Short Story
Was die seltsamen Personen nun erfahren müssen, scheint all ihre Hoffnungen zu zerstören. Doch es gibt einen Plan — und eventuell Hilfe von unerwarteter Seite? Von JAMES SCHOFIELD
The Impressions (4)
That evening, the Impressions collected in the boardroom again, and everybody looked at Felicity. She didn’t like speaking in front of groups, and this was an extremely peculiar group. She cleared her throat a couple of times before beginning. “Well, I managed to find out who wants to buy the building,” she said. “It’s a Russian company called Krysanova Krystals. They’re diamond merchants who want to establish themselves in London and…”
“Goddamn commie bastards!” growled the American general from inside a cloud of cigar smoke. “We should’ve nuked them back in…”
“General Tippet!” said the lady from the Salvation Army with a strong Scottish accent. “Can I remind you to watch your language? The good Lord did not…” Sir Lancelot raised his hand. “General Tippet! Miss Murray! You remember our agreement? No interruptions!” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Miss Appleby, please continue.”
“Right. Well, Krysanova Krystals has offered a lot of money to buy this building. They want to knock it down and build something more modern here. The bank’s directors — Mr Ripov,
Mr Twobit and Mr Grabber — want to move the bank’s operations somewhere cheaper, outside London, so they’re very keen to sell the building to Krysanova Krystals.”
“Is there any way to change their minds?” asked Sir Lancelot. “I mean, this is such a beautiful building; it has so much history. What about that young man you used to know, Mrs Twizleton? Conrad Boyle or something. Didn’t he become famous?”
“Conan Doyle. Turned into a writer. But this lot doesn’t give a fig for history!” snorted Mrs Twizleton. “I even heard that idiot Grabber talking to Ripov about the wonderful business opportunities that would be created if St Paul’s Cathedral could only be turned into a shopping arcade.”
“But I get the feeling you have an idea, Miss Appleby,” said Frederick smiling encouragingly and looking at Felicity with more confidence than she felt herself. “What is it?”
She gulped. “History is actually something you could use. I was thinking you could apply to the Historical Buildings Association to have the building listed as a historical monument. If you could show that it has a connection to an important event or person, or if you could argue that it has particularly important architecture, it would be protected.”
“Well, there you are!” said Sir Lancelot triumphantly. “This building is a superb example of late
“SHE’LL HAVE TO DO IT FOR US,” SQUEAKED SMUDGE, “OR WE’RE DEAD AS DORMICE!”
19th-century architecture: after all, it has an elegant entrance hall with columns, a magnificent staircase and a ceiling with original light fittings.”
The group nodded. “I like the idea,” the Nigerian prince said to Felicity. “But when you say ‘you could apply’, I see a problem. We can’t apply for this sort of thing.”
“She’ll have to do it for us,” squeaked Smudge, “or we’re dead as dormice!”
“Doornails, Smudge,” said Frederick. “Not ‘dormice’. But Prince Chinaza has a point, Miss Appleby. We really have to make an effort to be noticed by ordinary people. What do you suggest we do?”
That was the difficult part, Felicity had to admit. If she applied to have the building listed and the directors found out, she would lose her job and couldn’t help them any more. The group discussed their options until it was decided that Felicity should open an email account in the name of Frederick Tumble. She would send everything from there to the Historical Buildings Association. “I’ll help fill in the papers,” said Frederick. “I know something about architecture. Shall we start?”
***
They worked long into the night, until everything was prepared and sent. Again, Frederick insisted on escorting her home on the night bus. We must look like a strange couple, thought Felicity to herself. Me in my office clothes and him with the hat on top of his thick blonde hair, the sideburns going halfway down his cheeks and those dark blue eyes with such long lashes. Yet people hardly looked at them. Well, to be fair, this is London, she concluded. Most days, there are stranger things on the bus than a man in a top hat.
“Goodnight, Miss Appleby,” he said when they reached her door. “We’re so grateful for your help. We would be lost without you. Until tomorrow, let me bid you au revoir!” He bowed, took her hand, kissed it and disappeared back into the night.
“Well,” said Paula coming out of the bathroom in her nightdress and with a toothbrush in her hand. “Julie was right. He has got a lovely voice.”
***
The next day, Felicity found it hard to concentrate at work. If Tricia or the directors found out what she had done, they would have her out the door before you could say “Historical Buildings Association”. She continually checked the email account she had set up for Frederick, but apart from spam mail advertising Viagra and last-minute cruise holidays, nothing arrived. If the Association is slow and bureaucratic, she thought to herself, it might be too late to stop…
The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. “Felicity?” It was Joshua, the security guard from the building entrance, on the phone. “There’s a gentleman here from the Historical Buildings Association who says he has an appointment with Mr Ripov. Can you show him where to go, please?”
Felicity hurried to the lift, her heart pounding. It was going to work! The doors opened and…
“Why, Felicity, hello,” said a familiar voice. “How are you doing? You look a bit tired.”
Aiden the Douchebag stepped out of the lift.
To be continued in the next issues
FELICITY HURRIED TO THE LIFT, HER HEART POUNDING