Twenty-five
It rained on New Year’s Day, and for almost a week afterwards the weather remained in sympathy with Clare’s mood. She felt drowned by guilt at the mess she’d stirred up. Winter was pruning season, but her heart wasn’t really in it. The orchard would soon belong to Richard. She flicked through her mother’s books, taking in the theory of creating airflow. A section in the book on growing your own apple trees by grafting caught her attention.
Thinking positively, she decided to invest all of her remaining egg money into rootstock which she could graft the cuttings onto. However, even after rereading the pages, and studying the illustrations on cutting whips from apple trees, she realized she needed advice. It was such a dark and gloomy morning that Clare had to switch on the Land Rover’s lights for the journey. Driving past the almshouses, she spotted Fred talking to a man wearing a builder’s hard hat. She slowed and wound down her window. The front door of Fred’s former home was open and cheerful music blasted out.
‘Morning, Fred. Builders busy? I was thinking we should get together to discuss the planning hearing. We should work out how to play the Inspector’s site visit.’ He grunted and gave her a watery smile, which made her heart twinge.
‘I’ve had a date for the court case,’ he said.
She swallowed. What must he think of her, blithering on about their planning battle, when within months he might not have a roof over his head. How she wished she could turn back the clock, prevent Fred and Ivy gambling with their homes. She should have known Tricky Ricky would take revenge.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Early February.’
She clenched her teeth together. Her ruse hadn’t solved Fred’s problem, just given him a reprieve. It was unlikely there were any more houses for long-term rent in January than in the autumn. In fact, it was more likely, that more people would be chasing them. Increased demand for an increasingly scarce asset was driving up rents as tenants scrambled desperately to secure a home, like medieval peasants sending bread prices rocketing as they strove to feed their starving families.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said brightly. ‘That’s the least I can do.’
She drove off, unable to dislodge a picture of the resigned look on Fred’s face.
As she was driving through Sam’s gates, Clare was still ruminating on Fred’s plight.
There was a strange car in Sam’s yard and a light on in the farmhouse kitchen. She sat for a few minutes, not wanting to intrude if he was entertaining. Telling herself she was just a fellow apple grower popping around for advice, she got out and walked to the door, lifted her hand to knock, then paused with her hand in mid-air. She stepped away, pacing in circles, like Stop-it did before settling in his basket. Clare took a breath, strode to the door and knocked.
The woman who opened it wore riding jodhpurs. Her dark hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and she had the dewy supple skin of youth. She looked every inch as attractive as the Woman in Pink. Clare crossed her arms, pulling the sides of her jacket tightly around her torso. She shouldn’t have come.
The woman smiled at her. ‘Hiya. If you’re looking for Sam, he’s not here. Can I help?’
Clare felt her cheeks flush. ‘No, thank you.’ She turned and sprinted from the door, vowing to work out how to graft apples herself.
Driving home, Clare examined her conscience – she hadn’t really popped around to ask Sam about grafting. If she was honest, she’d wanted to see him. Apart from their row the night she’d been drunk, whenever she was with him, he lifted her spirits. But either he didn’t feel the same way, or she’d been so horrible to him that he’d lost interest. The explanation was irrelevant – she needed to shut down her feelings for him. Sam wasn’t interested in her.
The next morning, dressed in an old tatty sweatshirt, she flicked open one of her mother’s books and read the section on grafting for a third time. Measuring nine inches from her index finger, she marked that with a felt-tip pen around her sweatshirt sleeve. She carried a ladder, a sharpened pair of secateurs and the book to the orchard. Shivering, she glanced at the horizon which was a soft blend of muted greys and blues, the colours bleeding into each other as if the sky itself was trying to shelter from the weight of winter. Clare chose a healthy-looking tree, propped the book against its trunk, examined the picture, then using her makeshift ruler, cut a pencil-thick length off a shoot, just above where it was budding. The ladder rattled as she climbed back down with her prize, as if applauding her success.
The air was crisp, biting at her skin, and soon Clare’s exposed hands were white with cold. Nevertheless, each snip sent a shiver of pleasure through her, and every time she laid her cutting – which she started thinking of in its technical garb as a scion – carefully on the ground, she felt a happy jolt of triumph. Several hours and many trees later, there was a six-foot-long line of scions. She carried them to a corner of the orchard, dug a six-inch trench, then, bundling them together, she heeled them into the trench with just a few inches showing above the soil. According to her mother’s book, they would be moist but dormant until spring. That was when she would tackle the tricky task of attaching them to the rootstock. Provided she hadn’t given the house over to Richard by then.
Walking away from the trench, Clare calculated that she would discover if the grafts were successful at about the same time they would learn if their future would be blighted by run-off from a chicken factory. She sighed. Either way, when they were planted, the grafter would not be living here anymore.
In the damp dreary days which followed, Clare ignored Richard’s regular threatening letters. Sally had returned to work and confirmed the leaflet was indeed defamatory. Her advice was to apologize, point out that this was a preliminary draft which was never distributed outside of BARS, and ask how he’d found the pre-verified version.
Clare asked Sally to reply, confirming receipt of Richard’s legal letter and saying she was taking legal advice about his allegations. It was a stalling tactic. She was desperate to know which member of BARS had given the poisonous leaflet to Richard, but Clare needed to keep her team on side for the hearing. She couldn’t start accusing anyone of treachery.
To keep her spirits up, Clare added another task to her morning ritual of breaking the ice on water troughs and feeding the animals – trekking to the corner of the orchard to check on her buried treasure. It was silly really. They were dormant, but each morning, seeing them poking up out of the ground like tiny beacons of hope, she felt reinvigorated.
It was the end of January and Clare was in the village shop chatting to Gina about preparations for the public hearing.
‘I’m definitely coming, and so is my partner.’ Gina said. ‘I’m also rounding up support from my mothers and toddlers’ group.’
Clare beamed at the other woman, ‘Fabulous, we need a crowd. Show strength in numbers.’
Gina turned to leave; Clare heard a bell tinkle announcing the arrival of a customer. It was Sam. He held the door open for Gina, ‘Hi. How’s life at Orchard farm? Have you finished pruning?’
The word that sprang into Clare’s mind was ‘cold’. He lived in a well-insulated home like she used to. Sam wouldn’t be huddling beneath a blanket or cuddling the Aga, but there was a warmth to his words, and she didn’t want to be negative, ‘All done,’ she said, ‘and you?’
‘I love this time of year, still winter but all the promise of spring ...’
‘Yes, it’s exciting thinking about new life around the corner.’ She thought about what she had just said, realizing she meant those words. Farming was a slower pace of life, but she was finding it rewarding.
He put a hand on her arm, sending a fizzing sensation through her body, ‘you will let me know if there’s anything you need a hand with won’t you.’ He was looking at her with compassion radiating from his sparkling blue eyes, ‘I don’t think Stop-it is much good as a farmhand.’
She didn’t move, enjoying the sensation of the pressure from his hand. ‘Yes of course,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’
In early February, before buds appeared on the mature apple trees, Clare dug up the scions, sharpened the secateurs for a second time and, in the comparative warmth of her mother’s small polytunnel, cut the top off each rootstock leaving them a foot proud of their pots. Consulting the precious book multiple times, she made ‘upwards cuts’ and ‘downwards cuts’, then carefully joined each scion to a rootstock, binding the two together with special grafting tape. By the end of the day, forty pots of apple grafts cowered in the warmth of the polytunnel. The tape was to be removed when a callus – the bulbous join attaching the two plants – was clearly visible, in about eight weeks’ time. She noted the date in her diary – mid-April.
Later that afternoon, Sally phoned – Richard’s lawyers had written to her. He was still claiming damages of ￡5 million. Sally’s advice was to settle for ￡500,000, Richard’s original proposal, but Clare suspected that Hastings wasn’t really interested in the money. He wanted to destroy her, to bankrupt her. He wouldn’t settle.
The pair debated tactics, deciding on Sally’s original advice of apologizing and pointing out that the leaflet was not the version circulated publicly. Clare wasn’t optimistic. She was the author and had circulated the defamatory leaflet to three people.
On the day of Fred’s court case, Clare drove him into Barnstaple. Clare could barely look at him – this was her fault. She should have insisted he left BARS after the Council’s decision. They travelled in silence, Clare rummaging around for topics which might distract him, but she didn’t think he wanted to hear about her apple grafting, or how many eggs her hens had laid. And if she mentioned anything to do with BARS, they’d end up talking about Richard, a theme she was keen to avoid. She passed the time trying to prove Fred, Ivy and Anna’s innocence by manufacturing explanations for how Richard had discovered that poisonous leaflet, but no rational explanation came to mind.
Having no idea how long they would be, Clare parked and paid for a whole day. Propping the ticket on her windscreen, she forced herself to glance Fred’s way.
‘Ready?’ she asked. He rubbed his eyes , gave a slow nod then grunted.
It was a short distance to Barnstaple Court, a low, grey building from the 1960s. Inside was dark, which to Clare seemed appropriate. She suspected it reflected Fred’s spirits, but hoped it wasn’t a portent for his fate. Once through security, she checked in with the court staff and was told to wait. The pair sat side by side. Clare still couldn’t think of anything to say. By the time they left this building, Fred would be on a conveyor belt to homelessness. Once a landlord was granted the legal right to evict a tenant, there was a series of hoops to jump through, delaying the process, but the culmination was inevitable. Unless the landlord changed their mind, even a model tenant inevitably lost their home.
Gazing around the unfamiliar space – employment tribunals weren’t conducted in court – Clare diverted her mind from the reason she was there, by playing ‘Spot the Lawyer’. It wasn’t difficult; they were the ones in sober dark clothes, with an air of purpose. Some were on their own. A few accompanied smartly turned-out clients, but there didn’t seem to be any accompanying the less well dressed, who sat alone or occasionally in couples, with hunched shoulders and furrowed brows. Those people all had one thing in common – a look of despair on their faces, which made Clare want to help them. But sadly, this wasn’t her field. She felt like the proverbial chocolate teapot.
To Clare, it felt like landlords exploiting Section 21 ‘no-fault’ evictions was the ultimate misuse of power; in a country that claims to safeguard its citizens, housing was slipping through the net. If they’d done nothing wrong, employees couldn’t lose their jobs without compensation; in theory, the National Health Service took care of everyone, even patients who were not looking after themselves. Although not perfect either, benefits ensured people could afford necessities – food, clothes, heating. Provision of housing was neglected. A combination of decreasing supply – through right-to-buy and lack of new buildings, especially social housing – and rampant demand from a growing population had collapsed the system. A basic service had been outsourced to a private sector unfit to pick up the slack.
It wasn’t like the NHS dipping into the professionally run private medical service to cope with backlogs. Private landlords included unscrupulous individuals like Richard, with a deaf ear to tenants’ complaints about poor insulation and damp, but alive to every possibility to jack up the rent and upend tenants’ lives on a whim.
There was no sign of Richard. No surprise there. Just like every other dirty task, he would outsource Fred’s eviction. She was relieved; the superior expression on his florid face might ignite her temper.
In front of her, the courtroom door opened, releasing a scowling man followed by two women, both dressed in trousers and jumpers. The man stalked past, yanking at the exit door. The two women crossed in front of Clare. One wore a harassed expression on her face and said a rushed goodbye to her companion before dashing over to a man sitting near Clare. She overheard her leaning over and saying, ‘Mr Harris, we’re next. Let’s go through that paperwork one more time, look for any errors.’
The man passed over a crumpled piece of paper while saying, ‘Did you win that one?’ The woman spoke while reading. ‘The house is in their joint names and the Section 21 was filed in his alone. He’ll be back when he’s sorted it out. Come on, we’re on. Leave this to me.’ An hour later, a clerk announced Fred’s case. Clare pasted on a confident look, and, feeling inspired, announced ‘Leave this to me.’
Inside the courtroom, they sat away from Richard’s three solicitors. His case was presented by a tall, slim man who seemed to like the sound of his own pompous voice. Clare labelled him as a wishful barrister, but his argument was compelling. Fred had no lease. He had been in the house for three months, preventing the owner renting the cottage over the lucrative Christmas season – he was squatting. All the paperwork was correct, and Mr Hastings was seeking a possession order with a short timeframe.
Privately, the judge might sympathize with their fate. He might prefer to be presiding over a technical dispute interpreting a dilapidations clause in a commercial lease, but he wasn’t here to dispense charity. He was here to uphold the law. Clare begged for the maximum twenty-eight days’ notice if the judge granted the possession order, then with a sense of foreboding sat again, the hard chair feeling uncomfortably plush compared to Fred’s probable fate. Richard was granted an eviction order. That didn’t entitle him to physically evict Fred, but in twenty-eight days Hastings could apply for a warrant for possession to allow bailiffs to do just that. Fred probably had until the end of May at the latest to find somewhere to live. If Richard won the planning appeal, of course, he might relent. Hastings was also awarded his legal costs. ‘Don’t worry about that, Fred,’ muttered Clare. ‘This was my idea. I’ll pay those.’
Unless Richard dropped the defamation case, she’d be paying him with his own money.
The day of Ivy’s eviction drew closer. There was a plan, but not a solution. For the first week, Ivy would stay with Trish, and former parishioners had also offered spare rooms. But Ivy needed a home, not a room.
Removals day dawned. Raindrops fell in steady streams, their rhythm a soft yet relentless patter against the already sodden earth. The horizon was barely visible, swallowed by mist and drizzle, while the wind swept the rain sideways, turning the cold air into a biting, wet chill. The Devon sky was dark and heavy with the promise of more rain. The clouds hung low, pressing down like a damp, suffocating blanket.
The Smugglers Inn van was once again parked outside the almshouses, this time ready to transport Ivy’s possessions to Clare’s barn. There was a dozen well-wishers wrapped in waterproof clothing, helping with removals. George backed out of the house, his arms under a sofa. ‘Quickly now, it’s pouring out here,’ he said.
‘Again!’ shouted a male voice from within the cottage. ‘There’s hardly been a dry day all year!’
Standing next to Fred, Stop-it by her side, Clare hoped the weather cleared up before Easter – the start of the tourist season. That was only a few weeks away.
Ivy came out of her cottage, a stoic expression on her face. The informal removals team sent up a little cheer, then clapped as Ivy walked to the roadside, clutching the cross at her neck which sent a wave of pity through Clare. With rain trickling down her face, standing beside one former tenant and looking at another, Clare thought it was ironic that all four of the almshouses were now technically vacant yet couldn’t be used by two people who needed them.
She passed Stop-it’s lead to Fred. ‘Hang onto him for me.’
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Fred. ‘You’ve got that look on your face again. What are you plotting?’
Clare ran around the side of Rose Cottage, her eyes raking across the lemon-coloured render. There was a key safe attached to the wall, just like for Jasmine Cottage. She ran her fingers over the combination, lined up 1, 2, 3, 4, then pulled at the hinge. The flap fell and a key dropped into Clare’s hand. She closed her fingers round it, a smile blossoming on her face. She was pretty sure she could spin this to Ivy as God moving in mysterious ways.