Fourteen
All day, Clare’s chest felt tight. She had set aside the morning to pay her London bills, but quickly realized her finances were so dire that she would have to contact the suppliers and arrange a monthly repayment schedule. Unable to face that task, she ended up outside repairing the lawn. She picked at a sandwich for lunch, pulling out the cheese filling and dropping it into Stop-it’s snapping jaws, and by the evening, for once, she was glad she didn’t eat alone, scraping a virtually untouched omelette into Stop-it’s bowl.
Washing up the frying pan, Clare could feel her hands shaking with nerves. What was going to happen tonight? She hadn’t been able to reach any of the other three councillors. Until she’d spoken to Hazel Jones, it hadn’t occurred to her that people unconnected to Richard might side with him. Now she was worried that farmers would share Hazel’s view. Most farmed dairy herds. She recalled her parents in the milking parlour, working as a close-knit team, her mother diligently hosing away slurry while her father encouraged the herd back outside the barn. As a toddler, Clare had played with Jet on a ledge made from hay bales, and didn’t recall being disturbed by the smells or sounds of farming. But farmers were probably fed up with townies whingeing about run-off from slurry. Why should they pay thousands to dispose of waste when water companies pumped raw human sewage into the sea with impunity?
At six o’clock it started raining. Looking at the damp, dreary sky, Clare gave a soft groan. People wouldn’t come out in this weather. They couldn’t summon an Uber like you could in London. It was still spitting at six thirty, when Clare wrapped herself in a raincoat, pulled up the hood and set off on foot. Striding towards Brambleton Hall, several cars passed her, kicking up spray which splashed onto her coat. She trudged on, viewing the dirty water as a small price to pay for a big turnout, and pushing to the back of her mind the nagging fact the village hall was at the top of Brambleton, and there were plenty of other places those cars might be going.
Rounding the last bend, Clare plodded downhill keeping her eyes on her destination. There was a trickle of people. At the entrance, she took a breath and went in. The clock in the outer hallway told her there were still five minutes before the scheduled start time. She pushed at the inner door, letting out a buzz of voices, walked in and gasped. There must have been 200 people. All the seats were full and there were so many people standing she couldn’t see a space for herself.
At the far end of the room was a table where five people were talking among themselves. There was a forced air of purposefulness to the group, as if each was conscious of performing in front of an unexpected audience. An empty chair at the table seemed to wink at Clare. The chairperson was missing.
Clare stayed where she was and leaned her back against the wall. Beside her, the door creaked open. There was a ripple of noise, and she craned her neck to see who it was. In the doorway, dressed in a suit and tie, stood Richard. A slow clap echoed round the room. Someone started hissing and the noise swelled. Richard’s face coloured and she wondered if it was due to embarrassment or rage. He rolled his eyes and marched to the long table, taking the empty seat, spoke briefly to the woman on his right, then rose again. The crowd settled. Richard’s voice was calm, but there was a hint of warning in it.
‘As the Chair of Brambleton parish council, I’d like to extend a warm welcome to you all. We meet once a month; the dates and times are displayed in the village shop and outside on the noticeboard. It’s the first time I’ve seen most of you here,’ he said, making it sound like a reprimand, ‘and I assume you aren’t familiar with the protocol. We conduct business without interruptions. At appropriate points there will be an opportunity for you to speak, but if you disrupt proceedings, you will be ...’ He paused, running his eyes over the crowd, then rested his gaze on Clare for a moment before he finished, ‘... ejected.’
Clare reflected on the words he’d chosen. Not ‘asked to leave’, but ‘ejected’. Far from being rattled by his reception, it looked like Hastings viewed it as a challenge. Clare had a fleeting image of Captain Hilts chasing down a hen and wished she could banish Hastings to the cooler.
Richard steered his fellow councillors through the tedium of village problems. There was a detailed discussion about a troublesome pothole on the main road close to Richard’s entrance gates. Apparently, that stretch was built above a spring, so no sooner was it repaired than the water worked its way through the tarmac.
A woman spoke and Clare recognized her voice: Pat Mayhew. Clare took a closer look at her ally. She was slim, well-dressed with neat grey hair swept off her face and tied in a ponytail. She wore glasses and a pair of long earrings. Pat’s confident air suggested a career in the police or military, where she was used to commanding respect.
‘We could solve this permanently by shifting the road, moving it a few metres to the right,’ she said.
‘I don’t think the budget would stretch to a bypass,’ said Richard.
‘It would be a minor diversion, a few metres; hardly a bypass. And in the long run,’ said Pat, still looking directly at Richard, ‘it might prove less expensive.’
‘You don’t know that’ he said defiantly. ‘The spring might run for some distance, and this is just the current weak spot. The water might just work its way up elsewhere if we move the road.’
Pat shook her head, making her earrings swing. ‘Simple to get someone to investigate where the underground water is.’
‘So, you’re a water diviner now, are you, Pat? Let’s move on,’ said Richard.
Undefeated, Pat asked. ‘Do you think the owner of that land would object to selling it?’
Richard glared at Pat, making Clare smile. Everyone knew who owned that stretch of land – it was a sliver, lost in the rounding of the estate’s acreage. Why was Pat goading Richard? Was this the warm-up act to Hastings’ planning application? Clare hoped the three councillors she hadn’t spoken to were as feisty as Pat Mayhew.
Pat offered to call the Council to ask if they would consider her idea. Richard tapped his pencil on the table, the sound mimicking his irritation, but gave in. Pat sucked in her cheeks – Clare suspected to hide a smile – and wriggled in her seat. Pat Mayhew, 1 – Richard Hastings, 0 , thought Clare. The village was fighting back.
‘Moving on,’ said Richard, a note of frustration in his voice. ‘Now we come on to planning applications. Tonight, there are two, both agricultural. I will remain in the chair for the first, then I will absent myself in favour of Hazel Jones for the discussion of the second.’
Clare huffed quietly to herself. Hastings had planted a councillor who was in favour of his application in the chair. ‘Has everyone had a chance to consider the first application?’
Papers rustled, plans unfolded, and Richard invited the applicant to speak. A man in his forties, with the ruddy complexion of a farmer, stood up. He looked about as relaxed as a child waiting to see the dentist, and spoke in a slightly shaky voice, explaining why he needed an extension to his milking parlour. Poor man thought Clare. Rotten luck his application coincided with Richard’s. None of the councillors had any questions and heaving a huge sigh of relief, the man flopped back into his seat.
Richard addressed his fellow councillors. ‘It’s important to support the farming community, as we’re a rural economy. I’m in favour. Who else?’
Five additional hands went in the air.
‘Right, I’ll pass the baton to Hazel,’ said Richard. ‘I’ll wait by the door in case you want me to answer any questions.’
He walked towards Clare, his arms swinging. There was a triumphant look in his eyes that made her back stiffen. He knew every one of those councillors, had served alongside them for years. Richard would know how to sway them. Had he bribed any of them like he’d tried to bribe her mother? Was this already stitched-up? At the door he paused, and Clare held her breath, waiting for a cocky taunt. His eyes narrowed and he looked her in the eye, seemingly reluctant to break away. He grinned and opened the door. Slowly it hissed shut, but she was conscious of his presence and suspected he’d be listening in from behind the door.
Like actors readying themselves for a key scene, the councillors were fidgeting, wriggling and toying with their papers. One of them pulled themselves closer to the table, her seat scraping noisily on the floor, then she spoke forcefully. ‘I’m assuming the chair for the next agenda item.’
So, this was Hazel Jones , thought Clare. Although not as trimly turned out as her opposition, Hazel looked every inch a match for Pat Mayhew. She was as short as Ivy, with thick, curly black hair that covered her ears, and she wore a sweatshirt, loose trousers and trainers. But Clare wasn’t taken in by the casual appearance. She had spoken to the woman. Hazel was a farmer, and Clare recognized the same determined look in those eyes that used to be present in her mother’s. Hastings had a strong backup; Hazel wouldn’t give up easily.
‘An application by Mr Richard Hastings,’ said Hazel, her dark eyes darting at each of the remaining councillors before circling the audience as if warning them all to behave, ‘to erect a shed.’
There was a rumble of voices, then from the back of the room, a man spoke. ‘That’s not a shed, that’s a factory.’
The room erupted into laughter. Hazel shouted over the noise. ‘Quiet.’
As if on cue, a baby started crying. Hazel muttered something under her breath, then said. ‘The council must be allowed to discuss business without interruptions.’ She shook out a sheaf of papers, arranging one on the table and anchoring it with water glasses. ‘This is a site plan. It shows where the two buildings would be erected, and you were all sent a detailed report which concluded that there would be no negative environmental impact from the erection of these buildings.
‘Rubbish!’ shouted the same male voice.
‘Final warning,’ said Hazel, her eyes darting round the crowd like a sheep dog searching for a wandering charge. ‘One more peep out of anyone and they’ll be outside.’ She turned to the councillors. ‘Richard has kindly arranged for one of the experts who conducted the research to be here this evening to answer any questions.’ Hazel waved a hand at a man sitting in the front row who rose. ‘This is Peter Roberts.’
Clare thought that the best way to describe Peter was ‘boffin’. He was tall and slightly stooped, with wispy grey hair, a thick moustache and wire-framed glasses. Peter wore smart trousers and, despite the heat, had a V-neck jumper on over his shirt and tie.
‘I have one,’ shouted the man who’d interrupted twice already.
‘Quiet!’ snapped Hazel. ‘The matter is not yet open for general discussion, only for councillors.’
‘I have a question,’ said Pat, her earrings dancing as she waggled her head. ‘I’m at a loss to understand how you conclude 40,000 birds won’t result in,’ – she ran her fingers over a line in the report – ‘and I quote ... “ any noticeable adverse smell” .’ She raised her head, sat back and crossed her arms. ‘I reckon they’ll be able to smell them in Barnstaple.’ There was a ripple of laughter. Clare decided to try to catch Pat after the meeting and co-opt her into BARS.
Richard’s expert appeared unfazed. ‘This is a farming district. People are used to the smell of animals.’
‘I might be,’ chirped Pat. ‘We farm dairy. But my sister doesn’t and nor does the rest of the village.’
For a moment, Peter chewed his lip, his moustache shifting like whiskers on a wary animal, but he didn’t have an answer to that one.
‘What about waste?’ said Pat. ‘I notice the plan is to invest in a storage facility and produce fertilizer. How can we be sure that it’s done properly? Where’s the oversight coming from?’
Peter spoke confidently, making Clare think that waste was his speciality. ‘Mr Hastings has to follow industry guidelines,’ he said, then spoke in a droning voice that reminded Clare of sitting beside her mother as a child listening to a cattle auctioneer. Peter talked about the regulations covering waste management. They sounded marvellous, but Clare was itching to make him answer the question Pat had posed – who was going to ensure Hastings stuck to these rules? She bit her tongue, convinced Richard would have warned Hazel who the chief troublemakers were. Hazel wouldn’t hesitate to remove Clare.
Peter was summing up and Clare wished he had a less monotonous voice; it was difficult to concentrate in the heat. She ran a hand around her throat, using her fingers to open the neck of her blouse. Peter drawled on. Clare decided he was not the sort of man you’d want to end up sitting next to on a long train journey. ‘All of those tests would be conducted periodically to ensure the safe management.’ Clare yawned, stretched her hands over her head and glanced at her watch. In the middle of the crowd, she spotted Ivy, her head lolling on her chest. To Clare, Peter’s words sounded hazy. ‘He’s also investigating installing an anaerobic digester.’
Clare gave a start.
‘A what?’ asked Pat, suddenly sitting as bolt upright as Stop-it did whenever Clare sat down to eat.
‘It’s a machine that will convert all of the manure into electricity,’ said Peter, beaming. The crowd erupted. There were shouts of ‘What next?’ and ‘He can’t do this to us.’ People started stamping their feet. Hazel stood, her hands on her hips, her eyes tracking across the crowd. ‘Quiet! Or I shall have this room cleared.’ She waved her hands at the audience, but it seemed to fan the flames of anger, and the noise rose.
Clare imagined Richard, impotent behind the door. She turned, saw his face smudged against the glass and a smile crept over her own. Pat and the woman sitting next to her were shaking their heads, muttering to each other. Clare was desperate for Pat to quiz Peter further. What were the implications of having an anaerobic digester in that field? How big was it? Was it noisy, smelly, dangerous? Was this Richard’s secret goal? She didn’t trust him to look after hens properly; she certainly didn’t want him in charge of a gas field.
In the centre of the crowd, Fred rose, waving a fist at Peter. ‘You’re going to install a gas factory yards from where I live,’ he shouted.
Peter went completely still. His eyebrows furrowed and his voice faltered as he spoke. ‘It’s just an early thought and it would be ... the subject of a separate planning application.’
Hazel ran her eyes slowly and purposefully over her fellow councillors. ‘Anything else for Richard’s expert?’
There were no further questions from the councillors. Hazel glanced around the room uneasily, then invited questions from the floor. ‘One at a time. Raise your hand if you would like to speak.’
A teenager was the first to catch Hazel’s eye. Clare judged him to be about fifteen. The youth was tall and slim, with long limbs. He spoke to his shoes, but he spoke from his heart, asking the councillors to think about the environmental damage Richard’s project threatened. His voice wavered as he spoke about mutual respect for animals, saying humans had a responsibility to use their power fairly, to allow animals to live as natural a life as possible, not exploit them to maximize profits. Clare turned but there was no face pressed against the glass. Concerns for animal welfare wouldn’t make Hastings change his mind. The boy finished and the audience clapped.
Ivy spoke next, ‘What Terry just explained so eloquently, is that this is a question of ethics.’
Clare’s mind wandered and she let her eyes circle the room. People were nodding and muttering. For over an hour Hazel batted away villagers’ questions, but Clare noticed the tightness in people’s eyes, the hardening of features. Hazel could dismiss their concerns as petty and irrelevant, but that wouldn’t dispel the anger. She spotted Bill, wearing his battered straw hat, jotting notes on a pad. He was listening, and he would surely detect the resentment and fear in these voices.
When Fred asked what was going to happen to the Brambleton Agricultural Show, Hazel suggested that Richard answer. Clare opened the door. As if controlled by a switch, heads swept from left to right, tracking Hastings as he stalked past. Someone started hissing, then someone booed, and the crowd took its cue, stomping their feet and booing like a pantomime audience when the wicked witch came on stage. Richard’s face went scarlet – Clare hoped this time it was from embarrassment, not rage.
Fred repeated his question.
‘I’ll find another site somewhere on the estate,’ promised Richard.
‘But it will be further away from the village,’ said Fred. ‘Not so convenient. Why not put the shed somewhere else?’
‘Because he’s a greedy bugger,’ said a North-Devonian accent, eliciting splutters of laughter and another rush of colour to Richard’s face.
Anna rose and asked a technical question about the scale on the site plan .
‘Um ... Peter, one for you, please,’ said Richard.
A flush crept up Peter’s neck. He cleared his throat but didn’t answer.
‘Well?’ said Anna.
Had Anna stumbled on a weakness? Was there something underhand about Richard’s scale?
Hastings glared at his expert. Peter averted his eyes. ‘I’m not an architect.’
‘I am,’ said Anna stridently.
Hazel saved her ally. ‘The Council will investigate that.’ Clare’s eyes darted to Bill and a smile swept over her face – Bill was scribbling on his notepad. ‘Any further questions?’ asked Hazel.
Clare raised her hand. ‘Like many others here tonight, my family has farmed here for generations. There are plenty of viable options for that land which Richard could be encouraged to explore such as a campsite, or fruit farming.’ Her speech earned her a scowl from Richard.
Peter answered. ‘A thorough investigation was done before settling on this scheme. There’s a detailed business plan and extensive discussions have taken place with the local Council. This is the best plan, and it will provide employment for three people full-time.’
There was a round of huffs and snorts, then a male voice piped up, ‘He’s got more folk employed pruning his roses.’
‘That’s enough, Wilf!’ shouted Hazel. ‘Now, are there any further questions before we vote?’
There was a collective shuffling of feet, several harrumphs and snorts.
‘The matter is now closed,’ said Hazel. ‘Richard, if you could absent yourself again, please.’
A hush fell. Hastings marched past, looking like a child sent off to detention. The doors closed behind him and Hazel spoke. ‘Councillors, how do you vote? I’m in favour.’
‘Me too,’ said a male councillor.
‘I’m against,’ said Pat firmly.
Clare chewed on her knuckles. She couldn’t look at the two remaining councillors. To defeat Hastings, both had to follow Pat’s lead. The first, a young woman, slowly shook her head. ‘No, I’m against this Hazel.’
Clare swallowed. The room was so quiet she could hear birds singing outside the open windows. In the middle of the room, Ivy’s eyes were shut and her hands clasped in prayer. The seconds ticked past. The last councillor spoke. ‘I don’t think this is right for the village.’ Before the woman could formally vote, the crowd cheered and stamped their feet. A smiling Bill pocketed his notepad, and Clare felt a surge of pride.
She hung back, watching people stream out of the hall. Several saying they were going to the Smugglers Inn. Bill shook hands with everyone who’d spoken. He was a shrewd operator. She waited until the room emptied, leaving just the officials gathering up papers and chatting. Clare thought about speaking to Pat but decided not to tackle her in front of Hazel. She pushed open the door. Richard was blocking the exit to the street, standing with his arms crossed and his legs set slightly wider than his shoulders, like a bouncer outside a nightclub.
‘Don’t think you’ve won,’ he said. ‘This isn’t even the first battle. It’s just a skirmish in a very long war.’ He stormed off.
She shuddered. In her legal work, she often met employers reluctant to admit defeat, but she’d never seen such a sore loser. She suspected his anger stemmed from an arrogant assumption the parish council was in his pocket. Hastings blamed her for tonight’s decision, and she suspected he would get his revenge. She had to stay one step ahead of him. Through his brother, Richard was spying on BARS, so it was only fair if BARS spied on Richard in return.