The Planner(22)

Although in practice it was quite straightforward, on paper it had been almost impossibly difficult. The masterplan crossed the boundaries of two local development frameworks and would need to be signed off by transport, housing, environmental and regeneration assessors and approved at council and city level, and possibly by the Secretary of State. And then the whole thing would have to be funded. There would need to be transport infrastructure investment, and there would need to be money from local, regional and national government. It probably wouldn’t work without some match funding from the European Development Fund, and the developers would have to be persuaded to increase their costs and reduce their margins. In all likelihood, getting the planning consent and the funding package agreed would take longer than the Second World War. And before any of this happened, they had to complete the public consultation.

‘It’s very good of you to do this with me,’ said James.

‘Tell me about it. It’s not even my project,’ said Rachel.

So here he was again. This time he was in Clifford’s, a once state-of-the-art shopping centre that had been admired by a group of highly influential but now generally despised planners in the late 1970s for its durable concrete-composite walkways, integrated multi-storey car park and smoked glass ceiling. He could at least see the point of holding a consultation here. There was little point in searching for the local residents of Sunbury Square in the public library, arts centre or any of the other things that the council provided for them. No, this was their natural habitat: if they weren’t working in shops, then generally they were buying things in them.

But at least he wasn’t alone. Rachel, deservedly the most popular member of Southwark Council’s Planning Directorate, was with him as they stepped on to a raised platform in the very centre of Clifford’s, directly under the glass atrium, at the intersection of four broad avenues of shopping units. Beside them was a coffee kiosk and a little grouping of indoor plants, which may have been natural – it was practically impossible to tell, let alone know what that meant. James unfolded the camping table he had brought with him, expertly assembled his plastic stand and unpacked two canvas chairs for them. He pulled out clipboards and felt-tip pens, and a neat pile of blank yellow cards, on which people were encouraged to submit opinions and ideas.

‘Well, we’ve got four hours here. Let’s see if anything happens.’

‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll learn something,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m quite excited. I haven’t done one of these for ages.’

James had done this many times before, and what had he learnt? Well, nothing worth learning, nothing that would actually improve the masterplan, nothing that would make the building materials stronger or the houses less costly or the public realm more attractive. How could it? It wasn’t as if anyone he ever consulted knew anything about these things. Felix had told him last week that he wasn’t a liberal, but maybe he wasn’t a democrat either. Rather, he was a technocrat: he believed in technical solutions to the city’s problems, and he knew he wouldn’t find them here.

‘I wish we didn’t have to be on this stage,’ said Rachel. ‘I don’t like being so exposed. All those gormless people staring at my thighs.’

James gazed down the shopping alleys. As a rule, he wasn’t comfortable about being on view like this either, but he didn’t think they had much to worry about. It was a raised floor really rather than a stage, only one foot high, and it was unlikely that Alice, or anyone else he was at university with, was going to walk past.

‘I wouldn’t get bothered about that,’ said James. ‘The usual problem is trying to attract their attention.’

According to some measures, London was the most unequal city in the developed world, and hardly anyone gave a shit. That was one of the hazards of being a town planner. You ended up getting cross and anxious about things that no one cared about. You worried about the amount of nitrogen dioxide in the air, the target rates for domestic recycling and why more people didn’t go to the theatre. You tried to absorb and articulate all of the city’s problems, and you did this so that other people didn’t have to. As a result, it was perhaps inevitable that you became fretful and unhappy.

There was another reason too. The night before he had spoken to his family on the telephone. He had mentioned the job offer in Nottingham and his mother, who even more than most mothers hated London, had spent an hour making compelling arguments why he should take it. And what reasons could he give for staying? To attend book launches, hang out in bars and seek enlightenment? His mother prided herself on never being influenced by television commercials and would not be impressed with anything Felix had to say. And yet . . . could he really go to Nottingham? It had, after all, just come joint runner-up as the British city with the highest quality of life. Why on earth would he want to live there?