Chapter Thirteen
Laurel
Makeup hadn’t done a very good job at hiding the puffy purple smudges under her eyes, but that was the best she could do on three hours sleep. Her mind had been churning and whirling, skipping from George fucking Hibbert to how her father had dismissed everything she had done for the farm and the family for his ‘friend’ Old Man Hibbert. It wasn’t even as if they were close.
Now, they were all sat around the conference table. Fletchers on one side, Hibberts on the other, her at the head but everyone focused on Bill Fletcher.
Everyone except George, who had his eyes firmly trained on the table, like a surly teenager. Pathetic.
‘I don’t condone anything that my son has done,’ Old Man Hibbert said after viewing the CCTV three times, trying to find a sliver of evidence that it wasn’t his son who had ruined their business. ‘How can I make this right, Bill?’
Laurel bristled. There would be no agreement without her input.
‘It’s not about “making right”, it’s about how are we going to get through the next six months? The Pick Your Own income is essential to the farm business and without it we are in dire financial trouble.’
Hibbert glanced at her and frowned.
George snorted.
‘You’re not in financial trouble, you don’t know what financial trouble is,’ he spat. ‘You’re all the same, don’t think of anyone else but yourselves. Fucking Fletcher bitch,’ he said the last under his breath, but loud enough for everyone around the table to hear it.
Robin’s chair flew back as he shot up, Jack soon after with a placating hand on his bulging arm. ‘Don’t you talk about my sister like that. Don’t you fucking dare, Hibbert,’ Robin shouted, the veins popping out in his neck.
‘Jack, take him out,’ Dad ordered, his voice strong and commanding.
Laurel straightened her papers in front of her, not letting this spectacle get to her. If it did, she’d lose control of this meeting, and that was the absolute last thing she wanted or needed.
Jack bustled a brimming Robin out. The door closed behind them, clicking loudly in the quiet room.
Her dad took a breath as if to start the meeting again, but Laurel jumped in.
‘So, you’ve seen the CCTV, you’ve seen what he did.’ She didn’t even acknowledge George. He wasn’t worth her time. ‘I have a police reference number and David is coming to take statements at midday.’ She spread her hands out. ‘Tell me what you propose.’
Bill Fletcher ground his teeth audibly. George crossed his arms and stared at the table.
‘Well,’ Old Man Hibbert started, eyeing both Laurel and her dad carefully. ‘What we wouldn’t want is a protracted court case or anything like that, it just costs money.’
The silence stretched as Laurel waited.
‘Besides, we can’t be sure that it is actually George in the video,’ Old Man Hibbert said quietly, not even believing his own words. ‘And we don’t really need to involve the police for a bit of graffiti do we?’
Laurel just looked at him, her eyes dead.
‘It’s industrial sabotage. Our Pick Your Own business has been ruined for this year, perhaps into next. We will have loss of earnings, excessive damage to our reputation, not to talk about the unmeasurable impact on ancillary sales in the farm shop, the cafe, the petting zoo,’ she said, pausing to let that sink in. She didn’t dare look at her father, instead keeping her eyes on Old Man Hibbert’s greying face. ‘So, no. It’s not just graffiti.’
Laurel’s hands were sticky as she clasped them together on the table.
‘What do you propose?’ she repeated, enunciating each word.
The Hibbert men exchanged glances and George shrugged slightly. Colour her surprised that George Hibbert hadn’t thought about the repercussions of his actions.
‘What do you want? We haven’t got any money,’ George’s voice was cold.
Laurel’s eyebrow raised. How could he be annoyed with her, when it was him who had put his own family in this mess? She had anticipated this question.
Laurel spoke softly to Old Man Hibbert, not George.
‘Look, I’ve had to report it to the police so I can get a reference number for the insurance, but if we can come to some sort of…’ she cast around for the right word, ‘arrangement, then I’m sure it’s both in our interests to have as little police involvement as possible.’
‘You’ve obviously got something in mind, what is it?’ Old Man Hibbert said.
She glanced at her dad’s stony face. He wasn’t impressed with the way she was dealing with this, but she’d laid the granite hard facts out for them all. They needed money to get past these next few months. Money that had to come from somewhere. She was eighty percent sure it would come from the insurance, but when and how much would be a different matter. It would come from the BAS funding recommendation, but that wouldn’t be for a few months. It wouldn’t come from the Hibberts because they had very little money.
But they did have the development land.
The development land that she could let out for grazing, perhaps even back to Hibbert, although that would definitely stick in their throats. It was valuable, good quality grazing land. Even if she had to sell an acre, she’d have to bank that it wouldn’t be enough to build a substantial property on.
‘I—’ she swallowed. ‘We want your fields.’
George sat up suddenly.
‘What? No. No way, no fucking way.’
‘Watch your mouth, boy,’ his father snapped. ‘You’re the reason we’re in this mess, so you can damn well keep your mouth shut before you get us in any more trouble.’
Old Man Hibbert passed a hand across his face.
She carried on.
‘I’m prepared to give you a grazing licence, guaranteed for five years at a good price and,’ this was the big thing, ‘I’m prepared for your cattle to fall under our umbrella, which means they will fall under our vet charges, our TB testing, but they will still be your cattle. They will have your marks, your breeding, you can choose if and when to sell them, but we will pay for their upkeep.’
They’d had a massive argument over this. Laurel on one side, and Jack and her father on the other, Robin sniping at both sides from the middle.
If Hibbert gave them the fields for free, then the money that she’d been able to wangle from the bank could go to covering the unknown loss of earnings from George Hibbert’s escapades last night, before the insurance came through. The five-year guaranteed grazing licence and the living expenses for his cattle were massive sweetener that her father had suggested, once he’d got over how appalled he was that Laurel would even dream to ask for such a thing.
Hibbert was their neighbour, he’d known Hibbert for fifty years, George was just acting out.
Laurel wasn’t having any of that bullshit.
Hibbert looked at her father across the table in disbelief. She held her breath, because her dad could ruin everything with something as simple as a slight huff. If Hibbert could see that he wasn’t on board, then he would push back, hard.
‘And in return, we won’t press charges, we won’t go to court, and I won’t obtain a restraining order on this occasion,’ she added.
Hibbert looked confused.
‘Why would you need a restraining order, Laurel?’ he asked slowly.
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Because George has been harassing me, and last night was another example of George’s escalating behaviour. I don’t want him anywhere near me. Ever.’
‘Harassing you? You’re fucking delusional,’ George hissed, but she kept her eyes fixed on Old Man Hibbert. He closed his eyes in disappointment.
‘How long do I have to think about it?’
‘David’s coming in,’ she glanced at the clock above George’s head, ‘forty-five minutes.’
A look passed between her father and Hibbert.
‘Come on Laurel, let’s leave them to think,’ her father said authoritatively, standing.
She blinked at him and raised an eyebrow.
What. The. Hell?
Leave them in her office when George Hibbert had literally just committed industrial sabotage.
She looked back to a defeated Hibbert. He nodded sadly. She took it as a show of good faith, an ‘I won’t look at your business shit and try and destroy you’.
Okay. She could give him that.
Nate
Nate had been for a run, packed up his stuff to move into Robin’s house, checked the site and was now sitting on the grass, watching cows meander lazily around the field. He hadn’t heard from Laurel yet today, and he was waiting to see what she needed him to do with the police.
He unfolded the papers that he’d had Sylvie print and looked over them again. Paul’s dig was looking fantastic. The finds were solid and varied, not going to set the archaeological world on fire, but enhancing and adding to the existing knowledge base. The south of France was a beautiful place to spend a few months.
What would his university say? Would he even be allowed? Probably not, and besides, did he even want to? Leave Little Willow Farm, leave this dig?
His smartwatch vibrated, and again, and he shuffled his phone out of his pocket.
‘Paul, just thinking about you,’ Nate said, smiling down the phone at his old friend. ‘How’s Angeline?’
‘She’s perfect, mate, really good. Can’t wait for you to meet her,’ he said.
‘Me too, mate, me too.’ He was genuinely happy for Paul.
‘Have you thought anymore about France?’ Paul asked.
Nate held up the papers as if Paul could see him. The cows mooed in response.
‘Yeah, I have, and it looks perfect, your dig looks amazing.’
‘But?’ Paul could obviously hear the hesitation in his voice.
‘But I can’t,’ Nate said. ‘I can’t leave here. We’ve got an Anglo-Saxon burial, we’ve got gold. It’s going to be big. I can’t leave.’
Paul sighed. ‘Okay, man, I get it.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you next week, mate, and meeting your girl.’ Nate smiled down the phone at him.
‘Yeah, I’m excited for her to meet you all. Don’t tell her any stupid uni stories, okay?’
Nate laughed. ‘Do you remember Laurel Fletcher from uni? She was an undergrad while we were postgrads?
Paul was quiet for a moment. One thing about Paul was that he always gave everything his undivided attention. ‘No, why?’
‘She owns the farm that my site is on. I’m bringing her next weekend.’ Nate picked at the grass beside him.
There was a beat of silence from Paul. ‘As your date? You haven’t brought anyone to meet us, ever.’
‘No, just as friends. We’re just friends.’
‘Oh right, yeah.’ The sarcasm poured down the phone line.
‘We are, Paul,’ Nate said. ‘Anyway, I think something happened at uni. She hates Alex.’
‘Everyone hates Alex. Alex is a dick.’ Paul snorted. ‘But I wouldn’t be surprised if something happened. What did Alex say?’
‘I’ve not asked him. I don’t want to, I don’t know…’ Nate looked at the cows for the right phrase, ‘wake the sleeping dog?’
Paul sighed heavily down the phone. ‘I don’t know why you put up with Alex anymore. He’s always been a prick.’
Nate was quiet. He used to defend Alex to Paul, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so anymore.
‘You know Lucia is coming, right?’ Paul asked. ‘You should probably tell your girl.’
‘She’s not my girl, Paul.’
He hadn’t told her anything about next weekend, had he? They would have talked more about it last night, but the shit hit the fan at the farm. He’d catch up with her this week and give her some more details. Not today, she had too much going on today.
‘Have you called Jess?’
‘I’ll email her,’ Nate said. Probably for the best. The conversation he was having with Paul about Laurel not being his girlfriend would be ten thousand times more pressurised with Jess.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ Paul asked.
‘Yeah, man. Anything, you know that.’
‘Can you watch out for Angeline, yeah? With Alex? He can be a bit creepy with women, and he doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.’
Nate’s shoulders slumped. Everyone had seen Alex for what he was a lot sooner than he had.
‘Yeah, sure. Don’t worry.’
He said his goodbyes to Paul and stared at his phone for a couple of seconds. He’d really dropped the ball on Alex. He’d been so blind to what Alex was really like. He’d ignored it. Perhaps he was the frog in the boiling water, and Alex just kept getting worse and worse, and he couldn’t see it. Well, he saw it now. The way Alex had behaved over granting BAS endorsement to the Little Willow site was unprofessional and borderline negligent. His behaviour when he was on site had been beyond the pale. Perhaps it was time to admit to himself that Alex was never going to change.
Nate’s phone buzzed in his hand. Laurel.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey, just calling to let you know that you won’t be needing to give a statement to David about last night.’ She was straight to business.
‘Oh, okay,’ he said. ‘Everything alright?’
‘Yes, fine thanks,’ she said abruptly. There were other people there, he could tell.
‘Good, um…’ he trailed off.
Laurel was straight on him. ‘What?’
‘Is everything okay with Hibbert? With your dad?’ he asked quietly, hoping not to be overheard by anyone.
‘Kind of, and no,’ she said. ‘Look, Nate, I’ve got to go.’
‘Okay, talk to you later,’ he started to say, but she’d already hung up.
Huh. Rude.
Nate set his phone carefully on the grass next to him, putting Paul’s papers underneath so they didn’t blow away in the light breeze.
That was okay, he had stuff to do anyway, and she was busy and stressed.
He had the funding visit to put together, which he had been putting off for a while, but it was creeping closer. Alex needed chasing because he would have to attend to lend BAS’s weight to the dig.
He hated this part of his job with a passion. He was an archaeologist, he was supposed to say things like ‘this belongs in a museum’, not ‘could I have a couple of hundred thousand to support this dig of a possible Anglo-Saxon burial site’.
The schmoozing part of his job was the worst.
Laurel
Well, of course, Old Man Hibbert took the deal.
He couldn’t not take the deal, unless he wanted his son involved in an incredibly large, long and public legal battle. George never admitted it, but they all knew he’d done it. The jungle drums in Lower Houghton would be banging nice and loud and everyone in town would know within approximately three hours’ time. David, the worst policeman she’d ever known, was also the worst gossip she had ever met.
Laurel was sitting in Rebecca’s back garden, Jack putting the twins to bed.
‘And he hasn’t talked to you since?’ Rebecca asked, placing a nice full glass of cold white wine in front of her.
Laurel shook her head sadly.
‘No, not one word.’
‘He’ll come around though,’ Rebecca said, sipping her own glass and propping her feet on the bottom rung of the kids’ slide.
‘We’ll see, you know what he’s like. It’ll be like the Cold War now for ages,’ Laurel groaned.
‘Yeah, but your dad always comes around in the end,’ Rebecca repeated.
Laurel scowled. He did come around in the end, but only after everyone had been made to feel the wrath of his disapproval. Half the time, she just apologised, even if she wasn’t in the wrong, so everyone could move on.
Not this time though. She was not in the wrong this time.
George Hibbert could have ruined their business, and she was only doing what any good business person would do. Why couldn’t her father see that? Why couldn’t Jack see that? Jack, usually her supportive, level-headed brother, thought asking for Hibbert’s fields was ‘over the line’. Would they prefer to see awful, gentrified houses built on that land? Would they prefer the business to go under? For them to lose their home? Their mother’s home? No, they wouldn’t.
So why did she feel so guilty?
‘I won’t stay long, I’ll have this then go,’ Laurel said, resting her head on the back of the chair.
What. A. Day.
‘Why don’t you just stay here?’ Rebecca asked. ‘You’ve been cleaning the sign and the wall all afternoon.’
Laurel swivelled her head to look at her.
‘No. I can’t. I want to go home.’
If she stayed here, it would be work, work, work. She’d end up back in her office, prepping everything for when the insurance company opened in the morning, worrying over the ‘what ifs’ of financial forecasting when realistically, all she wanted to do was curl up on the sofa with a vat of wine and massage her hands, sore from scrubbing at the graffiti. It had been an extremely long day.
‘Is Jack putting the kids to bed as part of his “sharing the responsibilities” thing?’ Laurel asked.
‘Yeah.’ Rebecca grinned. ‘Oh, and we’ve put the baby talk on the back burner as well.’
Laurel sat up.
‘So, you’ve agreed, you’re not having another?’
‘We’re not having another right now,’ Rebecca said carefully, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass.
‘But you’re thinking about it?’ Laurel probed.
‘I told him that I’d consider it again in a year,’ Rebecca raised an eyebrow, ‘if he still wants one. I’ve made him promise to go on an abroad holiday and then we’ll have that conversation again.’
Laurel raised her glass to her friend. ‘You’ve worked that really, really well.’
‘Well, I want the twins to go somewhere with both of us, for longer than a couple of days, out of the country. You know, villa with a pool, by the beach. They’d absolutely love it.’
Talking about where Rebecca and Jack could take the twins on holiday was like slipping on a pair of comfy old slippers.
‘The next time we go, you and Nate can come as well,’ Rebecca teased.
‘Ha, ha, very funny.’ Laurel narrowed her eyes at her sister-in-law.
‘How’s it going with him?’ Rebecca looked over her garden.
Laurel shrugged, but couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ Rebecca crowed. ‘You haven’t told me anything about last night, and I want to know. Now. Tell me.’
‘God, I haven’t told you! The BAS are endorsing the site for funding!’ Laurel grinned.
‘Laurel, that’s amazing. You must be so pleased. Congratulations!’
‘I’m so relieved, Rebecca. You’ve got no idea.’ She sipped her wine.
Rebecca rubbed her arm. ‘You’re doing a good job, Laurel. Good work.’
‘Nate and I were celebrating in the pub, and then your stupid husband called and all hell broke loose, but…’ Laurel shot a smile at Rebecca. ‘Nate’s invited me to a barbeque with his friends next weekend.’
‘So, the top worked then? Not too try hard at all.’ Rebecca wiggled her eyebrows.
‘Uh, nothing like that. Just friends, Rebecca.’
They were just friends. Nothing had been said about a date, nothing had changed between them. Just friends. That’s it.
‘You’re meeting his friends? That’s a big deal.’ Rebecca leaned back in her seat. ‘That is a big deal,’ she repeated.
‘No, it’s not, it’s just a barbeque,’ Laurel said dismissively.
‘You’re blushing,’ Rebecca said quietly. ‘Laurel Fletcher, you are blushing. You really like him.’
‘Yeah, so what if I do?’ Laurel huffed, gulping at her wine and crossing her arms defensively. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go.’
‘Oh Laurel, I’m only teasing. Don’t be annoyed,’ Rebecca whined, following her into the kitchen. Laurel deposited her glass on the side.
‘I know,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘I just want to lie on the sofa and watch crap TV and eat crisps. And possibly have some more wine. But not too much, work tomorrow.’
‘Okay, but text me if you’re feeling bad about the whole, you know, thing,’ Rebecca said, hugging her tightly.
That was why she loved Rebecca.
Rebecca knew that she was full on blaming herself for George Hibbert and didn’t bring it up once. Laurel didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t want to be reassured that it wasn’t her fault. Her logical brain completely knew that she had no control over how George Hibbert behaved. George chose to vandalise her place of work and she dealt with it in a professional, businesslike manner, getting the best deal that she could. Despite her father.
‘Love you,’ Laurel called over her shoulder as she headed for her car.
She kept her eye out for Nate on her way through the farm but didn’t spot him. She could call him, she supposed, or text him, apologise for how abrupt she’d been earlier. Her dad had been there, as had the Hibberts. They’d insisted on hearing her tell the policeman, and Nate, that statements were no longer needed.
Fine, as long as she got those damned fields.