Twelve
Thinking that the earliest she could turn up for an unscheduled meeting with Richard and hope to find him receptive was ten o’clock, Clare decided to spend the early morning finding a way to make her shrunken farm profitable. If Richard’s shed went up, it would make Orchard Farm less attractive as a home, and her only hope would be to try and sell it as a business.
The solution wasn’t free-range eggs. She planned to supplement her meagre income that way, but without industrial scale production like Richard was proposing, selling eggs was not a money-making venture.
She steeled herself to seek inspiration for the farm in its namesake, but with a hand on the orchard gate, one look at the branches clustered with fruit brought the memory of her last ever conversation with her mother flooding back. She snatched her hand away as if stung by a bee. If only Guy was with her. She wanted to bounce ideas for the farm off him – not that he’d been a great listener, unless the topic was himself or cars. Her father, on the other hand, had been a good listener.
Her father had risen every day at 5 a.m., had a single cup of strong tea and gone milking, returning for a breakfast of two poached eggs on toast at precisely 9.30 a.m. Guy had been a maverick who ordered pizza for breakfast and ate Weetabix for dinner. In the evenings, she sometimes got home from work to find him waiting in the street. He’d bounce towards her, smother her in kisses, and announce he’d hired a sports car for the day and was whisking her out for a late-night drive in the country.
Clare reached into the pig’s treat bin, fishing out a handful of the tiny apples her mother must have thinned from the orchard and scattering them over the fence. The pigs rushed off, squealing, falling on the fruit and gobbling greedily.
She raked out the soiled pig bedding, heaping it into a wheelbarrow to deposit in the manure pit, which Ivy had shown her that first morning nearly six weeks ago. It was a concrete-lined set of bins that ensured the farm waste could rot down without run-off leaching into the soil. Unlike Hastings, her mother had been passionate about protecting the environment.
She examined the section Closing the gate on the pigs, she still had no idea how to make the farm profitable, but she knew she had to find a solution. Escorted by Stop-it, Clare trudged to the old milking parlour, a vast barn on the edge of the shrunken acreage. She rested her arms on the fence, gazing at the land now owned by Hastings. For generations, from spring to autumn, the fields had been full of Jersey cows happily grazing in the meadow grass. Now the grass was knee-high, thick and tufty, and she could see ragwort sprouting its deceptive yellow flowers. Hardly inspiring. Clare turned away in disgust. Hastings wasn’t using that land and wasn’t caring for it.
She strode to the barn and opened the door. It was virtually empty – there was no milking equipment and no railings to separate the animals. The silence was unsettling. This had once been the nerve centre of the farm, where her father had slept when the calves were due. It should be echoing to the gentle hiss of milking machinery. What could she do in here? The place was dry, the floor was level, and it was away from the farmhouse – maybe some sort of events venue? Conferences? Weddings? Something rustled in the straw-strewn ground. Stop-it dashed forwards and pounced. There was a frantic snuffling noise. He pounced again, then returned, but his prize was merely a piece of rope; he waggled it excitedly.
‘Not now, boy,’ she said dismissively.
She spotted a storage unit in a corner, beside a large Rotavator – what did her mother need that for, she wondered. Had she planned to prepare the soil for vegetables? Clare wandered over, the dog following closely, eager for her to play tug with his newest toy. ‘Stop it!’ she scolded. Next to the Rotavator was a hunk of metal shaped like an anchor, which Clare assumed was an old part from the milking machinery. She switched her attention to the shelves, which were crammed with so many cardboard boxes it looked like a city skyline packed with towering buildings. Clare pulled one towards her, which was surprisingly heavy, as if it contained books. She lifted the flaps. It was full of bottles. Intrigued, Clare pulled one out, recognizing her mother’s spidery writing as she did so:
Cindy’s Cider ‘23
Now this was interesting. Her mother had made apple juice, and never drank alcohol, so why had she started to make cider? Clare lugged a box back to the house, leaving the barn door open for the dog.
There was a spring in her step; if this cider tasted good, it could be a neat solution. She could earn a bit of cash selling last year’s vintage, and if she made cider again this year, it would demonstrate the farm was viable as a business. Cindy’s Cider was quite a catchy name too. There was a minor obstacle to her plan. Clare needed someone else to try it, as an overindulgence in scrumpy as a teenager meant she now retched at even the smell of cider. But the only cider expert she could think of was Sam Hastings, and she wasn’t about to ask for his help.
Carrying a second mug of tea and a banana – her first breakfast had ended up in Stop-it’s bowl – Clare went upstairs to change for her visit to Hastings. She chose a business suit she’d worn to represent clients against unscrupulous employers. After all, she was defending the villagers, most of whom were no better equipped to fight than her clients. Brushing her hair, she realized she had worn the same suit to her mother’s funeral. She would draw strength from that and try to protect her mother’s legacy – the orchard. She closed her eyes, vowing to finally get in there tomorrow. She must if she was going to become a cider maker.
Fortuitously, the gates to Brambleton Hall were open. Clare turned in, past the imposing gate lodges with a fluttering feeling in her stomach, shot down the drive and pulled up in front of the Hall. She took a moment to consider the house. It wasn’t a classic design; centuries of architects had tinkered with the building, none constrained by concerns about symmetry. The walls were faced with grey ashlar stone and the ground floor windows were double height, each with nine glistening polished glass panels – eighteen panes per window: they must take an army to keep polished. She guessed the house had started out as a classic Tudor manor, with the original great hall at the front and two right-angled wings for private reception rooms. At some point the left wing had been converted into the entrance. Now it displayed a porch in front and an impressive triple-storey extension on that side. Indented from the original dining hall, the extension virtually doubled the length of the building. She concluded that the house was like its owner – a formidable force. Her hands felt clammy, and she ran them down the sides of her trousers.
In her mirror, she saw the front door was open. Magnus, in his butler’s uniform, was standing like a soldier on ceremonial guard. In this heat? Wasn’t there a summer uniform? Hearing his footsteps crunch over the gravel towards her, she reached for her handbag and shuffled out of the car.
‘Good morning, madam,’ said Magnus. ‘Is Mrs Hastings expecting you?’
Clare offered the butler a smile, but his face was impassive. There was no sign that he recognized her from their conversation at the summer drinks party.
‘It’s not Mrs Hastings I’m after. It’s Mr Hastings.’
‘Ah. Do you have an appointment?’
She shook her head. ‘I was hoping he could spare me ten minutes. Have you thought any more about my discussing the heating of your cottage with Mr Hastings?’
Briefly the butler closed his eyes. ‘I would be grateful if you did not do that, madam.’ Magnus shook his head, as if reminding himself of his duties, widened his eyes and spoke. ‘And who should I say is calling?’
She gave her name. The butler nodded. ‘This way please, madam.’
Inside, he pointed to a pair of leather library chairs positioned either side of a stone fireplace. ‘Please take a seat and I’ll see if Mr Hastings is available.’ Clare did as she was instructed, choosing the chair closest to the front door. Magnus was wearing soft shoes which seemed to glide silently over the polished flagstones. She watched his departing back until he disappeared, leaving her gazing around the entrance hall. It was as long as a tennis court, but only a third as wide, which gave the illusion that ceiling was lower than its twelve-foot height. The walls were lined with wood, painted a soft fawn colour, and decorated with what she knew from her days studying Tudor history for A level was called ‘bolection moulding’. The technique created little frames, which looked like a series of blank canvases. Some of the uppermost squares were painted with coats of arms, splashes of bright yellow, red, blue and gold.
The ceiling was painted in the palest pink and covered in fine cream-coloured plasterwork, but it lacked elegance and looked slightly crude. There were plate-sized oblongs of interlocking cornicing with a single small rose in the centre, but the shapes weren’t uniform. Some were fatter, some longer, as if a group of artists had produced their own interpretation.
As the minutes ticked by, it occurred to her that Richard probably never admired his entrance hall, and suspected the beauty was lost in a haze of familiarity, in the same way she dismissed her own entrance hall in London. That thought reminded her she needed to shoehorn in a trip to pack up her flat. She would take a couple of days off and enjoy a few Indian takeaways when she was there. Her mother’s stock of prepared meals was dwindling.
As she waited, she sat asking herself what it would be like to live in such an enormous house. Would it be fun, intimidating or would you just live in the kitchen like most families? She heard purposeful footsteps, then Richard Hastings, dressed in a jacket and tie, appeared at the end of the hallway. Magnus stood a deferential distance behind him.
‘Good morning, Ms Hetherington. Sam told me to expect a visit.’ At the mention of Sam’s name, Clare felt herself tense, but told herself to keep calm. After all, she had known he was spying. ‘What can I offer you to drink? Magnus, I’ll have tea. And for you?’ he asked, inclining his head her way.
‘Tea works for me.’
‘India, China or herbal?’ asked Magnus.
What was this charade? They both knew she wasn’t here on a social call. ‘You choose,’ she said neutrally.
‘Let’s do this in my study,’ said Richard. Clare followed him into a second hallway. This one was triple height, its walls lined with heavy gilded pictures of what she assumed were generations of Hastings’ ancestors. Richard pushed open a huge wooden door. She scurried after him, catching the door as it was closing. Her quarry marched on ahead, leaving Clare gawping at the room she found herself in. An intricate painted wallpaper covered all four walls. It depicted Chinese figures pursuing everyday activities: hoeing, fishing with spears, men with a pole over their shoulders, pails of water balanced on either end. The colours had been muted by the passage of time, but the impact wasn’t lessened. How long had this hung here? Richard was letting himself through another door and she rushed to catch up.
By the time she entered yet another spectacular room, Richard was already sitting behind a desk, his elbows propped on the leather top, hands cupping his chin, a determined look in his eyes. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, making it sound like an instruction and indicating two carved wooden armchairs in front of his desk.
Clare sat, squashing her handbag onto the seat beside her. She took a moment to admire her surroundings and gather her confidence. It wasn’t like any study she’d seen before, and she suspected he had chosen the location to project power. Twenty feet above her hung impressive plasterwork – there were elegant birds with what looked like fish suspended from their mouths, sheaves of wheat and fat cherubs. ‘What a beautiful room,’ she said. ‘It must be inspirational to work in here.’
‘I’ve never sought inspiration in here. This is my study because it’s at the furthest extremity, cut off from the rest of the house.’
‘Well, it would inspire me,’ she said.
A sour expression crossed his face. ‘That’s because you don’t have to grapple with the cost of maintaining it,’ he said.
She didn’t want to antagonize him further, so simply thanked him for seeing her.
He nodded.
‘I think you know why I’ve come,’ she said.
There was another nod.
‘Your brother will have told you that feelings are running high in the village. What you’re proposing will have major implications for a lot of people.’
He arched his eyebrows but maintained his silence. In a peculiar way his refusal to engage, far from making her nervous, was steeling her backbone. She had plenty of experience dealing with prickly opponents, and now selected her words carefully. ‘I’ve come to ask you to consider an alternative form of farming.’
He gave the self-satisfied smile of someone waiting for the first opportunity to say no. ‘Like growing apples?’ he asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘That may work for Sam, but not for me.’
No, she thought, he was an impatient beast. He wouldn’t be prepared to wait years for apple trees to mature. She kept a neutral tone in her voice. ‘What about soft fruit?’
‘Nah. Overrated. I’m an egg man myself.’
‘Have you ever kept chickens, because you see I have.’ She gave a little laugh, a picture in her mind of Captain Hilts stuff-ing his craw. ‘They’re a lot of work. Rewarding, but time-consuming.’
‘I’ve done my research,’ Hastings said, and his look warned that he was confident of his position.
She tried again. ‘I don’t think they’re very lucrative.’
‘Experts have pored over my business plan,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t need you to comment on my profit forecast.’
His tone disturbed her concentration, and her next words came out more rushed than she would have liked. ‘Can’t we work together? As a village? People have come up with lots of interesting ideas for those fields. What about a campsite?’
‘Nope.’
‘Or a pick your own? Fields of strawberries ...?’
‘Eggs.’
‘There’s a lot of money to be made selling pumpkins for Halloween. Children like to come and choose their own ...’ She tailed off, disturbed both by the look of power projected from those dark eyes and the contrasting sound of her own voice, which seemed whiny, desperate and feeble. She took a breath, trying to rejuvenate her fighting spirit, and said in the same voice she used to scold Stop-it. ‘Have you thought about how this will affect the village?’
‘I’ve worked hard all my life. I’ve had to. I don’t lead the same lackadaisical life my brother does – he was always the favourite. Unlike you and your group of rabble-rousers, I’m not speculating about what will happen. I’ve paid for an expert to check there won’t be any impact on the village.’
She wanted to retort that he’d done nothing of the sort. That he’d merely paid someone to reach his preferred conclusion. Clare couldn’t look at his supercilious smile and glanced away. ‘Is there anything I can say or do to encourage you to reconsider?’
‘Frankly, no. I think you’ll find this is all being overblown. People don’t like the idea because they’re frightened of change. You’re from London; you don’t understand rural life. They’ll get used to seeing the sheds and we’ll all move on.’
She had to connect with his human side. There must be a way. The seconds ticked away, then she said, ‘But what about parking for the village hall? You play bridge. There must be forty cars on Thursday nights. How are we going to park forty cars in the road?’
‘You exaggerate. There will only be thirty-nine. Magnus will chauffeur me there and back.’
She heard a door creak and Magnus entered, as ramrod straight as an officer carrying the regimental colours, holding a tray with an elaborate silver tea service. While the butler poured, Clare inhaled, then slowly let her temper flow out with her breath. She tried to think of something which might persuade Richard to reconsider, but her mind was as blank as Magnus’s deadpan expression.
She drank her tea, listening to Richard boast about his plans. Seeing him had been a waste of time. He wouldn’t engage because his mind was made up. The only solution was to persuade the Council to refuse permission. She must convince them before Richard and his ‘experts’ sealed the deal.
Returning to the farm, she noticed a tray of eggs had been taken from the table by the gate. She trotted over and found a folded bank note in the honesty pot. She plucked it out, savouring its crisp smoothness; this represented the first tiptoe out of the mess that she blamed Hastings for creating. Behind her, Stop-it gave a rumbling growl. She turned. He was shaking a toy secured in his jaws. She fondled his ears, then pushed past him, drawn to a large cardboard box on the doorstep. She felt the toy graze the back of her trousers. ‘Not now, boy, I’ve a mountain to climb.’ On the box, written in felt tip, was a message:
I thought you might find a use for these. Trish xxx
Clare lifted the flaps; inside were pots of paint, rollers, paint brushes, sandpaper and tools she had never even seen before. What was her friend thinking? Clare didn’t do DIY. She carried the box inside and upstairs to her mother’s old bedroom. When she had more money, she’d pay someone to come and redecorate. Then, determined to finally slay those ghosts, she marched outside to the apple orchard.
She stopped at the gate, forcing herself to let in the memory of the last time she’d spoken to her mother. Seven years ago, Clare and Guy had returned to Orchard Farm after discussing their wedding plans with Ivy, each tripping over the other’s words as they chattered excitedly. Cindy had met them at the gate, wearing blue oil-stained overalls. Clare had hidden her irritation. Her mother had been wearing those overalls since Friday, not even changing when Clare had attempted to cook a nice dinner on Saturday night and laid the dining room table. Clare squeezed Guy’s hand, whispering, ‘Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with her this weekend. Why don’t you pack up the car and I’ll make an excuse for us to get away early.’
There was an answering squeeze, which sent a wave of happiness pulsing through her limbs, and for a moment Clare questioned if it was simply jealousy eating her mother. Was she lonely? Was seeing Clare wreathed in happiness forcing Cindy to confront her own solitude? Her mother juggled a packet of cigarettes. She pulled one out, lit it, took a long drag and let smoke trickle out sideways. With forced jollity Clare said, ‘We’ve had such fun. Ivy’s fine with the idea of having the wedding rings delivered down the aisle in a miniature remote-controlled rally car.’
‘Could we go for a walk, please?’ said Cindy, looking directly at Clare. ‘Just the two of us.’
Clare dropped Guy’s hand. Her heart was pounding; there was something wrong. Was her mother ill? Had smoking finally caught up with her? She fell into step beside her mother, breathing in the familiar smell of tobacco smoke that clung to those overalls. ‘What’s on your mind?’ asked Clare.
Her mother released the catch on the gate to the orchard, and ushered Clare inside. She took another puff of her cigarette, this time letting the smoke escape through her nostrils as she spoke. ‘I love you, Clare, and it’s because I love you that I have to say this.’ Clare didn’t reply. She twisted her engagement ring round and round with her thumb. She had a nagging suspicion this concerned Guy. ‘He’s not right for you.’
‘You barely know him. This is only the second time you’ve met him.’
‘I know he’s not the one. You are your father’s daughter; you work hard and play fair. He’s the opposite. He’s scrounging an easy ride off you and when the novelty is over, you’ll regret it.’
Hot anger pulsed through Clare’s veins. Cindy had been outside all weekend. She’d made no effort to get to know Guy, simply made a snap judgement based on prejudice. ‘I make enough to support us. He’s a talented driver, unlikely to make money, but we don’t need it. He brings other things to our relationship.’
Her mother ground the butt of her cigarette beneath a heel, picked up the stub and tucked it in a pocket. ‘He’ll break your heart.’
Clare’s mind clouded with a fog of rage; her hands bunched into fists. ‘He’s different; that doesn’t make him unreliable. Not every driver drifts from one rally to the next picking up women along the way.’
‘But what’s the hurry?’ said her mother, pulling out another cigarette. ‘Why are you rushing into this wedding when you’ve only known the boy six months?’
‘He’s not a boy,’ Clare said through clenched teeth. ‘We’re both in our mid-thirties and anyway, I know my own mind.’ Her mother struck a match. The rasping sound fuelled Clare’s temper, and she forced herself to count to ten before saying in a conciliatory tone. ‘Didn’t you know Dad was the one for you when you met him?’
‘Exactly,’ said Cindy triumphantly. ‘I’d known him all my life. He courted me from afar.’ A smile came over her mother’s face. ‘I thought he wasn’t interested, but then he plucked up the courage to ask me out and ... well, the rest is history.’
Clare smiled too, recalling her parents’ happy marriage; a bit too dull and predictable for her, but it had worked for them. Then, like a hidden knife, her mother lunged for Clare’s heart. ‘That’s why I know Guy isn’t serious,’ she said, her voice soft but firm. Her mother waved her arms out wide, taking in the rows of trees heavy with fruit. ‘Your father and I loved the same things; we planted most of these trees together.’ Cindy bent down, picking up a windfall apple from the grass and holding it to her nose. ‘This orchard was just as special for him as it is for me ...’ She paused, her fingers brushing gently over the apple’s smooth skin, before looking up again, her eyes distant, full of memory. ‘That’s why I scattered his ashes in here. Right here, under these trees.’ She exhaled slowly, as if releasing a long-held breath. ‘Come back down to Devon. You’ll find the right man for you. I’m sure he’s here.’
‘So that’s what this is about? The farm? You want me to find some farmer’s boring second son who won’t inherit and marry him? That’s your dream, and in case you hadn’t worked it out for yourself, it’s not mine.’
Cindy shook her head and repeated her words. ‘Don’t marry him. He’ll break your heart.’
Clare backed away and started running. She heard her mother calling after her. ‘I know you. He’s not the man for you.’ Clare heard footsteps pounding behind her, the rasping, heavy breathing of the seasoned smoker, and picked up her pace. She could see Guy sitting in the car, their bags on the back seat. He glanced up and a look of alarm flashed across his face. Clare shot into the passenger seat, yanking at the seatbelt so sharply it jammed.
She looked up, saw her mother’s crumpled face and said to Guy, ‘Drive. Just get me away. I don’t ever want to come back here again.’
Clare didn’t tell Guy what had happened. She never told him, and he never asked. Clare made her choice and that left no room for a relationship with her mother. They were married in a registry office so had no need to come back to Devon. For years afterwards, apples didn’t feature on Clare’s shopping list; the taste sent her somersaulting back to that row. She took a final look at the trees now, swaying gently in the breeze, then without entering the orchard she turned and trudged back inside.
Clare spent the afternoon finalizing the campaign leaflet. None of the other BARS activists had any comments, so she tinkered with the words and then emailed it to a colleague, Sally – a defamation lawyer – asking her to cast a careful eye over it. Richard was in a feisty spirit, and she didn’t want to be accused of libel.
On Friday evening, with the green light from Sally, Clare strode to the village armed with hundreds of leaflets in a shoulder bag and Stop-it secured to a lead. She started at the top of the village, pushing one through each of the old almshouses’ letter boxes, then she came up with a better idea and headed for the Smugglers Inn.
It was only six thirty and customers were sparse. Behind the bar, Rose was polishing glasses as she chatted to Sam and Fred. When Clare walked in, all three looked her way and Fred leaned over on his barstool and reached down. ‘Come here, boy,’ he clucked. Clare let the lead fall slack, and the dog ambled over to the outstretched hand.
‘Don’t feed him any crisps please, Fred, he’ll get fat.’ Clare stood with her back to both men and beckoned Rose over.
‘Do you mind if I leave a few of these here and next door in the shop?’ she asked, dropping half her leaflets on the bar.
Rose put down her cloth. She picked up a leaflet, ran her eyes over it, then put it back. ‘Can’t you leave us out of this?’ she asked, rubbing at a glass so vigorously Clare was concerned it might crack.
Sam spoke: ‘I think Rose is in a tricky position. My brother is her landlord.’
Clare rounded on the eavesdropper. Tonight his hair didn’t look distinguished, and his eyes didn’t seem dazzling. There was nothing attractive about this man. He was cut from the same arrogant cloth as his brother and enjoying basking in the family’s power, just like he’d done all those years ago when he had just used her for fun.
‘I know that, thank you,’ she said, turning her back on Sam again and dragging Stop-it sideways, distancing him from the enemy. ‘Yes, the Hastings family are nasty enough to find a way of moving you on if you were to publicly oppose them. I won’t put you in that position, Rose.’ She snatched up the leaflets. ‘Come on, Stop-it.’
Banging the door shut behind her, Clare turned her face to the sea, letting the wind whip into her face, driving salt into her eyes and making them smart. How could she fight a family who controlled this village as tightly as a feudal lord, punishing anyone who opposed them?
She could only hope that the man she was meeting in half an hour would have the answer. Further up the hill, Clare’s luck improved. Trish was preparing for the evening crowd, her slim arms transferring trays of muffins and scones to the kitchen, returning to the counter bearing savoury treats. She looked up from her task, a steely look in her hazel eyes. ‘I see you got my message: I’m going to help on the QT. My business is doomed if he gets permission; if those are the leaflets Anna told me about, leave me fifty to start with.’ Trish flashed her a warm smile. ‘I knew you’d see this off.’
The door opened and in walked a man so tall he had to stoop to get through the doorway. He wore knee-length shorts, a washed-out T-shirt and a battered straw hat which he removed to reveal short salt and pepper hair.
‘That’s your man,’ muttered Trish.
‘Bill Matthews?’ asked Clare.
‘That’s me,’ he said, tossing his hat onto a corner table. ‘Your local councillor at your service.’ Trish took their order, and Clare took the opportunity to pull a leaflet out of her bag. He waved it away. ‘I’ve already seen one,’ he said, patting a pocket. ‘Very punchy! Very brave. Very quick. I’m impressed.’
She smiled. She wasn’t expecting or seeking praise, but she’d worked hard on those words, and Bill had got hold of a leaflet astonishingly quickly.
‘Look, I’m on your side,’ he said.
She lifted her hands in despair. ‘So why hasn’t the Planning Officer returned my calls?’
‘There’s no point. He can’t tell you anything you want to hear. But the good news is, I’ve escalated the matter. It will be heard by the full Planning Committee.’
This sounded promising. She chose her words carefully. ‘How do we ensure that they make the right decision?’
‘The most important thing you can do is to make sure the parish council vote it down.’
Clare hadn’t thought about the parish council, not since she learned from Ivy that it had been the catalyst to catapult her mother and her farm onto Richard’s radar.
‘Right. I’ll get onto it.’ she said, taking a gulp of wine. ‘Do you know who the councillors are and when they meet?’
‘Once a month. There’s a website. Find out when the next meeting is, and I suspect this will be on the agenda.’ He sank the rest of his wine and reached out for his hat. ‘They’ll be a bit cagey but try speaking to them in advance. They’re mostly farming stock. It took them a while to trust me – I don’t farm. But your family’s farmed for generations. Oh, and get a big turnout. There’s nothing like a big show of voters to help a councillor decide which way to jump!’
‘Maybe I should start with the chairperson?’
‘I don’t recommend that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s Richard Hastings.’
Clare let out a soft moan. She would be willing to bet that Richard had cajoled or bribed every parish councillor into his pocket. She only hoped enough of them were as principled as her mother had been.