Fifteen
It was gone nine and the light was fading fast when Clare turned through a pair of glossy white metal gates, about a mile outside Brambleton. Shortly afterwards, the drive forked. A wooden sign listing four cute-sounding cottage names pointed to a spur road. Guessing those were Sam’s holiday lets, Clare chose the road marked Private , her headlights picking out a well-managed orchard, once again reminding her she must get into her own, then a cider barn and finally a large farmhouse.
The curtains were open, and she could see someone leaning over a hob. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. From his height and build, she assumed it was Sam. He looked up and his eyes screwed tight, as if trying to identify the unfamiliar vehicle outside. She sat drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, uncomfortable at disturbing his dinner, but also concerned that he might have recognized her car. She didn’t want him to think she had lost her nerve. He was halfway across the kitchen, so she got out of the car and marched to the porch, telling herself to pretend that this was a business pitch. With her finger on the bell, the door opened.
‘Hi,’ said Sam. His blue eyes flashed straight at her. She couldn’t detect any hint of curiosity in them. Didn’t he want to ask what she was doing here? ‘Come in. Can I offer you a glass of wine?’
He spoke in a gentle husky voice which made her feel welcome, as if he had been expecting her. She ran her hands through her hair. Maybe this was a mistake. ‘I don’t want to disturb dinner. I’m sorry, it’s quite late. I thought you’d have ...’
‘Don’t apologize. Most people have eaten by now. One of my guests had an accident. What about that glass of wine?’ he said.
‘Go on then.’
She followed him down a corridor decorated with cheerful, bright pictures of local scenes: Exmoor with an enormous herd of wild deer; a long sandy beach which she recognized as Saunton Sands.
The kitchen was bigger than Clare’s entire flat. It was modern, spotlessly clean and smelt of spices. Her stomach growled, and she closed her jacket, trying to mask the sound. ‘I should go,’ she said.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked, making her blush: he must have heard her tummy. ‘I’m batch-cooking, so there’s plenty.’
She sniffed appreciatively, then asked what he was cooking.
‘Maa ki dahl.’
She smiled at him. ‘What?’
He returned her smile, his eyes met hers and she dropped her gaze and ran her hands through her hair. ‘It’s basically slow-cooked black lentils,’ said Sam.
She was here to infiltrate the enemy. What better way than sharing a meal? She wasn’t here to fight, nor, she warned herself, to flirt. ‘Go on then.’
He fussed over her, making her feel less like a spy and more like a blind date, showing her where the toilet was, asking if she wanted to eat inside or, as it was so warm, would she prefer the terrace? ‘Kitchen’s fine,’ she said plonking herself down at the breakfast bar.
‘Red wine or white?’ he asked.
‘You choose.’
He opened a bottle of white wine and poured two glasses, pushing one her way, then turned away. She took a sip and watched his back. He pulled out an ancient-looking cast iron pot from the oven – the sort that still filled her mother’s cupboards. He set it in front of her and lifted the lid, releasing a spicy aroma that made her mouth water, before ladling two large bowlfuls, sprinkling on a brown powder and adding a swirl of yoghurt.
‘Tell me what you think,’ he said, nodding at her bowl. She dipped in her spoon, stirring the yoghurt, and took a mouthful. It was delicious: perfectly seasoned, an incredible blend of spices. She dropped her spoon. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’
‘My mother. She taught both of us. I find spices fascinating.’
That made her smile. Guy hadn’t been interested in food. He viewed it as fuel, something humans needed to survive, just like his car used petrol. He cooked nothing more elaborate than toast. Not that she was much better. That would have to change: the freezer was nearly empty.
She glanced around the room, at the bottles of neatly labelled herbs and spices, the stacked pots and pans all on display. ‘This kitchen has a sort of masculine feel to it. Did you design it?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve redone it since I got divorced.’
Clare slid her chair closer to the counter and took another spoonful of food. She stole a furtive glance at him. ‘Sorry. I’d heard it hadn’t worked out.’
‘Laura wasn’t a Devonian. She couldn’t take the wet winters. She thought she could learn to love country life, but she was a city girl at heart, and we just drifted apart.’ He took a gulp of wine. Clare didn’t speak, wondering if the wound was still raw. Sam turned those eyes on her, making her body tremble. She blinked and spooned in more lentils. ‘It was a while ago now. I’m over it,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ she said thoughtfully, wondering if she was ready to try again. She wasn’t sure, but if she was, it wouldn’t be with a Hastings. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘I inherited the cider farm from my father fifteen years ago.’
Clare frowned. She’d worked and saved for years to scrape together the deposit for her flat. She forced a laugh and said, ‘Lucky you.’
While they ate, she talked about the London life she missed, and he told her about his four luxury holiday lets. That spur road culminated in four sleek timber-framed cottages facing the sea. He told her they had previously been barns converted under Class Q permitted development.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘It allows farmers to convert some agricultural buildings into residential units without having to apply for planning permission.’
She seized her opportunity. ‘I thought you’d have been at this evening’s meeting.’
‘I didn’t think I’d enjoy it.’
Of course, it was his night off. His brother was on duty.
‘Your brother didn’t enjoy himself very much.’
He gave a faint huff. ‘Richard is big enough and ugly enough not to care if people like him.’
She waited until she could see his face before speaking. ‘I think he expected them to vote it through.’
‘And they didn’t?’
He seemed surprised. There was a quirk of a smile round his lips, but she was sure Richard would have been on the phone to Sam immediately after the meeting.
‘No,’ she said smugly, ‘it’s been refused. Everyone’s gone off to the Smugglers Inn to celebrate. ‘
‘Piece of advice,’ said Sam. ‘Tempting though it is, don’t back him into a corner. If he’s cornered, he’ll fight harder.’
She felt herself bristle but was careful not to react. He was as cocky as his brother, thinking he could manage BARS’s tactics with a few innocent-sounding tips. She hid her feelings by finishing her meal. With each mouthful she reminded herself to pretend he was a client – she didn’t like all her clients, but she was never rude. She must treat Sam the same way. Some of his tips might be useful. She just had to sift out those designed to lead BARS astray.
‘If you were in our shoes, what would you do?’
He didn’t hesitate, which made her suspect he’d been told by Richard to plant the idea, probably with Fred. ‘I’d commission my own EIA.’
She laughed. ‘Why?’ she asked, taking a gulp of wine. ‘Won’t the Council do that?’
He looked at her with an intense expression of concern. For a bizarre moment she was catapulted back to their kiss over twenty years ago. It had been sensuous, both firm and tender, and for years afterwards was the benchmark against which she’d assessed each boyfriend. She shook her head, reminding herself not to get carried away. Sam may have been a good kisser, but his true character was revealed by his cruel actions the following day.
‘Don’t count on it, Clare.,’ he responded. ‘The Council probably can’t afford one.’
‘Nor can we,’ she said, then bit her lip. She hadn’t wanted to let that slip and blamed her mistake on the wine. He offered her more food, but she patted her stomach, and he collected the dirty dishes, rinsed and stacked them in a dishwasher, then pulled the bottle of wine from the fridge. She put her hand over her glass. ‘Thanks, but I’m driving.’
‘What do you think Richard will do about the parish council?’
‘Ignore it.’
Clare laughed. Richard couldn’t do that, but she accepted Sam wouldn’t reveal her brother’s tactics. She would have to wait for his next move.
It wasn’t long before Richard launched a counterattack. It came through the post, in the form of a lawyer’s letter. Clare unfurled the single page from a London firm. The first thing she noticed were the words ‘without prejudice’. She’d often used them herself. It was a legal term used to encourage open and frank discussions between disputing parties, allowing them to explore resolutions, knowing their statements could not be used against them if negotiations failed and litigation started. As if the Hastings family knew how to compromise!
Clare chuckled as she read on:
Our client has reason to believe that you are the author of a libellous leaflet which you have been actively circulating in, and around, the village of Brambleton. Mr Hastings requires you to cease immediately and will be seeking redress and substantial damages for the harm done to his reputation.
She folded up the letter, thinking he may be a decent bridge player, but unlike his sibling, there was no finesse to Richard – he attacked with a full-frontal assault. This was textbook aggressive use of the law. As if she’d be so stupid. Didn’t he know she was a lawyer? She scanned the letter and sent it, together with another copy of the leaflet, to her colleague Sally, seeking re-assurance that Richard didn’t have grounds to complain.
Outside, she strode to the orchard and leaned against the gate, drinking in the view. A gentle breeze rustled through the branches. She concentrated, but she couldn’t hear another sound. It was a tranquil spot. Scrappy – the grass was calf-height – but peaceful. She unlatched the gate, then froze, turned, and, leaving the gate unlocked, jogged off to the chicken run.
Captain Hilts was chasing down a hen. His prey squawked and flapped her wings. Clare unlatched the gate – didn’t that boy understand ‘no’? The cockerel had his claws on the hen, pinning her down. Clare rushed over, tugged him away and glared at the rooster. He lowered his head and slunk towards the cooler.
Rescuing the hen made Clare feel better. But who would rescue her? Earlier she had spoken to Pat Mayhew, who was too busy to help BARS. Increasingly, Clare compared the action group to Dad’s Army – they meant well, but relying on them to beat the Hastings brothers? To quote Private Frazer from that series, ‘They were all doomed.’
She checked the laying boxes – six eggs. Clare rubbed the straw off them, adding the eggs to a tray. With this laying rate, by the end of the month, at ￡5 a tray, her emergency cash jar would have swelled to ￡55. For someone never previously short of money, it was an odd sensation to be counting pennies in a jar. She asked herself if that’s how Guy had felt, perennially short of money, never able to buy a round in a pub, always borrowing twenty quid, promising to reimburse her. He never did; he spent all his money on cars, either his own or hiring flashy ones.
With interest costs quickly eroding her reduced salary, Clare needed to progress the cider selling idea. She closed the gate on the hens. Strolling back to the farmhouse, she gazed out to the distant sea and the dumpy little Devon fishing boats bobbing across the waves. The beach would be teeming with tourists. August was the peak month. As a child, she had loved this time of year, playing hide and seek in the fields, Marco Polo in the sea and helping her mother prepare for the Brambleton Agricultural Show. That must be soon.
She would enter her mother’s cider. It would be the perfect opportunity for someone to taste it. If it won a prize, Trish and Rose might stock it, which would be handy cash and also illustrate the farm’s potential. An additional ten acres, on the right root stock, would produce a healthy apple crop within four years. Although not for her. She would return to her old London life, but the idea would appeal to someone. She went inside to make a cup of tea.
Before the kettle boiled, the door opened.
‘Hi. Anyone home?’ called out Fred. His shock of white hair appeared and beneath it, today’s tie: pink. Behind him stood Ivy, dressed in blue overalls, just like Clare’s mother. ‘We won’t get in your way,’ said Ivy, beaming at her. ‘We just want to sort out your kitchen floor tiles for you.’
‘Why now?’
‘Fred’s a dab hand at DIY. I’m just here to mop and clean.’
‘I’ll grout today, then come back and seal them tomorrow,’ said Fred, turning and leaving the two women.
Ivy took both Clare’s hands in hers. ‘It’s Fred’s way of saying thank you, for what you’re doing for everyone.’
Fred walked back in, carrying a large tub and a trug of tools.
‘Fred, this is very kind, but you don’t have to do this.’
‘And you don’t have to take Richard on. Everyone does what they can. I’m not a lawyer. Anyway, I find the sight of these tiles offensive.’ He tucked his tie into his shirt, pulled out a set of overalls and stepped into them, pulling the zip up.
Offering to make them tea, Clare was secretly delighted. That was one more tick on her to-do list.
Spurred on by Fred’s activities, the following day Clare tackled the boxes she’d brought from London. She sat on the bed, scraped a hand through her hair, unbuttoned the top button of her blouse and tipped out the first box, her fingers raking through the contents of what looked like Guy’s old sock drawer. There was nothing that sparked any interest, and the second and third boxes were equally uninspiring. The fourth revealed his wedding ring, which she let fall to the bed, then the scrapbook he used to scribble down ideas. She picked it up, flicking through, picturing Guy, helmet on, striding to his beloved rally car that in the end had killed him. She closed her eyes on the memory, then tossed the book high in the air, watching it land next to the ring. A postcard fluttered out from between the pages and dropped onto the floor. She reached for it, her fingers scrabbling, connecting, but it slithered out of her grasp. She picked it up again. The postcard was a map of Devon, the surrounding sea a stylized Caribbean blue. Someone had circled the town of Torquay in bright red ink. She flipped it over.
Remember what we did here? When are you next alone in the West Country? Hannah xxx
Clare welled up. Occasionally Clare had suspected Guy of being unfaithful, but had never been confronted with evidence, so had buried her husband’s possible guilt with him.
She squeezed her eyes tight, thinking of her mother and the rift she’d never repaired.
Now, finally, here was evidence which suggested her mother might have seen Guy for who he really was. Clare liked to think and, when asked, always said she’d been happily married, but the truth was more complicated. She picked up Guy’s wedding ring, running her fingers over the cold metal, recalling not the early days of their romance, when she’d buzz the flat doorbell and find their front door open, Guy waiting with a chilled bottle of wine, but those later months, before he died, when they spent more time apart than together. Guy was ‘at a rally’, ‘pacing a course’, or ‘away practicing’, mostly in places too remote for Clare, a newly minted partner at her firm, to join him.
She juggled the job she loved with the man she adored, catching sleeper trains to spend Saturday at a rally, before an early Sunday start to get home, or surrendering Friday nights to depressing departure lounges. Claiming that he made enough sacrifices for his sport, Guy refused to compromise his career for his wife. All the efforts to sustain their relationship came from Clare. She understood his career came first, just like hers did, but that didn’t explain why he rarely called or messaged when she couldn’t join him. Maybe women like Hannah were the real reason. Clutching the card, Clare clattered down the stairs, out into the fierce sunshine, hearing her mother’s voice shouting at her: ‘ He’ll break your heart. ’
She ran into the orchard and collapsed in a crumpled heap. Her body convulsed with sobs. For a long time, she lay crying, shedding tears for a marriage that she had always persuaded herself had been tragically cut short. In truth, how much longer would she have ignored that nagging feeling that Guy was being unfaithful? She sobbed for the loss of her parents and her blind stubbornness which had prevented her from healing the rift with her mother. Cindy had seen through Guy, recognized him for what he was.
She sniffed as her tears subsided, and lay watching the branches swaying in the breeze, the fruit clinging to them, new life growing in front of her eyes. She felt the spiky grass rough against her bare skin, but stayed where she was, as a peaceful, comfortable feeling settled over her. Clare heard the gate clatter, saw a flash of dirty white fur, before Stop-it landed on her chest, winding her. She sat up laughing, pushed the dog aside, dried her eyes with the end of her shirt, then ripped the postcard into little pieces, before stuffing them into her pocket. She would not sully this sacred space with Guy’s betrayal.
Clare charged back inside, Stop-it hot on her heels, his paws thumping up the stairs behind her. She dragged out every bag and box she’d brought from London, tossed each one into the Land Rover, then shot off into Barnstaple. How dare he! How dare he! After all she’d sacrificed. Hot tears pricked at her eyes, but she was too angry to let them flow. She screeched to a halt at the municipal tip, leapt out, grabbed the first box and charged up the steps like a rugby fly half heading for the touchline, before hurling it into the tip. It crashed open, spewing maps, socks and pants among the discarded rubbish. Guy had been just as careless with Clare’s love. He hadn’t cherished her as he’d promised to.
By the time the last bag had been tossed into the skip. Clare felt light-headed with relief. It was like closing a chapter on her life. Finally, she had said goodbye to Guy and the misery he had inflicted on her.