Page 13 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museu
‘Uh-oh,’ Mickey says, staring at her phone.
‘Good uh-oh or bad uh-oh?’
‘I don’t think there’s any such thing as a good uh-oh, Liss.’ She glances up at me and then looks back at the screen. ‘You know that library just outside Cheltenham?’
‘That gorgeous old building that had a campaign to save it all over social media? The one they knocked down and replaced with a “leisure complex” that looks like something from a futuristic sci-fi movie where AI has taken over the world?’
‘The Berrington Developments logo is all over that leisure complex website.’ She scrolls a bit further and then reads aloud. ‘Redevelopment project led by Warren Berrington.’
‘Oh.’ I feel my stomach sink and echo her earlier sentiment. ‘Uh-oh.’
‘How can any company be proud of doing that?’ She ponders her phone screen. ‘It’s everything that’s wrong with the world these days. Beautiful old buildings are being destroyed in exchange for eyesores like this.’
I can’t bring myself to tell her about the sketch I’ve seen of their broken Rubik’s Cube vision forthisbuilding. ‘And withhiminvolved, I bet you have to pay a pretty penny to get into that leisure complex, whereas a library would’ve been free for everyone. A hub for the community. Books for people who can’t afford to buy them. A place for children who had nowhere else to go and for lonely pensioners to meet and natter.’ I try to remember some of the other things that were written online in the campaign to save that library a couple of years ago, but the realisation has made an even larger pit of dread settle in my stomach. That library hadeverythingon its side. A massive amount of support on social media. Articles about the injustice of its proposed demolition in newspapers. Even a spot on local TV about a sit-in protest they staged.
And it was all for nothing. None of it made any difference against the power of Berrington Developments. The library was still torn down. So what hope do I have? What can I possibly do to save my museum that would be bigger than their extensive community campaign that, ultimately, did nothing at all?
‘The library was structurally unsafe.’
I yelp in surprise as Warren appears in the doorway and my cheeks instantly burn red. How long has he been standing there? How much of that did he hear?
‘It was a matter of time before those “beautiful old bricks” you’re lamenting fell down and crushed one of the library patrons to death. The library needed investment but couldn’t get it. The council gave up on it and sold it to us. It was too old and too weather-damaged to patch up well enough to pass inspections. The electrics had started to fry where rain was leaking in. No matter how much people loved it,theydidn’t see the state the roofspace was in. For someone who loves books so much, you should know that there are two sides to every story. And I believe you’re looking for this.’
He’s got a sardonic smile on his face and the missing ruby slipper dangling from his finger. Great. Not only does he overhear me berating him, but he finds the shoe I am unable to keep track of too.
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘I know exactly what you meant, but not everything plays out in your stereotyped “corporate greed versus beloved community non-profit” narrative. Some old buildings are exactly that – old. Some businesses fail because they have no patrons. That library couldn’t get investment because it had been unused for years. Not everything you read on social media is the whole truth.’
‘I didn’t know about that,’ I admit, feeling a bit guilty that I may have misjudged this. There was nothing in those online campaigns about the structural integrity of the library or the reason behind their lack of investment. It seemed like a good-versus-evil fight where evil ended up winning. Was I wrong not to consider that there might have been something more going on behind the scenes? ‘Did you try to cut their costs and save them too?’
‘Nope. You’re the first, that makes you special. Youcouldbe grateful.’
He walks along the Yellow Brick Road with the red shoe held out in front of him, and I meet him beside the scarecrow and take it. ‘And you could be grateful that no one’s rammed this shoe up your?—’
He cuts me off by laughing hard, and I turn around and stomp over to Dorothy’s house and put the shoe back on the plastic legs that are sticking out from underneath it.
‘Those are damaged.’
I check the witch’s legs and feet, and realise he means the shoes where a few patches of glitter are coming off at the heels, but not enough that I’ve got them on my ‘things to be replaced’ list. Yet. ‘People put them on and try clicking their heels together, like in the film.’
‘It’s fun,’ Mickey suggests. ‘You should try it.’
He keeps his eyes on me and doesn’t reply and I can’t work out if he hasn’t heard her or, more likely, he thinks her suggestion is so ludicrous that it doesn’t deserve a response.
‘This is my friend Mickey.’ I go to introduce them, but he stops me before I get any further.
‘I know. We met in the kitchen. Apparently your friends have free run of the place, and every cup of tea comes with an impassioned plea about how wonderful this museum is and how much Ever After Street would suffer without it, regardless of the fact thatsomeof us are trying to concentrate on work. There’s a reason people have offices and it’s so they can shut thedoor.’
I send her a scolding look. I didn’t ask her to do that, but my heart is warmed by the fact she did, even ifheisn’t best pleased about it.
‘Well, sorry for interrupting, but as you’ll come to understand, Colours of the Wind means a lot to people around here.’ Mickey stands up for me again, and when he stays determinedly unimpressed, she claps her hands together and tries a change of subject, and I shoot her another look, wishing I was near enough to stamp on her foot and stop her. ‘So, apart from the heartless developer aspect, are you single? Because Liss here is Pocahontas and she really needs a John Smith.’
He looks taken aback for a moment, probably not used to Mickey’s particular brand of directness, and then he laughs. ‘You see, I actually know who they are because they were real people.Thatis the kind of info that belongs in a museum, and not the romanticised, unrealistic Disney version.’
He glances between us and that sarcastic smile creeps across his face again. ‘And yes, I am. No one would be stupid enough to put up with me, and I’m surgically attached to my Tablet of Gloom. Oh, and I’m a “no” guy. All I say is no, no, no, no, no.’
‘Apparently you’re also an eavesdropper guy.’ I try to cover the embarrassment burning through me from my toes to the tips of my hair.Whydid I have to go and say all that without even considering that he might be lurking outside the door? If the ground could swallow me up right now, it would be very much appreciated.
