Trouble in the Town Hall Read Online Free PDF Page A

to help with the cost, from the council and English Heritage, and even if I get the money I can’t let anyone get started until I get planning permission, and listed building permission as well.” I stopped, out of breath.
    â€œThat can take forever. When does your lease expire?”
    â€œThat’s the trouble—end of August. The owner says he’s willing to extend it a bit, since I’ve contracted to buy, pending all the approvals. But he’s not being very pleasant about the delay, and I’m afraid he’ll sell it out from under me if things go on for too long. I can’t even stand to think about having to move. Where would I ever find another wonderful house like that?”
    â€œIt’s frightfully inconvenient, of course, a really old house. And you do realize it costs the earth to maintain?”
    â€œYes, I know, but I love it, Alan. I know it isn’t an important house—it’s small, and nobody famous ever lived there or slept there or hid there while escaping from whatever—but it’s important to me. In a way, it’s the symbol of everything I love about England, the respect for the past, the fine workmanship . . . and as that loses ground to the shoddy and modern, as England becomes more and more Americanized, I want to cling to my little corner of grace and tradition.”
    I looked away, embarrassed, but there was more I had to say. “And, you see—it’s home. It would have been Frank’s and mine, he loved it, too, and now—it’s my security blanket, I suppose.” I blinked away a tear and Alan took my hand firmly in wordless sympathy. We walked to the cathedral door in silence.
    L ATE AS I was, I sat in the nave for a few minutes. The great space was filled with light from massive stained-glass windows, shafts of it coloring the dust in the air, rainbow pools of it lying on the cool stone floor. The voices of tourists and guides seemed only to emphasize the essential quiet. Women attending to the flowers shook the fragrance of roses into the air, to mingle with the scent of old stone and the faint, lingering perfume of incense. Somewhere a flute and a choirboy were practicing Handel.
    I stood, restored and ready for my job.
    When Frank and I first visited England, I was a bit taken aback by the bookshops in all the cathedrals; visions of Jesus chasing the money changers out of the temple sprang to mind. Once I began to appreciate the finances involved, however, I changed my mind. It costs millions of pounds a year to keep these magnificent buildings from falling down. If bookshops can help preserve the cathedrals for their original purpose of inspiring awe and worship, then I’m all for them, especially as the prices are reasonable and most of the labor is donated by overworked volunteers.
    So when I began to cast about for something to do in my adopted home, I tried the bookshop, where Mrs. Williamson made me feel not only welcome but much needed.
    I waved to her as I entered the shop, and as soon as she could free herself from a cluster of tourists with questions, she hurried to me with furrowed brow.
    â€œOh, Dorothy, I’ve been so
worried
! Has something dreadful happened? When the chief constable rang up—”
    â€œNo, no, I’m fine,” I interrupted. With one eye on the far corner of the shop, where the other volunteer for the afternoon was working at the cash register, I tried to edge toward the staff room. “Just let me put my things away, won’t you, and I’ll be right out to help. I really am so sorry, Mrs. Williamson, I can see you’re busy and I didn’t mean to worry you. I—there was a—an accident that I happened to—er—witness. So I had to stick around for a while.”
    â€œYou weren’t hurt!” Her voice rose as the cathedral organist began to practice, and curious eyes turned toward us, including those of the anemic blond