The Piano Man Project Page 0,107

the pram of a six-month-old baby to Old Don tied by his vintage tie collection.

‘Can someone shut that ice-cream van up?’ the camera-man yelled, and the white-haired Italian ice-cream man zipped back across the grass to kill the music. He’d heard about the protest on the radio and turned up an hour or so back to hand out free ice creams to all the kids. It would have been another streaked-cheek moment for Honey, had she had any mascara left on to cry off.

‘One minute and counting,’ the cameraman said, and they all squared their shoulders in readiness.

Troy opened with an introduction to camera about the protest, and then turned to Honey with his mike in his hand.

‘So Miss Jones, did you anticipate that the protest would be so well attended?’

Honey smiled. ‘We hoped, obviously, but no, I never expected this many people to come out in support. We’re grateful beyond measure, and only hope that it makes the owners of the home think again. There’s more than thirty residents living in the home, and the idea of having to leave has most of them terrified.’

Troy nodded with a solemn frown on his face. ‘And your own job is presumably on the line too?’

‘Mine and everyone else’s who works here too,’ Honey said. ‘The home employs more than fifty staff, it’s a lot of jobs to lose. But in all honesty, this is about the residents, not the staff. We can get other jobs, but would you want to be homeless at ninety? Or would you want that for your parents, or grandparents?’ Honey could feel her blood starting to heat up in her veins, all of her frustrations from the day channelling themselves into that one important moment.

‘This home is full of amazing people. War veterans. Women who kept the home fires burning and raised their babies in a blackout. A generation of people who’ve already seen more hardship than most of us will ever encounter. How can it be right to toss them out onto the street like yesterday’s newspaper, or to rehome them scattered across the county like a pack of stray dogs?’

The look on Troy’s face told her that she’d already given him far more than he’d counted on from her, but the words wouldn’t stop falling from her mouth, and worse, hot tears were gathering in her eyes.

‘These people …’ she looked at Lucille and Mimi. ‘These people stood up for us when we needed them, and today we’re standing up for them.’ A tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped it with the back of her hand. ‘We’re standing with them, and we’re asking everyone out there watching this to stand with us too. Stand in your living rooms, stand with us on Twitter, or on Facebook, or in your local pub right now!’

Troy looked alarmed, and the cameraman was drawing a line across his throat with bulging eyes. Honey could understand it, but couldn’t find it in herself to be bothered if she’d made a fool of herself. She stood stiffly beside the others as Troy threw back to the studio, and finally the cameraman raised his hand and switched off the light on the camera.

It was only then that Honey realised that the protesters had fallen silent to listen to what she said, and as she turned to look across at them a ripple of applause began, quietly at first, rising to a thunderous noise as Honey clamped shaking fingers over her mouth. Troy Masters shook her by the other hand, and then Billy grabbed it from him and lifted her arm aloft as if she were the victor in a boxing ring. Honey’s ears rung with the noise, and she found she was half laughing and half crying. They hadn’t won yet, but maybe, just maybe, they’d just moved a step closer.

In the dining room Skinny Steve had turned on the TV to watch the segment, and he sat alongside Hal at the nearest table as Honey appeared on the screen.

‘She looks hot, just so you know,’ Steve muttered.

‘She sounds nervous,’ Hal said, listening to her as she started to speak.

They sat in silence as her speech gathered pace and passion, and heard the crowds outside begin to clap when Steve turned the TV off afterwards.

Hal laughed and shook his head. Honeysuckle Jones, slayer of evil giants, Svengali of the masses. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

‘I think we’re going to need some extra help in the kitchen,