Martin Cresswell looked impressively happy for a man recently fitted with a testicular prosthesis, thought Graham.
“Item 6b, Spending the grant,” Martin said, then beamed.
There was a service bell on the table. Martin hit it and grinned.
Graham opened his laptop.
Nine years, he thought. I’ve been doing this for nine years.
The light rain sounded more like hail on the village hall’s slanted glass roof.
There were six of them around a table, one better suited for displaying second-hand Maeve Binchy novels and CDs by Mike and the Mechanics. In the middle of the table was a plastic plate of Tunnock’s Tea Cakes.
None of the chairs matched.
Martin was at the head of the table, standing, talking, leading the discussion on flooring options.
Graham was at the bottom of the table, taking minutes.
Paula Stokes was to Martin’s right, clasping a clipboard.
To Graham’s right was Jenn Arkwright, arms folded, looking bored.
Completing this tableau of the emotionally unfulfilled were a couple in their sixties, Derek and Pat. They both wore knitted cardigans. No one could remember a time when they were not councillors, a meeting they had missed, or any contribution they had made.
Martin moved behind Derek and put his pinkish hand on his shoulder. Graham was reminded of the times he had been an invigilator for GCSE exams at the local comp. He and his fellow invigilators had designed a game to help them through the silent tedium. They would set each other challenges like on your next pass of the hall, go and stand behind the kid that you think is most likely to end up in jail. Martin looked like he had been briefed on the game and challenged to stand behind the person most likely to spend most of their time in their garden shed, thought Graham.
“I think what we need to recognise that this is an opportunity. A real opportunity. It is not just a chance of a new floor. No, no, no. This is an opportunity for the village to… for the village to… be proud of itself. To… show a bit of leg, if you like,” said Martin.
Did Jenn just mutter something? Graham looked at her. She no longer looked bored.
“Something to add, Jenn?” Martin said, moving toward her.
“No,” Jenn said.
Graham wrote: Cllr Arkwright expressed agreement.
He looked at what he’d typed.
He looked at Martin, his fingers hovering over backspace. Then dropped them.
The grant was £18,400. Paula had discovered it, shared the news, then shared the news again, and again, and again.
The question of what to do with it had fractured the council into two positions.
Martin wanted engineered oak flooring, a projection screen, a mural by a local artist (Paula knew someone), and a plaque acknowledging the councillors who had “driven” the renovation.
Graham had written a counter-proposal: address the damp, replace the roof insulation, fix the heating system that failed every February and spend the remaining change on chairs that didn’t make unnerving cracking noises during the meeting.
“Graham’s proposal,” Martin said now, carefully, as if handling a crystal sherry glass, “is very practical. Very practical. I think we all appreciate that.”
“Thank you,” Graham said.
“I just wonder if practical is what the village needs right now.”
“What does the village need right now?”
Martin smiled. “Something to be proud of.”
Graham thought: you mean a statue of you.
He wrote: Cllr Cresswell outlined the vision for the project.
“I want to say,” Paula said, leaning forward, “that I’ve spoken to the artist, Petra, and she’s so excited about the idea of telling Bramley’s story. She grew up two villages down.”
“That’s local,” Derek said. Everyone looked at him. Pat swivelled and stared. Derek looked embarrassed and shifted himself. The chair made a cracking noise.
“Exactly,” Paula touched his arm. “Someone we know. That we can trust.”
Graham watched her work the room. He envied her enthusiasm even if he thought it was mischannelled. She was good at this. He felt small.
Jenn passed him a note: If they put a plaque up with Martin’s name on I am going to eat it.
Graham wrote back: High in minerals.
She snorted. Martin glanced over. Graham looked at the screen in front of him.
Martin hit the service bell with the palm of his hand.
“Right then, folks, let’s vote,” said Martin as he walked behind Graham, stopping directly behind him, looking at the laptop.
“All those in favour of treating the damp etcetera, raise your hands,” Martin said.
Graham raised his hand; Jenn followed. There was a pause.
Derek looked at Pat.
Pat looked at Martin.
No movement.
“Right, that would be two for the damp. Now, all those in favour of oak and an original mural created by an artist who is one of ours, raise your hands.”
First was Paula. Derek and Pat followed, together. Martin moved from behind Graham and, from the head of the table, raised his hand, while grinning at Graham.
“I believe that seals it. A triumph for pride over practicality.” Martin reached for a Tunnock’s Tea Cake and peeled off the foil. He looked at Graham, smiling, and held the tea cake like a communion wafer, before inching it into his mouth, whole.
Graham had a vision of himself, bed-bound in a hospice, unable to talk. His only visitor was Martin, standing over the bed, lowering a Tunnock’s into his mouth, hovering his hand over a service bell, ready to ding-ding Graham gone.
“Sealed it is,” Graham said, and typed.
Paula was already on her phone.
Martin clasped hands with Derek, who looked like a dog having its tummy rubbed.
“Thank you, both,” Martin said to Pat and Derek. “See you Sunday morning.”
Pat smiled, nodded.
Jenn was pulling on her coat. She looked towards Graham, but Martin blocked her view.
“Great meeting, great meeting,” Martin said, stopping beside Graham.
“Hm,” Graham said.
“I know it’s not how you wanted things to go.”
“We still have damp.”
“We’ll address that. Next time.”
Graham looked at him. Martin’s face was entirely sincere.
That was the worst of it: the sincerity.
“Right,” Graham said.
Martin clapped him on the shoulder and went.
Graham took the final two Tunnock’s.
He was last out. He always was, locking up, returning the key to the hook in the small kitchen that smelled of Mellow Birds instant coffee. He stood for a moment at the empty table with his laptop open.
The minutes were almost done. He scrolled back through them.
Cllr Arkwright expressed agreement.
Cllr Cresswell outlined the vision for the project.
He read the rest. It captured the votes, the names.
Graham put his cursor at the end of the document.
Typed, then deleted it.
Typed again. Deleted.
He read: Cllr Cresswell outlined the vision for the project.
He closed the laptop and sat in the dark of the village hall, listening to the rain. It just fell, evenly, on the slanted roof and the space in the car park where Martin’s Range Rover had been.
Graham picked up his bag.
On his way out, he paused at the noticeboard by the door. A flyer for a coffee morning, six weeks old. A lost cat: ginger, answers, apparently, to Fred.
A printout from the council’s website, slightly curled, showing the grant announcement with a quote from Martin about the importance of community investment.
The quote was real. Graham had checked it when it was published, half-hoping to find something to contest. It was exactly what Martin had said, word for word, in the meeting where they’d discussed applying for the grant. Graham shook his head.
The minutes, when he emailed them to the clerk in the morning, would say that the council had met, that a decision had been reached, that all present had participated in good faith in the governance of Bramley-in-the-Marsh.
He’d been taking them for nine years.
He turned off the light and went to his blue Honda Civic. Empty triangular sandwich packets filled the passenger footwell.
He took two Tunnock’s Tea Cakes from his pocket and rolled them together in his hand.
He unwrapped one, took a delicate nibble, then wolfed the rest, chewing with his mouth open.
He held up the remaining Tunnock’s.
“Let’s hope this is your real one.”
He made to crush it.
He stopped.
He put it back in his pocket.
If you think this is a damn fine piece, of writing, maybe you could buy me some Tunnack’s.