Five
To do:
· Delay travel plans
· Organize second charge loan on flat
· Repay Mum’s arrears
· Complete works on farmhouse
· Find estate agent
· Get Stop-it to eat kibble
· Rehome Stop-it, hens and pigs
Clare staggered to bed long after midnight and slept fitfully. At 5.30 a.m. Hilts woke her. She groaned, flopped onto her stomach and pulled the pillow over her head. If she were in Madrid as planned, she would be enjoying a lie-in right now. The muffled sounds of the cockerel managed to filter through, so she tossed the pillow aside, got up and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror’s reflection was not kind, highlighting the blue bags under her eyes and hair which looked like a child had been wielding the scissors. She ran herself a bath, squirted the remains of a bottle of bubble bath into the water and clambered in for a long soak.
An hour later, still wrapped in a towel, she moved the kettle onto the hot plate in the kitchen. Someone knocked on the back door. She spun round, as the door suddenly opened, and Sam Hastings walked in. She clutched the ends of her towel, wrapping it tighter. ‘H— h— hello,’ she stammered. What was he doing here and why did he think he could just walk in?
‘Hi. I gather from Roger you’ve got a trailer problem. Want me to take a look?’ He grinned. ‘After you’ve got dressed?’
He focused his piercing eyes on her. They really were stunning, and unlike her own, his steel-grey hair gave him a distinguished look. Clare wrapped her towel close and shuffled Ivy’s lease under a copy of Farmers Weekly . ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the trailer. It’s operator error.’
He laughed and she couldn’t help but smile. It was such a welcoming, cheerful sound. ‘Sorry, I thought you’d be up early.’ He made it sound like an apology, not a criticism. ‘If you throw on some clothes, I’ll show you how it’s done.’
She clattered up the stairs. In her bedroom she kicked aside yesterday’s soiled jeans, pulled on a pair of pristine denim overalls and rushed into the bathroom clutching her make-up bag. She picked up her perfume and stopped. In her head, she could hear her mother’s voice chiding her: Clare Hetherington, just what are you playing at? She replaced the bottle, squirted hair mousse onto her palms and smoothed down the worst of the spikes.
Downstairs, Sam was playing with Stop-it. She picked up a notebook and pen, pulled the keys from their new home on the pine dresser, next to the torches – she hoped she was away from Devon long before the clocks changed and she might need one of them at night – and trying to avoid looking at him, went outside.
In the space of a few minutes, Sam had unhooked the trailer. He then spent twenty minutes showing her how to reattach it, explaining where the electrics plugged in and how to check the trailer indicator and brake lights worked, while Clare scribbled copious notes.
‘Now do it yourself while I’m still here to help,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised your mother never taught you.’
Clare grasped the trailer hook and unwound it. ‘After Dad died, we had farmhands,’ she said. ‘And by the time I was old enough to learn, I had my nose glued to a schoolbook.’
‘Nearly there, I reckon,’ Sam said. He was so close she could smell him: a mixture of apples and a spice she couldn’t identify, but which made her think of beaches lined with palm trees. Clare unplugged the electrics, lifted the trailer hook free, twisted it to one side and lowered it to the ground.
‘Now rehook it,’ he said.
Laughing, Clare said, ‘I won’t be doing that I’m only here a few ...’ she stopped, the word ‘weeks’ had been on the tip of her tongue, ‘months’ she whispered, ‘but really, I can’t thank you enough.’
‘You can thank me by coming to our party,’ he said.
‘I’m not big on parties.’ She didn’t add that she hadn’t been invited to a party in five years, except for the office Christmas ones.
‘I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself.’
Was he asking for a date? Why was she resisting? His brother had pots of money, there would be buckets of champagne, and Ivy, Trish, and Anna were all invited. She shook her head.
‘Go on. Say you’ll come,’ he said, more forcefully.
She chewed at her lip, then said, ‘If you help with one more thing, I’ll come.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked grinning.
She pointed to the Land Rover. ‘Can you show me how to get this monster into gear?’
That evening, she emailed her travel agent instructing her to cancel everything booked for the summer: she would start her adventure in Istanbul. She defrosted one of her mother’s pies, put it in the Aga and went to feed the chickens, the pigs and finally Stop-it. He sniffed at the kibble and slunk off.
By nine, she was hungry. Clare took her pie outside, where the sun was fading over the fields, settling a pink glow across the horizon. She drank in the beauty. But there was a sour aftertaste – Hastings had taken advantage of her mother, most of that land should still belong to Orchard Farm. She sat down on a hard garden chair, unfurled Ivy’s lease, took a bite of pie and started reading. Something solid brushed against her legs. She peered down. Stop-it had brought her a cushion clenched between his jaws; one corner was chewed apart, and a trail of feathers snaked back to the door. She removed it with a laugh, placed it behind her back and picked up her pen and the lease.
As Clare read, she sensed a familiar surge of adrenalin. The lease was so one-sided. The bully versus the underdog. She got up, poured herself a small glass of wine, dropped the remains of her pie into Stop-it’s open jaws and reread the lease line by line. An hour and a larger glass of wine later, her scribbles covered the pages. She had to finish this by Saturday. There might be an opportunity to speak face to face with Tricky Ricky at his party. Hastings was responsible for Clare spending the first few months of her sabbatical in Brambleton; she would enjoy pitting her skills against him.
She took a sip of wine and picked up her phone, scrolling to the Brambleton Gals’ WhatsApp group.
Hey, girls. Think I might join you at the party on Saturday if that lift’s still on offer, Anna? X
She picked up her glass, heard a ping from the phone, took a sip and read a message from Trish:
Sam told me he dropped round to help you with the trailer. Is this a date?
Clare tapped her response.
Of course not!
Then she drained her glass. She wasn’t going to the party to see Sam. She wanted to spend time with her friends and speak to Tricky Ricky. That was all.
Later that week, Clare shut the door on the last of the three estate agents and sat at the kitchen table to amend her master chores list.
· Decide and appoint agent
· Repaint bedroom
· Fix kitchen floor tiles
· Sort garden
· Replace missing apple trees
· Probate list
· Small repairs list
The last chore was a fudge – the small repairs she had identified ran to two pages. The principal problem was there was only one candidate for these jobs and Clare didn’t want to do any of them. What she did want to do was soak-up Madrid’s culture, which was where she should be But at least at the weekend she would be spending time with her friends, this time at Hastings’ expense.
On Saturday morning, after a decent night’s sleep and a slick of make-up, Clare hunted for a suitable party outfit. She found a floaty gauzy dress she must have left in the case when she hurriedly repacked for Devon. Looking in the mirror, she ran a hand through her hair. It still unnerved her to feel soft strands of hair rather than bristle. She flattened her hair into shape with some mousse and did a quick twirl in front of the mirror. Much better than the last time Sam had seen her.
Roger and Anna drove her to Brambleton Hall and escorted her to the walled garden. Roger was wearing a blazer, which emphasized his military look, and for once Anna’s hair was loose, falling in an elegant sheen of dark blonde. As they tramped closer to the party, Clare heard the rise and fall of voices and the occasional tinkle of laughter. She smiled, sensing that shiver of anticipation she used to experience when the taxi dropped her off near the rally team’s base on a Friday night. Today, she would enjoy herself.
Stepping inside, the beauty of the garden struck her. It was a bit grandiose for her taste – like its owner, pimped to impress, but she could tell how much work had gone into nurturing the stage for Richard’s party, and she doubted it was the host who’d been manning the hoe. The garden was divided into quarters, each framed by neatly clipped knee-high box hedging, then wide pea gravel pathways. Each quadrant contained a different colour of rose – pink, yellow, white, and red – all underplanted with billowing bunches of yellow Alchemilla mollis, white frothy clouds of gypsophila and purple fronds of Nepeta. Between the outer pathways and the brick walls were strips of lawn so finely mown they looked like green velvet.
It was so manicured she wished she’d brought Stop-it to bounce over the box hedging and push it out of shape, squash plants and scatter mulch onto the pathways. She stifled a giggle, imagining him with his nose wedged down a hole in the lawn, his front paws clawing at the turf to reach a tempting smell.
Elegantly clad guests stood on the paths and lawns and uniformed staff were circulating with silver trays of drinks and canapés. In one corner was a brass band belting out Hey Jude ; it all looked terrifically English.
Roger picked up two glasses of Pimm’s, passing one to Clare, the other to his wife. Clare drank, letting the gingery taste linger before swallowing. She disliked Pimm’s but was pleased that was what was being served. It would prevent her from getting carried away and ending up squiffy. After all, she had work to do.
Clare’s eyes circled the guests, and she spotted her quarry nearby, standing with an attentive female audience. Physically, Richard Hastings was very different from his brother. Where Sam was tall and lean, Richard, at only five foot six, was four inches shorter than Clare. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and a green tie patterned with pheasants. He was standing sideways to her, his stomach bulging unattractively over his waistline. His hair was black – no premature greying for the elder brother – but it sat atop a pinched, florid face. Richard’s complexion was that of a Victorian gentleman fond of his post-dinner port.
Clare chewed at her lip. She had learned early on in her career that she did her best work when she stopped her personal feelings intruding on the professional. This time it wasn’t easy. Some wealthy people recognized that inherited wealth brought responsibilities, and were generous, like Hastings’ nineteenth-century ancestor Samuel, but not Richard. Samuel Hastings had built houses for the homeless and hadn’t tried to rob his tenants.
Clare felt a hand on her arm.
‘No,’ said Anna.
‘But—’
Anna gripped Clare’s arm, her fingers digging into the bare skin, and steered her towards a wooden bench. ‘This way,’ said Anna. ‘There’s Fred. And don’t be rude to Sam.’
‘He’s not the one I plan on being rude to!’
It seemed like Fred’s suit had been bought to grow into. The sleeves were too long, the jacket stood proud of his shoulders and a belt secured bunches of spare fabric at the waist. Today the tie was a vibrant purple. He was talking to Sam, who in chinos and a button-down shirt, was the most casually dressed man at the party. ‘Hi,’ said Sam, smiling, ‘thanks for coming today.’
She returned his smile, trying to decide if Sam’s had been flirtatious.
‘Good growing day for your mother’s apples,’ said Fred, sliding up to make room on the bench for the two women.
‘How is Cindy’s crop?’ asked Sam.
Clare didn’t want to talk about apples. She still hadn’t been into the orchard. She couldn’t – the ghost of her mother still stalked those trees, cigarette in mouth. The orchard was where they’d had their terrible row.
As if sensing her discomfort, Anna diverted the question by asking Sam how his own crop was and explaining to Clare that Sam made cider from his.
‘I thought you had holiday cottages’ said Clare.
‘I do. Cider started out as a hobby, but I’ve got the bug now. I think I spend more time on that than I do running my cottages.’
That’s because you don’t need to earn a living from either , thought Clare.
As Clare adjusted the sleeves on her dress, she glanced furtively at her toned arms. All those expensive personal training sessions had been worth it. With a pang, she thought of the hotels she’d carefully selected for their top-quality gyms. She had lost most of Europe, but she’d be away in time for the Eastern part of her adventure. At a resort she had booked in Thailand there was a treadmill with a view of the sea. She’d enjoy running on that.
The heat of the sun rippled through her. ‘I love this weather.’
‘Me too,’ said Sam. ‘Summertime is funner time.’
Clare smiled. That was something he used to whoop as an eight-year-old child playing on the beach.
‘Are you having fun today or are you on hosting duty?’ she asked, looking straight at him. He was undeniably good-looking.
‘I took a decision a long time ago to allow fun into my life. It’s always there if you look for it.’ He took off his glasses and looked straight into her eyes, his startlingly bright eyes radiating warmth, making her feel both hot and cold at the same time. She was sure he was flirting and took a gulp of Pimm’s to steady her nerves. Clare tried to think of a witty response, but her flirting skills were rusty. She returned his gaze, angling her body towards his. ‘Want to show me how?’
He replaced his glasses and took a pull of his drink. Oh, Clare , she remonstrated with herself, that was cringingly obvious . He’s certainly not interested in you; he must have every single woman in Devon chasing him.
Thankfully, Fred came to the rescue.
‘Did you have a chance to look at our leases?’ asked Fred.
Sam spoke tersely. ‘Fred, I told you – rents have gone up everywhere. I can’t ask my brother to make an exception just because you’re a mate.’
‘But 10 per cent,’ said Clare. ‘Is that fair?’
‘What’s this got to do with you?’ asked Sam frostily.
She felt her insides shrivel. Even now after twenty years he blew hot and cold. She felt just as confused and silly as she had done after he’d kissed her in the pub, and then made her feel like dirt on his shoe. She excused herself and got up to talk to Ivy, vowing to abandon memories of her schoolgirl crush.
Today the retired vicar wore a long pink batik kaftan, and a straw hat wound with a bright pink scarf, the ends draped like two skinny pigtails on either shoulder. There was a smile on Ivy’s face and her tinkling laughter soon soothed Clare’s temper. How does she do it? Clare asked herself. How is this woman permanently happy?
‘It’s kind of Richard to include me,’ said Ivy.
‘Anyone would invite you, Ivy.’
The other woman chuckled. Clare picked up a warm filo parcel baked to a golden hue from a silver platter held temptingly close. She took a bite. It was a mixture of smoked chicken and crunchy pine nuts, held together by a creamy filling. She held her other hand out to catch the flakes of crisp pastry, mumbling, ‘When’s your cottage being renovated?’
‘It’s not. He’s just repainting the front doors and window frames.’
Raising her glass to her lips, Clare said, ‘He’s not a very generous man, is he.’
‘Richard is generous when it’s in his interests to be seen to be generous,’ said Ivy.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I needed money to repair the church organ he donated thousands of pounds, but he made sure the entire village knew what he’d done.’
‘I see,’ said Clare thoughtfully.
‘People are rarely perfect, Clare.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Clare.
‘You know the saying; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it? Don’t strive for perfection in everything you do. Sometimes it’s best just to find a way to live with an uncomfortable situation. Your mother did.’
Clare frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I probably shouldn’t tell you. I don’t think anyone else knows ... well, apart from Richard.’ Clare held her breath. ‘When your mother was on the parish council, after he bought the almshouses from her, Richard tried to get permission for rather large extensions to the end two houses.’
‘The renamed Jasmine and Rose Cottages?’
‘Yes.’
‘And let me guess. Mum wasn’t keen and told him so.’
Ivy nodded. ‘He went to see her, basically tried to bribe her, offered her ten grand to give him permission, said he’d underpaid for the almshouses originally and wanted to put things right.’
‘Wow. He didn’t understand who he was trying to corrupt!’
‘No,’ said Ivy, wagging her head. ‘She turned him down and persuaded her fellow councillors to vote against him. That’s why she resigned from the council. She didn’t think it was right to expose him, but equally she knew she’d be unable to consider any future applications by him impartially.’
Clare asked herself if, when Hastings took advantage of her mother’s penury, he had viewed it as revenge for her spurning his bribe. Had Cindy’s morals cost her most of the farm and maybe her life?
Over Ivy’s head, Clare noticed a man with short, neatly trimmed raven-black hair and a flushed shiny face. The most striking thing about him was his clothes. He was wearing a sweeping black tailcoat which reached his knees, pin-striped dark grey trousers and a green waistcoat with brass buttons that gleamed in the sunlight. He could only be the Hastings’ butler. He carried himself with an air of calm, dignified, discreet power, like a head teacher quietly patrolling the school corridor. Briefly she wondered what it would be like working for someone as unpleasant as Hastings. Richard would bend employment laws to suit himself – she doubted the butler took his holiday entitlement and suspected Richard’s interpretation of a day off was sending the man into Barnstaple on an errand.
Ivy introduced him. ‘This is Magnus. Now here really is someone who needs your help.’
‘In what way?’ asked Clare, noticing beads of sweat covering Magnus’s forehead, making her want to offer to mop his face. Clare felt sorry for him. He must be wilting in this heat.
‘In winter he’s colder than me. Richard only turns the central heating on for the three winter months, regardless of the temperature. If we get a cold snap, Magnus here is expected to either freeze or use electric fan heaters, which he must pay for.’
‘He’s very generous to me, madam,’ said Magnus deferentially, as if referring to the king. Magnus was holding a jug of Pimm’s. His hand looked sweaty, and the sight of his damp collar stirred Clare’s fighting spirit. ‘Is this true, Magnus?’
‘I don’t like to complain.’
‘Would you like me to?’
Magnus looked flustered. His hand shook and he shifted the jug, holding it between both hands. ‘Please don’t,’ he said.
Was this man frightened of his employer? She allowed her glass to be topped up, then, clutching the cool glass to regain an even keel – she knew better than to take on a fight without her emotions in check – she strode towards her host, the crunch of her heels on the pea gravel chiming with her scratchy mood. Clare hadn’t spoken to Richard in decades. First, she would watch and listen for clues, then leverage his vanities and weaknesses like she did with her opposition in a legal case.
She joined the fringe of Richard’s admiring coterie, feeling a bit like a teenager on the edge of a fan club, waiting to thrust an autograph book forward. For a few minutes, she adopted an interested expression, listening to Richard explain the family history behind the silver goblet he was drinking from, who the silversmith was and how the village benefitted when the Hastings family donated a larger matching piece to the church; apparently that chalice was still used for Sunday communions.
‘We Hastings always look after our village.’
She washed away the sour taste in her mouth with a gulp of Pimm’s. Brambleton wasn’t his village. He owned a lot of buildings, and he cast a pall over many of the residents, but that didn’t mean he owned it. Richard was still talking. ‘I like to do my bit.’
Clare stepped forward and said politely, ‘But surely you could do more?’
‘And you are?’ said Richard coldly.
Of course, Richard wouldn’t remember her. The last time he’d seen her, she was a ‘village girl’ pulling pints in his ‘family pub’.
‘Clare Hetherington. Orchard Farm.’
‘Ah. I knew your mother,’ he said, his face flushing a deep shade of red. Richard took a sip from his goblet, eyeing her over the rim. ‘What did you have in mind? How would you like to spend my money for me?’ He spoke in a superior tone, convincing Clare he was looking down his nose at her.
‘Well, I’m a lawyer, and I think you might look at better terms for your tenants.’
He wafted a hand at her, dismissing her comment in the same way she could imagine him instructing Magnus to leave a room. Time didn’t seem to have improved his manners.
‘No need. They’re all happy,’ he said, taking a gulp of his drink.
Watching his red neck pulsing as the liquid slid down his throat, Clare was reminded of Hilts and bit her cheek to stop herself from laughing. ‘Are they?’ she asked.
‘None of my tenants complain.’ Richard lifted his goblet, which glinted in the sun. Clare felt her hackles rising.
‘Only because they don’t dare. It doesn’t mean they’re happy.’
‘It’s not my job to make them happy,’ said Richard dismissively. ‘It’s a business.’
She bit back a retort. She’d never treat a client with such callous indifference. ‘I think most of us providing a service want our customers to believe they’ve been well served. I certainly do. Tell me, if there was a way of making them happy at no expense to you, would you do that?’
He rolled his eyes at her. ‘Why do I sense that what you are about to suggest will be presented as something which won’t cost me anything, but will end up being expensive?’
‘They’re good tenants, pay rent on time, don’t give you any hassle?’
‘Yes’, he said, drawing out the word, forestalling the moment she could make her suggestion.
‘Give them longer leases. Next time make them three years instead of just one. Give them a sense of security. Fred and Ivy have both devoted their lives to this village.’ She dug deep, concerned her next words might stick in her throat, but experience told her this was the way to secure her goal. Richard didn’t treat tenants as equals. He was living in the nineteenth century dispensing charity to villagers who doffed their caps and lived in awe of his power. ‘Brambleton is your village. Have some compassion for their plight.’
‘And if I did that, it would make them happy, would it?’ His eyes locked onto hers as he took a long pull of his drink. This was going much better than she could have imagined. She’d been worried he might summon Magnus to escort her off the premises.
‘Yes.’
His brow wrinkled. ‘And if I did this ...’ e was looking at her, his eyes narrowed, making her think he might agree, that she’d touched his human side, ‘... you think they would be grateful?’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I think they would.’
‘Okay then.’
She took a gulp of Pimm’s, hiding her smile. She didn’t want him to see her surprise. ‘You’ll do it?’
‘Remind me. I’m far too busy to remember tedious details about every property I own. Magnus will give you my email address.’
She shook his hand. It was clammy. She looked into his eyes, which had a cold, calculating menace to them. Why had he agreed? And why so quickly? She asked herself if he had an ulterior motive and a shiver ran down her spine. She hoped she hadn’t just made a huge mistake.