Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
The planning committee meeting was held at the district council’s offices, in a large chamber that was like a cross between a lecture theatre and a courtroom.
At the front was a raised platform for the chair, Susan Green, with the planning officer and a minute-taker directly in front of her.
Facing them were tiers of desks, with district councillors in the front row and members of the public behind.
It was about half full. Paul, as a wheelchair user, had been given a place at the front.
A dozen or so supporters sat behind him in a little claque.
Jason from the pub was among them, but not, Kate noticed, Gordon or Guy Pelham.
Rosemary was there, her expression unreadable, as was Jamie, looking confident and relaxed.
Their own little group had taken seats on the other side of the aisle – just Kate, Matt and Nikolas, their architect. Already, nerves were shredding Kate’s stomach at the prospect of having to speak.
Susan Green opened the meeting with a preamble about emergency exits and toilets.
Then came apologies for absence and approval of the last meeting’s minutes.
After that, she asked for declarations of interest. Only then did the meeting start to deal with planning applications.
Yet, somehow, the very slowness of it – the elaborate courtesy with which the chair thanked every speaker for their contribution, the way every decision had to be proposed, seconded, voted on and minuted – made it all the more tense.
The first application was for a change of use, from a private dwelling to a home for looked-after children.
Local residents were strongly objecting.
But it wasn’t as clear-cut a case of Nimbyism as it first appeared: their argument was that they wouldn’t let their own children near that particular street, which was notorious for conflicts between two county-lines drugs gangs, so didn’t believe the looked-after children would be safe there either.
The company applying for the change of use pointed to their good track record and the Ofsted ratings of the other homes they ran.
They had the support of the county council, who desperately needed more children’s homes, while the residents had the support of their ward councillor, who agreed it was the wrong place.
It was all surprisingly gripping, not least because Kate had no idea which way it was going to go.
Eventually, Susan Green called for a vote, starting with ‘All those against’, raising her own hand as she did so. But when the votes were counted, the applicants had won by five votes to three.
An application for a disused shop to be turned into a hotel was dealt with more swiftly – the applicants had taken on board all the committee’s previous objections and the planning officer now recommended approval. Then, at last, it was the turn of Trade Cottage.
Susan Green asked the planning officer to summarise the application. He did so briefly, adding that he recommended approval. So that was the first hurdle cleared, Kate thought with relief. She gave Matt’s hand a little squeeze.
‘However, the parish council has strong objections,’ the planning officer added. ‘Their letter is in your bundle at page fifty-two, along with a large number of comments supporting them.’
‘Thank you. Mr Paul Finch will now speak for the objectors,’ the chair said. Looking at Paul, she added, ‘You have three minutes.’
Paul was handed a microphone. He scooted his wheelchair forward before he spoke, turning in slow circles so he could look the councillors in the eye, one by one.
‘We have a pub in Pelham.’ He spoke slowly, articulating clearly despite the slurring his voice always had these days, his left hand tucked against his chest to keep the microphone steady.
‘The Pelham Arms. Four years ago, after the third tenant in six years went bust, the brewery put it up for sale. The village clubbed together and raised seven hundred thousand pounds to buy it.’
He paused. ‘We own it, but that doesn’t make it profitable.
Everyone knows how tough it is in hospitality at the moment.
Last year, the pub made a loss. It’ll probably make a loss again this year.
The income it makes from letting out rooms is vital to its survival.
That’s why we don’t want more short-term lets in the village – the best way to live like a local is to stay in the local. ’
His supporters applauded at that, although the chair immediately silenced them.
‘Of course, that’s not the only reason we oppose this application,’ Paul continued.
‘The government has given councils the power to block short-term lets precisely because of what they do to communities. Local people thrown out of their houses because short lets are more lucrative for landlords. Villages empty out of season. House prices through the roof. We saw what happened in the Cotswolds when they went down that road. It’s nothing personal.
But Pelham wants to send a very clear message that we intend to stay as we are. ’
‘Thank you,’ the chair said. She consulted her agenda. ‘We now have Kate Crowther for the applicants.’ She repeated the rubric about the time, and a microphone was passed to Kate.
She stood up. The silence as everyone waited for her to start felt like vertigo, like looking over the side of a building and preparing to jump. But it was too late to back out now.
‘On our first night in Pelham,’ she began, and wondered if everyone else could hear the nervous tremor in her voice, ‘we went to the pub. It was great. The landlord gave us a warm welcome and we had a couple of drinks while we waited for our takeaway pizzas. Since then, we’ve eaten there many times.
We’ve had fish and chips from there. We’ve had friends down to stay and gone as a group for Sunday lunch. ’
She paused. ‘My point is, more people coming to the village – tourists, if you want to call them that – can only benefit the Pelham Arms. You’ll see from the plans that these outbuilding conversions don’t even have kitchens, only a microwave and a kettle.
Our guests might not stay at the pub, but they’ll eat there, drink there, buy bread at the village shop, pick fruit and veg at the pick-your-own.
And as for rowdy behaviour, it’s us who’ll be nearest to them, so of course we’re not going to allow that. ’
She stopped and glanced across the aisle. Jamie was watching her fixedly, a slight smile on his face.
He thinks they’ve won, she realised. He thinks it’s in the bag.
She said slowly, ‘And when Mr Finch says it isn’t personal, that isn’t true. He’s our next-door neighbour and the only reason he’s objecting is because he’s trying to force us out.’
‘Ms Crowther,’ the chair said immediately. ‘You should stop right there. That’s quite possibly slander. If Mr Finch had a personal interest, he would have declared it at the start of the meeting.’
‘I can prove it,’ she said. She reached into her folder for two pieces of paper.
‘These are offers, in writing, to buy our house – one from Paul Finch and one from his son, Jamie. The one from Jamie Finch says –’ she lifted it and read aloud – ‘This offer expires the moment the planning committee sits. We want you out by the end of November, so we can be in Trade Cottage by Christmas. We have a lot of traditions around the holiday season, which we intend to enjoy as a family after your departure.’ She took a breath.
‘He knows we can’t afford to stay there if we don’t get this planning permission.
He’s using you – this committee – as part of his own private vendetta. ’