Three
At five thirty on Friday afternoon the treat tin rattled and Stop-it bounced inside. Clare hooked him to a lead and, with her arm at full stretch, jogged towards Brambleton. For centuries the village had been a remote hamlet of thatched fishermen’s cottages hugging a natural bay on the North Devon coast, all defiantly facing the sea. Then, in the sixteenth century, an aristocrat, newly enriched by Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries, built Brambleton Hall and the settlement spread upwards, bridging the gap between the two livelihoods of the sea or the squire. While the Hall still dominated village life and remained the largest local employer, most of the villagers’ livelihoods now depended on tourism.
There was no pavement, so with the June late-afternoon sun warming her bare arms, making her skin tingle, Clare and Stop-it walked along the side of the road, each step taking them closer to the gates of Brambleton Hall. The grass banks teemed with mauve-coloured poppies, pale blue cornflowers and oxeye daisies, which always reminded Clare of fried eggs. They reached the closed gates of the estate and stopped. She looked through the bars, admiring the spaced-out mature oaks and majestic copper beech trees, their dark purple leaves swaying in the breeze.
Horse chestnut trees lined a long straight drive which bisected the park, their overhanging branches creating a tunnel of greenery which she imagined led to Brambleton Hall. She knew the current owner, Richard Hastings, but she’d never been inside the house itself. She last saw Richard when she was in her twenties and she and Trish had been working behind the bar of the village pub. Clare recalled him as an arrogant, brash, entitled toff. Richard once introduced Trish and Clare to one of his chums as ‘village girls’, who worked in ‘my family pub’.
Two pretty cottages flanked the entrance. They had well-tended gardens: both lawns were neatly mown, the box hedges clipped green headboards for borders filled with matching peonies and lupins. She wondered with a smirk if the lodge house leases specified the variety of flower and the required height of the grass. Richard Hastings wasn’t the type to leave such important matters to the whim of a tenant.
Clare tugged at the leash and walked downhill towards a house which wouldn’t look out of place in a fairy-tale. Built in the Gothic revival style, it had a steeply pitched roof, ornate bargeboards and pretty chimneys. From a distance, it looked like one dwelling, but Clare knew it was four separate cottages: Numbers 1 to 4. The almshouses, the precursor to social housing. In the late 1960s, after Clare’s grandmother died, her grandfather had purchased all four. He moved into one, enabling her parents to take over Orchard Farm, and let out the other three, selecting tenants connected to the village. Twenty years ago, her mother had sold them back to the family who’d built them. Above the pointed arched doorways of the middle two houses, the name of the Victorian altruist – Samuel Hastings – was inscribed.
One of these middle houses was occupied by Ivy, the other by Mr Thompson, Clare’s former primary school teacher. Both cottages were in need of repair, their woodwork cracked, chipped and bubbling. In contrast, the end pair of cottages were smartly painted, and beside their doors were slate boards, renaming them Rose Cottage and Jasmine Cottage. It was ironic that two properties designed for the homeless now operated as holiday lets for the wealthy.
Behind the houses was the vastness of the Hastings’ 5,000 acre estate. Clare could hear the low rumble of a tractor. Squinting, she spotted the machine threading its way across Hastings’ land, leaving hillocks of mown grass. As a child she had loved riding in the tractor, cocooned safely between her father’s arms as he cut haylage, inhaling the sharp yet sweet scent of the newly cut grass. He died when she was eleven, a tender age for Clare to learn how to compartmentalize grief.
Ten minutes later, she dragged a reluctant Stop-it away from a lamp post towards a white, low-slung building, the last property in the village, perched like a full stop: the Smugglers Inn. Beyond it the harbour wall reached out, a protective arm shielding Brambleton from Atlantic storms.
She breathed out and ran a hand through her hair as she gazed down at the sandy beach, dotted with lazing bronzed bodies. People sat beside picnic hampers, stretched out on towels, or relaxed in deckchairs beneath sun umbrellas anchored in the sand. In the sea, tourists bobbed about. A woman stood, shook sand off her towel, stowed it in a bag, then did the same with her partner’s before they left the beach hand in hand. Clare wished it was as easy for her to pack up and leave. Still, the warm Mediterranean Sea awaited her.
Clare turned back to the pub, with its quaint wooden sign hanging above the entrance. It looked like it hadn’t changed at all in the past seven years. She pushed open the door. Inside, the sun blazed through open windows, lighting up the low-beamed ceilings, rustic wooden furniture and the polished dark oak bar. Customers sat at an assortment of well-worn wooden tables on plush, high-backed chairs, or among a warren of cosy nooks and booths. Each was lined with ancient wooden settles, once practical for the rough working clothes that had sat on them, centuries of use having carved imprints into the seats. Historic black and white photos adorned the walls, telling stories of the area’s heritage: pictures of gap-toothed farmers, fishermen and tousle-haired children. It was easy to imagine the lantern-lit tavern as it was in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, to almost hear the snatched conversations between smugglers and customers haggling over the price of a barrel of French brandy.
In front of the bar was a crowd dressed in shorts and T-shirts. All the bar stools were occupied, and waiting staff were dashing about with loaded trays. There was a gentle hum of conversation, punctuated by hearty laughter and the clinking of glasses. Clare sniffed, smelling the same combination of sea air and suntan lotion, she used to moan about when she worked there with Trish. Someone had spruced the pub up since those days. She ran her eyes over the space, seeking her friends.
‘Clare!’ shouted a female voice. She tracked the sound down to a nook where Anna was standing, waving. ‘Over here!’ Anna called.
Anna was tall with long fair hair tugged back off her forehead, coiled into a bun and secured on her head with a large, practical clasp. It gave her friend’s face a pinched look, which disguised her real beauty. Apart from special occasions, Anna always tucked her hair away. Clare sometimes thought it was because Anna was so wrapped up in her job as an architect that she forgot to let it loose after finishing work.
Dragging Stop-it behind her, Clare threaded her way through the crowd to a table where Ivy, Trish, Anna and her husband Roger were sitting with another couple she didn’t recognize. A woman with a small shiny face and her partner, who had a mop of frizzy ginger hair. Clare smiled and concentrated as Ivy introduced her, but a background burst of laughter blotted out their names. Fearing they’d assume she hadn’t been listening, Clare didn’t ask Ivy to repeat herself – she was unlikely to meet them again.
‘What are you having?’ asked Roger. He was a tall man, with sandy-coloured hair and a pencil moustache, which gave him a military air. Roger worked from home doing something frightfully intelligent for insurance companies, which together with Anna’s income from her architect’s business earned the couple enough to afford to live at Anna’s lovely childhood home, the Old Rectory, with its five acres of gardens. ‘The other women are drinking prosecco, but if you’d prefer something else?’
‘It’s the same brand I serve at Prosecco and Prose,’ chirped Trish. She had the physique of a whippet, with lean elegant limbs, a pretty face and mournful tawny eyes beneath a curtain of dark hair. Clare responded with a smile. Trish never struck Clare as an entrepreneur and had surprised Clare when a decade ago she’d set up a café-cum-bookshop.
Clare suddenly realized how exhausted she was. ‘I’ll have an espresso martini, please.’
Someone snorted. Clare cringed, a flush sweeping over her cheeks. The two strangers were both smirking. ‘I can ask Rose,’ said Roger stroking his moustache, ‘but that sounds like a London drink to me.’
Clare shuffled her feet. ‘No drama. I’ll have what everyone else is drinking.’
Anna patted the seat beside her. ‘Saved you a spot.’ Clare sidled over, grateful for Anna’s protection. Next to Anna, she couldn’t see or be seen by either of the two strangers. ‘Come here you,’ said Anna, folding her into a hug. ‘It’s great to have you here, even in such sad circumstances. How are you?’
Clare wasn’t going to answer that one. Her stomach felt like someone had put it on a spin cycle. Other than work dos, or with Trish and Anna, she hadn’t been out for a drink, let alone a meal, since Guy had died five years earlier. She preferred takeaways to the idea of sitting alone in a restaurant, worrying if people at adjoining tables would think she was eavesdropping.
‘I’m fine,’ she said breezily.
‘Is there anything Roger or I can do to help?’
‘If you know anyone who can unhitch a trailer send them my way, please.’ Clare smiled grimly. Trish was leaning across the table for a kiss, straining to get close enough.
Clare reached out and kissed her friend’s cheeks, saying, ‘This has changed a lot since you and I worked here.’
Trish laughed. ‘That was yonks ago, but some things don’t change.’ She pointed an elegant hand at the bar, ‘There’s Sam. Remember him? He used to hang around when we worked here.’ She giggled, then added, ‘He was always flirting with you.’
Hearing the name, Clare’s nostrils flared. Sam was Richard Hastings’ younger brother, and in her opinion, they were both as snobbish and rude as each other. She glanced across the room at the man chatting to Roger, his back towards her. He was over six feet tall with broad rugby player’s shoulders and hair a distinguished iron-grey colour, but there had been flecks of grey even when he was in his twenties. Trish was right. Sam had been a flirt. He’d even kissed her once. Clare had told Trish about that, but not what had happened the next day, which was far too humiliating to share.
Even with his back towards her, she could tell Sam had aged well. His hair hadn’t thinned, his stature was still upright, like a soldier. He turned her way. His bronzed face spoke of an outdoor lifestyle, his jawline hadn’t slackened, and his smooth face suggested a peaceful life. But where once had been chiselled cheeks, there were now faint laughter lines. Sam had always been popular for his carefree approach to life. But then it was easy to be happy if you were born into the rich Hastings family and had your future lined in goose down for you.
‘And you also know that man Sam’s having dinner with,’ said Trish.
Sam’s companion was looking Clare’s way. Mentally she tightened his facial features, painted his white hair blonde, rolling back twenty years of ageing and recognized her primary school teacher, Mr Thompson. It was the tie which gave her the last clue. He always used to wear one, even if he was taking a games lesson.
Roger was walking back to their table, a clean glass in his hand. She hoped Sam didn’t follow him – he was the last person she wanted to run into after the way he’d treated her. Roger poured Clare a glass of prosecco.
Trish winked at her. ‘You know, Sam is divorced. No one special in his life ... And he’s loaded.’
Clare blushed and took a gulp of fizz. She considered telling Trish what had happened the day after Sam kissed her, but realized she was being silly. They were not starry-eyed youngsters anymore. She kept her tone light. ‘He was never serious about me, just messing around. My, it’s busy in here!’
‘The food is exceptional,’ said Anna. ‘It’s come a long way since chicken in a basket. Rose, that’s the landlady, has really revitalised this pub. And ask Roger – the wine list is amazing, Rose’s husband George is the chef, and he’s a bit of a wine buff. We thought we’d just have the bar menu tonight, if that’s okay with you?’
Talk turned to a party everyone seemed to be attending, which was being held at Brambleton Hall. ‘Come! I’m sure you’d be welcome. After all, we were all at school with the host,’ said Anna.
‘He’s got pots of money,’ said the man with the frizzy hair. ‘He holds it in a walled rose garden. He’s got a butler too.’
Clare laughed. ‘Tricky Ricky? Hope he’s mellowed since he was at school.’
Anna huffed. ‘He’s just hiked Ivy’s rent by over 10 per cent.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Clare, throwing Ivy a concerned look. ‘The dirty rat, bathing in champagne paid for by the toiling masses. Can he do that?’
‘Good point,’ said Trish. ‘You should have a look at the lease.’
‘I’m not a property lawyer.’
‘But you’re a lawyer. You’ll work it out,’ said Trish.
Clare felt herself go hot. She didn’t want to get drawn into village politics. She’d be gone in a few weeks. ‘It’s not my field.’
Next to Clare, Anna stiffened and exchanged a furtive look with Trish. Clare told herself to ignore it. Ivy wouldn’t need to worry about rent after Monday. Ivy would soon be living at Orchard Farm. Roger came to her rescue. ‘Quite right,’ he said, stroking his moustache. ‘Little spats can split a village. Best to keep out of it. I do.’
‘Let me buy another bottle of prosecco,’ offered Clare, squeezing past Anna.
Skirting past Sam Hastings, Clare walked to the far end of the bar and tried to catch the landlady’s eye.
Rose was soon in front of her. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked in a business-like voice. Physically there was nothing remarkable about Rose. She was of average height and build, with practical short brown hair.
‘I’m with Trish and Anna. A bottle of the same prosecco they ordered, please.’
‘You’re their lawyer friend, aren’t you?’
She replied warily. ‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
Clare nodded. Rose blew out a breath, her lips vibrating. ‘Can a landlord hike your rent by 20 per cent? We can just about afford it, but it’s a serious dent to the profit.’
Clare’s eyes flickered to the far end of the bar. She didn’t have to ask who the landlord was, or how he had learned the pub could afford such a massive rent rise.
‘It’s not my field, but just say no – 20 per cent is egregious.’
‘I can see it from his perspective,’ said Rose, placing Clare’s prosecco in a plastic wine bucket. ‘I’ve got friends renting in Barnstaple and all their landlords have increased the rent to cover their mortgages.’
Clare raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope they don’t expect to see the other side of that coin. Landlords won’t be lowering rents when rates fall. Anyway, interest rates don’t affect the likes of Tricky Ricky – he inherited everything. He doesn’t have a mortgage.’
Rose stroked her lips between finger and thumb. ‘Do you think he’s trying it on?’
‘Yes. Make a counter-offer. The worst he can do is say no.’
‘But if he throws us out, we’re homeless. We live here too.’
Clare drew breath, then released it slowly through clenched teeth. Hastings had Rose pinned over a barrel. He was greedy, hiking everyone’s rents, but it sounded like he was a canny businessman, picking a level he judged they could afford.
Back at the table, Clare topped up glasses and squeezed back in to sit next to Anna.
‘Will you come to the drinks party then?’ asked Ivy, beaming across the table.
Still irritated with Hastings’ plans to gorge on the pub’s success, Clare spoke in a sceptical tone. ‘Why are you all going? He isn’t inviting you because he wants you to enjoy yourself. You’re just adornments.’
‘Adornments?’ said Anna, tinkling with laughter. ‘At my age I take that as a compliment.’
Clare chuckled. She’d missed being a threesome with her mates. They so rarely came to London. She would enjoy their company while she was here. ‘I don’t like the host or his brother.’
Anna snorted, then said ‘I don’t think anyone other than his family like him. We go because it’s a village tradition, not to see Richard.’
‘And because the booze is free-flowing,’ added the frizzy- haired man. ‘Come and join us. You’ll have fun and meet heaps of people.’
It was a generous, inclusive voice and Clare warmed to him. ‘But I’m not part of the village. I’d feel like an intruder.’ And anyway, she didn’t want to meet heaps of people.
‘You are. You live on your family farm,’ said Anna bluntly.
It was a logical, practical response from an architect and made Clare smile.
‘Do you ever regret not returning to the farm?’ asked Anna.
Clare shook her head. Much as she deeply regretted not healing the rift with her mother, London was where she could be useful, and she had always been determined to go there. Maybe if she hadn’t fallen out with her mother, she might have learned to love the gentle rhythms of a farming life, but it was too late for what-ifs. Clare was a London lawyer who had worked hard all her life and had earned her sabbatical.
Buoyed by the group’s spirit, Clare took a swig of prosecco then, feeling amicable, she smiled at Ivy and said, ‘If you give me a copy of your lease, I’ll take a quick squint at it.’