Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
To her surprise, Matt and Will greeted the news that there were two dead pheasants in the barn with glee.
They looked up gutting videos on Matt’s phone, watching intently with their heads pressed together.
At one point, she heard Will say, ‘I should pull the organs out, because I’ve got smaller hands,’ and felt slightly nauseous.
Even Tilly, who was always going on about becoming vegan one day, talked approvingly about zero food miles and eating what you killed.
And, miracle of miracles, Matt and Will were even googling recipes now, determined to cook the birds themselves.
Coq au vin – or, more accurately, faisane au vin – was decided on, not least because Will was rather excited by the idea of flambéing mushrooms in cognac and then adding a whole bottle of wine.
On Sunday, they left the pheasants slow-cooking in the Aga and strolled to the pub for a drink.
This is the life I dreamt of, Kate thought to herself as they walked through the village.
My family together, happy, doing something on a Sunday morning that doesn’t involve getting in a car and struggling across London.
Yes, there had been challenges – she thought of how close she’d come to warning the whole village about a gamekeeper handing out pheasants – but they were meeting them, and getting on top of the renovations, and managing to navigate a tricky patch with their neighbours to boot.
As they walked into the pub, she saw the log fire burning, the locals sitting round in twos and threes, families tucking into Sunday roasts, and felt utterly contented.
Matt ordered a pint of Bowman’s and she had Guinness.
The pub did amazing olives that they marinated themselves in big jars behind the bar, so they had a bowl of those too, and crisps and Coke for the children.
‘Hi, Jason,’ Matt called over to the landlord. ‘How’s things?’
‘Hi,’ Jason said blankly. He turned away.
‘Odd,’ Matt said. ‘He’s usually quite chatty. Maybe they’re having a bad day in the kitchen.’
Kate recognised the woman who’d been at book club as she passed them with some empty plates. ‘Hey, Elizabeth, how are you?’ she said. There was no reply or answering smile, just the briefest of nods.
Kate felt the first stirrings of consternation. ‘Have we done something to offend the pub?’
Two men walked past, pints in hand. They were clearly villagers – both were wearing check shirts, one with the sleeveless gilet a lot of locals favoured.
‘I’ve got nothing against tourism,’ the first man was saying, ‘but it’s not as if the rooms in this place are ever full, except maybe in wedding season.
He’s right: there has to be some kind of control.
’ The other man was nodding his agreement.
‘Oh, God,’ she said suddenly to Matt. ‘I wonder if this could be about our application.’ They’d had to specify that the conversions would be used for short-term lets, which these days required additional planning permission.
‘The outbuildings?’ he said, puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘They have rooms here, in the pub.’
He pulled a face. ‘Totally different markets, though, surely? I’ll have a word with Jason, make sure he’s not heard something on the grapevine and taken offence.’
He started to get up, but she stopped him. ‘Wait—’
At the other end of the bar, the man in the gilet was calling across to someone, ‘Signed the petition yet, Mike? It’s by the beer taps, so you won’t see it unless you buy a round.’ There was laughter, and some banter in return.
As if in a dream, Kate got up and walked towards the taps. On the bar was a clipboard, a biro attached to it with string and tape. She turned it towards her so she could read it.
We, the undersigned, call on our Parish and District Councils to designate Pelham Village a short-let-free zone, and furthermore to refuse planning consent to all new short-let accommodation.
Below were the words Pelham Preservation Committee and some names she didn’t recognise.
Except for the one that jumped out at her.
Paul Finch (chair)