Daphne
Daphne
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the cleverest of them all?” said Daphne to her ornate mirror, which had once hung over the fireplace of some grand stately home, and always looked faintly surprised to find itself in Hammersmith. As, indeed, was Daphne.
For the first time in over a decade, Daphne was feeling proud of herself. She’d achieved so much over the past couple of weeks. She had always thought of herself as someone who, once she’d made a resolution, would get things done . Swiftly and efficiently. And here, once more, was the proof.
On Daphne’s seventieth birthday, she’d had no friends, no one who loved her or needed her, and no children or grandchildren. But within two weeks, she’d managed to secure herself a social life three afternoons a week, an occasional baby, and an expert to help her find a lover. How was that for progress?
Daphne had even volunteered to help look after Pauline’s ugly dog. She hadn’t done this out of the kindness of her heart, obviously. It was a cunning strategic move. She’d realized that when people took a dog out for a walk, they got noticed . Passersby stopped to give the thing a stroke, ask its name, and exchange stories about their own overindulged pets. So, given Daphne’s resolution to reengage with the world, a dog seemed like a sensible addition to the plan.
Also, dogs were notoriously indiscriminate when it came to doling out affection, so this could be a practice run, a starter relationship of sorts. The dog could give Daphne unconditional love, while also acting as bait. So long as it was only a part-time arrangement, and she could return it if it didn’t have the desired effect or started to irritate her.
There was only one fly in the ointment: the council, who were threatening the future of the community center. The Senior Citizens’ Social Club was not her scene at all—all those old people drinking tea and being irritatingly polite to each other—but it was proving a helpful stepping stone, as evidenced by her impressive progress to date. And, if she were to stop attending, she wanted that to be her choice . Not dictated by some small-minded bureaucrat.
She was going to have to attend this ghastly council meeting. No one was closing down the Senior Citizens’ Social Club on her watch.
···
The nursery side of Mandel Community Center was packed, and the debate about the future of the building and its occupants had been raging for over an hour, with no real sense of direction or purpose, let alone any reasonable resolution. There was brightly colored children’s artwork on the walls, hanging mobiles, and garish toys and furniture pushed into the corners to make way for several rows of foldable plastic chairs. Which all made a rather surreal contrast with the monochrome, suited, pompous council members who sat at a table on a raised stage, facing their audience.
To date, Daphne had managed to ascertain the following:
Mandel Community Center had been underfunded since its inception. In fact, it had originally been named after Nelson Mandela, but the A had dropped off the sign in the late 1990s, and it had been cheaper to rename the hall than to replace the signage.
The building appeared to be suffering from both rising damp and dry rot. One would have thought that these two afflictions might meet in the middle and cancel each other out, but apparently not. Fixing the issue would cost at least ￡80,000.
There was no budget available for the work, on account of the building allowance having been spent on a statue of one of their most generous benefactors. Just months after his effigy had been unveiled, just outside Mandel Community Center, so was his plundering of his company’s pension fund, which he’d raided to pay for his prolific cocaine and gambling habits. He was now weaving baskets and cultivating vegetables in Ford open prison, but his statue remained until the council could afford to replace it.
The head of the council was a knob.
Now, to Daphne’s horror, they were discussing the benefits of just demolishing the whole place and selling the land to developers.
Daphne raised her hand. Nobody noticed. Daphne stood up, her hand still raised. They still ignored her.
Daphne did not like being ignored. In the early days of her career, she had been overlooked on account of her sex. Talked over and patronized by a series of self-important, untalented little misogynists. So much had improved in the intervening years and she was glad to see that a couple of the councillors at the meeting were female. But now, she was being ignored because of her age. She appeared to have jumped out of the frying pan of sexism and into the fire of ageism. The final frontier of isms.
Daphne thumped her walking stick several times on the wooden floorboards. She didn’t need a walking stick for actual walking. In fact, she prided herself on her mobility and flexibility, aided by twenty minutes of Pilates every morning, and an hour of yoga before bed. How many septuagenarians could do a headstand and sit for hours in the lotus position? She had, however, discovered that her age was a wonderful excuse for carrying around a stout, metal-tipped cane, which could come in handy in all sorts of circumstances. It was perfect for clearing people out of her way, for waving or thumping to attract attention, for giving the appearance of frailty when useful and, in extremis, it could be a dangerous weapon.
Sometimes Daphne deliberately walked down dark alleyways, rather hoping a feckless youth would attempt to steal her handbag, so she could fell him with a blow to the head from her stick, delivered by a powerful swing from her Pilates-honed right arm. Then she could watch him being carted off by an ambulance, while she tearfully claimed self-defense.
Daphne thumped the stick again, and everyone turned to find the source of the disruption. She felt a frisson of excitement, remembering how much she enjoyed commanding the attention of a room, especially one filled with people who’d made the mistake of underestimating her.
“Mandel Community Center is the beating heart of our local community,” she said, projecting right to the front of the room. She paused to let the words land. “It houses a wonderful nursery, an extremely popular senior citizens’ social club”—she hoped the council hadn’t bothered to check Lydia’s attendance records—“Alcoholics Anonymous, NCT antenatal classes, and a karate club. I can’t even imagine the chaos if all those toddlers, bored geriatrics, addicts, heavily pregnant women, and trained killers were left to just wander around the streets! Where, do you propose, are we all going to go?”
“Uh, I’m sure we could use some of the funds raised in the sale to find an alternative venue,” said the chief councillor, shifting uncomfortably, like a worm on a hook, under Daphne’s hard stare. She tended to have that effect when she was on form—which, tonight, she was.
“Are you, though?” said Daphne. “You’ve just been talking about the extortionate cost of property in the area. And you’ve spent the past half hour discussing all the various ways you could divvy up the proceeds of a sale among your various departments, yet not one of you mentioned funding a new community center.”
“Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it, shall we?” said the councillor. “In the meantime, let’s see if we can find the monies required to repair and maintain the current building, while simultaneously requesting proposals from developers. NOTE THAT IN THE MINUTES, PLEASE, VANESSA!”
A large-bosomed, middle-aged blond lady in the corner, who looked suspiciously like she’d been falling asleep for most of the last debate, jumped, dislodging her reading glasses, which slipped off her nose and landed in her cleavage. She fished them out, pushed them back into place, and started scribbling furiously in her notebook.
Daphne was finding it difficult to take the man and his pathetic threats seriously, since he was standing in front of a large, number-themed mural, his head covering the O of the word “COUNT.” She pulled out her phone and took a picture. She was sure the local newspaper could have a little fun with that. Daphne was always happy to give karma a helping hand.
Daphne fished a packet of cigarettes from her bag, placed one in her cigarette holder, lit it, and blew a volley of defiant smoke rings over the heads of the audience. Then she shrugged on her coat and picked up her bag. One should always leave a room before one was thrown out.
These irritating paper pushers might have won this particular battle, but she was determined to win the war…