Twenty-four
Clare woke up to a soft snuffling snoring sound. It was gentle and strangely soothing, not the rattling wheezing noise Guy used to make, which sounded like water gurgling down a plughole. She rolled on her side, gazing at the yellow wall, trying to push thoughts of Richard’s defamation case from her mind. She must keep herself busy.
‘Up we get Stop-it,’ she said, jabbing the dog in the ribs.
Despite Hilts sleeping in now the sun didn’t rise before 8 a.m., Clare still rose early to break the ice on the chicken’s water tower. Huddled in one of her mother’s old fleece-lined jackets, she used the edge of a shattered flowerpot, jabbing it into the ice, then pulling out the shards and tossing them aside to reveal the sweet pure Devon water beneath. Was that destined to be contaminated by Richard’s run-off?
On the December morning the experts emailed their reports, the postman’s arrival delayed her from reading them. She dropped the blanket she was wrapped in and answered the door, stepping outside and drawing it closed behind her to prevent the warmth escaping. It was another recorded delivery. She ripped it open and scanned it. She was becoming remarkably familiar with the letterhead of Richard’s London lawyers.
It was a demand for payment for three weeks’ rent for Jasmine Cottage. She had been expecting it. The contract was in her name, Fred was chewing his way through Richard’s electricity and heating oil, and the website showed that the cottage was booked for Christmas and New Year – they were peak weeks each costing over ￡1,000.
Technically, Clare was not in breach of contract. She had only booked the cottage for a week, and she’d paid for that. The agents hadn’t asked for the name of the guest, assuming it was her. Tossing the letter on the fire, she watched the flames engulf it and wondered how her life had reached this point. Technically she may not be in breach of contract, but if Ivy knew what Clare had done, she would call it unethical, and she would be right. Still, she felt no shame that Richard would be out of pocket after his cruel decision to evict Fred.
Wrapped once again in the blanket, Clare settled on the kitchen sofa and opened Walter’s report. Her eyes danced over the sentences. When she saw the words ‘scant regard has been paid to the proximity of the site to the River Shire,’ she whooped and shouted, ‘Yes, yes!’
Then slowly she read the rest of the report. In Walter’s opinion, run-off would seep into the groundwater and from there into the river. Without stringent hygiene measures, the river would become contaminated, which was bad news; but good news for BARS, because if the Planning Inspector agreed with Walter, that would never happen.
With a mounting sense of hope, she read the noise report, learning it would be substantial – which was highlighted, so she assumed it was a technical assessment of the impact – for the residential properties closest to the birds. Except for Gina’s house, all of the affected properties belonged to Richard. However, those inhabitants had precedent on their side, as previous planning cases had determined peace and quiet in the countryside was important. The expert concluded that there was a strong case for moving the site uphill or further along the coast. Clare didn’t think that would help. It would just shift the problem to a different set of villagers.
Visual impact was disappointing. Although it would dramatically affect the views of several properties, no one had a right to a view. Apparently, the sort of visual impact a Planning Inspector got exercised about was one which risked disturbing a driver’s concentration, such as the glare from a wind turbine blade, or coming across an object they weren’t expecting. But the expert concluded that Richard’s factory was far enough away that and drivers would be able to see it from a reasonable distance. Not good news either for BARS’s case or for the Brambleton tourist trade if Hastings won.
Ignoring the stamp of Draft, preliminary subject to review , Clare read the last two reports. The traffic report buoyed her spirits: there would be material harm – the road to Brambleton Harbour was narrow, and deliveries already needed careful planning to prevent roadblocks. Adding regular heavy goods vehicles through that bottleneck without widening the road – which was impossible with the river on one side and the row of almshouses on the other – would cause problems.
The smell expert was also encouraging. Despite the prevailing wind being onshore, unless the applicant cleaned out the shed daily, it speculated that the smell of chicken manure would be overpowering as far as Prosecco and Prose. Clare’s heart lurched thinking about how that would affect her friend’s business. The terrace would be empty. The bottom section of the village wouldn’t suffer significantly unless there was a northerly wind, when the smell might travel as far as the Smugglers’ Arms.
Accompanying the experts’ reports were their bills, all due within twenty-eight days. BARS were still ￡7,000 pounds short, and Ivy had lost less than a pound of her two stone target. Clare had already decided to take matters into her own hands, selling her engagement ring to raise ￡2,000 towards the bills. Now that the apple harvest was complete, she could sell the Land Rover too. She wanted the experts paid before Richard bankrupted her.
Three days before Christmas, Clare was in the kitchen wrapping a present for Anna when she felt a chill on her back. ‘I’ve good news and bad news,’ said Ivy, shutting the door behind her.
With a finger holding the package together, Clare turned in her chair. Ivy didn’t look any slimmer. ‘You’ve lost another few ounces?’ she guessed.
Ivy slumped into a seat opposite Clare. ‘I didn’t think it would be so difficult, but everywhere I go there’s a biscuit or a slice of cake.’
‘It’s not the best time of year to try and diet, is it,’ said Clare, hoping this was the bad news. One-handed, she tore off a piece of tape and replaced her finger with it, then turned the parcel round and tucked in the other end of wrapping paper.
‘The good news is, we don’t need the money I’m raising,’ said Ivy.
‘We don’t?’ said Clare in a high-pitched voice.
‘I’ve had a donation.’
‘Umm,’ said Clare, using her teeth to rip another piece of tape off. ‘How much this time?’ she mumbled through the tape.
‘Seven grand.’
Clare spat the tape out. ‘Seven grand? Where from?’
‘God moves in mysterious ways.’
Clare coughed a laugh. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit!’
There was a pause. Ivy was chewing her lip. ‘Anonymous donor.’
‘Ivy, this is the single largest donation we’ve had by far. Who has that sort of money and where have they been hiding?’ Clare’s mind whirred with possibilities of who it could be. Perhaps it was a rich, kind-hearted tourist down for Christmas. No one in Brambleton – except for Roger and Anna – had that sort of spare money and BARS had been fundraising for three months. Why wait until now? ‘We must thank them.’ She gave Ivy a penetrating look. ‘ I must thank them. It’s me on the hook for that money and I won’t have to sell the Land Rover now!’
‘You can’t,’ said Ivy firmly.
Clare stared at Ivy, who blushed under the gaze. Why wouldn’t Ivy tell her? ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘But I’m sworn to secrecy.’
It didn’t matter who their benefactor was. This called for a celebration.
An hour later, Clare put her credit card behind the bar in the Smugglers Inn. There was ￡2,000 from her engagement ring to spend. She wasn’t leaving that for Richard. ‘All BARS drinks on here, please, Rose. We’ll start with a bottle of prosecco! Four glasses unless we can tempt you into a snifter too?’
Rose shook her head. ‘Too busy, but thanks.’
There was an explosive pop and Rose poured four glasses. Clare clinked hers against Ivy’s, Anna’s, then Fred’s. ‘Well done everyone, and a special well done to Ivy!’ She felt hands on her shoulders. ‘What are you celebrating?’ asked Sam.
It didn’t matter now. It was too late for the Hastings camp to react. The deadline for submissions was the end of December and even if Richard offered to double their rates, his experts wouldn’t sacrifice their festive holidays to help him. With a smug smile, she said, ‘We’ve done it. We’ve raised the money, we’ve got our own EIA, and it blows crater-sized holes through yours!’
He spun her round and gave her a hug. Unthinkingly, she hugged him back. He smelt of apple juice, reminding Clare of her mother and bringing her to her senses. She pushed him away and grabbed Anna’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s find a table. Oh, this is such good news.’ At the table, Clare topped up their glasses. Ivy had hardly touched hers. Clare grinned at her. ‘End of the sponsored slim Ivy. Drink up.’
Ivy gave her a faint smile.
‘Ivy,’ said Clare in a strained voice, ‘is something wrong?’
‘It’s nothing, said Ivy, ‘I’m just tired,’ she raised her glass, clinking against Clare’s, then Anna’s and Fred’s saying, ‘Well done everyone.’
There was a thudding noise as a bottle of champagne in a plastic cooler was put down on their table. Clare glanced up. Sam. ‘My contribution. Can I join you?’
Fred shuffled up to make room for his friend. Sam sat down and said, ‘I’ve booked that cider making course I was telling you about. I’m off to Herefordshire for a week in January.’
‘Always good to have something booked into the diary for January. Start the year with purpose,’ said Ivy, smiling at Sam. It looked more genuine than the one Ivy had just given Clare, and she heaved a sigh of relief. This must be Ivy’s busiest time of the year, helping overworked vicars. No wonder she was tired.
Thinking Fred looked glum too, Clare pulled him aside .
‘What’s up?’ she asked
He handed her a letter. It was from the same London firm of lawyers who had written to Clare. It formally revoked his licence to occupy Jasmine cottage, warned him to vacate immediately, and threatened to get a court order to evict him if he didn’t leave voluntarily.
‘How long do you think it will take them to get this court order?’ he whispered.
She tried to sound reassuring. ‘Don’t worry about this, Fred. It will probably come to nothing.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘But if it does, if he does try and evict me again, how long will it take?’
Clare pursed her lips. She had to answer such a direct question honestly. ‘At least a couple of months. The courts are rammed. If you get a summons, tell me and I’ll go with you. He may have tripped up. They’re complicated forms.’ Clare spoke confidently, but Richard was using a lawyer; there would be no mistakes.
Sam charged everyone’s glass, then poured himself one. Clare glared at him. How could he celebrate with them when his family was treating Fred so shabbily? Despite the champagne, she still suspected he was a spy. She was surprised that Ivy and Fred couldn’t see that. But as his leg pressed against hers under the table, sending a shiver through her body, she wished the Hastings’ spy was a little less attractive.
Clare didn’t feel very Christmassy – she couldn’t. Not with the multiple threats of Fred’s eviction and her own bankruptcy in the new year – but she decorated a small tree and had invited Trish, Anna and Roger for Christmas lunch. She had bought a locally sourced free-range organic turkey but had never actually cooked the Christmas meal. Until she’d fallen out with her mother, she’d always come home; she and Guy used to go away to a hotel for Christmas, and since he died, she had eaten her Christmas lunch out, with other single colleagues.
Clare rifled through her mother’s cookbooks. She found one devoted to Christmas and pulled that out, studying it as intently as she used to with her law books, scribbling down an extensive list of ingredients.
It was Christmas Eve and Clare was sharing a smoked salmon sandwich with Stop-it, while listening to Christmas carols. She was dreaming of winning the appeal, Hastings relenting and allowing Fred to move back into his old home, and then Sally solving her defamation case with a crafty defence that ChatGPT didn’t know about. Life was so unpredictable – just last Christmas she’d been in London leading a professional woman’s life.
She heard the back door open. It was Fred and from the look on his face, it wasn’t good news.
‘What’s he done now?’ she asked.
‘It’s Ivy.’
Clare swallowed. She should have guessed two nights earlier. Too intent on celebrating the good, she’d never asked Ivy what the bad news was.
‘Section 21?’ guessed Clare, the words almost clogging in her throat.
‘Yup,’ said Fred. ‘March. Must have done it when he saw our EIA. And I’ve had another letter from that lawyer saying he’s going for a court order.’
‘Do you know, Fred, I can’t think of a nasty enough word to describe how that man makes me feel. To do that, to Ivy of all people, just before Christmas – words fail me!’ Ivy would be homeless. Except she wouldn’t. No one would let that happen. People would put her up, but Ivy couldn’t sofa-surf for the rest of her life. Clare racked her brains for a solution. Would the Church help?
‘He’s a nasty piece of work, isn’t he,’ said Fred.
She had a sudden thought and asked Fred if anyone was living in his old house.
Maybe Ivy could sneak in there?
‘Nah, he’s got the builders in. Nice set of blokes. Say they’ll be at it for months, ripping it apart. Whoever’s lucky enough to be the new tenant will have BARS to thank for the new boiler that’s being installed.’
That was a non-starter then. Ivy couldn’t squat in an unheated house. Clare must come up with a plan. Fast.
On Christmas morning, Clare followed the cookbook’s instructions slavishly. She opted for an eighteenth-century stuffing, deviating slightly by using vacuum-packed, pre-cooked chestnuts. Her guests arrived promptly at 1 p.m. Stop-it was guarding the Aga, and the kitchen was filled with the pungent aroma of roasting turkey, just as it had during the Christmases of Clare’s childhood. The three women promised Roger they wouldn’t talk about Richard or the chicken factory, but they couldn’t avoid the topic of Ivy, who had just weeks to find somewhere to live.
‘Why doesn’t she stay where she is?’ asked Trish, pulling a green paper hat down over her ears. ‘Come on, girls. Hats on!’ she said grinning. ‘Let’s get this party started.’
‘I suggested that’ said Anna, unfurling her own hat. ‘She says it’s not ethical. There might be someone with a greater need than her.’
‘Does that woman ever get angry?’ asked Clare. ‘If I hear her saying once more that this is God moving in a mysterious way ...’ She caught the strained expression on Roger’s face, tailed off to prevent mentioning Richard and pulled her own hat on.
‘She could move next door like Fred did!’ laughed Anna.
‘Richard won’t fall for that twice,’ said Clare.
‘Something will come up,’ said Trish cheerfully.
‘Will it?’ said Clare wistfully. ‘In this village? Everyone does holiday lets; the yields are much higher. I don’t blame people. Well,’ she said, thinking of Sam’s four cottages – he didn’t need to make money – ‘not all of them. They aren’t second homes, they run them all year, employ people and it brings tourists here for other businesses.’
Conversation turned to village gossip and then to Clare’s delicious food. Even Clare was impressed with herself – the turkey was tender and moist; the sprouts were crisp and the gravy lump-free.
After the meal they dragged themselves out for a bracing walk, then returned to flop in front of the fire, Stop-it hogging the best spot. Roger uncorked a bottle of port and suggested a game of charades. Clare offered to start, thought for a few moments, then gave him the Agatha Christie title Evil under the Sun . She flopped into a chair, sipping her port, wondering how he would tackle the challenge. Roger mimed it was a movie and a book with four words in the title, then held up a single finger showing the first word. He stalked to the window. Clare noticed his face was red from the lunchtime wine. He jerked the curtain back and jabbed his finger in the direction of Brambleton Hall.