Working Wonders (29 page)

Arthur turned to the others, who were eyeing him suspiciously. ‘
No
, there wasn’t anything else in the envelope we were sent. Unless somebody has been secretly opening the post and eating the contents.’

Sandwiches gave his most innocent look.

Suddenly Gwyneth caught sight of someone getting into the lifts at the far side of the lobby.

‘Oh crap – look,’ she said.

Ross waved at them as the doors of the lift started to close. ‘I’m sure you’re not carrying any hazardous materials,’ he said, ‘but I thought I’d better warn the staff just in case.’

The doorman’s supervisor, who looked to be about six foot five, was on his way over.

One hour later, slightly uncomfortable after a fairly thorough search, the five made it up to the waiting room. Ross and Dave sat killing themselves laughing in a slightly over the top fashion.

‘You pigs,’ said Rafe.

‘Leave them,’ said Arthur. ‘They’re not worth it.’

‘All’s fair in love and business, mate,’ yelled Ross.

‘This isn’t business!’ said Arthur. ‘This is service. There’s a difference.’

Ross leaned forward. ‘What? What are you talking about? What century are you living in? You take this money from whatever you like, boyo, but it’s still about getting the punters through the doors, to look at whatever their plebby little hearts want to see. It’s about money in and that’s all. And if you can’t see that, you’re a bloody idiot.’

The two men stared at each other, colour running high. Finally Arthur sat back and shook his head.

‘I feel sorry for you,’ he said simply.

‘You won’t,’ snarled Ross. ‘When I’m waving at you queuing in the job centre, scratching your scabies and wondering if you could afford one Viagra tablet to remember what an erection felt like.’

‘Mr Maudrin?’ said a young receptionist. ‘They’re ready for the Slough delegation.’

‘Right, love,’ said Ross. He got up, and, suddenly, winked at Gwyneth. ‘I’m sure we could find some room for you though, darlin’.’

The Coventry group sat, bored and adrenalin-fuelled at the same time, in the large waiting area on the thirty-fifth floor. Alongside them there was a German party, who were still having a sensible, reasoned conversation about – well, Arthur couldn’t tell, but certainly no-one was slagging off anyone else’s dog’s behaviour, or attempting to sleep with people. Likewise the Italians, who seemed entirely and hopelessly nonchalant about the whole thing. In his head, Arthur compared Coventry to Verona in a cultural competition. The results, even in the head, did not really bode well. Meanwhile, Marcus and Sven were arguing again about whether or not it would be possible or tasteful to have giant truck wars on the ice. Rafe and Gwyneth had their heads together, deep in conversation. Arthur thought he wouldn’t have to get much closer to hear the phrase ‘light railway’.

Custard creams, small unpleasant mints in glass jars, lime and orange cordial – all were consumed, refilled. Mouths felt gritty, heads stuffy with the air conditioning and the knowledge of the ordeal to come. Sandwiches snoozed happily on the fake fibre carpet. If the Slough party – the only other British attendees – had come out, they had done it a different way. Now a crowd of insultingly tall and attractive Scandinavians were filing in, speaking loudly and confidently. Arthur ran over his speech for the eleventh time. Perhaps just as well, he thought, not to have gone with the jesters and minstrels. Might not have gone down so well here, in a world of quietly whispered petitions and hushed corridors, where unimaginable amounts of money, for unimaginable purposes, were whisked back and forth, invisible. Perhaps, Arthur thought unhappily, perhaps Ross was right after all. These were money people; grant givers, life changers. Nothing idealistic was going to impress them. Hard-headed, EU PLC … oh God. Maybe they’d got everything wrong, at every step.

‘The Canterbury panel, please?’ said the young receptionist. They sat there, until she coughed and said, ‘Sorry – I mean, Coventry.’

‘Well, that’s a good start,’ said Arthur.

He moved to the door.

‘Sir, you can’t take that dog in there,’ a receptionist was saying to Sven.

‘He’s my guide dog,’ said Sven. ‘I have no sense of smell.’

The receptionist breathed in deeply. ‘Well, that’s obviously true,’ she said.

Sandwiches concentrated very hard on being well behaved.

‘All right, then.’

And she shepherded them down the corridor and into the main boardroom …

Walking through the door was an extraordinary experience. Everyone hesitated and blinked. The people in the room were obviously expecting this reaction and smiled patronizingly. Outside, they had been sitting in a bland corporate reception, with basic leather sofas, beige carpet and floor-to-ceiling windows.

They had just stepped into a Georgian drawing room.

Sash windows were gently lit by wall lamps. The walls were moulded plaster, painted soft shades of white and eau de nil. A huge wooden fireplace dominated the far end of the room, its beautiful proportions framing the perspective. A fire burned in the grate.

Oil paintings hung on gold chains from the picture rail, and in front of them was a seemingly endless table, polished so sharply it looked like a mirror. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble and a lot of expense to bring this here, and wanted you to know it.

Standing on the threshold between what felt like the new world and the old, Arthur felt caught, like a child in front of the headmaster. He squeezed his eyes shut. What would his slightly more famous ancestor have done in the circumstances?

Slain a dragon, he expected, smiling ruefully to himself. He stepped forward, first out of the group.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the man at the centre of the panel on the far end of the skating-rink table. ‘I’m Jean-Luc d’Aragon.’

Afterwards, Arthur could only shake his head whenever he thought about it. It was such a stupid coincidence, he nearly laughed out loud. Again there were three figures seated at the end of the table. But these ones didn’t talk, or rudely ask what he was doing. They didn’t seem to react at all to anything, but sat calmly, unhurriedly, waiting for Arthur’s motley band to organize themselves.

‘Hello,’ said Arthur, finally. He introduced himself. ‘I’m leading this project … with Gwyneth Morgan.’

D’Aragon looked at them. A tall, saturnine Frenchman, he had very fine features; it looked like the planes of his face were pulled back from his nose, which was pointed. He looked at them as if there was nobody there.

‘Welcome then,’ he said. ‘I’m chairman of this panel, I am from Brussels,’ – his accent was so faint as to be almost undetectable – ‘and these are my colleagues, Miss Hauns and Mr Obute.’

Both nodded slowly.

‘If they ask us three riddles I am
so
out of here,’ said Gwyneth. Arthur was suddenly thinking the same thing.

‘Well, maybe
this
time they’ll ask some proper algebra,’ said Marcus.

But they didn’t. That was the curious thing. They sat and watched – not even taking notes – as Arthur fumbled with the overhead projector; as Marcus set out clearly their financial implications and projections; as Sven tried to convey just how necessary to life was a good ice-maker; as Rafe waxed lyrical over his admittedly beautiful, if entirely fictitious photographs of what Coventry would look like if it was turned into a city of light. There were statistics of people input, parties, festivals, fireworks – the maze was shown, and Rafe even had a video of people running through his cress fascimile, which had eventually – but after a remarkably long lifespan for underfoot cress – succumbed to frost.

Gwyneth spoke of the city; Le Corbusier and Walter Moses; the post-war rape of the town that many considered worse than what the Luftwaffe had done. The renown for ugliness and the longing for improvement. She talked about public art and the Angel of the North, La Defence, the failures of the London dome, and the strength of the community. She was magnificent. Arthur looked at her, full of pride and love.

‘And,’ she finished, ‘it’s just an addendum, but we would love to provide some sort of alternative to driving to these attractions. Something along the lines of a light railway.’

Arthur was so surprised he nearly contradicted her there and then. Rafe beamed. None of the judges so much as indicated they had heard.

Arthur stepped up to the lectern, feeling quietly confident. ‘Thank you for listening,’ he started, tentatively. ‘I think you can see from this … We’re a really committed team, and we know exactly what we want to do in Coventry. I don’t want to repeat what my – ahem – colleague has said, but, if you look at Glasgow … and, erm …’

Suddenly, it was as if a cold wind blew through him. He started, put off his stride completely. His words had run out. What had seemed so clear and passionate in his mind about what he wanted to say had deserted him. The others were still looking at him expectantly.

D’Aragon was staring straight at him, with a disapproving look. Arthur felt his mouth grow thick and sticky. This couldn’t be happening. This was
not
the time to get stage fright. He had things to say, goddammit. People’s jobs were depending on this. His bloody town was depending on this. And these … these people, that bloody dragon man, whoever the hell he thought he was, just sitting there … and he was supposed to be impressing him. But maybe he couldn’t impress him! Maybe he wasn’t the leader after all! Maybe he wasn’t destined to do this. Because if he was, he wouldn’t be making such a bloody hash of it now, would he?

This flashed through his mind in seconds, although it felt like hours. The others started to look at him with some concern. The judges showed no change of expression whatsoever.

Arthur desperately tried to swallow his panic. He didn’t feel as if he could tear his eyes away from d’Aragon’s face.

‘So what I’m trying to say is …’

What was he trying to say? It seemed confused in his head; or a silly thing to want to do, or a waste of time, or a pointless lie, or, or …

The silence was definitely lengthening now. Somebody cleared their throat quietly. Arthur felt so
stupid
. The tension levels in the room were sky-high. Transfixed by the judge’s eyes, he could still feel the others’ gaze upon him, concerned and frightened. He was frightened. What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he catch his own tongue and …

God, he remembered Lynne saying something: not to worry about the dragon. Well, she was bloody wrong, wasn’t she? Here he was, making a Big Idiot out of himself, and his entire department, and … the sweat was bursting out of his forehead … He thought of Lynne suddenly. She would be so disappointed in him. He tried to remember what she had said – that these men were neutral, that was all.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there came a very soft sound, almost inaudible. Sandwiches’ head whipped up and he looked towards the door. D’Aragon’s eyes briefly flickered in that direction. It was only for a millisecond, but his hold on Arthur was broken at last.

Arthur staggered backwards, as if he had been hit. What did he think he was doing? He was only giving a speech, for goodness’ sake. He’d done it a hundred times before – albeit for less lofty aims – and he’d do it again, and he really had to get over himself. He almost laughed in disbelief.

The sound grew louder, though it still wasn’t loud. It was now, clearly, the faint timbre of a lute playing. The minstrels must have got in after all, thought Arthur, shaking his head. They must have found out about the meeting and decided that they were required to accompany the speeches. Well, they were right.

He cleared his throat and stepped forward once again.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Anyone who doesn’t want to be part of this project – the biggest, the most important thing that has ever happened to our town – they can go. I include everyone,’ he nodded at the judges. ‘But I want to be able to tell my children that one year I was there at the best thing that ever happened to Coventry, that made people believe in it in a way they couldn’t have imagined. And that it wasn’t the easiest thing we ever did. But I feel sorry for every Coventry man and woman that won’t be doing it with us.’

The music began to swell to a crescendo, and he raised his voice.

‘I want, every year that goes by, for people to remember Coventry and what it meant to us. There aren’t many of us, but we will struggle, and work, and create something to remember, so that in one year – when our names are forgotten and everything is past – it won’t be forgotten that Coventry did something and it meant something, and it was all because of you and it started today.’

Arthur found he was pounding his fist on the lectern, and that he was faintly out of breath.

The music faded away as quickly as it had begun. Unbelievably, the others applauded quickly. Then stopped abruptly and looked round, faintly embarrassed.

‘Yeah,’ said Arthur. ‘Well, um, thanks.’

‘Sorry about the musicians,’ said Arthur to the young receptionist.

She looked up at him in confusion.

‘What musicians?’

They were directed to a large room at the top of the building, where all the prospective teams were waiting to hear if they would be called back. A faint aura of anxious sweat was overlying the carefully applied deodorant, the new shirts and expensive aftershave. One of the teams – Arthur couldn’t tell where from – Turkey perhaps? – was going through their entire presentation all over again, with one obvious boss character haranguing them at every stage.