Seventeen
Morning task list:
· Clean hen enclosure
· Ditto pigs
· Restock both feed bins
On Friday morning Clare rose before Hilts summoned her, exhausted from a fitful night of tossing and turning, like a candle flame flickering in a draft. She awoke with an uncomfortable feeling in her chest: she hadn’t felt it for decades, but she knew what it was – exam results day. Today, the Council would officially decide if Richard could build his factory.
She went outside, where the clear blue Devon skies heralded a gorgeous summer’s day. The dew was heavy on the grass, sparkling in the sunshine like fireflies resting on emerald threads. It was difficult to envisage receiving bad news on a day like this. She heard a twig crack and turned. A red deer emerged from the woods, its ears twitching, its nose pointing Clare’s way; then it trotted across the field, barely twenty feet in front of her. Magical, she thought, wondering if the rangers on the African safari she was supposed to be visiting at the end of the year would get her as close to wildlife.
After feeding the animals she spent four hours tidying the pig enclosure, then cleaned out the henhouse and heaved a bag of grain into the feed bin. She heard a squeak and glanced up. Bill Matthews was pulling the front gate shut. She dropped the lid on the bin and ran moist palms over her trousers. Was Bill coming to break the news personally? She studied his face, hoping for a hint. He wore a serious expression. This didn’t look like a good news story. Her mouth felt dry.
‘Hi,’ she croaked, then she cleared her throat. ‘What news?’
He shook his head.
She swallowed hard. At least he’d had the courtesy to come and tell her. She closed her eyes, struggling to get her breathing under control, listening to his footsteps coming closer. She had been right – without a contradictory EIA, the Council couldn’t refuse permission. When she opened her eyes, Bill was standing in front of her. He looked stern, as if something weighty was on his mind. He was twisting his neck and rubbing it as if it was sore. ‘The meeting is this afternoon,’ he said.
Relief flooded through her. Then she asked herself why Bill was here. He took off his hat, tapped it against his chest, then his eyes drilled into her. ‘Have you got the funds to fight this?’
She hesitated but didn’t look away. A Vera was making a satisfied squawking noise. Clare had learned that this was the hen celebrating laying an egg. Richard’s chickens would never make that cheerful sound. If she said yes, would that encourage the Council to reject Hastings’ plans, knowing BARS would pay to defend the decision if Richard appealed? Or would it have the opposite effect, allowing the Committee to grant permission for the factory, knowing the village had the funds to appeal? She scraped a hand through her hair. Either way, it boiled down to the same thing.
Stuttering a little, she said, ‘I— I am confident we will raise the money to fund an EIA.’
She didn’t know how, but they had to.
‘Right,’ said Bill, thrusting out his hand. She shook it. His was a firm grip and she tried to keep her own hand steady. ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Bill. ‘The decision will be later today.’
‘Call me, please – whatever the decision is.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll call you.’
Unable to concentrate on farm chores, Clare drove to Barnstaple with a short shopping list and a ￡10 note. She collected a trolley, then replaced it with a basket and, without looking at anything on display, strode to the fruit and veg area. Her hand hovered over the different punnets of strawberries – the cheapest was over ￡1. She gently shook the container. There were less than ten berries. She sensed somebody behind her and not wanting to be an obstruction, walked away, thinking Richard should have taken her advice and gone into soft fruit.
In the vegetable aisle, she told herself to select seasonal produce. What was in season at the end of August? There was a man waiting for her to choose. She tossed a packet of asparagus into her basket and ran her eyes over the other greenery, then removed the asparagus from her basket – it was from Peru and cost more per stem than the strawberries. In her peripheral vision, she noticed the man was still behind her. She spun round to see a figure scurrying off past the pineapples. A shiver ran down her spine. Had someone been following her? Clare prowled up and down, calculating the cost of produce. She chose a cabbage, some loose carrots and a few courgettes. She would have to work out what to do with them, but it was a start.
The rest of the day passed in a frenzied bout of DIY. She watched three different YouTube ‘How-to’ videos, then threw dust sheets over the bedroom furniture, dug out a ladder and Trish’s box of paints and rollers, chose a cheerful yellow and began painting. There was something soothing about changing the beige tones of her childhood bedroom to a vivid, sunny yellow. She wished she could alter the mess the Hastings family was creating in her life as easily.
At five o’clock, having painted the last corner, she washed the roller and checked her phone. But there were no missed calls. Surely the meeting was over by now? Was Bill too embarrassed to call? She was carting the ladder downstairs when her phone vibrated in her back pocket. Clare stumbled down the final steps, propped the ladder against the wall and reached for her phone, surprised to see her hands were shaking. The screen was alight: Bill Matthews.
In a scratchy voice she didn’t recognize as her own, she crossed her fingers and answered. ‘Hi, Bill. What did they decide?’
‘The decision will be posted online later today. Don’t speak to anyone about this until you’ve read it.’ Her heart was racing. There could only be one reason for his warning. ‘Richard’s application was rejected,’ he said.
Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Oh, Bill. That’s fantastic,’ she spluttered, feeling almost light-headed. ‘Well done.’ She gushed out her thanks.
‘ We expect him to appeal,’ said Bill. ‘You must assume he will, and don’t rely on us to fight this. We’ll defend our decision, but we can’t pay for expert reports. We’re relying on you.’
‘Yes.’ She wanted to sound more convincing and hoped the excitement in her voice masked her lack of confidence. ‘How long before he appeals?’
‘He has six months.’
That bolstered her confidence. Then Bill shattered it. ‘But I know that man; he likes a scrap, so he’ll attack much sooner. If I were you, I’d assume you’ll need an EIA before Christmas.’
Less than four months. That didn’t leave long for BARS to raise the funds.
That night the Smugglers Inn was full, and everyone wanted to buy Clare a drink. After three large glasses of wine on an empty stomach, Clare had convinced herself that Richard wouldn’t appeal, that she’d sell the farm by Christmas and catch the last half of her sabbatical; she was already anticipating her journey through India. She felt strong hands on her shoulders and glanced up into Sam’s dazzling blue eyes.
‘Congratulations.’
‘Shank you,’ she mumbled.
His smile faded. ‘Clare, when did you last have something to eat?’
She laughed and danced a little jig. ‘Who needs food when you’ve got wine!’
‘Come on, you. Let’s get you fed.’
He took her by the hand. She loved the feeling of his warm fingers enclosing hers and she squeezed. He squeezed back, sending a thrilling pulse coursing through her body.
At the bar, he made her eat the burger and chips he’d ordered for himself. ‘Unlike you, I had lunch.’
‘Is he very, very cross?’ she asked, grinning round the sides of the burger. She took a huge bite, trying to recall the last time she’d eaten.
Sam rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s put it this way – I wouldn’t like to be Cora for the next few days.’
She giggled and speared a few chips. ‘Horrid man, threatening to ruin the village.’
‘Planning battles bring out the worst in people. And I’m afraid he’s not done yet.’
She took another bite of the burger, chewing and considering what he’d said. He was right, but tonight she didn’t want to talk about Richard.
She picked up a chip and held it out towards Sam. He leaned forward. His eyes locked on to hers, then gently he brushed the chip aside and drew even closer.
‘There she is – our saviour!’ hollered Roger, pushing between Sam and Clare. ‘My round!’ he said. Suddenly Anna was there, hugging Clare tightly.
Roger insisted on buying a bottle of champagne. ‘Thank goodness that’s over. Cheers, everyone,’ he said, clinking glasses. Ivy and Fred appeared, and Roger poured more champagne, leaving Clare fumbling to recapture what Roger had interrupted – had Sam been about to kiss her?
Sharp squawking woke Clare at dawn. Overnight, someone had turned up the volume on Hilts. Each drawn-out crow echoed through her brain, making her temples throb. She felt groggy and thirsty, and as she moaned, pulling a pillow over her head, she caught sight of her sleeve. She sat up. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Why? Had she made a fool of herself? She had a cloudy memory of flirting with Sam, eating his burger, a fleeting moment where it felt like they might kiss, but then everything became blurry: everyone was laughing, there was dancing and a lot of drinking. She couldn’t recall how she had got home. Did Anna and Roger drive her back? She rubbed her eyes, lay back down and groaned. Last night was the blowout the village needed to release tension, but Richard wasn’t beaten. They must start preparing for an appeal ... just not today.
She caught the sound of a car engine, followed by Stop-it’s barking, and a voice drifting up from downstairs. The dog replied with an excited yowl. He knew the visitor; probably Ivy, popping in to check on her. Clare glanced at her wrist – six o’clock! She winced, then heaved herself upright and staggered to the bathroom, peeling off her clothes and stepping into the shower.
Five minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she flopped back onto the bed, her head pounding. There was a knock on the door. She sat up, tucking the towel tightly round her. ‘Come in, I’m decent,’ she called.
The door opened. A mug appeared and her mouth salivated.
‘I hope that’s tea,’ she said.
Sam walked in, grinning. She wanted to duck under the duvet. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, pushing it into shape, then folded the towel more tightly around herself. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ he asked.
‘Did you bring me home?’
‘No one wanted you to leave, but by nine you were looking a bit shattered, so I persuaded Anna to help me.’
Clare ran her hands over her face, ‘Tell me the worst. What did I do or say? Who do I need to apologize to?’
He laughed. ‘No one. Well, you were shockingly rude about my brother, but he doesn’t know that.’ He plonked the tea on her bedside table, then added a packet of painkillers. ‘Drink, take two of those, then go back to sleep. I used to help Cindy with the animals when she was poorly, so I’ll do the morning rounds and then take Stop-it for a walk.’
She ran her tongue round her parched lips and reached for the mug. She thought about resisting his offer and saying she was perfectly capable of looking after her own animals, but her throbbing temple turned the words into a simple, ‘thank you’. Sam left. Watching the door close and collapsing back onto the bed, Clare was too grateful for the extra sleep to ask herself why he had been so chummy with her mother.
On Bank Holiday Monday, Clare washed her hair and found a lipstick. She dressed in clean jeans and a floaty top, collected a dozen eggs and drove to Sam’s. Approaching the farmhouse, she spotted him strimming around the base of an apple tree, reminding her she must do hers before the crop started falling.
She parked, and for a few moments sat watching. She had imagined he paid someone else to do the hard work, just like his brother did. Clare picked up her present. It was only a dozen eggs, but she could sell them for ￡3, and that was a hefty chunk of her current weekly shopping budget. She hoped that he would appreciate the gesture. She got out and crossed to the orchard. He was wearing a protective visor and ear defenders, so she walked in a circle until she was standing in front of him and with her fingers clamping the lid shut, waved the box of eggs.
He jumped, then switched off the machine, raised his visor and knocked his ear defenders aside.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you. I brought you some eggs to say thanks for being my gallant knight in shining armour on Friday night.’
He tutted. ‘You didn’t need to do that. It was my pleasure.’ He took the box, but he was looking at her, his blue eyes steady, seeming to peel away her inhibitions. She dropped her gaze, and he spoke gently. ‘Thank you. Your mother’s chickens lay the best eggs in Devon. I love them. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘Hmm. Kind of gone off wine.’
He laughed, sending a fluttery sensation through her. ‘What about a pot of tea?’
She smiled at him. ‘That would be lovely, but I’m interrupting you.’
He shook his head. ‘I was about to take a break anyway. Come in. We’ll have it on the terrace.’
They walked side by side. She glanced down at his hand, recalling him holding hers on Friday night. Inside, her arm brushed against his and her breath caught in her throat. He led her out to a patio teaming with pots of lavender, spent snapdragons and flowering herbs. She sat listening to the bees buzzing in and out of the flowers, the afternoon sun warming her skin, trying to remember what she’d been doing on the August Bank Holiday Monday last year. Eventually she recalled vaguely planning to head for the Notting Hill Carnival but missing it because she was up to her ears in a fresh case.
After ten minutes and no Sam, Clare went to investigate. Smiling, she stepped into the kitchen saying, ‘How long does it take a man to make a pot of—?’
‘What are you doing here?’ snapped Richard.
Startled, and determined not to show it, Clare said, ‘I was looking for Sam.’
Richard’s chest was puffed out and his face pinched and red. ‘He’s not here.’
Clare ran her eyes over the kitchen as if Sam might be hiding under a bar stool. Richard stepped closer to her. He smelt power-fully of cologne as if he’d showered in it, making her want to gag. ‘I know who you all are, and I’ve got every one of you in my sights. I’ll pick you off one by one. I don’t know why you came here today, but you can piss off.’
Clare was stunned. Sam must be in league with his brother after all. He’d inveigled her into his house deliberately to embarrass her, reeling her in only to slap her in the face, just like he had when they were younger. Feeling her cheeks flush with hot anger, she glared at Richard, then stalked outside to her car.