Lonely Teardrops (2008) by Freda Lightfoot

circa nineteen-thirties, complete with matching dangly ear-rings, listening quietly as folk began to put forward suggestions, some of which were not even legal.
    She listened as Papa Bertalone likened the developers to the Gestapo; smiled as Big Molly nudged her husband Ozzy in the ribs, and, having failed to bully him into speaking, shouted out that her son Robert depended on Champion Street being around for some time to come if he was to take over the pie business.
    ‘We should march on the council offices and demand their full support,’ Jimmy Ramsay insisted, shaking a powerful fist more used to slicing up meat carcasses. ‘Let them know we refuse to be bullied.’
    ‘Aye, that’s right. No one is going to walk all over us,’ cried one stallholder.
    ‘And we’ll punch anyone who tries,’ yelled another.
    There was a noisy chorus of agreement, and several other suggestions about what folk would like to do to any councillors who refused to stand by them. Clara Higginson cleared her throat to quietly point out that these kind of threats weren’t getting them anywhere, and gradually the grumbles subsided as they listened to her sound common sense.
    ‘From what I understand, this generous offer will stand for only a limited period and then will be reduced. There may be some people present who would be willing to accept it, so should we perhaps take a vote before we proceed any further?’
      A small silence ensued while people digested this uncomfortable truth. Glances flicked all around as everyone attempted to assess which of those present might be seduced by such blackmail.
    ‘Who would admit to it?’ Sam Beckett scoffed. ‘Although I’m sure some of us may well be considering retirement, or a possible move anyway, we’re hardly likely to risk damaging our business by saying so.’
    Everyone looked at him, and wondered.
    Belle, in her usual forthright way, said, ‘Well, let’s find out. Is there anyone here willing to accept this undoubtedly generous offer, bearing in mind, as Clara points out, that it has a limited life-span?’
    No one volunteered a reply to this question although whether that was because they had no intention of ever accepting, or were keeping their intentions close to their chest, as Sam suggested, wasn’t clear.
    Chris George said, ‘We should also remember that not everyone on Champion Street owns their own property. Many houses are rented so it will be the landlord who decides, over whom we have no control. My own father owns our baker’s shop, for instance.’
    This was a sobering thought.
    ‘Can’t we persuade them to draw up a new agreement to spare those houses in good condition, and allow the market to stay, even if they do demolish the older ones?’ Barry Holmes wanted to know.
    ‘We’ve tried, so far with little success,’ Belle told him.
    ‘Would they agree to meet us on site, to come and view our properties and discuss the matter more fully? Do we know what kind of flats they intend to build, and when they hope to start? Do you have the answer to any of those questions, Belle?’
    Belle didn’t.
    Rose, who had other plans for her day besides being cooped up in a stuffy meeting room, finally made up her mind to speak. ‘Seems to me, what we need is someone to investigate the matter further. We need to gather more information, to find out exactly who this company is and what they intend to do with Champion Street, if and when they’ve bought up everyone’s property.’
    ‘By heck, she’s right,’ Jimmy Ramsay agreed, slapping one huge thigh with the flat of his hand. ‘We need to form a special committee to investigate the matter. And if they should discover that this development company mean to destroy everything, the market and allthe houses in Champion Street, then our task must be to start a campaign to save it.’
    This proposal was put to the meeting and voted upon almost unanimously. A group of stalwarts was quickly selected for the task, Rose