6. Dikkerby and The Building
“This old building’s all
very well in its way, but it’s old. It’s gloomy.” Dikkerby was off on a rant.
He was marching round his office, hands behind his back, eyes staring wildly.
“We need to modernise!” He pronounced the last word with
religious fervour. “A nbew building! That’s it! We can put the little people in
it. That’d leave more room for the Senior school. Ah”, he sighed happily. The
dream had possessed him. “A smart shiny new building with modern classrooms.
Light and airy. Electronic wizardry all through. Internet, electronic
whiteboards. All that sort of thing.”
“But we haven’t got any money to spare. There’s barely
enough to pay the teachers, Dikkerby.”
“Borrow!” How he managed to hiss the word was a minor miracle
when there was not an “s” in sight, but he did. Small flecks of saliva flew to
his chin as he rounded on the Bursar. “We’ll borrow. That’s what everyone else
does. How hard can it be? We’ve got this, “he flourished his arms and hands
around in a gesture encompassing the whole building and grounds, “this
mausoleum as collateral. They’ll love us. It won’t be a problem. Don’t you
see?”
The Bursar sighed quietly and folded her arms. There was
no point in even speaking when Dikkerby was in this mode.
And so it was that he went to the Bank and took out a
loan for over one million pounds and he took on a designer and he talked to the
Governors and the campaign was aflame.
Only
the local residents seemed to have any doubts. They quite liked the old
building, a reminder of the past. Soft red brick glimpsed behind the leaves of
well established oak trees. It suited them. It was a part of the neighbourhood.
They really weren’t too keen on the idea of Dikkerby’s new building. They called the Neighbourhood Group. They
scattered leaflets round the area. A deputation came to see Dikkerby. He rose,
like a hero of old, to the challenge.
They left the meeting emotionally scarred and battered, but not
defeated. Yet.
Another meeting was called at the Town Hall. Dikkerby
took a Barrister with him. For days before he practised his speech. He imagined
every eventuality. The night of the meeting came round. Dikkerby was wearing
his best suit. A large crowd had gathered in the Town Hall.
“Get off, you snobby bastard!” shouted one resident with
a red face. Dikkerby smiled, confident in his argument and his powers of
persuasion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, “he began. The barrage of booing
and hissing and catcalling stopped him dead in his tracks. The sheer volume of
noise was bad enough, but then one woman spat in his direction. The rest
quickly joined in this sport. Dikkerby was unable to continue.
“How dare they?” fumed Dikkerby to
the Barrister as they rode off in a taxi. “How dare they?” He was incandescent.
The Barrister smiled smugly.
Sure enough, planning permission was granted two days
later. The Planning Officer, formerly a resident of the area, had never got on
with the Neighbourhood Group and words had been spoken when he had moved house.
Words that could never be forgotten.
And so
foundations were dug, screens were set up, concrete was poured and it rose. And
rose and rose. Three stories high it rose. The electronic wizardry was installed.
Dikkerby fussed daily over every detail. The opening ceremony was a triumph
with the mayor in attendance and a brass ensemble playing a fanfare, specially
composed for the occasion.
“I don’t like it in here,” one small preparatory pupil
was heard to mutter on the way in as all twenty five preparatory pupils were
escorted to their new classrooms by their teachers. “It’s very big,” said
another. “Too big,” said a third. The four classes disappeared into their cavernous
rooms.
“Ye could fit a few more in ‘ere” laughed the Chairman of
Governors as he winked at Dikkerby.
“That’s the idea. New parents will be flocking to sign
up. We can have hundreds in here. State of the Art, you know,” remarked
Dikkerby. “That’s the Plan!”
One year later three of the four teachers had been laid
off. Their services were no longer required by the school. The four remaining
little people huddled in one classroom. The marble floors stood silent. Spiders
rubbed their hands with glee at all the space they were being allowed for their
webs. Dikkerby stood by the inactive whiteboard. He had forgotten to make
proper provision for electricity and the internet.
“It’s a fine building all the same!” His voice echoed off
the walls as he rubbed a palm over the brass plaque which proclaimed “The
Dikkerby Memorial Building.”
*
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