Make a fuss . . .
‘That’s actually a really good idea!’
‘He does have them occasionally.’ Glenda winked at her.
‘Come on, let’s get packed up. No time like the present. I’ve got black paint, and we can have them dried and up in the window by this afternoon!’
Lilly knew they must have looked quite comical, the two of them, grabbing the paraphernalia that ensured a comfortable session by the river and hurrying along the path, back to the entrance of Waide House with easels, paints, collapsible camping stools, her large Thermos, a jar of water, and her box of brushes under their arms.
‘Slow down! Bloody hell!’ Glenda called, lagging behind.
But Lilly did not slow down; she was on full throttle and raring to go. This idea was the fuel that the fire in her belly needed! Placards! It was genius!
With everything dumped in her flat, and layers removed, Lilly called to her friend, ‘What are we going to write?’ She pulled a large canvas from the cupboard in what was now her art studio, formerly her bedroom, and placed it on the kitchen table.
Glenda clicked her fingers. ‘How aboutLocal homes for local people?’
‘Oh no, no, no.’ She shook her head. ‘That sounds horrifically close to the racist sentiments I hear on the radio. Soundbites offered by morons who don’t understand how this melting pot of a city works, how it’s always worked. No, I think we direct it at the developers, something like ...’ She exhaled, trying to think. ‘Something likePortland and Montague – dismantling our history, destroying our architecture, selling out the poor, putting profit before people,and, erm—’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Lil,’ her friend cut her off, ‘you’re either going to need a much bigger canvas or a much shorter slogan. And besides, you’re not poor.’
Lilly laughed out loud; there it was again, one of Glenda’s favourite topics. ‘No, but a lot of the people I care about in thisdevelopment are. You’re probably right about the slogan. What would you go for?’
‘Hmm ...’ Her friend took a seat at the table. ‘I’d keep it short and say something likeDon’t knock down my home. I like it here.’
Lilly smiled. ‘Do you know, that’s not half bad.’ She liked the simplicity of it, with its twist of drama. It might make people think. If they, too, liked their home, would they want it knocked down? ‘Let’s give it a go!’ She prised the lid from the black paint pot and gave it a stir.
‘You should call the papers too. They’re good at making a fuss.’
Lilly clapped. ‘You’re right, Glend, they are!’
Her enthusiasm helped partially erase the sense of doom that had dogged her since Mr Vaughan’s last visit. It felt good to be doing something – anything! Other than sitting and waiting for the axe to fall.
‘No time like the present!’ Abandoning the tin of paint, she rushed to the desk in the lounge, opened her computer and searched for the number for theGazette...
‘Call me Jake.’The journalist walked straight towards the window. She liked his Che Guevara T-shirt. He reminded her of the long-haired philosophical wannabe boys of her youth. ‘Wow!’
‘Yep.’ She smiled.
‘Wowsers!’
‘Yes.’ She understood.
‘Flippin’ marvellous! That’s some view!’
‘It really is. One of a kind, a bit like Waide House.’ She extended her hand, encouraging the young man to take a seat on the sofa as she sat in the chair opposite, hoping to keep him on track and to get this interview over and done with. It hadfelt like a great thing to call the paper when she was high on the adrenaline of a good idea and with sugar fizzing in her blood. She and Glenda had, between them, eaten almost an entire packet of custard creams. Now, however, as she sat opposite the journalist, who took out a laptop and flipped up the screen, she wasn’t quite so sure.
‘Do you mind if I take notes as we chat?’
‘I don’t mind at all.’ She folded her hands into the folds of her voluminous green linen skirt, which she had paired with a thin, cotton, mustard-coloured jersey over a green and gold striped T-shirt.
‘So ...’ Face set, back straight, he tip-tapped on the keys as if trying to injure them, each stroke loud, severe and, in her view, entirely unnecessary. His art, the opposite of gently waving a brush over canvas, and she was thankful that it wasn’t hers, knowing she’d find this frenzied bashing quite stressful as an occupation. ‘I’m thinking the angle isOriginal resident booted from home to make way for luxury development by big-money investors– kind of thing?’ He looked up at her.
‘Erm ...’ Not for the first time, Lilly doubted her decision to involve the press, concerned by the man’s lack of subtlety. ‘It’s not so much about the big-money investors. I mean, please, yes! Big-money investors,docome and invest in our postcode! We need an improved library, we need breakfast clubs and after-school clubs for little ones, we need sporting facilities for our teens, literacy classes for adults, training and job opportunities, you name it! There’s much we could do with a great big whack of investment!’ She sat back in the chair, watching as Jake stared at the ceiling, his fingers mid-air as if wanting to bash away on the keys but unsure of where to strike.
He tried again. ‘But your gripe is that you’re being booted out?’
‘Gripeputs me in mind of something mealy-mouthed and possibly sounds a little bit woe-is-me, andbootedis a curiously violent word that I don’t really feel applies here.’ She smiled at him.
