Sam frowned.
“That’s strange—I didn’t see it in the documentation, did you, Jenny?” Jenny shook her head. “But surely they must do an impact report?” Sam said hotly. “The plans show the houses on Green Belt land, in an area of outstanding natural beauty, not to mention it’s covered with god knows how many protected species—”
“As noted by the Conservation of Habitats and Species Regulations, 2010,” put in Susan helpfully.
“—so surely, it must be a requirement!” Furious, she scribbled a note.
Jenny and she did a double act in presenting the potential objections to the development.
“The only other schools are in Stockwell, which is already over-subscribed and Ashton, which is ten miles away and you know what the buses are like since the Tory council cut the funding,” said Sam.
“Not to mention the difference in the density between houses in the village and those planned for the new development,” Jenny said, flipping over the pages in her bright green exercise book. “So yes, I think there’s plenty to object to, without even referencing the fact it’s on Green Belt land!”
There was some nodding of heads.
“Excellent work, Mrs Sanderson,” Desmond said, ignoring Sam. “Would you mind drafting something for me to look at?”
Jenny Sanderson gave him a straight look. “I’ll work with Sam and draft something for all of us to look at, certainly, Mr Black. I’m sure everyone will want to agree any letter we send.” Desmond pursed his lips but said nothing and moved on to Mrs Pratchett.
“Well, I’ve started the ball rolling and so far, one hundred and thirty-seven people have indicated they’d be glad to support us either through sending a letter or signing our petition—I’ve offered both. Once we have the letter, we can begin in earnest. I realise this isn’t many people at the moment,” she glared as Susan sniffed loudly in distain, “but I haven’t really had much time because of m ’dog...”
Mrs Pratchett’s brown eyes filled with tears and her squat figure seemed to sag. She searched around frantically for a handkerchief and sniffed again. Sam, alarmed, bent her head to Amanda.
“What’s happened?”
“Bertie the bulldog is unwell,” said Amanda, eyeing the normally redoubtable Mrs Pratchett with sympathy. “On his last legs, apparently. He must be about seventeen which is…” she did some quick calculations in her head “…about a hundred and twenty in human years.”
Jenny patted Mrs Pratchett on the shoulder, who nodded and took a deep breath. “So we can begin as soon as we have the letter,” she finished in a bit of a rush and blew her nose. Susan rolled her eyes and then subsided as Jenny and the vicar both glared at her.
Desmond, also a little taken aback, was just about to declare the meeting closed, when Sam put her hand up.
“Yes, Ms Winterson?” he said frostily.
“You were going to talk to some of your mates on the council,” Sam reminded him. “What came of that?”
Desmond had obviously done a lot of legwork in the Dog and Duck. “Ah. Yes, I have indeed discussed the matter with several the councillors,” he said. “They’re split in their opinion, so I might have to work a little harder to bring them round to our way of thinking. But as Mrs Pratchett said, it’ll be a more solid conversation when we have the letter.”
“Split? Who’s for and who’s against?” Sam pressed. Desmond looked irritated, glancing again at the clock and his disappearing drinking time just as Tom said firmly, “Yes, we need to know what we’re up against, Desmond. Spill the beans, old chap.”
In a long-suffering voice which gradually become more self-important, Desmond told the group he’d met five councillors on the planning committee. Two were strongly in favour of the development, two against, and one undecided. All were Conservative councillors except for the undecided, who was independent.
“Why do they support it?” asked Amanda.
“Because of the number of houses they need to build,” he responded. “Those against are appalled at the idea of building on Green Belt land and would welcome our comments on the proposal.”
“And the independent? What’s his position?” asked Sam.
“Her position,” Desmond corrected with a barely hidden sneer. “She’s a proper leftie—wants homes for the masses and is quite prepared to go with the majority if the plans achieve those homes. She’s currently undecided and wants to look at the facts…”
Sam raised her voice. “If she’s left-leaning, perhaps I should have gone to see her, rather than you, Desmond.”
“By all means speak to her if you think she is a comrade-in-arms,” Desmond, a lifelong Conservative, said loftily as he closed the meeting. Sam took the name of the councillor. She’d have a chat with her previous fling in the Labour group and see what she could learn. He’d been very keen to exchange numbers—he’d surely be happy to give her the information she wanted.
“Coming for a drink?” asked Amanda as she finally locked the library doors.
“Yeah, just the one.”
The bar at the Dog and Duck was busy for once. Sam went to get the drinks and was waiting to be served when she became aware of someone staring at her from the end of the bar. Turning her head, she looked straight into a pair of green eyes under frowning brows. She started, resisting the urge to duck her head, and stared back. Ah yes, the mystery man from before. She’d not forget those eyes in a hurry, but she had forgotten how tall he was. He was dressed a bit formally for a Thursday at the local pub, in tan leather jacket and expensive-looking, well-cut trousers. His jaw was strong, clean shaven and she noticed beautiful hands around his pint. His watch probably cost a small fortune.
She waved her hand to catch the eye of the bar girl who finally noticed her.
He was still looking at her when she paid for the drinks and as she turned to face him, she raised her eyebrows, a pleasant smile on her face.
“Hello again,” she said, as she picked up the glasses.
“Hello to you too,” he said slowly, in a voice which was the vocal equivalent of dark chocolate. Sam’s libido swooned and she turned quickly, almost spilling her drink. He frowned. “I feel we’ve met, but I’ve no idea where.”
Sam stared.
“Well, I’ve seen you before in this pub…” she said.
“Hmm. No, before that.”
“I’m sure I’d have remembered you!” Sam laughed. He smiled.
“I hope that’s a compliment!”
Oh no, not going there.
“Nice to keep you wondering,” Sam said and turned away from the bar.
She could almost feel his eyes follow her to the table where Amanda was sitting, thankfully occupied with her mobile phone. She felt tingles in places she thought might have been dormant.
The next time she risked a glance to the bar, he was with a beautiful blonde whose simple black dress—also too expensive for the pub—shrieked ‘designer’. Sam sighed inwardly, told her libido to shut up, and drank her wine.
“She’s great! I think she's going to get on with Dad,” Magda enthused. “But thank heavens her column won’t carry her photo! That might really mess us up. I’ll hide the paper for a few weeks until she’s got the contract.” The two girls were sprawled over Lisbeth's bed, ostensibly studying French verbs.
“I imagine they'll have very different outlooks, with your Dad being fairly—um—traditional, and everything,” said Lisbeth doubtfully.
Magda grinned at her.
“You mean he's the CEO of a corporation and she’s an avowed socialist?”
“Well, that and the fact Sam dislikes most things conservative and corporate. I don't know how she and my dad manage to sit in the same room—they're polar opposites.”
“Well you mentioned that, but she owns her own business, doesn't she? Doesn't that actually make her a Tory?”
Lisbeth considered this.
“I never thought about it that way before, but I don't think she's ever voted Conservative in her li
fe. She's even put up banners in her garden for the Green Party, I think.”
“Oh, the Greens—” Magda waved her hand dismissively. “That's practically like throwing your vote away, isn't it? Especially around here, with your Dad. He's been the MP here for, like, ever, hasn't he?”
“Mmm. For the past eight years...”
Lisbeth remembered her father, white-lipped with rage as he saw the banner for another political party adorning Sam's garden wall.
“Even if she won't bloody vote for me, she could at least keep her opposition to herself!” he had muttered, slamming around the house.
She pulled herself back to Magda’s conversation, who was saying something about her father’s girlfriend.
“When they came back from Manchester, she was on about going out to dinner in some fancy place just outside Ashton, but Mrs Brown just said anyone could see Dad was knackered!” Magda said gleefully. “Dad smoothed it over, of course, but he was looking tired.”
“Is she still here?”
“Yes, but I reckon she’ll get bored soon and leave,” Magda sounded confident.
“Well, we’ll have to see if your dad likes the designs, but I’ll be honest, I’m still not sure if they’ll get on, even if they are both in business,” Lisbeth said. “And I don’t imagine your dad’s girlfriend is going to sit by and just watch your dad fall for someone else, though, is she?”
Magda just grinned.
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she said.
Jonas stared at the screen. It was rare he was rendered speechless, but the design had taken his breath away. The lines of it, the graceful curves, even the sculpture, blended perfectly with the house. The proposed planting—with some vivid oranges and purples and blues—was perfectly in line with his taste, and he loved the planting area by the wall which made the most of the sun trap by the old tree. The lawn area was made a bit smaller, but the way in which Sam Winterson had re-designed the borders made that a blessing, rather than a loss. There were steps down from the patio doors which made the connection between the house and the garden, as though the two had been designed together, not 100-plus years apart.
He sat back in his chair. This Samuel Winterson really did know his stuff. These designs were brilliant, and although he had been expecting something good—Lisbeth's garden had been lovely, as Magda had pointed out—he hadn't expected anything of this calibre. Jonas wondered briefly Connor knew of this Sam Winterson and if he had a view. He texted him on the spur of the moment. A few minutes later, Connor’s text came back.
Never heard of him.
Ah well, thought Jonas, after acknowledging Connor’s text. He looked again at the plans and the visuals and thought if Sam had ever designed anything for one of the big competitions. If not, he certainly ought to.
He got to his feet and went to the window to look out. The garden had been long neglected, he thought. He was trying to picture what the design would look like in reality, when the phone rang.
“Keane.”
“Hello, Mr Keane, this is Dr Walters. I’m ringing with the results of the tests you had last week.”
“Am I going to die?” Jonas said, attempting humour.
“You know you should never ask that question of a doctor, Mr Keane,” came Dr Walters’ amused voice down the line. “No, you’re not going to die—not yet at least—but I bet you’re not feeling fully fit, are you?”
Jonas gave a short laugh, lowering himself into an armchair. “No I’m not, and I suppose you’re about to tell me why.”
“Your white blood cell count is still low and so are the levels of iron in your system. I’ll send through another prescription for you, and remember please, you should be taking it very easy—no stress, not too much excitement and most definitely, no work.”
Jonas sighed.
“Ok, I hear you.”
“Good. How are you sleeping?”
“Like a log.”
“Well, that will help. Are you managing to keep away from work?”
“I have one conference call a week,” grated Jonas.
“Excellent! I know with a blood count like this, you’ll be tired—when does it hit you?”
“It depends—when I have the conference call, I can feel like a nap in the afternoon, other than that, I start to flag about four. I’m almost asleep by about ten.”
“Hmmm. I’m going to prescribe you some iron tablets and I’d like you to start eating more red meat. In about a fortnight’s time, try some gentle—gentle—exercise. Swimming is great, otherwise a little walking. No more than twenty minutes a day. Oh, and drink a pint of Guinness a few times a week.”
Jonas wondered if the doctor soap opera on TV was missing its physician.
“Any vitamins?” he enquired.
“No, it’s all a load of rubbish. No evidence,” came the brisk response.
“And how long do I need to keep this up?”
“Why, until you feel able to dispense with my services, Mr Keane,” Dr Walters said. “I’ll want to see you back here in three weeks’ time, please, for more blood tests. I’ll send an appointment.”
Jonas sat looking at the phone for five minutes after the call had finished, cursing.
Rousing himself, he looked at the clock. Only a quarter to eleven. At this rate, even if his mystery illness didn’t kill him, the boredom might. He ought to be grateful Magda was back for half term, otherwise he’d be climbing the walls.
His eyes fell again on the plans on his laptop. At least they were cheering him up. Still, he hadn’t looked at the cost yet...he started to search through the email.
And again, he was surprised. Familiar with the costs of hard landscaping, he could recognise at a glance that the materials were appropriate, and the mark-up—if there was one—was modest. Winterson’s certainly didn’t look to be a firm which took its customers for a ride and he warmed to the proposals anew. He also felt again a glowing pride that Magda had searched out the firm and made a good call in choosing them to do the designs. When she got back from whatever nail bar she was at, he would congratulate her.
Rubbing his hands together, he clicked out of his email—after all, Neil wasn’t due to report until tomorrow—and went back to his newspaper. He might also go to the local pub at lunchtime with Gerry, if she managed to get out of bed. He needed the exercise, and to see if he could stomach a pint of Guinness. He tried not to think about the blonde.
Magda was speaking excitedly, her hands under the nail lamp at Lola’s. “The designs were just brilliant! I can’t wait to hear what Dad has to say.”
“What about the cost?” asked Lisbeth.
Magda shrugged. “I didn’t look closely, but it seemed all right. If dad likes the design, it won’t matter much. And anyway,” Magda added, “it is my money!”
“What are you going to do when they meet? Your dad thinks Aunty Sam is a man.”
Magda grinned. “Duh! That’s why I’ve left him alone with the plans. If there’s one thing Dad can’t resist, it’s good workmanship! I’m also hoping he’ll think it’s because I’m his daughter that I’ve found such a brilliant designer. By the time I get back, he’ll have fallen in love with the designs just like I did. Sam could be a Martian and he’d still want her to do the work!”
Lisbeth was uneasy. She knew Aunty Sam had taken the death of grandad very hard and anything which dragged up those memories—even something as ridiculous as a mistake over his name—might be hurtful.
She also found it hard to believe Jonas could be so old-fashioned that he wouldn’t just laugh when he found out Aunty Sam was in fact, female. She found herself feeling anxious. Magda, watching her, saw the change in her face.
“Now don’t get all freaked out on me!” she said. “It’ll all be fine—they’ll meet, there’ll be a bit of awkwardness, and I’ll tell dad I knew but wanted to play a joke on him. As long as they get thrown together, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“They might not actually like one another,”
warned Lisbeth.
“Maybe—but I know my dad, and I’ve met Sam, and I think it has distinct possibilities,” Magda said. “I’ll bet you a fiver there’ll be something between them!”
Lisbeth shook her head, unconvinced.
9
Sam was awake hours before she needed to be for the meeting with the Keane family. There was something nagging her about the job, she realised, although she didn’t know what. Cradling her hands round a cup of tea at five-thirty in the morning, she replayed the brief conversation she’d had with Magda.
After they’d agreed a date to meet, Magda had said, “About Dad... He can be a bit...old-fashioned about women in companies sometimes.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“Um... He hasn’t worked with many women and his business is quite male-dominated.”
Oh great, thought Sam, reading between the lines. He probably thinks we shouldn’t have been given the vote, either. Bugger. Still, I’ve handled worse, I daresay.
“Well, if he likes the designs, hopefully we’ll be able to sort it out,” she said. She thought she heard Magda sigh with—what? Relief?
She sipped her tea and gazed at her garden, gathering shape and colour as the light came up. No, going back through the conversation wasn’t making her feel any better. She rose from the kitchen table, irritated, and looked at the clock. Six. She’d go and check that Dad’s grave was tidy, that would calm her down. She could still get into the office for eight. She glanced at the brightening sky.
At least the weather looks okay. I hate arguing in the rain.
Jonas wondered if Gerry had woken up yet. Give it another ten minutes, he thought. He looked at Magda, staring into space. He thought she looked on edge.
“Are you ok?” he asked mildly. Magda started, and looked up from the toast she was nibbling. “Me? I’m fine!” she exclaimed.
The Garden Plot Page 8
