Page 34 of Wild Horses
‘Of course,’ agreed Christy, buoyed that he seemed to be taking her seriously.
‘Let me get the paperwork started. As time is apparently of the essence, I’ll schedule an independent valuation as soon as possible.’ The manager smiled reassuringly and saw her out.
Days later, the assessor arrived in town, a small, middle-aged man with a clipboard and a sour expression. Christy accompanied him to the hall, unlocked the door and crossed her fingers. The man stepped inside, his eyes quickly scanning the interior as he made a barely audible tsk tsk sound.
She and Astrid had scrubbed the place to within an inch of its life, bought two new rugs for the floor and scattered vases of fresh flowers about. Christy thought it looked lovely.
‘As you can see, the building retains a lot of original features,’ she began, her voice echoing slightly. She gestured towards the high ceilings and the stage. ‘And we’ve already painted, and replaced the stage floorboards.’
The assessor ignored her, his shiny shoes clicking on the timber floor.
He stopped to examine a wall where the plaster had cracked, revealing the stud beneath.
He looked up at the ceiling beams, frowned, and made another note on his clipboard.
‘No insulation,’ he muttered, then kicked hard at the floor, startling her.
A little pile of rot came away from under where the roof leaked.
Christy followed him about as his critical eyes took in every imperfection. He paused at the stage, inspecting the curtains, cupboards and skirting boards. ‘These fixtures need replacing.’
‘But they’re original, as I was saying before,’ said Christy eagerly. ‘Part of the hall’s historical appeal.’
The man’s lips twitched upwards in what might have been mistaken for a smile.
But his eyes remained cool and unimpressed, suggesting he found little value in old-world charm.
He stepped down from the stage, his gaze turning towards the switchboard and the tangle of extension cords.
‘You have a certificate of electrical safety, I assume?’
‘Well, no. But we plan to fully restore and modernise the facilities. There’s a lot of potential here,’ said Christy, trying to paint a picture of what could be rather than what was.
He made a few more notes, then walked to the windows, running his finger over the woodworm-riddled frames. ‘These windows aren’t energy efficient. You’ll lose a lot of heat,’ he said, tapping the glass.
What did he expect – double glazing? Christy bit her lip, her heart sinking with each negative comment. She knew the hall had problems, but she’d hoped its unique historical significance might make it an attractive asset nonetheless.
Finally, the assessor closed his clipboard with a snap. ‘Well, I have everything I need.’ He gave Christy a noncommittal nod. ‘I’ll compile my report and send it to the bank. They’ll be in touch.’
The man left. As his footsteps faded away, she was left alone in the middle of the hall, surrounded by silence and his heavy disapproval.
It was the phone call Christy had hoped not to have. ‘I regret to inform you we cannot grant you a mortgage to buy the Merriang school hall.’ The bank manager had the good grace to sound genuinely regretful.
Even though Christy had half-expected it, the rejection still shook her.
‘Unfortunately, due to the poor condition of the building, its remote location and no prospect of a residential occupancy certificate, we don’t deem it a viable investment,’ he explained, his voice gentle.
‘The value of that property is far less than the unrealistically hopeful auction estimate. A similar building sold in Scrubby Creek last year for only sixty thousand dollars. The truth is, these old halls in tiny towns are next to worthless. It’s a shame, but the land they occupy would be worth more if they were demolished. ’
Christy blinked back tears. She’d been so happy a few short weeks earlier, building something with Tyler, buzzing with his decision to buy the hall.
How quickly things had changed. Christy couldn’t blame Tyler for retracting his offer.
Not only had she cold-shouldered him after the cabaret show without explanation, he’d then been blindsided by Maggie’s malicious gossip.
Christy had sounded Clare out about what would happen if the building couldn’t be saved.
It wasn’t good news. ‘The cabaret show proved the hall can be used to extend many existing areas of our syllabus,’ Clare had said.
‘Music, art, English, technology, hospitality, community studies – even business and marketing. But without that extra space in town to stage community events? I’m afraid the curriculum won’t stretch to specifically teaching drama as a separate subject. ’
So that was that. Without the hall her dream of being a drama teacher would again be over.
Yet, even now, as she pictured the quaint building, her imagination insisted on filling it with laughter and people and song.
Christy’s heart ached at their defeat. But then she stood a little straighter.
No, not defeat. She wouldn’t, couldn’t accept that.
She’d find another way, whatever it took.