Sixteen
The annual Brambleton Agricultural Show was always held on a Monday towards the end of August. Legend had it that the sun always shone for at least part of the day. For over 200 years, the Hastings family had paid the setup costs, enabling entry fees to fund prizes. Local radio had been plugging the show for weeks, and over the weekend, as the preparations unfolded, in Prosecco and Prose, the pub and the village shop it had been the subject of fevered excitement and speculation: which farmer’s animals were in top condition? Whose plants, cakes and crafts would win in the show?
By Sunday evening, a row of tents peppered the field next to the village hall, together with stalls displaying farm machinery, solar panels and quad bikes. There was also a large marquee which housed the food and drink stalls – precisely where Richard wanted to build the chicken factory – and a smaller one, next to the main show ring, with its fabric door shut and a sign attached: Private Party .
On a bright morning, Clare rose early and, after tending to the animals and walking Stop-it, she ambled along the roadside, passing stationary trailers and horseboxes. She heard bleating and squeaking from within and glimpsed spotlessly turned-out sheep, pigs and cows. The smell of freshly hosed down animals evoked memories of sitting beside her mother as a child, towing a couple of dairy cows behind them. There was always a lemon drizzle cake in a plastic box on the back seat.
Clare reached the head of the queuing traffic, where an army cadet was barking orders at frazzled-looking entrants attempting to park. She paid her fee and wandered across the grass, past advertising banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. There was a persistent sound of generators, the smell of frying food and the scratchy sound of someone commentating over a Tannoy system. Very little had changed since her ten-year-old self was racing around the stalls with Trish and Anna.
A cloud of smoke billowed from a tent advertising barbequed meat. It was next to a jade-green van with Mole Control stencilled on the side – she hoped that wasn’t the meat on offer. The van promised to clear moles from farms or gardens, which made her think of Stop-it and his garden antics. Once the farm was on the market, she’d somehow have to prevent him from digging up the lawn.
She passed farmers calming meticulously groomed cattle, sheep, pigs and poultry, no doubt dreaming of ribbons and rosettes. Spectators milled around, shouting encouraging remarks.
Clare reached the main ring, where sheep were being judged, each one harnessed and tethered to a white-coated owner, like a large pet dog. Most exhibitors wore straw hats and ties. This was an important day, and casual dress wasn’t appropriate if you were exhibiting. Even her mother had discarded her blue overalls on show day. The judge was running her hands over the hindquarters of a large Suffolk, the black head and feet contrasting with its butterscotch body. It was a lovely animal. The judge moved on to a Devon and Cornwall Longwool, the coat hanging in elegant tufts like a shaggy jumper.
‘My money’s on the Suffolk,’ said a male voice behind her. Sam.
The judge picked up a rosette and marched towards a black and white sheep. ‘It’s going to be the Jacob,’ announced the Tannoy. ‘And the reserve is ... the Suffolk. A round of applause for all the exhibitors, please.’ Clare clapped loudly, watching the sheep being led out of the ring and over to a series of gazebo-covered pens erected to shield them from the sun.
She kept her voice light-hearted. ‘I used to come every year as a child. It was always a fixture in Mum’s calendar.’
‘If I recall, you usually won the girl’s sack race.’ She smiled, surprised by Sam remembering her in this way. He laughed. ‘You always left the others trailing.’
Her brow furrowed. Why was he being so friendly? She decided not to mention the year she’d seen Richard bribing someone to trip the fastest youngster in the boys’ race. She didn’t want to poison the atmosphere.
‘I was a lot taller than most of the other girls. Still am.’ She looked his way, wanting to check his reaction, before saying, ‘I had a legal letter from your brother. You can tell him to save his money.’
A look of alarm crossed Sam’s face, but he didn’t fool her – he was probably just disappointed the letter hadn’t spooked her. ‘What sort of a legal letter?’
‘He claims my leaflets are libellous and defamatory, but I know what I’m doing.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful. He doesn’t waste money on lawyers’ letters. He must think he’s got a good case.’
She looked at him askance. Sam knew every move his brother made. He was a decent actor, though. He did look genuinely concerned. She decided to change the subject.
‘I found some of my mother’s cider.’
‘She knew how to grow an apple.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment then added, ‘She was always telling me she planned to get into cider-making. I’m pleased she finally tried.’
‘Do you make your own or does an expert do it for you?’
‘I make the base cider, then someone makes and bottles the final product to my recipe. I’d love to do that too but it’s quite a big investment. I already have an apple press, but I would need to buy vats, testing equipment, a bottling system. I might take the plunge next year. I’d love to stay and chat, but this has reminded me that I’ve left my cider entry in the car,’ said Sam.
She watched him as he walked away, waving and calling out cheerily to people he passed.
Why had her mother been confiding her business ideas to Sam?
The entrance to the long marquee revealed rows of trestle tables resting on coir matting. Inside, it was hot and airless, exacerbated by the heaving crowd. It reminded Clare of the London Underground in summer – she didn’t miss that. People were moving slowly, inspecting everything from freshly harvested produce to handmade crafts and jars of honey. At one end of the tent, Rose and her husband were behind a pop-up bar, serving drinks in plastic cups. Trying not to push, Clare made her way down the tent, stopping to sample a few artisan cheeses and to chat with a woman selling home-cured bacon and sausages. Had that been her mother’s plan for the pigs? At the bar, she caught Rose’s eye and asked for a glass of lemonade.
‘That’s on the house,’ said Rose, waving away Clare’s card.
‘Thanks.’
‘You can thank Richard.’ At the mention of his name, Clare’s fingers tightened around the plastic cup. Rose bustled past, handing a man his change as she said, ‘His lawyer told me the lease will be renewed at the existing rent.
‘The rent’s staying the same for another five years?’
‘Yup.’
‘We suspect he doesn’t want any more grumbling while he’s after this planning permission you’re fighting. You’ve saved us a fortune.’
With mixed feelings, Clare gave Rose a thumbs-up. Part of her was pleased for Rose. She had stood up to Richard and won, but that victory came at a price. Richard had sacrificed his gain from that lease for a greater prize. Rose would now not object to Hastings’ plans until her new lease was signed. Clare would lay odds that there would be a plethora of reasons that this would take months, and while it languished, a key influencer was offside.
She drank her lemonade, marred by the bitter taste of being outplayed. She was up against a wily fox, and unlike her, his resources and influence were both vast.
Outside the marquee, the show ring was being set up for a horse jumping competition. Marshals were manhandling fences into position, and children were pacing the course, assessing the jumps for the best route, spotting the ones which might alarm their mounts. Despite the heat, the junior riders wore jodhpurs, knee-high black boots and protective jackets.
Clare spotted Bill Matthews, his straw hat towering above the crowd. He was shaking hands and slapping people on the back, seemingly comfortable despite not being from farming stock. This was a perfect opportunity for him to be out meeting voters. She heard him commiserating with someone for coming second. Then he caught her eye and came over.
‘This is an important event for you isn’t it, Bill.’
He gazed around the crowd, smiling. ‘I’m here because I love everything this show represents. It’s the essence of rural life. Shows us at our best.’
‘And our worst,’ she replied.
He nodded. ‘You mean the competitive spirit?’
‘I don’t mind that. It’s human nature to want to win. But it’s unattractive when someone cheats.’
He gave a soft chuckle. ‘I know who you’re referring to, and I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news on that front.’
She stiffened, feeling her heartbeat quicken. She thought she’d delivered what he asked for. The parish council had said no, and people were lodging objections. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘It’s not in the bag.’
‘But surely, the strength of local opposition ... I’ve counted forty formal objections on the planning website. There’s only six in favour and they include Richard and his wife, Cora. Isn’t that and the parish council’s view enough to see this off?’
‘Not sure,’ he said, clicking his tongue. ‘It’s the cuts. This is about money and Richard has a whole lot more than the Council. If we reject his application and Richard appeals, we must defend our decision, and we don’t have the budget. Worse, if we lose on appeal, we’ll have to pay his costs.’
Despite the heat, a chill shot through her. After all their hard work, the Council would still grant Richard permission to build his monstrosity.
He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Chin up, eh? You can always appeal.’ Then he strode off.
She watched him work his way through the crowd, doffing his straw hat at people, the breeze ruffling his salt and pepper hair. This wasn’t Bill’s fault, but he was a politician and knew how to navigate this jagged terrain better than her. She had a sense he had encouraged her to show the strength of feeling in the village prematurely when the real battle would be the appeal. Was Bill calculating that with its blood up, the village would ride to the rescue and fund an appeal when the Council granted Hastings permission?
She tried to recapture her earlier relaxed mood. She watched but didn’t take in the horses or the riders as they sped around the ring, clearing jumps. The commentator announced an interval while the marshals prepared the course for the next competition. It was a lovely, cheerful voice praising all the youngsters who’d just competed, and encouraging the crowd to clap. She recognized the voice, but couldn’t immediately place it, then realized it was Sam’s.
Clare turned and walked away. She’d had enough of the Hastings family for one day.
The horticultural side of the show was inside the village hall. The room buzzed with excited chatter and cackles of laughter. People were jesting about who’d won and vowing to do better next year. She wanted to shake them. Didn’t they realize that if they didn’t get their act together, there may not be a show next year? She dawdled her way around the vegetables, home-made jams and cakes, her eyes alert for the cider class. Judges had already left shiny rosettes for the top three entries in each category. Ivy had won first prize for her lemon drizzle cake, the category her mother had won most years, though even when she’d outgrown the sack race, the day had been about Clare. They’d always collected Cindy’s rosette and prize money together on their way home.
Beside vases of dahlias, the vivid orange and purple flowers the size of small dinner plates, she met Fred fussing over his entry. ‘Did you win?’ she asked.
‘I did,’ he said, a note of pride in his voice.
Next to the dahlias were the roses. Clare bent over the winning flower, which was perfectly formed, its petals just bursting open. She sniffed, but there was no perfume. She glanced at the entrant’s details: Brambleton Hall. What did that mean? Was it Cora Hastings, Richard or one of the gardening team?
‘Shame they gave it to a tea rose – not an old-fashioned variety,’ she said.
Fred rolled his eyes at her. ‘His gardeners will have been watching that bud closer than a team of doctors monitoring a patient in an intensive care unit.’
She laughed. ‘And haven’t you been tending your dahlias as closely?’
He tutted. ‘I bet that rose has been in and out of a fridge or the glasshouse, fed on pipettes of goodness knows what to ensure its petals are just at the point of unfurling.’
Recalling there was a trophy for the exhibitor who won the most classes, she asked who’d won it.
Fred huffed. ‘Prize-giving soon, so we’ll find out then, but it’ll be Brambleton Hall. It always is. It’s a con. His gardening team divvy up the categories and one of them enters every class as Brambleton Hall. Everything from jams and cakes to flowers and veg. No one else can do that.’
Clare laughed darkly. ‘What do you think would happen to the head gardener if he lost?’ She smiled to herself, working through wording she would use if instructed to draft a clause for an employment contract, which defined losing the trophy as gross misconduct. ‘Why doesn’t someone change the rules? It’s a village show; it’s supposed to be for amateurs, to capture the pride and spirit of a rural community. It’s not the Chelsea Flower Show.’
Clare had attended the event in Chelsea three months earlier; it was her firm’s annual corporate hospitality event. She smiled inwardly, imagining inviting guests to Brambleton instead of Chelsea, expecting them to watch sheep being judged, not admire small, staged show gardens ; to cruise stalls selling tractors and animal feed, instead of classy jackets and expensive secateurs. She asked herself which show she admired most, but Fred’s hushed voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Look out. Hastings alert.’ Then he said cheerfully, ‘Hi there, Sam. Good turnout for the family show.’
‘It’s the village show, Fred. We just pay for it,’ said Sam.
Clare turned to leave, but the room was full, and she didn’t want to push past people. Sam stood beside her, so close she could see the fine hairs on his arms and she couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have them wrapped around her. She remembered his arms as powerful and strong when all those years ago they’d had their disastrous 24-hour romance. She shook herself and turned away. ‘Are you exhibiting?’ asked Sam.
She turned towards him. ‘I’ve slightly bent the rules – I’ve entered some of my mother’s cider.’
He grinned at her. ‘You realize you’re talking to one of the judges. There were a lot of entries, some of them very good. How did you do?’
‘I haven’t checked, but I presume your brother won.’
Chuckling, he shook his head. ‘Nope. Everyone around here knows I’m the cider man. Besides, there’s no trophy on offer.’ He winked at her.
She couldn’t help herself from spitting out, ‘He’s a greedy bastard, isn’t he.’
‘You know that’s not what I meant. He’s my brother ... and he’s standing behind you, waiting for the prize-giving.’
Clare blushed, and not wanting to give Richard the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassment, didn’t look round. She noticed no one was laughing anymore. The voices weren’t excited or jolly. There was a tension in the air similar to that at the parish council meeting. Clare rested her bottom on the table behind her, watching Pat Mayhew shunting people aside, clearing the area around a small table with polished silver trophies – presumably Magnus had buffed those up.
Pat raised her hands, and the room fell silent. ‘Mrs Hastings has kindly agreed to present this year’s prizes,’ she said.
In contrast to the T-shirt, shorts and sandals of the audience, Cora wore a startling emerald-green silk dress and heels so high and spikey that Clare wondered how she’d reached the Hastings’ private tent without getting stuck in the grass. Cora’s hair had that shiny, glossy ‘recent trip to the hairdresser’s’ look, and a pair of sunglasses held it off her face. As Clare watched Cora smile and shake hands with the winners, she realized that she was well cast as the ‘lady of the manor’. Like all talented actors forced to perform in front of a slightly awkward audience, she seemed oblivious to the atmosphere. This time, it didn’t seem to affect Richard either. He stood beside his wife, beaming and clapping as she presented the prizes.
Two men and a lady Clare didn’t recognize, but who Cora seemed to know, won repeatedly – Clare guessed they were Richard’s gardening team. This was what BARS was up against. Richard wasn’t bound by professional ethics like the BARS team was. He would bend and twist the rules to his advantage. She eased her way past the crowd. She couldn’t stand here and clap for a cheat.
Walking back to Orchard Farm, Clare replayed her conversation with Bill. Something was missing from her approach. Bill had been trying to communicate that to her earlier. What was it? Scuffing her feet in the dust like a recalcitrant child, she tried to see things from Bill’s perspective. Clare pictured herself advising a client and felt her chest tighten. She’d been stupid. Years preparing for legal tussles should have taught her that to steel the Council’s backbone, BARS must counter Richard’s EIA.
At the farm gate she emptied the honesty pot, briefly enjoy-ing the weighty feel of pound coins in her pocket but scolding herself. She had allowed Hastings to present his case professionally while she bodged her own, naively assuming that village sentiment would be enough to sway the Planning Committee. This was her fault, but worse, there was no time to fix her mistake – the deadline for the decision was Friday.