Four
On Monday, Clare rose early again thanks to Hilts and break-fasted on a single slice of toast. She had made two but Stop-it had refused his kibble, again, his beseeching eyes making it clear that he would prefer to share her breakfast. The dog’s name was apt. Stop-it was better at training Clare than she was at training him and seemed set in his mildly irritating ways. ‘Lord alone knows what I’m going to do with you!’ she said, feeding him the last crust of toast. Would Ivy take him on, along with the farm?
Outside, she fed the animals, noticing a section of sagging fencing in the pig enclosure. She gave it a gentle nudge. It would last another two weeks, and after that it would be someone else’s problem. She might not be arriving in Seville today as planned, but she would be jetting off soon enough. A horn tooted and she jogged back to the house, grabbed her bag and slid into the passenger seat of Ivy’s little car. ‘How are you today?’ asked Ivy.
‘Umm,’ said Clare, turning to stare out of her window. She could hear a pair of pigeons cooing to each other, their low echoing calls reminding her of childhood games in the woods. She fastened her seatbelt and asked about train times.
Once on the train, Ivy arranged her billowing dress then sat opposite Clare. Her face was one large round smile as she settled herself and took out a book.
Listening to the train rattling along the Tarka Line, Clare looked out of the window, seeing the outskirts of the town fade, replaced by fields of sheep, their white coats contrasting with the deep green of the grass. She wished she was walking among the animals, listening to their soft bleats, not on her way to say a final goodbye to her mother’s farm.
Ivy looked up from her book. ‘Why not tell me what’s on your mind? Talking can be helpful,’ she suggested.
Clare didn’t answer. She wasn’t ready to share her complicated mixture of regret, guilt and loss, each one a painful burden, but together a crushing weight which left her mute. She shook her head and stared out at a green wooded valley with a stream meandering through it. It seemed dark and a little foreboding, reflective of her spirits. Her mind flitted from her mother to Guy and then to her father. She was a widowed orphan. Gosh that sounded sad. Clare tried to shake off her mood, telling herself that today she was simply learning the extent of her task list and once she’d ticked it off, she would close that part of her mind and scamper back to London faster than Stop-it dashed to the treat tin. She spotted a pair of walkers hiking along the river-bank. Soon she, too, would be off on her adventures.
Across from her Ivy was engrossed in what Clare spotted was a Jackie Collins novel. Had Cindy confided the contents of her will to her best friend? Orchard Farm with its 400 acres and period farmhouse, although tatty, was probably worth over ￡4 million. What would Ivy do with such wealth?
‘Ivy, did Mum tell you what was in her will?’
Ivy marked her place with a ribbon, looked up and her face split into a sympathetic smile. ‘No.’ You’re in for a surprise then , thought Clare. Why did Ivy think she had been invited today?
‘What did Mum mean? You know, when she said, “Clare will sort it out”?’
‘I don’t know, my love, but she was convinced you would.’
How could Clare sort anything out with her mother dead?
‘Are you going to tell me why she was so stressed?’
Ivy dipped her head. Was it money? Was her mother worried that Clare would be upset she’d left the family farm to Ivy? Clare didn’t need or want money, and she wasn’t about to swap city life for a farm. That had been her mother’s dream: that Clare would tire of London, return to Brambleton, marry a farmer and take over the dairy herd and her mother’s beloved orchard. But Clare loved her job and the buzz of London life.
‘Tell me, please. Why was Mum stressed?’
Ivy raised her eyes. ‘I think we may be about to find out.’
At the lawyer’s, the receptionist showed them into a boardroom which, with its small round table and walls lined with hardback copies of the Law reports, reminded Clare of her own.
A trim bespectacled man, who Clare judged to be about the same age as herself, walked in and introduced himself as Percy Wilson. ‘I am sorry for your loss. She was a fine woman.’
Clare smiled, acknowledging the condolence. ‘Unfortunately, we fell out.’
‘I know,’ said Percy, taking the seat opposite her. ‘She told me. She said you took after your father – too proud to take advice or to compromise.’ He raised his eyes at her, his mouth twitching into a smile. ‘I’ll leave you to assess how accurate that description is.’
Clare paused. She rarely thought about her father, and Cindy had hardly ever talked about him. She didn’t recall him being stubborn, but as a child, she hadn’t really thought about her parents’ characters.
Percy steepled his hands. ‘The will is quite straightforward. She left the small Georgian writing desk to you, Ivy.’ His eyes flashed at Ivy. ‘She told me you often wrote your sermons there while she cooked dinner for the three of you.’
Clare was transported back decades to laying the dining table for special Saturday dinners, with classical music playing softly in the background and Ivy hunched over that Georgian desk, books propped open on the floor around her feet. Percy turned his gaze Clare’s way. ‘What’s left goes to you.’
Clare’s hand flew to her mouth ‘Me?’ she mumbled. What would she do with all that money? Her eyes narrowed and she said in a shaky voice, ‘But I’m not a farmer. I live in London. Besides, what do you mean what’s left ?’
Percy started tutting. ‘Yes, I had a feeling you wouldn’t know; that this was why she wanted me to explain the contents of her will.’
‘We hadn’t spoken in seven years, so no, I don’t know. What do you mean?’ she demanded, her eyes flying between the lawyer and Ivy.
‘Your mother wasn’t a businesswoman.’
Clare felt her throat constrict. She never asked herself how her slightly muddle-headed mother had managed the money side of farming. ‘She was never much good with numbers,’ said Percy. ‘She kept going when milk prices slumped, but she still employed the same number of men to work for her.’ Clare knew; she’d drafted their employment contracts. ‘But she didn’t adapt, and she did something I think she regretted.’
With a stab of guilt, Clare turned to Ivy. ‘So that was why she sold the almshouses? To prop up the farm?’
Ivy nodded. Percy blew out a long breath. ‘I wasn’t referring to that.’
‘What did she do?’ she asked. Hearing the criticism in her voice, she winced.
‘She sold land,’ replied Percy.
In the farming world, that was a cardinal sin. Surely, her mother couldn’t have gotten into that much debt. ‘Right,’ said Clare slowly, feeling a rush of shame at the thought of her mother struggling alone. ‘How much land and which part of the farm? Is there a map?’
‘She sold a hundred acres, about five years ago.’
‘A quarter of the farm! Why didn’t she tell me she needed money?’ And why hadn’t her mother asked Clare for advice? But Clare knew the answer to that one; it would have been when Guy died.
‘It’s worse than that,’ said Percy. ‘She borrowed too, pledging another 300 acres as security. Unfortunately, with farm incomes plummeting, Brexit and the rural farm payments drying up, your mother got into arrears.’
Clare sighed. ‘How much? If the estate hasn’t got the cash, I’ve got reserves.’ Ring fenced for her adventure, but not yet committed.
‘It’s too late for that,’ said Percy gently. Clare’s heart started pounding. Why was this man giving her the soft-gloved touch? ‘Recently, that land was seized and sold.’
‘Hang on,’ said Clare, placing both hands on the table. ‘This doesn’t make sense. Decent farmland is worth ￡10,000 an acre. She can’t have owed ￡3 million.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘Then what happened?’ she asked, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
‘It smells a bit odd, but I gather from asking around that the man she did the deal with—’ His nose twitched as if he was about to sneeze. ‘Well, let me put this delicately ... he’s a bit wide , and paid just a fraction of the land’s true market value.’
Clare’s eyes popped open. She switched her gaze to Ivy, who was clutching the cross at her neck. ‘She didn’t ...’ Clare looked at the lawyer. ‘She didn’t sell to Tricky Ricky?’
Percy’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Richard Hastings?’
‘The monster,’ said Clare. No wonder her mother had been stressed. ‘So, all that’s left is the orchard and the land surrounding the house? About thirty acres?’ This explained the absence of the dairy herd , thought Clare.
‘Yes, but I’m afraid the house is mortgaged too.’
Her head jerked forwards. How much worse could this get? ‘To Hastings?’ she asked.
‘No, one of the banks, but she was in arrears.’
Clare lacked the strength to speak. How had Cindy got into such a financial mess? She should have guessed from the state of the farmhouse, with its ancient kitchen, the same battered furniture in the sitting room, the upstairs bathroom with its clogged shower head. She turned towards Ivy. ‘I don’t understand. What was she spending her money on? Where’s it all gone?’
Ivy shrugged, equally shocked.
Percy wriggled in his chair. He spoke gently: ‘For decades she put money into the farm and never took any out.’ He fidgeted with his stack of papers. ‘She was spending over ￡100,000 a year of capital. We advised her to stop farming and sell up, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I’m sorry, but you don’t have much of an inheritance. The mortgage is over ￡500,000.’
‘I don’t want any of her money,’ said Clare defiantly, ‘I’ve a flat in London and, like you, I’m a lawyer – employment law. Is there anything I can do? ‘
Percy shook his head. ‘There was nothing illegal in what Hastings did. Immoral, but not illegal.’
‘How much is the mortgage in arrears?’
‘About ￡100,000.’
Clare’s jaw dropped. She felt light-headed, dizzy. She swallowed, trying to concentrate on the enormity of what she’d learned. Her mother owed over ￡600,000. She had her travel savings, but to repay her mother’s debts, she would have to refinance her flat.
Percy was speaking, but Clare was too stunned to take anything in. She saw a knowing look flash across his face as he poured her a glass of water. Percy would recognize shock; he was used to delivering both good news and bad. Realizing her mouth was dry, she gulped the water down, the mundane act calming her. Why hadn’t her mother seen sense? But it was always all about the farm, especially that orchard, Cindy’s refuge which she lavished attention on like some gardeners did with their roses. Her parents had planted most of those apple trees together, and her father’s ashes had been scattered there.
Clare bit her lip. ‘It might take me a while to come up with the funds.’
It wasn’t just the money. Sorting out her mother’s affairs would take far longer than she had delayed her travels by. Clare wasn’t leaving Orchard Farm anytime soon. She heard her mother’s voice in her head: ‘Tell Clare, I’m sorry. She’s a smart girl. She’ll sort this out.’ Cindy had been apologizing for losing the farm in a poor business deal, not for their rift, and she expected her daughter to fix the problem. Although exasperated with her mother she hoped she could live up to her expectations.
Clare asked Ivy to drop her in the village, so that she could walk towards the harbour and think things through. Squinting up at the sun, she stepped down onto the beach, removing her shoes and burying her feet in the warm sand, hoping the calming waves would still the vein throbbing at the base of her neck. Hastings was evil; her mother had been desperate, and he had seen an opportunity to buy her land cheaply. He may not have intended to ruin her financially, but he wasn’t bothered. He’d taken advantage of a vulnerable elderly woman. The hateful man was also trying to gouge Ivy and the pub’s landlady by hiking their rents. That was wrong. Clare was no stranger to the abuse of power. She’d met employers who manipulated staff into resigning, or who cut corners on health and safety costs at the expense of employees’ welfare. But this was one man riding roughshod over so many lives. The village seemed to be in his unscrupulous grip– Ivy, Rose, her mother. Tricky Ricky was a ruthless unethical businessman.
Her legal training kicked in and she told herself to accept facts; until Percy obtained grant of probate – which he estimated would take six months – Clare couldn’t sell the farm and was facing a monumental financial challenge. If she remortgaged her flat and emptied her savings account, she could cover her mother’s debts. Just. But on her reduced salary, Clare wouldn’t be able to afford the additional costs for long. Until the farm sold, she would have to live frugally and delay her travel plans. Sadly, the sale could take months.
With the wind gently tousling her hair, she gazed out over the vast expanse of the sea, an endless blue merging with the sky in a distant, hazy line. The rhythmic sound of waves lapping against the shore filled the air, her thoughts drifting away with each swell surging towards the beach. It was a soothing beat which reminded Clare of Guy letting the engine gently idle before a race. Shielding her eyes from the glare, Clare stared at the tranquil beauty and wandered towards the water.
‘Hey, careful there,’ said a cultured voice she recognized from her youth. A voice honed at vast expense at the boarding school he had attended after Year 6. Just inches in front of her stood Sam Hastings. He was barefoot, looking comfortable with his tanned limbs on display, and she couldn’t help noticing he looked as fit as a man a decade younger.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked. ‘You’re not really dressed for a beach walk.’
She looked vacantly at her business suit. ‘No, I ...’
Sam laughed. It was engaging, carefree with a hint of sexiness. Clare remembered it from her evenings working at the Smugglers Inn in her twenties. Back then, she’d thought it was the most attractive sound she’d ever heard. Now she peered at Sam, trying to see if the mirth reached his eyes, but a pair of aviator-style sunglasses concealed them.
‘Why not take off your jacket?’ He walked behind her and helped ease it off, then took her shoes and bag from her. ‘I heard why you’re here, and I’m sorry. Cindy was a fine woman and a good neighbour.’
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.
‘Come for a paddle. The water’s warm.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘It never used to be.’
‘That’s because you used to be taking a dip after sunbathing – it’s just the contrast.’ His voice was gentle, soothing her restless mind. She reminded herself that just because he’d been cruel to her in their twenties didn’t mean they couldn’t be civil to each other now.
‘Why not!’ she said, offering a guarded smile.
She rolled her trousers up to her calves and he led her towards the water where they stood silently in the damp sand, letting the waves break over their feet.
‘It’s good to see you again, Clare.’ He spoke softly and she recalled again how much she used to like his voice. ‘There’s a party up at the Hall on Saturday. Why don’t you join us? Your mother used to come every year.’
She wasn’t going. ‘I heard it’s your brother’s party.’
‘He won’t mind if I invite someone. There’ll be over a hundred guests.’
‘I expect I’ll be too busy, but thanks for the invitation. I must get going,’ she said, reaching for her shoes. He held out his arm and said, ‘Why not hang onto me while you put those on.’
With one hand on his arm, she steadied herself. His skin felt warm and the muscle firm. Liking the solidity of it, she swiftly reminded herself his brother was the village bully and Richard’s greed may have hastened Cindy’s death.
Walking up the hill, Clare heard the clank of metal on metal and glanced up. Outside the almshouses was a lorry. Shirtless men with nut-brown torsos were dumping scaffolding poles and planks on the roadside. She squeezed between the lorry and the fencing, opened the latch on Ivy’s gate and rang the bell.
The door opened, revealing a room crowded with furniture. Where would Ivy put her mother’s bureau? Taking a closer look, Clare realized it was deceptive. There was only a two-seater sofa, a rocking chair and a square footstool covered in dark brown fabric, all squashed into less space than her London lounge.
‘That was a shock this morning,’ said Ivy. Then she spoke over her shoulder: ‘Fred, get the kettle on.’
‘You knew, didn’t you?’
Ivy’s lips pursed. ‘Not exactly. I knew she was short of money, but not how short and she didn’t tell me what she’d done.’ Clare pointed behind her at the pile of poles and boards. ‘Good news?’
Ivy grinned. ‘Looks like it!’
Clare closed the door shutting out the noise. Above her she noticed pretty, exposed beams, but her eyes settled on the walls, where paint was blistered, and in areas strips hung in curls as if someone had used a paring knife. Thank goodness Hastings was sorting the problem before winter. She followed Ivy to the kitchen where a man wearing a yellow tie was filling a kettle. It was Mr Thompson, her former primary school teacher and Ivy’s neighbour.
Ivy beamed at Clare. ‘We’ve been moaning to Richard Hastings about the damp for years, but it’s like talking to the proverbial stop sign. Time for tea?’
‘So, what’s he agreed to do?’ asked Clare.
‘Eh?’ said the man.
‘Don’t be vain, Fred,’ said Ivy, pulling mugs out of a cupboard. ‘Put your hearing aids in.’
‘I still think of you as Mr Thompson,’ Clare said.
His eyes twinkled at her. ‘Call me Fred. Everyone else does.’
‘He’s not agreed to anything yet,’ said Ivy, ‘but the scaffolders have been told to put it around all four cottages, so he must be doing something.’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ muttered Clare. ‘Mum should have done the work years ago, when she owned these houses.’
‘Your mum had a heart of gold,’ said Ivy, ‘but she was a farmer, not a landlord.’
And she wasn’t much better at being a farmer , thought Clare.
‘We’re too reliant on amateur landlords,’ said Fred, fiddling with one of his ears. ‘Not sure it’s the right model. Providing housing should be a social contract, a bit like being a teacher. We wouldn’t outsource teaching kids to people who just fancied having a go, would we?’ he added.
‘Tea or coffee?’ offered Ivy
Clare shook her head. ‘I haven’t got time for either. If I don’t walk Stop-it, he’ll take revenge by destroying something. I just called in for your lease.’
Ivy’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll get a copy.’
When Ivy showed her out, she hugged Clare. ‘I know it looks bleak. Losing your mother must bring back memories of your father’s passing too.’
And Guy’s. But Clare wouldn’t think about any of them now. She would compartmentalize her losses and concentrate on keeping busy. Clare clutched Ivy’s lease to her chest, feeling a calmness seep through her – she had work to do.
Back at Orchard Farm, Clare viewed the house as a prospective buyer might. Although a sale couldn’t complete before probate was granted, a buyer could exchange contracts and pay a deposit, with completion occurring on grant of probate. She hoped that would happen soon; until she had a dollop of money, she couldn’t afford her adventures. But to achieve that, she must spruce up the house and get it on the market. Clare tugged at a tangle of ivy snaking over the back door. It came free, dislodging a shower of mortar. Underneath, the brickwork was a gorgeous honey colour. If she cleared the ivy carefully and gave the bricks a scrub it would look lovely.
Inside, she grabbed a pen and paper and went from room to room scribbling. The list ran to two pages. Clare dropped it on the floor and sagged into a chair, curling her knees up to her chest and circling them with her arms. She dragged herself upright again – it was going to be a lengthy process, and she needed to get cracking if she wanted to avoid spending the first six months of her sabbatical in Brambleton.