometime, it was impossible. All she could think of, apart from a wrecking ball smashing into the stained glass and it all being her fault, was Jack’s soft face, and Hannah’s almost-a-little-girl attitudes, and at five-thirty on the dot, she scooted out of the office, to be by the phone.

When she got in and saw Jack’s yellow snuggler that Ross had left in the tumble dryer, she had to fight back the desire to get in the car and drive straight there with it.

She stood by the phone with it in her hands.

What would they be doing now? Why hadn’t they phoned? Had Ross remembered to pack Hannah’s Baalamb too?

Stop it, she thought, pushing her hands into her hair. Calm down. There’s no point phoning him in a state and getting into a row.

Katie took off her coat, and poured herself a glass of wine – which she could, as much as she liked, since there was no one else here to look after – and dumped her bag on the table.

Ten to six. Jack’s bedtime, nearly. She couldn’t fight it any more, and rang Ross’s mobile.

When he didn’t answer, she made an effort to sound light and cheerful. ‘Hi, it’s me. Just ringing to check everything’s OK. You left Jack’s snuggler in the dryer, and I know he can’t get to sleep without it, so call me back if you want me to drive over with it.’

That’s stupid, she thought. How could I possibly drive over with it now?

And it sounded bossy.

‘Um, I hope you’re having a lovely time, all of you  . . .’

How could they be, what with both Jo and Ross reeling?
The kids would be picking up on it too. Hannah could sense Katie’s PMT like whales picked up earthquakes – she usually played up, just to join in the shouting.

‘And that the rooms are as nice as they looked in the brochure  . . .’

That’s right, Katie, remind him who paid for it – well done.

‘And, er  . . .’ She was close to tears now. ‘And maybe if the kids aren’t in bed, they could ring me to say they’re all right?’

As she hung up, the front doorbell rang.

A quick, bright hope sprang up inside Katie’s chest. Maybe they’ve come back, she thought, hating herself for her selfishness. Maybe the children missed me so much they wanted to come home! And maybe Ross will be standing there too, and he’ll have sorted himself out, and grown a backbone, and we won’t have to break up after all  . . .

At the door was Mrs Armstrong, from Hannah’s school.