Incensed
On a hard plastic chair, wobbling atop uneven legs on a sunken and perished carpet, was Mrs Sharon Porter. The fading fluorescent bulb above her seemed to stain her soft shell jacket, which normally occupied the dowdiest space between beige and grey, a shade of sandy yellow that could only be described as sour. The handbag that rested across her lap was barely half full of the daily and emergency items she needed, as if boasting about all the extra room it could afford. Her legs were crossed, her arms were crossed, and as far as she was concerned she had very much been crossed; that's how cross she really was. In a word, were she able to spare one, Mrs Sharon Porter was incensed.
Mrs Claire Porter, wife and driveway specialist, was rather calmer. At most she could have been described as irked, or potentially inconvenienced, but not victim to anything like the same depth of emotion to which her partner had succumbed. This is why she had remained at home, while Sharon's hard, uncomfortable and poorly-lit chair was in the reception area of the Fuddhum Council Offices. As was the style with these things, the office building itself was a historic landmark of much local importance; it had housed the first aldermen of the town, it was where a feudal Lord many centuries ago had declared independence and been promptly executed, and it was where several prominent local witches had laid a curse on the door of this man or that for being an unconscionable and irredeemable rotter. The stones that made its walls had been stacked, demolished and re-stacked more times than the history books had bothered to record. Countless schoolchildren had refused to learn about its dark-ages architecture or clever use of borrowed light. It was the only civic building in the country to still have a thatched roof, but despite Mrs Sharon Porter having hair that also appeared to be thatched, their superficial similarities could do nothing to bridge their differences, nor could they redeem the crimes that had been committed inside.
The interior carried neither charm nor legacy. It was a white walled grid of patterned plaster, strip lighting and discount carpets. Any last shred of soul or character had been long since torn out or built over, all features of interest falling victim to the crusade of banal neutral tones, heavy fire doors and posters about the local bin collections. It was of little consequence to Mrs Porter however; there would be no decor that could cheer her from her anger, except perhaps a full ceiling of unabashed apologies and offers to make things right. Most of the interior made her feel nothing at all. She could ignore the clock which screamed 'I am the cheapest timepiece available at the shop'. She could see right through the notice board of advertisements for consultations, local crafts groups and long passed social events. Even the sign for the lavatories was a meaningless detail; she wasn't about to go in there and give them the satisfaction. The only thing she could see that made her feel anything, anything at all, was the black and white name plaque on the pine door across the way: 'Cuthbert Doone, Counciller'.
Cuthbert was the architect of her apoplexy. He was the foreman of her rage. The creator of her despair, the postman of her woe and the cobbler of her animosity. It was amazing that he could hold down so many antagonistic vocations and still serve on the council, really, but respect for multiple responsibilities was not something that Sharon Porter would extend to him. Respect of any kind was no longer due to Cuthbert Doone as far as she was concerned.
Just looking at the sign was building up an impressive head of grumpy steam in Sharon. There was already so much blood in her cheeks that, much like the lavatory in her en-suite, they could no longer flush.
"Is everything alright, Mrs Porter?" asked the receptionist, a note of fearful concern edging the otherwise airy and welcoming tone he liked to keep. Behind his fortress of a desk, laden with pens on chains, leaflets, folders and miscellaneous key-cutting equipment, he was sitting forwards in his chair to show willingness to help.
"Hm?" replied Mrs Porter. Her full attention had been committed to her anger, leaving none for her sense of hearing to enjoy.
"I was asking if everything is alright. I apologise for the wait, but the councillor will be ready for you soon." soothed the receptionist, professionally. Amateurs would have felt like liars; professionals, on the other hand, knew that soon had not been defined.
"I'm fine. Being late for an appointment in his own office is exactly what I've come to expect of him."
She didn't even turn to face the receptionist when she replied, which rather soured him to whatever her plight was. She went into the box in his mind marked 'opinionated jerks', and the box on his entry form marked 'do not give an appointment'. His smile remained unchanged.
"And you're sure that I can't get you a tea or coffee?"
Her rudeness be damned, if he could soften the blow to the councillor by filling her up with hot drinks then it was worth humouring her.
"Yes. Quite sure. Although I don't know why I'm worried about wasting my council tax money on tea and coffee when so much of it is already thrown down the toilet that is councillor salaries." grizzled Mrs Porter. The receptionist deigned not to reply verbally, lest he make less favourable lavatory comparisons.
Outside, where the thatched roof faced the sky and taunted hundreds of birds in need of nesting materials, a warm sun was shining on the world. Everyone in the immediate vicinity of the council office exterior, whether they were enjoying the park or pushing their child on the swings or cutting off catalytic converters in the car park, was of a single mind that today was a day to be outdoors enjoying the weather. To be stuck inside in pursuit of futile things was to waste the daylight and all the opportunities it afforded. Mrs Claire Porter knew this perfectly well, and was therefore engaged in a spot of light gardening, with a cold glass of fruit juice and a good book on standby. She spared a thought for her wife, who was out, furious, at her appointment with Cuthbert Doone, and then continued her otherwise lovely morning.
Sharon Porter, angriest of her name, could neither see nor recall the sunshine outside. Sitting on her chair and staring at her door, she was trapped beneath the interminable cloud cover of both indignation and a solid-ceilinged, windowless interior.
If that utter wastrel Cuthbert didn't open his door for her soon then there'd be trouble. There was already going to be bother, on account of her being here to give him an earful, but the bother to trouble pipeline was a short one, and keeping her waiting would push her all the way. Another minute would be all it took. Another minute of being treated like a mug, no, worse than a mug, a carafe, and she would have no recourse but to roll her eyes and clear her throat. And if that didn't bring him to attention, if he still had the gall to keep her waiting in the face of such a vicious torrent of obvious displeasure, then she would take the nuclear option of knocking. Oh yes, then he'd see that she meant business. A firm knocking on the door. Solid contact between knuckle and wood. Percussive justice from the pit up to the pinnacle. This wouldn't just be a single blow, but a three or four beat rapping like that of a vigilante seeking a villain in hiding.
Sharon's knuckles went white as she gripped her handbag in the throes of enraged seething. The receptionist saw her waiting-induced fury and ticked the box marked 'do not allow inside the building again'.
Unable to make it the full minute, Sharon treated herself to an impatient tut. The receptionist sat at the ready to sound an emergency alarm when he saw Mrs Porter reach into her bag, expecting her to draw a knife or bludgeoning candle, but relaxed when she merely produced a bottle of water. If she threw that at the councillor then at least it would cool him down and counteract the broken air conditioner.
Alas, despite the promises made by the bottle, including instant refreshment and the ability to smile by a mountain stream, the fluid intake did nothing to remedy Sharon's mood. In fact, when she spilled a mouthful of it onto her stomach in a freak mouth-opening accident, it made her even angrier. A wet tummy so rarely invites respect, especially when preparing to let loose with a good old fashioned tirade.
What little patience Mrs Sharon Porter had left was washed away. She huffed herself up to her feet, marched across the corridor, and rapped her knuckles a full four times on the door. The threats of a Porter inconvenienced, even when voiced to no-one, were anything but empty.
She listened angrily at the door for an invitation to enter, but heard nothing. Maybe it was drowned out by the rushing blood in her ears, or maybe he was just ignoring her. Or maybe, just maybe, he wasn't in there at all, and he was stringing her along like a fool. Sharon listened even harder and with yet greater rage, but the incessant ringing of the receptionist's phone made it impossible to work out what was happening behind the door. She gave him a good scowling at until he finally answered it.
"Hello? Yes, that's right. Yes, sir. OK, right away."
The phone was clicked back onto the hook and Mrs Porter irritably steeled herself for another listen when, as ear hit door, the receptionist started talking again.
"Mrs Porter?"
"Yes, what?" she snapped. He was making it impossible to get anything done.
"Sorry to bother you and interrupt your ear resting, but the councillor will see you now. You can go right in." It was all he could do to keep the smirk off his face.
"He called you to tell me that?"
"I did say that I would let you know when he was ready, Mrs Porter."
"He could have just answered me at the door!"
"Our appointments process is explained at the point of booking, Mrs Porter. I am sorry if you feel it was unclear how to sit down and wait to be invited in. Now, Councillor Doone is waiting for you. If you miss your slot then he will have to see his next appointment instead and you will need to rebook." the receptionist informed her. A palpable layer of smugness was beginning to coalesce around his body.
A more reasonable person than Sharon would have been forgiven for throwing a handbag at the receptionist, and so it was a laudable feat of self-restraint that no such long range assault was committed. It could only have been due to the clarity of purpose provided by immediate access to her real target; Cuthbert Doone. With a simple snarl she turned away from the receptionist and pushed open the door.
During not only her extended wait but also the days leading up to her appointment, Sharon had built up a vivid mental picture of what Cuthbert Doone's office would look like. Despite him being a lowly local Councillor, she was convinced that an enduring career of corruption, and a campaign of cheating the residents of their council tax, would have led him to the heights of wealth. She could see a wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling south-facing window from his evidently north-facing office; it somehow overlooked a tropical bay despite being in the landlocked and temperate town centre. Although sandwiched between two store cupboards and situated along a short corridor, it appeared in her mind to be as vast as a penthouse suite, with its own minibar despite the council rules on alcohol at work, and a wide semicircle of padded chairs for entertaining important guests. His table would be made of pure mahogany and be larger than a family car. His chair would be sufficiently high backed to be a risk of scratching the ceiling, and knocking the chandelier which hung therefrom. His stationery would be solid gold, his floor marble, and his name plaque engraved on one of those fancy triangular wooden sticks she'd seen in films.
What she saw when the door was finally open, it is fair to say, did not constitute a perfect match to this image.
It was a perfectly normal, low-budget rectangular office with no windows. The pine desk left just enough space for the councillor to slip around and sit behind. His monitor was dusty and discoloured. There was no minibar or gold in sight, and another plastic chair, even less comfortable than the last, faced his desk. The floor was linoleum, and not even marble patterned but, to Sharon's desperate consolation, his name was on a triangular wooden stick. Decadence.
"Hello, Mrs Porter. Glad you make it and thank you for coming to see me today." said Cuthbert. He was a balding man of an age that implied he would choose to read a print newspaper, despite sitting in front of a computer with an Internet connection.
"The sign on your door is spelled wrong." replied Sharon, against the tradition of greetings. She wanted to hit the ground running.
"I'm sorry?"
"You should be." she misinterpreted. "It's councillor, with an 'o', and not with an 'e'.
"I will be sure to let the pupils of Fuddham Primary School, creators of the sign, know." he replied. Sharon, unwilling to feel guilt or shame, scanned his face for passive aggression but offered no further comment, apparently considering the matter closed.
"Please, take a seat. Has Damien offered you a tea or coffee?"
"No, he hasn't." Sharon replied with a small smirk to herself as she sat down. Revenge was best served deceptive.
"That's a shame, would you like one?"
"Sweet white coffee, no milk and no sugars or sweeteners."
Cuthbert Doone was a patient man and a veteran of public facing local politics. He liked to think that he could win anyone over; if not to his politics then at least to himself as a person. Sometimes this involved throwing someone else under the bus. He picked up the phone and pressed a single button.
"Damien? I hear you forgot to offer Mrs Porter a hot drink. Please bring her a sweet white coffee with no milk, sugar or sweeteners, thank you."
He hung up before the inevitable follow-up questions from the receptionist. Damien was a bright sort; he'd work something out.
"Won't be long, Mrs Porter, and I apologise for the oversight. Now I understand that you are here to discuss the... do I have this right... starlings outside of your bedroom window?"
"Don't you say it like that to make it sound ridiculous!" barked Mrs Porter. "I am here to demand the reinstatement of the previous array of telegraph wires along my road, because the new ones have deliberately, and with menaces, been designed and put in place to cause me to lose sleep via the weaponisation of declining songbirds." Sharon explained, making it sound far more like the request of someone possessing sound mind and body.
"Ah, yes. Forgive me for my mistake, Mrs Porter. Did you not, in your letter, mention starlings specifically?" probed the councillor, eager to get to the real heart of the matter and prove that he’d done his reading.
"Of course I did! Those are the ones that have been baited outside of my home to lambast me and my wife with shrill trilling and whistling and carrying on. But they are not the only culprits, and it is obviously part of a more general misuse of the neighbourhood's songbirds. I am not some lunatic who thinks starlings are out to get her."
"What kind of lunatic are you then?" asked the councillor. He couldn’t resist.
"One who knows that the telegraph wires were replaced a month ago, at great disruption to the local residents I might add, and the new wires seem to be purpose made as bird perches within whistling range of my bedroom window. The council knew full well that these birds would make their morning racket every day, and that it would be loud enough to wake me up tens of minutes before my alarm. I demand that, for the sake of me and my whole neighbourhood, the previous wires and poles are reinstated."
Councillor Doone peered into the face of Mrs Sharon Porter, seeing her incandescent with conviction that she spoke the gospel truth. As a boy of ten he'd seen that some conviction in the eyes of his dear friend Jamie Burrow, as he stared at a fallen branch over a small stream. The stream had long since been built over, but he memory was as fresh as ever. To Jamie, that fallen branch, no thicker than a milk carton, was as strong and reliable of a bridge as he had ever seen. To Cuthbert, it was a clearly rotten fallen limb, miraculous in its continued existence as a single object rather than a pile of wooden splinters. The boys had debated fiercely for many seconds as to whether the branch was a safe option to cross the cold, clear waters below, but neither one could shift the immoveable object of the other's belief. Cuthbert could still hear the cracking of dead wood under Jamie's bafflingly worn school shoes. He could still see the young boy fall one, two, three, four, perhaps even five centimetres into the sleeve-deep water below, and the shock on his face as his innocent faith in the strength of windfall left him. A kernel of desire had been planted in Cuthbert that day, a desire to learn how to convince those who zealously defended incomprehensible notions that they weren't thinking rationally, and its roots ached when he thought about what Sharon had just told him. He couldn't save Jamie from a damp foot, nor the impending disciplinary hearing from Mrs Burrow later in the afternoon, but maybe Sharon needn't suffer the same telling off by an admittedly justifiably angry mother.
"Mrs Porter," he started, clearly stalling for time, "I am dreadfully sorry that your sleep has been disrupted by the wildlife, but the telegraph wires needed to be replaced. If I recall correctly, the only reason the previous wires didn't run outside your window immediately prior to that replacement is because they'd fallen down."
"Whatever the reason, it was better that way." she declared.
"Your neighbours didn't have any power."
"I didn't have any bird noise."
"That's hardly comparable. They spent a whole week without access to electricity; you must be able to understand why the lines had to be replaced and can't be torn down again." he said, naively appealing to her sense of reason once again. It was remarkably like appealing to a kettle’s sense of train times between Luton and Edinburgh.
"I grew accustomed to a certain quality of quiet morning in that duration. My needs are not subservient to those of others on the street. They could have moved out if having power was so important to them."
It was Jamie Burrow claiming that twigs were stronger than hatchbacks all over again.
"They could have moved out, could they? In the space of a week they could have given up all hope of ever having their power lines restored, sold their home, bought a new one, and moved all of their belongings?" clarified the councillor, hoping that perhaps Mrs Porter would see some minor flaw in the armour of her argument.
"There's no need to take that tone with me! I don't know how or why they act so slowly on these important matters, but rest assured that I would take the necessary steps without a moment's delay."
"Then why haven't you already moved out? You've had a whole month of birdsong. You're expecting one thing of them and another of yourself."
The direct approach was a gambit that carried a high cost of failure, but invariably demonstrated hypocrisy if it was there to be found. The councillor crossed his fingers that Mrs Porter would see sense.
It was not to be.
"Oh, that's lovely! Tell me to move out of your area if I don't like what the council does? You claim to be representing us, the residents, the people who pay your salary, and this is what we get? Leave if you don't like it?" spat Mrs Porter, surrounded by the infuriated legion of straw men she'd constructed.
Cuthbert rubbed at his face, and was about to make some attempt at reconciliation when the door opened. In the newly opened doorway stood the receptionist, looking rather flustered, with a white porcelain mug in his hand. He gave the councillor a look that began as irritated, and then melted into pity, as he placed the mug on a coaster in front of Mrs Porter.
"Here you go, Mrs Porter. A... sweet white coffee... with no milk, sugar or sweeteners?"
"At last." was the only response that Sharon offered, with apparently no questions about how the results had been achieved.
"Thank you, Damien." added Curthbert, his faith in the receptionist proven to be valid. Once they were alone again, he continued, "You know as well as I do, Mrs Porter, that I wasn't telling you to leave. I was asking why you expect your neighbours to move within a week when you yourself have stuck around for a month. I am inviting you to question your own reactions to these two events and perhaps take a new perspective."
"Take your perspective you mean? Oh, you'd like that, if we all danced to your tune. Well, no dice, Mr Doone. I am ordering you as a member of this community to put the telegraph wires back exactly as they were before!"
"Across the road? You want them lying, live, across the road?"
"It stopped all the speeding cars."
"And the heart of that escaped pig."
"It should have known to be careful. Your road crews put up a sign telling everyone to keep away, and that was enough for the rest of us."
Cuthbert bit at the inside of his lip. Even appealing to porcine empathy had failed. The branch over the stream was cracking again.
"Look, you'll learn to sleep through the birds again, just like you did two months ago. I am not ordering a crew to rip down the power lines and make the road a death trap."
"Then I demand to speak to your immediate superior this instant!" shrieked Sharon, amid nightmare visions of a future dominated by tweeting and chirping in the dawn.
A deep sigh escaped the councillor. He'd made it a pledge in his election campaign to be held accountable to the local MP, and had come to regret it almost immediately upon remembering how reasonable the public weren't. He looked at Mrs Porter again and thought about her request to tear down the power lines to her own road. He thought about her birdsong-driven rationale and her total rejection of the possibility that those birds might, without the power lines in place, simply stand on her gutter instead. Finally, he thought about how Rita Crane MP would react to hearing those same flights of ruinous fancy, most pointedly with relation to the impact it might have on her perception of his competence. Nothing good could come of it. Jamie Burrow was up to just-below-his-ankles in stream water.
"Would please excuse me, Mrs Porter." Cuthbert said, standing up from his office chair and threading himself between desk and filing cabinet. His bottom rattled the drawers on the way past but did a passable job of dusting the same.
"Going to get our elected representative, I assume?" said Mrs Porter. Although it was phrased like a question, it was definitely more of a threat.
Cutherbet Doone, not able to bring himself to lie directly, smiled at Mrs Porter. This proved itself to be ample distraction.
"Don't smile at me until my power lines are restored. And don't be long; I have waited quite long enough for you already today."
"I won't." replied the councillor, without troubling himself or Mrs Porter with which request was being answered.
Cuthbert knew, in his heart of hearts, that his behaviour was on the childish side. More than that, in fact, it was flatly unacceptable. In the virtuous part of his mind he prepared a dressing down for himself that mirrored, he presumed, the chastisement he would later receive from Rita. "You're a professional and a representative of the people" it would begin. "This is absolutely not good enough. How many years have you spent in this position? How much experience does it take to face up to the unpleasant realities of your responsibilities" it would continue. But that was a problem for another day, or maybe later tats afternoon if Mrs Sharon Porter was particularly quick in her telephony when pursuing retribution.
Ahead of him the traffic lights changed, taking with them his very 'red' thoughts on running away from the conversation, and giving him the green light to proceed.
As he tore through the high street, putting distance between himself & Mrs Porter and another three points on his driving licence, Councillor Doone began drafting his letter of apology to all parties concerned. It would explain the sudden need to depart for a nebulous and undefined family emergency, express his gratitude for the understanding and respect of his privacy that would under no circumstances be afforded to him, and offer a repeat appointment to Mrs Porter as soon as a gap appeared in his busy schedule. His dreadfully busy schedule. His dreadfully busy and, vitally, not publicly visible schedule. He thought for a moment about the need for Damien to diligently keep Mrs Porter away from any future appointments and decided to buy him a gift; if that gift also served as thanks for the coffee magic he'd spun earlier then so much the better.
Councillor Doone sped away towards his modest estate, with extensions and outbuildings evidencing surprisingly lenient outcomes from the town planning committee, and leaving Mrs Sharon Porter sitting in his office with the diametrically opposed partner of patience in her heart. He could take his remaining calls and appointments from home, and then tomorrow would be a new day; anew day with a bright morning, and a lot for the birds to sing about.
Mrs Claire Porter, wife and driveway specialist, was rather calmer. At most she could have been described as irked, or potentially inconvenienced, but not victim to anything like the same depth of emotion to which her partner had succumbed. This is why she had remained at home, while Sharon's hard, uncomfortable and poorly-lit chair was in the reception area of the Fuddhum Council Offices. As was the style with these things, the office building itself was a historic landmark of much local importance; it had housed the first aldermen of the town, it was where a feudal Lord many centuries ago had declared independence and been promptly executed, and it was where several prominent local witches had laid a curse on the door of this man or that for being an unconscionable and irredeemable rotter. The stones that made its walls had been stacked, demolished and re-stacked more times than the history books had bothered to record. Countless schoolchildren had refused to learn about its dark-ages architecture or clever use of borrowed light. It was the only civic building in the country to still have a thatched roof, but despite Mrs Sharon Porter having hair that also appeared to be thatched, their superficial similarities could do nothing to bridge their differences, nor could they redeem the crimes that had been committed inside.
The interior carried neither charm nor legacy. It was a white walled grid of patterned plaster, strip lighting and discount carpets. Any last shred of soul or character had been long since torn out or built over, all features of interest falling victim to the crusade of banal neutral tones, heavy fire doors and posters about the local bin collections. It was of little consequence to Mrs Porter however; there would be no decor that could cheer her from her anger, except perhaps a full ceiling of unabashed apologies and offers to make things right. Most of the interior made her feel nothing at all. She could ignore the clock which screamed 'I am the cheapest timepiece available at the shop'. She could see right through the notice board of advertisements for consultations, local crafts groups and long passed social events. Even the sign for the lavatories was a meaningless detail; she wasn't about to go in there and give them the satisfaction. The only thing she could see that made her feel anything, anything at all, was the black and white name plaque on the pine door across the way: 'Cuthbert Doone, Counciller'.
Cuthbert was the architect of her apoplexy. He was the foreman of her rage. The creator of her despair, the postman of her woe and the cobbler of her animosity. It was amazing that he could hold down so many antagonistic vocations and still serve on the council, really, but respect for multiple responsibilities was not something that Sharon Porter would extend to him. Respect of any kind was no longer due to Cuthbert Doone as far as she was concerned.
Just looking at the sign was building up an impressive head of grumpy steam in Sharon. There was already so much blood in her cheeks that, much like the lavatory in her en-suite, they could no longer flush.
"Is everything alright, Mrs Porter?" asked the receptionist, a note of fearful concern edging the otherwise airy and welcoming tone he liked to keep. Behind his fortress of a desk, laden with pens on chains, leaflets, folders and miscellaneous key-cutting equipment, he was sitting forwards in his chair to show willingness to help.
"Hm?" replied Mrs Porter. Her full attention had been committed to her anger, leaving none for her sense of hearing to enjoy.
"I was asking if everything is alright. I apologise for the wait, but the councillor will be ready for you soon." soothed the receptionist, professionally. Amateurs would have felt like liars; professionals, on the other hand, knew that soon had not been defined.
"I'm fine. Being late for an appointment in his own office is exactly what I've come to expect of him."
She didn't even turn to face the receptionist when she replied, which rather soured him to whatever her plight was. She went into the box in his mind marked 'opinionated jerks', and the box on his entry form marked 'do not give an appointment'. His smile remained unchanged.
"And you're sure that I can't get you a tea or coffee?"
Her rudeness be damned, if he could soften the blow to the councillor by filling her up with hot drinks then it was worth humouring her.
"Yes. Quite sure. Although I don't know why I'm worried about wasting my council tax money on tea and coffee when so much of it is already thrown down the toilet that is councillor salaries." grizzled Mrs Porter. The receptionist deigned not to reply verbally, lest he make less favourable lavatory comparisons.
Outside, where the thatched roof faced the sky and taunted hundreds of birds in need of nesting materials, a warm sun was shining on the world. Everyone in the immediate vicinity of the council office exterior, whether they were enjoying the park or pushing their child on the swings or cutting off catalytic converters in the car park, was of a single mind that today was a day to be outdoors enjoying the weather. To be stuck inside in pursuit of futile things was to waste the daylight and all the opportunities it afforded. Mrs Claire Porter knew this perfectly well, and was therefore engaged in a spot of light gardening, with a cold glass of fruit juice and a good book on standby. She spared a thought for her wife, who was out, furious, at her appointment with Cuthbert Doone, and then continued her otherwise lovely morning.
Sharon Porter, angriest of her name, could neither see nor recall the sunshine outside. Sitting on her chair and staring at her door, she was trapped beneath the interminable cloud cover of both indignation and a solid-ceilinged, windowless interior.
If that utter wastrel Cuthbert didn't open his door for her soon then there'd be trouble. There was already going to be bother, on account of her being here to give him an earful, but the bother to trouble pipeline was a short one, and keeping her waiting would push her all the way. Another minute would be all it took. Another minute of being treated like a mug, no, worse than a mug, a carafe, and she would have no recourse but to roll her eyes and clear her throat. And if that didn't bring him to attention, if he still had the gall to keep her waiting in the face of such a vicious torrent of obvious displeasure, then she would take the nuclear option of knocking. Oh yes, then he'd see that she meant business. A firm knocking on the door. Solid contact between knuckle and wood. Percussive justice from the pit up to the pinnacle. This wouldn't just be a single blow, but a three or four beat rapping like that of a vigilante seeking a villain in hiding.
Sharon's knuckles went white as she gripped her handbag in the throes of enraged seething. The receptionist saw her waiting-induced fury and ticked the box marked 'do not allow inside the building again'.
Unable to make it the full minute, Sharon treated herself to an impatient tut. The receptionist sat at the ready to sound an emergency alarm when he saw Mrs Porter reach into her bag, expecting her to draw a knife or bludgeoning candle, but relaxed when she merely produced a bottle of water. If she threw that at the councillor then at least it would cool him down and counteract the broken air conditioner.
Alas, despite the promises made by the bottle, including instant refreshment and the ability to smile by a mountain stream, the fluid intake did nothing to remedy Sharon's mood. In fact, when she spilled a mouthful of it onto her stomach in a freak mouth-opening accident, it made her even angrier. A wet tummy so rarely invites respect, especially when preparing to let loose with a good old fashioned tirade.
What little patience Mrs Sharon Porter had left was washed away. She huffed herself up to her feet, marched across the corridor, and rapped her knuckles a full four times on the door. The threats of a Porter inconvenienced, even when voiced to no-one, were anything but empty.
She listened angrily at the door for an invitation to enter, but heard nothing. Maybe it was drowned out by the rushing blood in her ears, or maybe he was just ignoring her. Or maybe, just maybe, he wasn't in there at all, and he was stringing her along like a fool. Sharon listened even harder and with yet greater rage, but the incessant ringing of the receptionist's phone made it impossible to work out what was happening behind the door. She gave him a good scowling at until he finally answered it.
"Hello? Yes, that's right. Yes, sir. OK, right away."
The phone was clicked back onto the hook and Mrs Porter irritably steeled herself for another listen when, as ear hit door, the receptionist started talking again.
"Mrs Porter?"
"Yes, what?" she snapped. He was making it impossible to get anything done.
"Sorry to bother you and interrupt your ear resting, but the councillor will see you now. You can go right in." It was all he could do to keep the smirk off his face.
"He called you to tell me that?"
"I did say that I would let you know when he was ready, Mrs Porter."
"He could have just answered me at the door!"
"Our appointments process is explained at the point of booking, Mrs Porter. I am sorry if you feel it was unclear how to sit down and wait to be invited in. Now, Councillor Doone is waiting for you. If you miss your slot then he will have to see his next appointment instead and you will need to rebook." the receptionist informed her. A palpable layer of smugness was beginning to coalesce around his body.
A more reasonable person than Sharon would have been forgiven for throwing a handbag at the receptionist, and so it was a laudable feat of self-restraint that no such long range assault was committed. It could only have been due to the clarity of purpose provided by immediate access to her real target; Cuthbert Doone. With a simple snarl she turned away from the receptionist and pushed open the door.
During not only her extended wait but also the days leading up to her appointment, Sharon had built up a vivid mental picture of what Cuthbert Doone's office would look like. Despite him being a lowly local Councillor, she was convinced that an enduring career of corruption, and a campaign of cheating the residents of their council tax, would have led him to the heights of wealth. She could see a wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling south-facing window from his evidently north-facing office; it somehow overlooked a tropical bay despite being in the landlocked and temperate town centre. Although sandwiched between two store cupboards and situated along a short corridor, it appeared in her mind to be as vast as a penthouse suite, with its own minibar despite the council rules on alcohol at work, and a wide semicircle of padded chairs for entertaining important guests. His table would be made of pure mahogany and be larger than a family car. His chair would be sufficiently high backed to be a risk of scratching the ceiling, and knocking the chandelier which hung therefrom. His stationery would be solid gold, his floor marble, and his name plaque engraved on one of those fancy triangular wooden sticks she'd seen in films.
What she saw when the door was finally open, it is fair to say, did not constitute a perfect match to this image.
It was a perfectly normal, low-budget rectangular office with no windows. The pine desk left just enough space for the councillor to slip around and sit behind. His monitor was dusty and discoloured. There was no minibar or gold in sight, and another plastic chair, even less comfortable than the last, faced his desk. The floor was linoleum, and not even marble patterned but, to Sharon's desperate consolation, his name was on a triangular wooden stick. Decadence.
"Hello, Mrs Porter. Glad you make it and thank you for coming to see me today." said Cuthbert. He was a balding man of an age that implied he would choose to read a print newspaper, despite sitting in front of a computer with an Internet connection.
"The sign on your door is spelled wrong." replied Sharon, against the tradition of greetings. She wanted to hit the ground running.
"I'm sorry?"
"You should be." she misinterpreted. "It's councillor, with an 'o', and not with an 'e'.
"I will be sure to let the pupils of Fuddham Primary School, creators of the sign, know." he replied. Sharon, unwilling to feel guilt or shame, scanned his face for passive aggression but offered no further comment, apparently considering the matter closed.
"Please, take a seat. Has Damien offered you a tea or coffee?"
"No, he hasn't." Sharon replied with a small smirk to herself as she sat down. Revenge was best served deceptive.
"That's a shame, would you like one?"
"Sweet white coffee, no milk and no sugars or sweeteners."
Cuthbert Doone was a patient man and a veteran of public facing local politics. He liked to think that he could win anyone over; if not to his politics then at least to himself as a person. Sometimes this involved throwing someone else under the bus. He picked up the phone and pressed a single button.
"Damien? I hear you forgot to offer Mrs Porter a hot drink. Please bring her a sweet white coffee with no milk, sugar or sweeteners, thank you."
He hung up before the inevitable follow-up questions from the receptionist. Damien was a bright sort; he'd work something out.
"Won't be long, Mrs Porter, and I apologise for the oversight. Now I understand that you are here to discuss the... do I have this right... starlings outside of your bedroom window?"
"Don't you say it like that to make it sound ridiculous!" barked Mrs Porter. "I am here to demand the reinstatement of the previous array of telegraph wires along my road, because the new ones have deliberately, and with menaces, been designed and put in place to cause me to lose sleep via the weaponisation of declining songbirds." Sharon explained, making it sound far more like the request of someone possessing sound mind and body.
"Ah, yes. Forgive me for my mistake, Mrs Porter. Did you not, in your letter, mention starlings specifically?" probed the councillor, eager to get to the real heart of the matter and prove that he’d done his reading.
"Of course I did! Those are the ones that have been baited outside of my home to lambast me and my wife with shrill trilling and whistling and carrying on. But they are not the only culprits, and it is obviously part of a more general misuse of the neighbourhood's songbirds. I am not some lunatic who thinks starlings are out to get her."
"What kind of lunatic are you then?" asked the councillor. He couldn’t resist.
"One who knows that the telegraph wires were replaced a month ago, at great disruption to the local residents I might add, and the new wires seem to be purpose made as bird perches within whistling range of my bedroom window. The council knew full well that these birds would make their morning racket every day, and that it would be loud enough to wake me up tens of minutes before my alarm. I demand that, for the sake of me and my whole neighbourhood, the previous wires and poles are reinstated."
Councillor Doone peered into the face of Mrs Sharon Porter, seeing her incandescent with conviction that she spoke the gospel truth. As a boy of ten he'd seen that some conviction in the eyes of his dear friend Jamie Burrow, as he stared at a fallen branch over a small stream. The stream had long since been built over, but he memory was as fresh as ever. To Jamie, that fallen branch, no thicker than a milk carton, was as strong and reliable of a bridge as he had ever seen. To Cuthbert, it was a clearly rotten fallen limb, miraculous in its continued existence as a single object rather than a pile of wooden splinters. The boys had debated fiercely for many seconds as to whether the branch was a safe option to cross the cold, clear waters below, but neither one could shift the immoveable object of the other's belief. Cuthbert could still hear the cracking of dead wood under Jamie's bafflingly worn school shoes. He could still see the young boy fall one, two, three, four, perhaps even five centimetres into the sleeve-deep water below, and the shock on his face as his innocent faith in the strength of windfall left him. A kernel of desire had been planted in Cuthbert that day, a desire to learn how to convince those who zealously defended incomprehensible notions that they weren't thinking rationally, and its roots ached when he thought about what Sharon had just told him. He couldn't save Jamie from a damp foot, nor the impending disciplinary hearing from Mrs Burrow later in the afternoon, but maybe Sharon needn't suffer the same telling off by an admittedly justifiably angry mother.
"Mrs Porter," he started, clearly stalling for time, "I am dreadfully sorry that your sleep has been disrupted by the wildlife, but the telegraph wires needed to be replaced. If I recall correctly, the only reason the previous wires didn't run outside your window immediately prior to that replacement is because they'd fallen down."
"Whatever the reason, it was better that way." she declared.
"Your neighbours didn't have any power."
"I didn't have any bird noise."
"That's hardly comparable. They spent a whole week without access to electricity; you must be able to understand why the lines had to be replaced and can't be torn down again." he said, naively appealing to her sense of reason once again. It was remarkably like appealing to a kettle’s sense of train times between Luton and Edinburgh.
"I grew accustomed to a certain quality of quiet morning in that duration. My needs are not subservient to those of others on the street. They could have moved out if having power was so important to them."
It was Jamie Burrow claiming that twigs were stronger than hatchbacks all over again.
"They could have moved out, could they? In the space of a week they could have given up all hope of ever having their power lines restored, sold their home, bought a new one, and moved all of their belongings?" clarified the councillor, hoping that perhaps Mrs Porter would see some minor flaw in the armour of her argument.
"There's no need to take that tone with me! I don't know how or why they act so slowly on these important matters, but rest assured that I would take the necessary steps without a moment's delay."
"Then why haven't you already moved out? You've had a whole month of birdsong. You're expecting one thing of them and another of yourself."
The direct approach was a gambit that carried a high cost of failure, but invariably demonstrated hypocrisy if it was there to be found. The councillor crossed his fingers that Mrs Porter would see sense.
It was not to be.
"Oh, that's lovely! Tell me to move out of your area if I don't like what the council does? You claim to be representing us, the residents, the people who pay your salary, and this is what we get? Leave if you don't like it?" spat Mrs Porter, surrounded by the infuriated legion of straw men she'd constructed.
Cuthbert rubbed at his face, and was about to make some attempt at reconciliation when the door opened. In the newly opened doorway stood the receptionist, looking rather flustered, with a white porcelain mug in his hand. He gave the councillor a look that began as irritated, and then melted into pity, as he placed the mug on a coaster in front of Mrs Porter.
"Here you go, Mrs Porter. A... sweet white coffee... with no milk, sugar or sweeteners?"
"At last." was the only response that Sharon offered, with apparently no questions about how the results had been achieved.
"Thank you, Damien." added Curthbert, his faith in the receptionist proven to be valid. Once they were alone again, he continued, "You know as well as I do, Mrs Porter, that I wasn't telling you to leave. I was asking why you expect your neighbours to move within a week when you yourself have stuck around for a month. I am inviting you to question your own reactions to these two events and perhaps take a new perspective."
"Take your perspective you mean? Oh, you'd like that, if we all danced to your tune. Well, no dice, Mr Doone. I am ordering you as a member of this community to put the telegraph wires back exactly as they were before!"
"Across the road? You want them lying, live, across the road?"
"It stopped all the speeding cars."
"And the heart of that escaped pig."
"It should have known to be careful. Your road crews put up a sign telling everyone to keep away, and that was enough for the rest of us."
Cuthbert bit at the inside of his lip. Even appealing to porcine empathy had failed. The branch over the stream was cracking again.
"Look, you'll learn to sleep through the birds again, just like you did two months ago. I am not ordering a crew to rip down the power lines and make the road a death trap."
"Then I demand to speak to your immediate superior this instant!" shrieked Sharon, amid nightmare visions of a future dominated by tweeting and chirping in the dawn.
A deep sigh escaped the councillor. He'd made it a pledge in his election campaign to be held accountable to the local MP, and had come to regret it almost immediately upon remembering how reasonable the public weren't. He looked at Mrs Porter again and thought about her request to tear down the power lines to her own road. He thought about her birdsong-driven rationale and her total rejection of the possibility that those birds might, without the power lines in place, simply stand on her gutter instead. Finally, he thought about how Rita Crane MP would react to hearing those same flights of ruinous fancy, most pointedly with relation to the impact it might have on her perception of his competence. Nothing good could come of it. Jamie Burrow was up to just-below-his-ankles in stream water.
"Would please excuse me, Mrs Porter." Cuthbert said, standing up from his office chair and threading himself between desk and filing cabinet. His bottom rattled the drawers on the way past but did a passable job of dusting the same.
"Going to get our elected representative, I assume?" said Mrs Porter. Although it was phrased like a question, it was definitely more of a threat.
Cutherbet Doone, not able to bring himself to lie directly, smiled at Mrs Porter. This proved itself to be ample distraction.
"Don't smile at me until my power lines are restored. And don't be long; I have waited quite long enough for you already today."
"I won't." replied the councillor, without troubling himself or Mrs Porter with which request was being answered.
Cuthbert knew, in his heart of hearts, that his behaviour was on the childish side. More than that, in fact, it was flatly unacceptable. In the virtuous part of his mind he prepared a dressing down for himself that mirrored, he presumed, the chastisement he would later receive from Rita. "You're a professional and a representative of the people" it would begin. "This is absolutely not good enough. How many years have you spent in this position? How much experience does it take to face up to the unpleasant realities of your responsibilities" it would continue. But that was a problem for another day, or maybe later tats afternoon if Mrs Sharon Porter was particularly quick in her telephony when pursuing retribution.
Ahead of him the traffic lights changed, taking with them his very 'red' thoughts on running away from the conversation, and giving him the green light to proceed.
As he tore through the high street, putting distance between himself & Mrs Porter and another three points on his driving licence, Councillor Doone began drafting his letter of apology to all parties concerned. It would explain the sudden need to depart for a nebulous and undefined family emergency, express his gratitude for the understanding and respect of his privacy that would under no circumstances be afforded to him, and offer a repeat appointment to Mrs Porter as soon as a gap appeared in his busy schedule. His dreadfully busy schedule. His dreadfully busy and, vitally, not publicly visible schedule. He thought for a moment about the need for Damien to diligently keep Mrs Porter away from any future appointments and decided to buy him a gift; if that gift also served as thanks for the coffee magic he'd spun earlier then so much the better.
Councillor Doone sped away towards his modest estate, with extensions and outbuildings evidencing surprisingly lenient outcomes from the town planning committee, and leaving Mrs Sharon Porter sitting in his office with the diametrically opposed partner of patience in her heart. He could take his remaining calls and appointments from home, and then tomorrow would be a new day; anew day with a bright morning, and a lot for the birds to sing about.