Page 30 of Lost Souls

After a few moments of scouting around, carefully avoiding the occasional curious rodent, Arnie sees a large, hand-scrawled note on the table.GONE TO MEETING IN VILLAGE HALL. PLEASE HELP YOURSELF TO FOOD OR MONEY.He sighs, half-heartedly rattles a charity can, just in case, then returns at some speed to his recently borrowed dining car.

Chapter Sixteen

For a greedy man, even his tomb is too small.

(Tajikistani proverb)

Arnie Garth hadnoticed the Olde Rough Fell Village Hall –so what’s newe? Everything’s friggin’ olde around here!– when he had last passed through the small market square. He can’t recall why he had noticed it; perhaps he had spotted more of those ancient wooden beams across its front and sides and an instinctive ducking response had kicked in. This time, however, there is a large banner outside that reads,Proposed Rough Fell Leisure Park, Mall and Multiplex – Emergency Meetingand clear sounds of activity from within.

Arnie Garth’s oeuvre has, of course, never beenseen anywhere near a multiplex in its entire sordid life, although Arnie himself has passed many a rewarding couple of hours inside such palaces, watching legitimate mainstream movies and picking up wonderfully poignant and imaginative cinematic ideas he can soil, abuse, defile and degrade.

Yet hold on – he vaguely recalls now that Noreen herself was going on about something to do with multiplexes and malls, wasn’t she? But let’s be honest, who listens? And isn’t that the raspy voice of the lady herself, echoing through the half-open doorway? He can almost smell the cardigans from here.

“…and in conclusion, lovely, kind and wonderful people of Rough Fell…”

Yes, that is unmistakably she.

As he walks in, head sensibly bowed, Arnie can feel age and history, like a noxious emission, begin to clog his orifices and cling to his new-worldly pores. Gazing out towards the front of the hall, he notices an impassioned Noreen Millburn, woolly arms flailing but minus those hazardous charity cans, addressing the packed house from the podium. He has never seen the bobble on her hat bounce so energetically.

Seated behind Noreen are a group of men in smart business suits and an equally well-turned-out young woman with a laptop. They appear to be listening intently, if you can actually do this when your eyes are rolling faster and faster around your head. Arnie can only see the backs of the audience from where he is standing, yet even these appear hostile.

Before he can begin to unravel whatever garbageNoreen Millburn of this parish is currently spouting in her curious brogue, he can sense the genuine and fervent passion of its delivery. Arnie wonders if the speaker might ever willingly let rip such unbridled passion for him. Forget the ‘ever’; stroke of midnight Sunday would suit.

“…I know that you’re all behind me in saying a great big and extremely polite, ‘Sorry but no, thank you very much, Apex Holdings,to despoiling our lovely, unique Cumbrian countryside with this horrible multiplex, bowling alley, pizza parlour, fitness centre and designer outlet complex of yours.’”

She turns round to address the most senior of the guys, a portly, greying man, who sports anAPEX HOLDINGSlapel badge, document case, tie and golfing umbrella.

“No offence to Apex Holdings, by the way, or to you, Mr Edwards. I’m sure you’re all very nice.”

The Edwards person, who doesn’t look particularly nice, makes a smarmy ‘no offence taken, madam, but if you could just quietly go somewhere and die’ gesture, but Noreen doesn’t see it, as she is back addressing her people and her community, the ones who have known her from childhood and knew her parents and grandparents before that.

“So, I ask you now, dear friends and neighbours of so many years, fellow farmers and landowners, lovers of the countryside, devotees of clean air and natural beauty, to stand up from your chairs and raise your voices. Join me, one and all, in making Apex Holdings hear how you feel. Don’t be shy – shout, clap, stamp your feet – let them know we arenotgoing to sell off our priceless heritage for shoddy, short-term gain! Come on! All together! Raise theroof!”

Arnie walks round so he can watch this peasants’ revolt for himself. So far, he is the first and only man standing.

“Now!” says Noreen. “Well, in your own time,” she modifies. “Finish whatever you were doing. No rush… I think we’ve got the hall till three.”

Arnie is now fairly near the front. He spots an empty chair and sits down next to some guy who smells like he might be a local farmer. Or someone for whom personal hygiene isn’t yet a mantra.

After a few seconds, the hall’s newest arrival computes that he is the only person in the room without his arms folded defiantly. Immovably. And in total silence, save for the occasional cough, fart or expectoration.

“Did you hear me, Mrs Davenport?” asks the speaker, just beginning to sound plaintive.

No one will ever know if the aforementioned Mrs D did, in fact, hear this, or at least discern the gist of the argument from Noreen Millburn’s slightly desperate arm-waving. After a few more painful seconds, the large, rusty-haired landlord from the Wordsworth Arms, whom Arnie hadn’t hitherto noticed, rises majestically from his seat at the other end of the front row and turns to the assembly.

“And all those in favour of selling off our lovely, priceless heritage for shoddy, short-term gain?”

The room erupts instantaneously into a deafening surge of cheers and frenzied clapping. Hats, sticks and strings of homemade pork sausages are flung in the air. On the raised dais, Mr Edwards and colleagues permit themselves satisfied executive smirks.

Over the commotion, Arnie can make out the odd, shouted comment:

“Sell up, you stupid cow!”

“Sod heritage!”

“Just let them pull your bloody cottage down.”

But at this point, a sweet old lady, bent over and shaky, using her well-worn stick and the kindliness of a neighbour for support, rises onto her two tiny feet.