Twenty-six
Rain kept falling, breaking records. Newscasters reported it had been the wettest eighteen months for over a hundred years and farmers were bellyaching about not being able to plant crops or fertilize because the land was too soggy. For Clare, at least, it meant the end of breaking the ice on water troughs.
Wrapped up in waterproofs with rain pattering on her hood, Clare scooped out grain for the chickens. She felt sorry for her flock. She wished they would shelter inside the henhouse, but whenever she went to feed them, they were outside, looking a fraction of their usual size, with their feathers plastered against their sides. She added an extra measure of grain to the trough and ran back inside shivering – she would warm herself up with a hot cup of coffee.
‘Blast.’ She muttered peering into the empty tin.
Over by the door, Stop-it was wagging his tail expectantly, his eyes bright with the possibility of adventure. Clare paused, looking at him, then let out a resigned chuckle.
‘All right, Stop-it, you win. Let’s go get that coffee.’
With a quick tug, she hooked him up, pulled her coat back on, and braced herself as they stepped out together for the trek to the village shop.
Twenty minutes later the bell tinkled, and Clare stepped inside, her cheeks flushed from the winter chill. The scent of fresh bread hung in the air, warm and comforting. As she reached for a jar of coffee on the shelf, her fingers brushed against someone else’s – a man’s hand, rough yet gentle. Startled, she glanced up and locked eyes with Sam; there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, his voice deep and soft. Their hands lingered for a moment.
‘No problem,’ she replied, her heart skipping unexpectedly.
He seemed to want to talk, so picking up the jar of coffee, she let him. ‘I went on a cider making course last month and I’m going to start doing everything myself.’
‘I tried grafting some apples,’ she said. ‘I think they’ve taken. I can see little green buds on the tops of the stems.’
‘It’s so rewarding isn’t it ... grafting,’ he said, the enthusiasm clear in his voice. ‘Knowing you created that new life. Keep the bases weed free and pot them on into larger tubs of quality compost.’
‘And put them outside?’ she asked.
‘Not unless you want to take them all back in again in a cold snap. I’d leave them somewhere warm until the end of April at the earliest.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said. Turning away, her eyes were drawn to a display of Valentine’s cards still waiting to be cleared, and she quickly scooted to the counter with her jar.
The night before the planning hearing, Clare stayed up late writing her speech, listening to a storm rattle through the loose sitting room windows. She had an empty feeling in her stomach, which she attributed partly to her inability to eat more than half a sandwich, partly to worrying about Richard’s defamation case, but mostly to the hearing. Although much more familiar with the nuances of planning law than she was nine months ago, compared to Hastings’ experts, she was a novice, and tomorrow, they would all be there. Kindly, Walter, BARS’s water expert, had halved his daily rate; and with Ivy’s sponsorship money covered the cost of the experts, BARS wasn’t entirely reliant on Clare.
She printed off her speech and stood up to practise. An hour later, she poured herself a glass of wine and took it outside onto the patio. It was already dark; the clocks were yet to go forward. She wrapped her jacket around her, gazing out at the black nothingness, feeling a sense of calm. There was no sign of another human. No lights, no noise from a neighbour’s flat, no cars, no taxis, no buses. It was so peaceful. She was going to miss this.
There was a brisk onshore breeze, and she let it rustle through her hair, which now reached halfway down her neck. Clare sniffed. There was a sharp tang of ammonia coming from her chicken coup. She must have missed a cleaning day. Clare took a sip of wine, then heard a noise. She held the wine in her mouth, running her eyes around the silent farm, then swallowed slowly. She heard it again. It sounded like a wild animal stumbling through undergrowth. Clare sat up, peering round, expecting to see the yellowish green of a deer’s eyes, but the meadows were empty. She glanced over towards her gate and saw a dark shadowy figure. Her heart started hammering against her ribcage. Her voice shaky, she cried out, ‘Stop-it! Stop-it!’ The figure turned and stumbled away.
Clare ran inside, collected the dog and retreated upstairs. Was this the same person she’d seen in the blue car? Was someone stalking her? Why?
Clare was awake before Captain Hilts. Deciding to shower after mucking out the chickens, she shot out of bed, scrambled into jeans and dashed into the kitchen, where she moved the kettle onto the hot plate. She pulled on thick rubber gloves and strode outside. The stench hit her as if she had walked straight into the henhouse.
Inside the pen, she unlatched the henhouse door, picked up the spade and a fifty-litre bucket and leaned inside. Sweet-smelling straw covered the floor, and the roosting bars were free of poo. Backing out of the hut, again the smell engulfed her. Where was it coming from? She sniffed, turning in a circle. Had someone been spreading muck? How? For weeks it had been raining. How had someone driven a tractor over a field without getting stuck in the mud? Who and why?
Suddenly it hit her that this pong was no coincidence – this was Hastings. He must have bribed a farmer to spread muck so that when the Inspector came for his site visit later today, he would think it always smelt like this. A hen shot past her, pursued by Captain Hilts, and she hurled her spade against the side of the hut.
Clare glared at the rooster, scooped up a portion of feed and stomped over to the cooler. He skulked after her, his head dipped and ducked into the small shed.
Dressed in the same trouser suit she’d worn to her mother’s funeral, Clare parked at the Old Rectory, got out and slammed the car door shut. The suit had been chosen to remind her she was fighting for her mother’s legacy, but also to remain professional, not biff Hastings’ arrogant nose. Thoughts of his nose reminded her why she was cross, and she sniffed so loudly she could hear herself doing it. But the air smelt clean; she couldn’t detect anything either pleasant or unpleasant.
Entering the sitting room, she heard the clinking of coffee cups and the animated conversations of her fellow activists. Clare crossed her fingers and raised her voice, ‘How bad is the smell up at the almshouses?’
Anna stood, frowning. She shifted her long hair, so it hung over a single shoulder and asked, ‘What smell?’
Clare thumped herself onto a seat with a loud tut. ‘Someone’s been spreading muck, and I think we all know who’s behind it. That’s a taster of what’s to come if we don’t win today.’
‘It could be a dairy farmer,’ said Anna.
‘It probably is,’ said Clare tersely, ‘but he’s been paid by Tricky Ricky to spread it the evening before the Planning Inspector visits the site.’
‘Is it that bad?’ asked Anna.
‘Horrid,’ said Fred, wrinkling his nose.
‘Did anyone see the weather forecast this morning?’ asked Anna. Clare scowled at her friend. How could Anna think about weather today?
‘Chance of showers,’ said Ivy. ‘I didn’t want to risk putting the laundry outside.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t just use Richard’s tumble dryer – it’s his bill,’ sniggered Fred.
‘That’s not ethical, Fred.’
‘I meant the wind direction,’ said Anna.
Clare felt a jolt of hope. A change of wind direction would blow the smell into the village. She pulled out her phone – four faces peered at the screen, scanning the hourly forecast. The wind was coming from the west, onshore. It would trap the smell right where they didn’t want it.
‘Not ideal,’ she sighed, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. ‘I wish we’d got the smell boffin coming today.’
‘Do we have time to reach him, ask his advice on what to do at the site visit? It sounds like the Inspector will have to be nose-blind to miss this,’ said Anna.
‘I’ve got a call into him already,’ said Clare. ‘Ivy, do you want me to take over this section from you?’
‘No, I have my notes somewhere in here,’ said Ivy. She dug into her shoulder bag, taking out a cake tin, then her purse, followed by a phone. Clare closed her eyes, telling herself to keep calm. She would just have to take responsibility for smell as she was doing for so much else. ‘Ivy, let me do it,’ said Clare.
The rustling stopped.
‘No,’ said Fred, putting a restraining hand on Clare’s. ‘We’ve all got our parts to play.’
Clare ran her hands down her face, then answered with a small smile. ‘You’re right, Fred. I’m sure you’ll do us proud, Ivy.’
‘Everyone ready?’ asked Anna.
‘Let me at him,’ said Fred, striding to the door.
The first face Clare saw at the hearing venue was Richard’s. She tensed up, her fists bunching; she realized she had never hated someone before now – not even Guy, despite how he had betrayed her. Hastings was wearing a checked tweed suit, and next to him stood six people, all dressed in suits. She recognized the man she’d nicknamed ‘the boffin’ at the parish council meeting; despite wearing a suit, he also wore a V-neck jumper. There was no sign of Cora or Sam, but Magnus, looking incongruous in his uniform, stood stiffly like a soldier on guard duty. Clare didn’t think she’d recognize Magnus casually dressed. She was pleased to see him – employing a butler was unlikely to endear the Inspector to Richard’s cause. Magnus stood some distance away from his employer, beside four people Clare didn’t know, who she suspected were also employed by Hastings.
A few minutes later, Ivy and Fred arrived together, and shortly afterwards, Anna.
‘Roger’s parking the car,’ said Anna.
‘Roger?’ said Clare, giving her friend a dazed look.
‘Yes. He drove. He’s fully supportive of us now. He says he won’t sit on the sidelines after the way Richard has treated Fred and Ivy.’
Good for Roger, thought Clare. Hastings liked to project himself as the squire. In that privileged position, he owed a special duty of care to people like Fred and Ivy. Roger was a decent man, and as the saying went, all it took was for a few good men to stand aside to allow evil to flourish.
The doors opened and Trish strode in, followed by Rose, George and the entire Smugglers Inn team. Soon, there were over fifty people standing around BARS. The doors kept opening and the crowd swelled. Not a single person joined Richard’s side of the room.
Two official-looking men walked in. Clare guessed it was the Planning Officer and his boss. One of them opened the chamber and switched on the lights. He let his colleague in, then turned and said, ‘The Inspector is here. If you’d like to make yourselves comfortable, I’ll go and fetch him.’
Clare felt like the doors to the exam hall had been opened. She let the opposition file in first. They took seats on the left of the chamber; the Planning Officer sat on the right, directly in front of a table and chair, where Clare presumed the Inspector would sit. She ushered her supporters in, now so numerous that behind the Planning Officer there was hardly a spare seat. The BARS team sat in the same row: Walter was in the aisle seat, Clare next to him, then Anna and Roger, Ivy, and furthest away from Clare, Fred.
Clare dumped her bag on the floor, fumbling to extract her speech. She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, recrossed them and started bouncing her top leg, jiggling that foot. Fred and Ivy were both used to presenting to a large audience. She hoped Anna didn’t get stage fright.
A hush fell as a tall man with a long face strode in. He wasn’t the sombre suited man Clare had expected. He wore a jumper, no tie and he had a slightly jolly air to him, like a head teacher about to award the prizes on Speech Day. Clare scraped her hands through her hair and told herself that they had a strong case. BARS would win.
The Inspector smiled at his audience and spoke in a reassuring voice. ‘I’d like to outline the programme for today. For some this is a familiar experience, but for most of you it will be your first planning hearing.’
He explained he would invite all three parties to summarize their case, starting with the appellant, then the Council, and, lastly the opposition, BARS. Everyone who wanted to speak would get a chance, but there were to be no interruptions. He assured the audience that he had read the three submissions and would ask a few clarification questions, and then he wanted to visit the site.
Walter whispered in Clare’s ear. ‘This is perfectly normal; appellants always go first.’ Same as a criminal trial, thought Clare. She shuddered at the analogy, but for the village, this was as serious as a criminal trial. If Richard won, life in Brambleton would change dramatically.
Richard’s planning expert spoke first. Clare listened to him dismantle her submission, fighting the urge to hurl abuse. The expert waved a hand at the crowd of villagers. ‘It is fear of change that is driving the opposition.’
‘We’re not frightened of change,’ shouted Fred.
Clare cringed.
There was a wry smile on the expert’s face and his client was beaming. Clare glanced at the Inspector. He was rubbing the back of his neck, a frown creasing his face. ‘If I could be allowed to continue,’ said the expert silkily. He spoke for another ten minutes, answering a few questions from the Inspector in exasperating detail.
Next the boffin spoke reassuringly about his client’s plans to cope with the waste. He was followed by Richard. Clare suspected his advisers had written his speech. Hastings spoke crisply, bringing to mind how she used to rehearse her clients before their appearance at an employment tribunal. He spoke of needing to make the farm profitable, which made Clare want to scream. If he wanted to save money, Clare had a few ideas. How could he talk about a cost-of-living crisis with his butler sitting two rows behind him?
Hastings mentioned the chicken farm would provide local jobs and claimed there were several existing local chicken farmers. ‘In fact,’ he said, tossing her a supercilious smile, ‘I believe the leader of BARS keeps chickens on her farm. Maybe she’s frightened of competition.’
Clare sat on her hands. She felt a sudden rush of affection for her rooster. How dare Hastings compare Hilts and the Veras to what he wanted to do?
The Planning Officer spoke next, briefly, and then it was BARS’s turn. Clare was first. Deliberately omitting the word ‘farm’, she argued that, if permitted, the factory would cause substantial harm to the environment, through contamination of the water, noxious smells and unreasonable levels of noise, and the visual impact of such a monstrous structure risked causing traffic accidents. ‘This site has been deliberately chosen so it is as far away as possible from Mr Hastings’ house. He’s pushing the problem onto the village and destroying livelihoods.’
‘And the environment,’ shouted Fred. ‘There’s all sorts of wildlife on that field and in the river.’
The Inspector looked startled. ‘Like what?’ he asked.
‘Newts,’ shouted Fred.
The Inspector shifted in his chair. ‘Have you conducted a survey?’ he asked.
‘I don’t have to. I’ve seen them.’
Across the aisle, a woman rose. ‘Sir, I have conducted a survey, which is summarized in our submission. No endangered species were detected.’
‘You didn’t look for any,’ shouted Fred. ‘There’s newts.’
The Inspector gave Fred a hard look. ‘Can you back up your allegation?’
Clare wanted to wring Fred’s neck. She stood. ‘Your honour ...’
He smiled at her. ‘I’m not a judge.’
‘Our expert did find evidence of endangered species which are mentioned in his report in Appendix 1.’
‘Yes, I saw that. Evidence of ... but not the species themselves.’
‘We only did one site visit.’ Clare said, silently adding: we could only afford to do one site visit.
‘They’re in there,’ said Fred firmly. ‘And bats.’
‘Bats?’ said the Inspector, his eyes narrowing, ‘Where?’
‘I get bats,’ said Fred defiantly, ‘and I’m close to that site. You get bats don’t you, Ivy?’
All eyes turned to Ivy who glanced around her. Her face and neck flushed red, she opened her mouth, closed it then cleared her throat. ‘They’re definitely in the church.’
‘And that’s not far away,’ said Fred triumphantly.
Richard’s expert was on her feet again. ‘This is unhelpful. Even if there are bats in the church, that’s where they live, not on this site.’
‘What about the field mice?’ asked Fred.
The Inspector held up his hands. ‘Can we move on, please.’
Walter gave Clare an exasperated look, pointing down the row of packed chairs to Fred. ‘Unhelpful,’ he muttered. ‘Can you shut him up?’
Clare leaned forwards and shot a dirty look Fred’s way, but he was facing forwards. In a shaky voice, she whispered to Walter, ‘He’s too far away.’ Clare tore off a strip of paper from her speech and scribbled a note on the back. Fred, please shut up , then folded it in half, scrawled ‘Fred’ on the front, leaned across Anna and tossed it into Ivy’s lap, jabbing a finger in Fred’s direction.
Walter spoke next, challenging the boffin’s claims. Walter explained how his modelling showed the run-off from the factory would leach into the groundwater. The Inspector was dismissive. ‘But the proposed site is in an agricultural area. According to the appellant, there are several dairy farms close by. Presumably those farmers have mitigated the harm, and I note Mr Hastings intends to implement measures to minimize any contamination.’
‘He’s going to build a gas bomb,’ said Fred.
Clare’s heart sank.
‘A what?’ asked the Inspector scowling at Fred.
‘He’s going to build a digester. Once he’s got this factory up and running, he’s going to burn gas yards from where I live. It could explode any time, blow me and Ivy here to smithereens.’
Clare tried to block out the sound of snickering coming from across the aisle. Fred was undoing all their efforts. She questioned why Fred kept interrupting, trying to ignore the nagging voice in her mind – had Sam planted this idea with Fred?
‘Let’s stick to the planning application in front of us, shall we. If the appellant wants to install an anaerobic digester that would be the subject of a separate planning application, and you could raise your objections if and when it is lodged.’
Clare leaned over and tapped Ivy’s arm. ‘Get up and speak,’ she hissed, ‘before Fred does any more harm.’
Ivy made her case about noxious smells, but Clare had a sinking feeling. The Inspector clearly thought it was relevant that Richard’s site was plum in the middle of a farming community. One whiff of the pong currently permeating the upper half of the village would destroy Ivy’s arguments, and it would take a gale to drive that stench away before the site visit.
The Inspector called a lunch break. Clare wasn’t hungry, but she did want to put something large and immovable into Fred’s mouth.
After a brief recess, Clare stood and apologized. ‘I reminded my colleague Fred that he had offered to walk my dog, and he’s taking him up to Exmoor so won’t be able to join us for the rest of the hearing or be at the site visit.’ There was a ripple of laughter, and she noticed a smile on the Inspector’s face. Richard and his team didn’t react, but she suspected they weren’t pleased to see their secret weapon dismantled.
As she listened to each villager speak of the impact the factory would have on their business, Clare had a nasty premonition that they weren’t landing any blows. The Inspector was listening, but not nodding sympathetically. When the third person claimed their holiday business would suffer, one of Richard’s advisers stood and dismissed it as scaremongering, pointing out that his client owned the two holiday lets closest to the site.
Trish spoke last, then the Inspector announced the site visit. Watching her team troop out, Clare hung back. ‘What do you think?’ she asked Walter.
‘You can never read these hearings. He may have made up his mind already, but my gut says a lot hinges on this site visit.’
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. Richard’s been playing dirty tricks,’ she said, telling him about the recent muck spreading.
‘Ah, not helpful.’
Roger had to get back to work, so Anna and Ivy clambered into the back of the battered Land Rover, and with Walter beside her in the front, the BARS team set off. As Clare accelerated out of Barnstaple, there wasn’t much banter in the car. She looked out of her windscreen at the peaceful countryside sliding past, with a bitter taste of defeat in her mouth. Walter had as good as told her they were going to lose.
Although keeping to the speed limit, she was driving fast, and a mile outside Barnstaple the Land Rover pulled up behind a slow-moving flashy sports car. Clare instantly guessed who the single occupant was.
She trod down on the accelerator until her car was inches from Richard’s. She could see the back of his head. Hastings sped up. Clare did the same, the Land Rover’s engine roaring, a deep, guttural rumble, straining to keep up but managing to hug the bumper of the car in front as it tore around a corner and up a hill. Imagining she was Guy at a racetrack, Clare leaned forward over the steering wheel, foot hard on the pedal, the engine rattling, almost protesting, with Clare willing the ancient beast to surge forward just a little bit more.
Walter clutched at the dashboard. ‘Hey, steady on,’ he said querulously .
Clare released the pressure and the gap between the two vehicles grew. What was she doing? What had the Hastings family done to her? She was a lawyer; she shouldn’t allow her frustration to translate into road rage.
As they drew closer to the village, Clare wound down her window, leaned out and inhaled, waiting for the stench to assault her nostrils. When she could see the almshouses, Clare’s nostrils wrinkled. Beside her, Walter gave a loud sniff. ‘Quite powerful, isn’t it?’
Richard and his army of advisers were in front of the village hall. Hastings’ face was flushed, and he was alternately jabbing fingers at his team and towards the site. Clare left the car on the street – she wasn’t giving Tricky Ricky the opportunity to prevent her from parking in his field. As she was getting out the Inspector arrived. She glanced past the village hall and her brow furrowed. Magnus was running across the field. He ran flat-footed like a child, his blazer flapping at his waist. In hot pursuit was the boffin, followed by another adviser. With a face now a vivid shade of beetroot, arms windmilling above his head, Hastings was shouting after the runners. Clare looked beyond the waving Richard to the site. Slap bang where Richard wanted to build his factory, someone had parked a horsebox with a tall pole attached to the side. It looked as high as the letters on the iconic Hollywood sign in Los Angeles. Surrounding the lorry and, Clare assumed, illustrating the length and width of the proposed shed, a rope was stretched around four poles. The mock shed looked enormous, towering above the almshouses, making them look like dolls’ houses. Clare didn’t hide her grin.
The BARS team walked towards the Inspector, who was encircled by Richard’s remaining experts like bodyguards protecting a pop star.
‘That’s not ethical,’ muttered Ivy.
‘No, it bloody well isn’t, Ivy,’ said Clare, grabbing Walter’s arm and shooting off to join the party.
Magnus reached the horsebox and tugged at the driver’s door, but evidently it was locked. His fellow assassin had reached one of the four poles and was rocking it back and forwards, trying to wrench it out of the ground.
‘No, no, please leave it where it is. This is quite useful,’ called out the Inspector.
Clare started laughing. Richard was standing in front of her, his hands on his hips. ‘This is trespass. You’ve no right to come onto my land.’
‘Oh, come on, Richard. This is a planning hearing. You can’t stop me joining the Inspector on the site.’
‘It’s my land.’
‘Well, can Walter please join the Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘Then play fair. Call your experts away.’
‘Play fair, says the lady who’s parked a horsebox on my land and staked out the site?’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘The Inspector looks quite content,’ said Richard. ‘I think we’ll leave him to do his job.’
Clare stood impotently watching the Inspector stride around the roped-off section of land, an escort on either side of him. He stopped beside the horsebox, pointing at the pole, then turned and looked back down the field, first towards the almshouses, and then at the village hall. He took one more sweeping look, turned and walked towards Clare.
‘Did a surveyor stake out the site?’ asked the Inspector.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Clare. ‘I didn’t arrange this.’
‘Oh really!’ snapped Richard. ‘The local boy scout troop, was it?’
The boffin put a hand on his client’s arm. ‘I’ve already pointed out to the Inspector that this stunt isn’t helpful. We’ve no idea how tall that pole is. The implication is this represents the proposed shed, but personally I don’t think it’s accurate.’
Clare suspected it was deadly accurate. It was an audacious move she wished she’d thought of and must have taken ages to set up. Fred had been with them all morning, so he couldn’t have done this alone, and she couldn’t think of another supporter who wasn’t at the hearing.
‘I’d love to take the credit, but it wasn’t me.’
Richard snorted.
The Inspector was sniffing. Clare did the same and soon everyone was sniffing loudly.
‘What the devil is that smell?’ asked the Inspector. ‘And where’s it coming from?’
‘Ah,’ said the boffin. ‘That’s farm muck.’
The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t notice any muck on the site.’
‘Oh, it’s probably just from one of the neighbouring dairy farms. It happens frequently. You get used to it,’ said Richard.
‘Actually, it’s very rare,’ said Ivy. ‘Farmers only spread muck in the spring and autumn and they’re very mindful that it’s a tourist area, so they spread well before Easter and avoid October half-term week.’
‘Pfft,’ said Richard. ‘I grew up here – good agricultural smell that.’
‘Hmmm,’ said the Inspector, taking another sniff. ‘Interesting.’
Clare felt her heart sink. It smelt disgusting. If the Inspector thought the air normally smelt like this, they were sunk.
Anna offered to come home with Clare, but she suspected her friend would want to come in for a glass of wine and Clare wanted to lick her wounds in private. She dropped Anna at the Old Rectory and crawled back up the hill.
Stop-it was waiting for her, his paws on the top rung of the farm gate. She pushed it open, knelt and dropped her head on to his furry neck, inhaling the doggy smell of him. The look on Richard’s face when the group sniff had occurred said it all – BARS had lost.
Stop-it wriggled free and dashed off, twirling round in circles, his eyes searching, then he pounced on the recycling bin, dashing back with an empty milk carton.
She lunged for it, and he backed off, trotting away.
‘And just what am I going to do with you, you little rascal? I don’t think you’d like London very much.’ But she’d miss him. He was such a cheerful soul. For ten minutes she played chase the milk carton with the dog, laughing as he dodged round her, circling then darting forwards and backwards. She leaned over, resting her hands on her thighs. ‘You’re much better at this game than me.’
Clare fed the pigs, then the chickens, smiling at Captain Hilts with his wings out, forcing the hens to gather at either end of the feeding trough. He was a tyrant, but he had an excuse. He was a rooster, and she’d miss him, too.