Eight
To do:
· Contact Planning Officer
· Arrange meeting
· Finalise second charge loan
· Repay mum’s debts
· Probate
· Farmhouse repairs
· Estate agent
· Make Stop-it eat kibble
Before making her own breakfast, Clare fed the hens. She loved the way they greeted her, with their soft chirrups and gurgles of pleasure. It was like being hailed a powerful deity, just for turning up to dole out grub. She wondered how Guy would have reacted to the hens; he hadn’t liked animals. The first weekend she had brought him to meet her mother, Guy had shrunk away from Jet. Perhaps that was why Cindy didn’t warm to him; her mother always maintained that a dog was an excellent judge of character.
After completing the early morning chores, Clare called the Council, asking to speak to the Planning Officer. He was in a meeting. She left a message, but two hours later he hadn’t returned her call, so she called again, left a second message, then went into Brambleton.
It was a gloriously warm, sun-drenched morning. If she were in London, she would be hiding in her office, soothed by the cool air conditioning. Thinking of her little cubicle reminded her that every Monday morning she had been stuck in back-to-back departmental meetings – the Planning Officer was probably suffering the same fate.
At Prosecco and Prose, the terrace was crammed with tourists lounging in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. Some were hunched over maps and guidebooks, while others basked in the warmth, soaking up the sun and ambiance. Laughter and lively conversation filled the air, blending with the clink of cutlery. She heard her mother’s voice in her head: you don’t need a proper holiday; a change is as good as a rest!
It didn’t matter if Clare spent part of her sabbatical in Devon, she would still return to London refreshed.
She went inside, entering a long, low room filled with comfy high-backed velvet chairs, each with their own reading spotlights. Beside every chair was a table just big enough for a small plate and a drink. There were larger tables displaying books, with signs advertising their genres. To Clare’s left was a second room full of rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and on her right open bi-fold glass doors led out to the terrace. A gentle breeze blended the aromas of freshly brewed coffee, pastries, bacon and suntan lotion. Mentally, Clare added a whiff of ammonia and pictured the terrace empty of customers; that factory would decimate Trish’s business.
There was only one other customer inside, who was quietly reading a book, a pot of coffee and a plate of toast on the table beside him. Sam Hastings. His hand reached for his mug but he didn’t look up. She suspected he was here to eavesdrop. Well, she’d give him something to listen to.
Clare strode to the bar. She wanted to shake this problem off. It was clouding her mind, making her moody. Two waitresses rushed in, slapping order slips in front of Trish, who glanced up. She flicked her curtain of hair over one shoulder ‘Howzit?’ she asked.
‘Don’t ask,’ replied Clare. She ordered a coffee.
Clare looked up into her friend’s hazel eyes, seeing the compassion radiating from them like a comforting hug.
‘What’s up?’ asked Trish.
Before she could stop herself, Clare vented her frustration that the Planning Officer wasn’t returning her calls. Trish shifted her eyes to Sam’s table and whispered, ‘Keep your voice down.’
But Clare refused to tiptoe around the village, dodging Hastings’ spies. ‘It’s the arrogance of the man. Richard bangs on about this being his village, but he’s got no respect for it.’
‘Shh!’ said Trish, turning her back on Clare and fiddling with the coffee machine. The hiss of water matched Clare’s mood, and she spoke in a voice loud enough to reach the enemy. ‘You can’t build a chicken factory on a park.’
Trish spun round, her eyes wide. ‘It’s not Sam doing this. He’s my best customer. Please keep your voice down.’
‘He won’t get permission,’ Clare exclaimed even more loudly. ‘His land isn’t a farm. To get—’
A male voice cut her off. ‘You won’t win that way.’ Clare turned, her eyes boring into Sam. His face was down, as if reading his book. How could he sit there knowing what his brother was trying to do? Clare spoke confidently. She might not be a planning lawyer, but she knew more about this than Sam Hastings.
‘It’s binary: no farm, no permission.’
Sam chuckled. It infuriated her that his laugh was so endearing. She had an image of the pair of them as eight year olds in the school nativity play, with Sam cast as Joseph, while she played Mary. At that tender age, Clare had convinced herself she would marry her fellow actor, but now she believed that dream would have turned into a nightmare – no wonder he was divorced.
Without raising his head, Sam said, ‘It’s a farm.’
‘It’s not enough to be surrounded by farms. The site he wants to put this monstrosity on isn’t farmed,’ Clare said.
Sam used a finger as a place marker, closed his book and looked at her. His piercing blue eyes seeming to mock her.
‘It is a farm,’ he said softly. ‘The entire Brambleton Estate is legally a farm. All these estates are farms.’
‘And Brambleton Hall is a farmhouse?’ she shot back.
He nodded. ‘Yes. Quite a smart one, but a farmhouse nonetheless.’
‘Tell me what your brother farms then,’ said Clare indignantly.
‘Well, it used to be handouts from the EU. Every landowner who registered as a farm used to get an RPA –a rural payment allowance. That stopped with Brexit, but he’s got his RPA number, so that site is classified as a farm.’
Clare had a sinking feeling that Sam was telling the truth. She felt stupid. She may loathe him, but Richard was canny and wouldn’t have spent money on an EIA without checking for simple impediments like she was clutching at.
‘Talk to Bill Matthews,’ said Sam.
Clare frowned. ‘Who’s that? Why would I want to talk to him?’
‘He’s the local councillor. He’s a good guy. He’ll give you a reading on how he thinks the Council will approach this.’ Sam took a sip of coffee, his face crinkled into a smile and his blue eyes focused on her. Clare felt the nape of her neck going hot and her breath grow shallow. She couldn’t decide what was irritating her most: that she found him attractive or that he was showing up her poor preparation in front of Trish.
‘Bet your brother’s got him in his pocket.’
‘If you don’t like the way my brother does business, do something about it.’
Seeing her hands quivering, she hid them by crossing her arms. ‘I don’t think I’ll take the advice of a Hastings.’
He laughed and despite herself, she smiled – it was such a disarming sound. ‘I’m my own man,’ said Sam, pouring coffee into his mug. ‘I don’t always do what Richard wants.’
‘And nor does the village,’ said Trish. ‘He’s going to have a fight on his hands. Clare will take him on, and she always wins.’
Spurred on by her encounter with Sam, the following morning Clare persuaded Anna and Fred to join her in sounding out the village. They worked their way from cottage to cottage, leaning over garden fences, ringing doorbells, rapping knuckles on windows. No one knew about Hastings’ plans and revealing them often elicited the same response. ‘Well, that’s Tricky Ricky for you. Guess we’ll have to learn to live with it.’
By noon she was exhausted and wishing she was in London, where most houses had been converted into flats. There were probably fifty households on her own street. Clare strode away from another house, throwing her hands into the air in frustration. Why were people just accepting this? They were treating Hastings like a medieval feudal lord, who could do whatever he wanted. Outside the village hall, Anna suggested splitting up, and although that would have made them three times faster, Clare resisted. She didn’t want to be labelled as the Londoner who was stirring up the village.
Clare spotted a young woman in overalls who was squatting in front of a door, sanding it down with a power tool, and suggested they speak to her. A Sold sign stood in the garden.
‘Lovely day for a spot of DIY,’ said Fred.
The woman turned off the machine and introduced herself as Gina. She glanced fondly into a pram next to her, its hood up, protecting the occupant from the sun. ‘My partner and I have just moved in. We’ve been saving for five years for a place like this.’
As Gina chatted about her plans for the house, Clare’s eyes flickered between the garden, with a view of Richard’s proposed site, and the sleeping baby with its tiny head flopped to one side, breathing in the pure Devon air. There was a waft of honeysuckle. Clare let her eyes wander, tracking down the scent to a trellis attached to the side of the house, where the clashing pink and orange flowers were wilting in the sun.
‘Do you know what’s possibly happening over there?’ Clare asked, pointing to the fields beside and above the village hall.
‘Oh yes,’ said Gina, smiling. ‘We know all about the Brambleton Agricultural Show. My husband’s going to take that Monday off. We want to become part of this village, support its traditions.’
She spoke proudly, making Clare’s heart clench. She didn’t want to shatter this woman’s idyllic life. Clare gave Anna a sideways look. ‘You tell her.’
When Anna revealed Hastings’ plan, Gina’s face drained of colour. She swayed and reached out, clutching at the door. Clare followed Gina’s gaze out to the fields. Bales of hay were stacked up waiting for collection, and birds were jabbing beaks into the ground, searching for titbits in the newly cropped grass. It was hard to picture a factory replacing that view. Gina spoke in a shaky voice. ‘Forty thousand birds? I can’t believe this.’ Gina wiped a hand down her face. ‘Why didn’t it show up on the local searches?’
‘He’s only just applied,’ said Anna. ‘You’ll probably get a letter in the post soon. You are quite close.’
‘It’s going to affect our value.’
Fred was shuffling his feet.
‘I think it will damage house prices in all of Brambleton,’ Anna said.
Maybe not the Manor House or Sam’s holiday cottages , thought Clare.
Gina’s face darkened and she pointed at the pram. ‘Ben’s only six months old. I don’t want him breathing in fumes. My sister lives in the Wye Valley. That’s Chicken Factory Central. She says the ammonia fumes are bad for kids’ health.’
Walking away, Clare felt the same surge of injustice which had always spurred her on in complex employment cases. Gina and her family didn’t deserve this. Anna spoke in an excited voice about the strength of local opposition. ‘It’s something the Council consider before granting planning permission.’
Clare pulled a face. ‘But it’s not local opposition, is it? People don’t like his plan, but no one’s suggested doing anything about it.’
‘Because most people haven’t thought this through,’ said Anna. ‘The village doesn’t understand how this will affect them yet.’ She waved her arms. ‘Everyone is going to take a hit to their wallets.’
‘Not everyone,’ mumbled Fred. ‘And most will still be in a better position than Ivy and me.’
‘Yes,’ Anna nodded in agreement. ‘The almshouses will be the most affected.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Fred waving his arms the same way Anna had. ‘If all these people didn’t have so much housing wealth, Ivy and I might be able to afford our own homes.’
Fred delivered his speech without bitterness, but Clare spotted a haunted look in his eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to rent all your life in a village of rich homeowners.
‘Ironic really, isn’t it,’ said Fred. ‘Here I am, fighting what I know is morally wrong for the village, protecting the value of everyone else’s houses and risking an eviction notice for my efforts.’
At least Clare could put his mind at ease there. ‘No, he’s just offered to extend your leases for five years.’
Fred laughed. ‘Heard of Section 21?’ he asked scornfully.
Clare considered Fred’s words. Richard hadn’t signed the new leases yet, and under Section 21, he could evict a tenant with just three months’ notice. But he wouldn’t. ‘He’s not going to evict you. He won’t find it easy to replace you as tenants when he’s applying to build a factory a stone’s throw away.’
‘You think that do you.’ Fred said. ‘There speaks the voice of the house owner.’ This time, his voice was bitter. ‘They’ll be queuing up. Those are houses. With gardens. Near an excellent primary school. He’ll have hundreds applying and he knows it. You could rent a garden shed in this village if it had running water and electricity.’
She didn’t think even Tricky Ricky would risk the public relations backlash of evicting the former vicar and a man who’d taught at the local primary school for forty years, but she didn’t want him to worry. ‘Fred, I hadn’t considered that Richard might throw you and Ivy out. We’ll fight him without you.’
‘You will not!’ he said defiantly. ‘I won’t be cowed by that man, and I know Ivy won’t either. I’ve always stood up against a bully and I’m not stopping now.’
Anna patted Fred’s arm affectionately. ‘The challenge is that no one thinks he can be stopped.’
‘Why not organize a briefing session at the village hall?’ said Clare. ‘Invite everyone and explain his plans. If people see how much this will affect their lives ...’
‘Exactly,’ said Anna. She cast a fond look at Fred and added, ‘Fear of loss is a great motivator.’
‘More powerful than desire for gain,’ added Clare, stirred by her friend’s enthusiasm. ‘Let’s take the monster on.’
If Fred and Ivy were prepared to risk their homes, the least she could do was offer her time.