Mr. Holyport suggested that something should be let into the wall of the Corn Exchange, which faced the Market Square. A wreath, surrounding a bronze relief, with a plaque of names below it, would look very well there, and be plainly seen by all in the Market Place.
“But you couldn’t do that with the Corn Exchange,” Frampton said. “It is a masterpiece, by Wren; you could not put an excrescence on Wren’s façade.”
A big man, with a heavy face, said that living people had every right to alter old work according to modern requirements; but that in his view, the Memorial ought to be on the other side of the Market Square, in the middle of the three shops; and that the middle shop should have its face remodelled so as to take it. The Rector said at once that any such scheme would be far more costly than they could afford.
The debate ranged up and down over possible and impossible sites. One or two minor members of the Committee, who had come in late, asked that the question of a water-supply to Budd’s End should be debated; one said that he had the offer of a very good playing-field, which would only have to be levelled a bit to be perfect for any game, as well as being on the river-bank, so that it could be used for swimming. These were told that those points had been ruled out, and the question now was, where the work of art should be put. They raised a protest against this, saying that they represented a large element in Stubbington, who would be indignant to find their wishes overruled. The Chairman said that the matter had been put to the Committee and voted against; it was, therefore, out of order to try to raise it again.
When most of the sites had been proposed, a man from the back of the room, sitting in shadow, said that he could not understand why no one had mentioned the open space in front of St. Hilda’s Chapel in Budd’s End. It was an open space to which hardly anybody ever came and nobody ever bothered about. It was near some of the worst slums in Tatshire, which was saying a good deal, and was, therefore, an ideal spot in which to put a Memorial to men who had died in the hope of bettering the world, and putting an end to war and slums and the competitive commerce which made both. He proposed a statue of Jesus weeping in front of the disused Hilda’s Chapel, Budd’s End. He rose from his place and came down past them. There was tense silence as he passed the Chair. He was a lame man, with only one arm, and face all writhed with suffering. Dick whispered to Frampton that he was one of the survivors from one of the torpedoed hospital ships.
“I don’t think my mates want any memorials from you,” he said, and went out.
Mr. Quart said: “I’m coming along to give you a lift home, Jack,” and went out with him.
There was a murmur of pity and condolence after they had gone. Then someone said that no one had made a better suggestion than the island site at the triangle. It was a good site, and one which nine out of ten of the people of Stubbington passed every day, and one by which all traffic had to go slow. It could hardly be bettered. He knew of no place in Tatshire so good.
There was a pause in the debate here; people fidgeted and whispered.
Frampton said: “You’ve asked me to come here to advise. I’m not a member of the Committee and do not like to speak unless spoken to; but might I ask if anyone has a prejudice against the bridge? It is the main approach to Stubbington. If you had a figure, one on each side, at the approach to the bridge, you would have something unique in England; I mean, the far end of the bridge, where people see the town behind the bridge.”
A speaker waited till the chatter died down a little, and then said that he was sure that he for one welcomed Mr. Mansell as a neighbour, but that Stubbington had always been accustomed to manage her own affairs, and it seemed to him incongruous that a stranger, not a member of the Committee, had been asked in to make suggestions. However, the suggestion had been made, and he would like to suggest to Mr. Mansell, in reply, that the bridge lay outside the town, outside the walls, in a place where not one citizen in fifty would or could see it. It might be agreeable to tourists coming in in motor-cars but the figures there would give everybody of the town the feeling that the War Memorial had been turned out of doors.
Frampton was about to reply to this, when a woman rose. She was a comely woman, with a very clear, ringing voice.
She said that the last speaker had voiced something which had occurred to a good many of them. Stubbington was an old town, well-used to managing her own affairs, and many of her citizens could not understand why one with no association with the district had been called in to advise in this matter, especially as the person in question had done so much to upset the good fellowship and sportsmanship in which we used to live here. The men of this district did not give their lives so that barbed-wire fences might be put round coverts.
She sat down. Frampton looked at her with interest, and was about to reply, when the Admiral struck in with:
“By George, though, I’m all for Mr. Mansell advising if it’s a matter of a work of art. What the devil do we know about works of art here? Look at us, I ask you; me and that old ruffian Tom, and this wise chap here, Harold. We may make runs on a slow wicket, but by George, art’s not our subject.”
He made them laugh at this, and made it unnecessary for Frampton to reply. The Rector said that he was sorry that people were objecting to Mr. Mansell’s presence. He had been invited by the Committee to advise, and had very kindly consented to come there. His suggestion about figures on the bridge might be considered.
Miss Pauntley rose and said that the suggestion about the figures, she supposed that Mr. Mansell meant statues, at the bridge-end ought to be debated. The bridge had been an old one until the last few years, but the old one had been too inconvenient and had been swept away. The new one was very bald and bare. She was there that morning, thinking how bare and dull it looked.
Mr. Quart, who had now returned, said that they weren’t there to decorate bare places, but to commemorate the fallen. There were loud “Hear, hears” at this. He went on to say that he had had, and Stubbington had had some experience of decorating, in the recent past, when the body called the Sons of the pre-Raphaelites got leave to paint the roof of the Guild House where they were sitting. He had never seen such figures of fun. It had cost them pounds in whitewash, covering the things. He was a plain man, and if that was art, he needed no more of it. It was quite true what was said, that figures on the bridge would not be seen. The end of the bridge was outside the town. The town faced the other way, he might say, and not twenty windows of the town could command the view of figures there. As for the natives of the town, they would hardly cross the bridge one day in seven. What plain people wanted was a stone in a public place with a list of the names.
Frampton whispered to Harold:
“Who is the lady who got hot about the barbed-wire?”
Dick whispered: “Mrs. Ruddy Verge.” Frampton nodded, with the mental comment: “J’en suis vierge.”
The attendant, who looked to the cleaning of the room in which they sat, came in with a sheet of paper, on which he had pencilled a telephone message. The Rector called for silence, and read that: Mr. Method-Methodde, the Member for that part of South Tatshire, would be with them in a few minutes. He suggested that the Committee should mark time for those few minutes. The Committee agreed, and broke up into little groups. Frampton moved over to the Rector.