Twenty-one
Clare arrived promptly at seven. The front door was open. ‘Hello?’ she called out from the entrance hall.
‘In here,’ came an answering call.
In the kitchen, Clare dropped Stop-it’s lead, and he bounced over, planting his front paws on Sam’s thighs. ‘You did say to bring him,’ she laughed. Sam spun around, showing his back to the dog. Stop-it jumped up, pawing at Sam’s bottom, but he ignored the dog. Watching, Clare remembered her parents constantly telling her dogs were an excellent judge of character. Maybe Stop-it was an exception. He seemed remarkably keen on Sam.
After a few moments, the jumping stopped. Sam turned. ‘Good boy,’ he praised, reaching down and fondling the dog’s ears.
‘Wow, that was impressive,’ said Clare.
‘He just needs a firm hand,’ said Sam. He pointed to a box on the counter. ‘You said you were flat out, so that’s a takeaway.’ She lifted the lid and sniffed; it was something in a tikka masala sauce, and the smell transported her to London, back to a night shortly before Guy’s accident, when she had returned late, exhausted from the office and found Guy slumped on the sofa. His shoes were kicked off and he was watching a movie. Empty takeaway cartons littered the floorboards, the tell-tale bright red of a tikka masala sauce coating one of them.
‘Hi,’ she had said, removing her coat and collapsing on the sofa. He didn’t look up but moved his feet out of her way and grunted, his eyes glued to the movie.
‘Is mine in the oven?’ she asked.
‘Didn’t order you anything. Wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry.’
She got up, her eyes smarting. ‘I’m going to hit the sack.’
‘Umm,’ he said, staring at the screen, ‘Could you lend me twenty quid?’
Thinking about it now, it wasn’t the lack of food which had upset her; it was his indifference to her presence, other than as a cashpoint. Why hadn’t she realized their relationship had changed from being symbiotic to parasitic? Her mother had been right. She blinked to force the memory away, realizing Sam was talking to her.
‘I’m nearly done. You can either stay in here with a glass of wine and the smell of cooking, or I’ve lit a fire in the library.’
‘The fire sounds enticing.’
‘Come on Stop-it,’ he called.
Following the sound of the dog’s nails tapping on the floorboards, Clare was intrigued by the idea of a library in a farmhouse – only a Hastings would do that.
It was a cosy room with low ceilings, limed beams and linenfold panels. Ancient bookshelves covered two sides. As promised, there was a fire burning, kicking out heat and the sweet smell of apple wood. In front of it was a wicker dog basket. It had short stumpy legs raising it from the ground and a thick brown cushion, the sort of basket she imagined seeing a retired greyhound lounging elegantly in. She hoped Stop-it didn’t chew the sides. The cushion had a handful of biscuits scattered on it.
‘I’ll fetch you that wine,’ he said. ‘Make yourself comfortable and don’t fight to keep him off the furniture. I don’t mind.’
‘That’s because you haven’t seen what he does to cushions,’ Clare called after him. He returned smiling, with a glass of white wine and a wooden board of bruschetta.
‘Last of my tomatoes from the greenhouse. You’d better have a few. I’ve already eaten several and there’s quite a lot of garlic in them.’
She gave a faint smile, wondering if he considered the evening a date. But a mental picture of his beautiful girlfriend with her luscious strawberry-blonde hair soon dispelled that thought. He was just being polite, like when she used to brush her teeth before an afternoon meeting if she’d eaten something pungent for lunch.
She sipped her wine and nibbled. The bruschetta reminded her of holidays in Tuscany before she’d met Guy, and for a few minutes her thoughts vacillated between what the Hastings family had done to her and her mother, and how pleasant it was to have someone looking after her. The way her week was panning out, she was being catered for every day. If she stretched Sam’s takeaway – Stop-it couldn’t share it, it contained onion – it would be the weekend before she had to cook.
Her confidence buoyed by wine, she vowed she would raise the money, even if she had to borrow it from moneylenders. Then she thought of a cunning plan. She would pretend they couldn’t afford an EIA. If they were careful, ensured the site visits took place when Richard, Sam and the other Hasting employees – AKA ‘spies’ – weren’t around, they could add the report to their submission as a sting in the tail when it was too late for the opposition to react. It was worth a shot. She ate another canapé – damn, this man was good with seasoning.
After her third bruschetta, Clare got up to explore the room. With her wine glass in one hand, she ran her finger over the book spines, reading the titles. It was an eclectic selection, from the classics – Dickens and Shakespeare – to literary fiction and commercial novels. There was a wide section devoted to cookery books which made her smile. She’d never met anyone who kept those outside of their kitchen.
When Sam joined her, he brought a tray. She sauntered back and sat on the sofa. He held up a bottle, then sat next to her, so close she could smell his spicy scent. She shuffled herself into the corner of the seat.
‘As a neighbouring apple grower, I must ask you to taste this.’
‘Confession time. I don’t drink cider. Bit too much scrumpy as a teenager.’
‘This isn’t anything like scrumpy,’ he said, laughing. There was a pop and a hiss as she sat back and looked up. He was holding out a champagne glass full of a pale fizzy liquid. ‘Go on. Try it.’
She dipped her nose and sniffed. There was a definite smell of apples, but it wasn’t overpowering, it was enticing. She took a sip, feeling tiny bubbles explode on her tongue. It was like drinking apple flavoured champagne. She took another sip. It was delicious. How could Sam make something that tasted so divine when her mother’s effort was so vile?
She looked at him over the rim of the glass. He was grinning at her. ‘Enjoying?’ he asked.
‘Kind of different from my mother’s brew!’
He chuckled. ‘The secret is remembering it’s a science. People approach it as an art, just like cooking, but the best cooks know that science lies behind their art and the same is true of making cider. I keep the alcohol level low and aim for 4.5 per cent.’
‘How can I do that?’
‘Dilute the fermented product with neat apple juice or you could use a pure Devon spring water. I can come and help you if you like?’
She let him talk about his craft, but lulled by the intimate atmosphere, her mind wandered back to her marriage. Guy had never approached his career as diligently. That was probably why he’d never made money; that and the fact money meant nothing to him. Provided he could drive cars, he would have been content living in a garden shed. Thoughts of sheds brought up a picture of Richard’s ‘shed’, then one of Fred’s, and she asked Sam if he knew what was bothering Fred.
He shrugged. ‘No idea, he’s quite a private soul, never shares his worries with me, but now I think of it, you’re right – he has been out of sorts.’
‘I think it’s something to do with your brother.’
‘Well, if it is, he hasn’t told me,’ said Sam.
When Clare walked into Prosecco and Prose at noon the next day, there was a heated debate taking place at the serving counter. Clare hung back, feeling like an uninvited guest. She couldn’t hear the words, but Fred was speaking in a shrill voice at odds with the Fred that Clare knew, and Ivy was muttering in an equally unfamiliar shaky one. She walked closer; Trish’s eyes met Clare’s, then darted away. Her friend leaned forwards, her head twitching, ‘Shush. Time out, you two.’
There was a collective shuffling of feet from Clare’s side of the counter. The room fell silent. Clare felt a chill sweep through her: what were they talking about that Trish didn’t think she should hear? From the expression on Trish’s face, it wasn’t a surprise birthday party.
‘What can I get you, Clare?’ asked Trish, rubbing a cloth over the counter.
‘Well, I was going to ask for tea, but I think I might need a brandy. Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?’
Ivy and Fred exchanged a charged look.
‘Fred?’ said Clare.
He raised his head. There was a bitter expression on it.
It was Ivy who spoke. ‘Fred’s had one of those Section 21 notices.’
Clare closed her eyes and reached for a stool to steady herself. This was her fault. She wished she’d expelled them from BARS. Richard was an evil monster, preying on a man who’d devoted his life to Brambleton. Her heart started pounding. What would happen if he couldn’t find somewhere to rent? Would the Council help? Fred was fit and healthy, and there were others less fortunate needing homes. When she opened her eyes, she saw Anna had joined the group.
‘He’s given me three months to get out,’ said Fred.
‘What?’ said Anna.
‘Right, I’m going up and having it out with that man,’ snarled Clare.
‘ No! ’ said Fred, clutching at her arm. ‘Please, I know you mean well, but for now, it’s just me. You go poking him in the eye and Ivy will get her packing orders too.’
Clare bit her lip. Fred was right. This needed a cool head, not a knee-jerk reaction.
‘When did you get the letter?’ asked Clare.
‘That’s what we were talking about,’ said Ivy. ‘Silly beggar has sat on this problem for two months already, thought he could sort it out himself.’
Trish revealed that Fred had spoken to Richard’s agent, who’d refused to extend the notice period, and although Fred was registered with rental agencies, he had yet to view a single property.
‘Why?’ asked Anna.
Trish’s hazel eyes flashed with anger. ‘The agents claim the landlords are all inundated with applications from more suitable candidates.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Ivy, her voice wavering.
‘It means,’ Clare said, struggling to control her temper, ‘that Fred here, on a fixed and modest income, is more of a risk than people who are working.’
‘Isn’t that age discrimination?’ asked Trish.
‘No,’ said Ivy, sighing. ‘It’s not just pensioners, it’s anyone reliant on benefits. I come across families trying to raise children in a single room.’
Trish huffed, then said, ‘I can’t offer you a home, Fred, but I can offer you a free meal. In fact, if you all go for today’s special, it’s on the house.’
Clare and Ivy protested, but Trish insisted, saying there weren’t many customers this month and she’d cooked far too much. They settled at a table; Ivy sat upright with a smile that buoyed Clare.
‘We’ve had lots of donations,’ said Ivy excitedly.
‘See, I knew it,’ said Anna, throwing Clare a triumphant look.
‘Fantastic!’ added Fred. ‘How much have you got?’
Ivy’s eyes sparkled. She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, ‘Nearly ￡250!’
Clare forced a smile on to her face. Even ten times that amount wouldn’t really help; they were nowhere near their target. Ivy seemed to sense Clare’s true feelings and wagged a finger at her. ‘Don’t worry. There’s still the sponsored slim – I’ve got pledges of over ￡100 already.’
Clare had a sudden thought, cupped a hand round Anna’s ear and whispered, ‘Do you think the experts would agree to start work now?’
Anna sat back, her eyes were wide.
‘I never bill clients in advance, and I shouldn’t think they do either,’ said Clare.
‘Nor do I,’ said Anna.
Ivy leaned towards the other women. ‘What’s this?’
‘We’re being a bit precious raising all the money in advance,’ said Clare excitedly ‘Let’s get the experts cracking and raise the shortfall while they do the work.’
Fred looked aghast. ‘But what if we can’t pay them?’ he said.
‘That’s not very ethical, is it,’ said Ivy, ‘asking them to do the work when we aren’t sure if we can pay.’
Anna tutted then said. ‘Rest easy, Ivy. They’ll want an undertaking that someone will settle their bills.’
‘Give them my name,’ said Clare. ‘And here’s the cunning part of this plan. The other side don’t think we can afford an EIA, so let’s keep it that way. We need the site visit to take place when the Hastings clan are busy. Any ideas?’
Fred leaned back in his seat, taking aim with an imaginary rifle and pulling the trigger.
‘Of course,’ said Anna. ‘If we can get hold of Richard’s shooting calendar, on those days all his lot will be tied up beating or picking up.’
‘Leave that one to me,’ said Fred, tapping a finger against his nose. His words conjured up an image of Sam – that’s where Fred would snoop for intelligence – and she smiled, recalling their evening together. He may be a spy, but he was a very attentive one.
‘Down to business,’ she said firmly, ridding herself of the memory of Sam’s attentiveness. ‘Did everyone get my outline submission document? Who wants to tackle what?’
Clare looked from one blank face to the next. ‘Don’t all rush at once,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Anna?’ she said, a note of desperation in her voice.
Anna gave her a beseeching look. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said faintly.
Neither Fred nor Ivy spoke.
Surely, they didn’t expect her to write it all. In her gut, she knew she would have to. Richard’s experts would read every word of BARS’s submission, and she wasn’t putting her name to a shoddy piece of work.
Clare felt a blast of cold air and turned. At the door, a young couple, their faces flushed red from the cold were shrugging off coats and unlacing walking boots. Trish called out a greeting and rushed to take their order. Clare realized this custom was important to Trish; shoulder-season holidaymakers were especially thin on the ground this year. And that was when she had her idea.
Returning from the café, Clare was conscious of a rattling sound from the boot. It was Sam’s sack truck tugging at her conscience, but she told herself if he needed it returned urgently, he would have said. She indicated to turn onto the main road, flicked a look in her wing mirror, and spotted a small blue car behind her. Driving slowly to avoid the noise of the sack truck, she expected the blue car to overtake, but it didn’t. She turned off down the single-track lane to Orchard Farm. The blue car followed. Where was it going? She pulled over, switched off the engine, and glanced in the mirror. The car behind was stationary. After a couple of minutes Clare restarted the Land Rover; in the mirror she spotted the blue car behind her and she indicated to pull into a passing space, only to see the blue car stop too. There was a single occupant in the car, but it was too far away to tell if it was a man or a woman. Clare swallowed, feeling her heart thumping against her chest. Why was the driver mimicking her actions: were they following her? Why would someone tail her? She wanted the number plate. Clare put the Land Rover into reverse, gunned the engine and turned to look over her shoulder. The blue car was accelerating away backwards.
In the safety of the farmhouse kitchen, she told herself it must have been a tourist who was lost. The first thing she saw was Sam’s casserole dish soaking in the sink, next to the breakfast crockery. It would only take half an hour to wash up his things and take them back, but she didn’t want to be distracted.
She threw a tea towel over the mess and, with the Aga warming her back, logged onto Airbnb. She searched for holiday cottages in Brambleton. There were several options, including both of Richard’s, and she checked for availability in the last week of November. Smiling to herself, she closed the website, set up a new email address in the name of Clare Sanderson, and then contacted Richard’s letting agency. She enquired about Jasmine Cottage, which was next door to Fred’s. Within a few hours she had negotiated both a price reduction and a waiver of the security deposit – it was low season, and there would only be one guest. Clare transferred the fee and went to see Fred.
Feeling energized after her success, Clare decided to return Sam’s things. She drove around hoping to leave them on the porch, but by the time she got out of the car, he was standing outside in his porch. He must have heard her car.
‘Just returning your stuff,’ she said. He walked over, in that loose-limbed, easy gait she found so attractive, and removed the sack truck from the boot. ‘Time for tea?’ he asked.
She had the submission to draft and all the farm chores, but she couldn’t resist a hot cup of tea in his beautiful house. That would be lovely. He might throw in a slice of the delicious cake he’d served for dessert last night. She nodded and, carrying the casserole dish, followed him inside.
In his kitchen – unlike hers, irritatingly sparkling despite having entertained last night – Clare placed the dish on the kitchen island. She wondered if he cleaned or if there was a housekeeping team responsible for cottage changeovers that cleaned the farmhouse too.
Sam made proper tea using leaves, not bags. He moved about the room as if he had worked out the most time-effective way to complete the task. He picked up the teapot from a shelf next to the sink as he filled the kettle, before collecting cups, saucers and a milk jug. He then removed milk, and a saucer of lemon slices covered in cling film from the fridge, which made Clare question if she was the only person invited for tea today.
Pouring boiling water into the pot, he outlined his plans to graft apples, suggesting she did the same if she wanted to expand. ‘Post Brexit, the cost of trees has shot up. Growing your own will save you a small fortune.’
‘I wouldn’t know how to do that.’
He raised an eyebrow, ‘Smart girl like you? Cindy’s got plenty of books about apples and I’m only five minutes away if you want a hand.’
Intrigued, she decided to spend an evening reading up on the subject. After she’d submitted the appeal document, of course.
‘How’s your brother’s appeal going?’
‘I dunno. Why not ask him yourself? I’m going for dinner at the Hall in December, and Cora has told me to invite a guest, preferably a woman, to even up numbers.’
Clare translated Sam’s speech: Pink Trouser Suit had cancelled, forcing him to find someone locally. Although flattered, she wasn’t sure she could be polite to Richard for a whole evening. Besides, she couldn’t think of anything to wear, and her hair was a mess. Clare flexed her hands. Her nails were jagged, and scratch marks etched her wrists. She was on the cusp of saying no, then, thinking of it as another evening of free food, along with the chance to infiltrate the enemy, said ‘OK then.’
She pictured a group of intrepid Second World War French Resistance fighters, scurrying around by moonlight, planting plastic explosives, then watching a German train loaded with tanks rumbling towards the bomb. If only she had a little more to hit back at her own enemy with, other than a dinner invitation and Ivy’s sponsored slim.
When she got home, there was a handwritten note on her doormat, together with the post. The note was from Fred and set out Richard’s shooting dates. It didn’t explain how he’d come by them, but Clare wouldn’t have cared if he’d burgled the shooting lodge. She scanned the dates then pushed the note into her back pocket and picked up her post.
There was another letter from Richard’s lawyer. He was offering to settle the libel case out of court for ￡500,000. She shook her head. What planet did he live on? She didn’t have a spare ￡500, and even if she did, she’d put it towards an EIA. She allowed herself a small laugh, thinking of him wasting money on London lawyers. She knew full well her leaflets were not libellous, and she would enjoy telling him so when she went for dinner in December. It would be good to see him lose at something.