a muted lustre to her lips, she would get out her map book and decide where to go next.
The river might sparkle in the sunshine, but the brightness did no favours to the dilapidated warehouses and crumbling sheds along Gunners Wharf itself.
In many ways redevelopment was exactly what was needed for the entire area, Cally conceded reluctantly as she walked down to the Centre, where the admin office was based. But why did it have to happen at the expense of the housing scheme? Why couldn’t they have existed side by side?
Here, in the back street running parallel to the wharf, nearly half the properties had already been restored, with new windows and roofs, freshly pointed brickwork and gleaming paint. A lot of the work had been done by the tenants themselves, as an act of faith—an investment in a future that had now been taken from them, she thought bleakly.
Mrs Hartley had provided the Children’s Centre at her own expense, patiently providing funds to meet every new Health and Safety regulation that the local council could throw at them. It was no secret that it had cost her a small fortune, and maybe this was what her sons had resented so much. Because it was also known that Hartleys department store, like many other High Street shops, had been struggling for a couple of years, and needed a cash injection.
Well, they certainly had it now, Cally thought, biting her lip. The sale had gone through so fast that they must have had a string of potential buyers already lined up. While the single mothers and families in badly paid work they were turning out would struggle to find alternative housing that they could afford.
She sighed. But, as her grandfather had always said, one man’s gain was another’s loss. And the whole scheme had been living on borrowed time anyway.
‘Cally.’ A girl’s voice broke across her reverie, and she turned to see Tracy approaching, pushing her baby buggy over the dilapidated pavement. ‘Cally—what’s this meeting about? Do you know? Has Kit said anything?’
Cally stifled a sigh, and pulled a silly face at the baby in the pushchair, an act rewarded by a lopsided grin.
‘Not a thing,’ she responded briskly. ‘But we don’t live in each other’s pockets, you know.’
She’d said it before so often, but no one seemed to take her denials seriously. Kit Matlock was the director of the Centre, and the man with whom she worked most closely. They were both, on the face of it, single, so assumptions were made.
Nor could Cally deny that, before the recent bombshell, Kit had been making it clear he’d like to shift their professional relationship to a more personal level—which was, in itself, another excellent reason for moving away.
Not that she disliked him. How could she? He was attractive, pleasant, and endearingly short on temperament. But they were not an item, and never would be. And Cally had resolutely made excuse after excuse to refuse his invitations.
Their most intimate involvement to date had only been the sharing of sandwiches and coffee at lunchtime, in her small, crowded office at the rear of the Centre. And that was as far as it would ever go.
Because, she told herself, I don’t cheat.
‘Oh,’ Tracy said, obviously disappointed. ‘I thought maybe he’d found a loophole in the law or something. And obviously he’d tell you first.’
Cally buried her bare hands in the pockets of her black jacket and forced a smile. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Tracy—honestly. Kit’s a lovely guy, but I’m moving on very soon. I’ve been offered another job—in London,’ she added with sudden inspiration.
Tracy stared at her, woebegone. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘I have to. Technically, I’m unemployed, so I need to find work pretty urgently.’ Kit too, she thought.
Tracy groaned. ‘It’s all falling apart,’ she said dismally.
Cally felt intensely sorry for her. Tracy’s house had been one of the first in the terrace to be overhauled. There had been serious damp in the upstairs rooms, and little Brad had been seeing a local doctor with non-stop chest complaints. Now he was well enough to use the Centre, and Tracy had found part-time work as a supermarket checkout assistant. Things had been looking up for both of them. Now the coin was in the air again.
Most of the others were already there, hunched awkwardly on miniature chairs in the playroom, drinking coffee and nibbling half-heartedly on the Danish pastries Kit had brought.
The air of gloom was almost tangible as he stood up. ‘Sorry to drag you here so early, everyone. I asked for this meeting because, thanks to Leila, we now know who’s bought Gunners Wharf.’
There was a murmur of surprise. ‘How did you manage that?’ someone asked.
Leila looked round with open complacency. ‘My mum’s next door neighbour works in the planning department at the Town Hall. The company’s called Eastern Crest Developments, and they’re going to be in town the day after tomorrow. Roy says they’re putting on an exhibition at the Town Hall to show how they’re going to redevelop Gunners Wharf with the Council.’ She nodded. ‘So this is our chance.’
‘To do what?’ Cally asked.
‘To show them they can’t just walk all over us,’ Leila informed her triumphantly. ‘I say we picket the Town Hall. Carry banners saying “Save our Homes” and “Hands off Gunners Wharf”. Chain ourselves to the railings if necessary.’
Cally groaned inwardly. ‘Why stop there?’ she said. ‘Why not march down the High Street and put a brick through Hartleys’ windows?’
Leila’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea.’
‘You’re right,’ Cally said shortly. ‘It’s more than bad. It’s appalling—and illegal as well.’
‘Well,’ Leila said defiantly, ‘so is what they’ve done to us.’
‘I was going to suggest a slightly softer approach,’ said Kit. ‘Why don’t a few of us go to the exhibition and actually talk to the developers? See if their scheme couldn’t be adapted somehow to include Gunners Terrace. Suggest it could show the human side of big business. After all, they may not even know we exist down here. I bet the Hartleys won’t have mentioned it during negotiations,’ he added grimly.
There were a couple of upturned noses. ‘I’ve heard it’s all going to be yuppie flats and designer boutiques,’ someone said. ‘They won’t want the likes of us making the place look untidy.’
‘And won’t this Town Hall thing be invitation only?’ another voice asked.
‘Well, Roy could get us the invites,’ said Leila.
‘And it has to be worth a try, surely?’ added Tracy.
Kit gave her a warm smile. ‘I certainly think so.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you should be part of the deputation, with Cally and myself.’
‘Just three?’ Leila queried with a touch of belligerence.
‘I think small could be beautiful under the circumstances,’ Kit said smoothly. ‘No use going in mob-handed. That could be seen as aggressive, and we want a discussion, not a confrontation.’
