“But there must be about a hundred people here! Surely they can't all be bogus?”
“Oh, they're not,” said Jenny Sanders, appearing suddenly behind them. “Quite a lot have been drummed up by Mrs Pratchett while she was collecting signatures for the objection letter.”
“Thank God for that!” Sam said.
“Amen,” Tom Sanders added, coming alongside his wife. “Have to say, my feelings towards the developers are starting to be decidedly un-Christian. Hang on, is something happening?”
There was a stir at the door and a truly handsome young man strode into the room. The crowds just seemed to part before him and smiling genially, he made his way to the front of the room. The crowd fell quiet.
“The big boss, obviously,” Sam murmured.
“He looks about twelve. I'm starting to feel a failure,” responded Amanda. A man turned to glare and went 'Ssh!'.
The PR executive introduced him as Tyler Fairchild, Chief Operating Officer of Anglo Homes. She gazed at the young man, who smiled at her with perfect teeth and moved centre stage. Then he began to talk.
Slick, I'll give him that, thought Sam a little while later. The PR company hadn't made the mistake of presenting lots of slides. There were attractive pictures on the walls and in what seemed to be a totally unscripted presentation, Tyler Fairchild waved at them a great deal. Anglo Homes cared about the communities in which it built, apparently.
He spoke of houses for the future, homes for Everyday Working People, mentioned some figures about the amount of work the scheme would bring to the area, and generally painted a very rosy picture of the benefits the development of Jessop's Field would bring.
“Blimey, listening to that, I might even buy one of those houses myself,” muttered Amanda.
At the end of twenty minutes, Tyler Fairchild finished his presentation 'of the facts' and asked for questions. Both Tom and Sam put up their hands. The PR lady glanced at Sam, who was scowling, and then nodded encouragingly at Tom.
“I'm pleased to see a representative of the developers here,” said Tom, standing up. “However, given that objections to the planning permission need to be lodged by the end of the week, I'm really disappointed you couldn't make it earlier.”
The PR lady tightened her lips. Tyler Fairchild smiled easily.
“I'm the chief operating officer of a large company—I’m a bit busy.”
A gentle snigger went around the room.
“Too busy for us, obviously. I'd like to know if this development—which is small for Anglo Homes—is likely to stay small, or if you intend to build further phases.”
“That will depend on whether we get planning permission for further phases. We haven't got permission for this one yet,” Fairchild smiled winningly at the room, “but I hope we've managed to convince you this will be very good for the area.”
There was a round of applause that surprised Sam. The development had more supporters in the room than she’d realised.
“Actually, no you haven't convinced me,” Tom said. “You haven't mentioned the impact of site traffic on local roads, or on wildlife in the area. And while you speak of jobs, you also don't mention how the development will affect our fledgling tourist industry. Which, with the loss of Jessop's Field, may disappear.”
“Aye, my bed and breakfast business relies on birdwatchers and photographers a lot of the year,” put in someone else.
“We haven't been asked for an environmental impact assessment by the local authority, but obviously, if required, we can do one.”
Fairchild pointedly stopped looking at Tom, as if to move on to another question. The PR lady stretched her neck to look for other questions. She avoided Sam's gaze.
“And what would that mean?” pursued Tom. Fairchild flicked his eyes back to Tom and looked a little less genial.
“We'd take all possible precautions to mitigate any impact the development might have on protected species.”
Sounds like he’s learned that off by heart thought Sam.
“But anyway,” said the man in the leather jacket, before Fairchild could say anything. “What's a few birds when what we want are houses?”
There was some nodding. The blustery man got into his stride. “It's all very well for you lot. You’ve got somewhere to live—I live in Stockwell and my own son can't live near us because there's nowhere to buy! And because people have to travel so far, I can't get staff to work in my business!”
The PR executive nodded encouragement.
“Then perhaps Anglo Homes should be building in Stockwell, rather than Sherton!” exclaimed Mrs Pratchett, rising majestically to her feet. “Have you any notion of the impact three hundred and fifty additional families will have on Sherton’s primary school? Or how our GP surgery will cope with an extra thousand patients?”
There was a louder murmur in the room.
“But you don't want to build in Stockton, do you?” Sam challenged Tyler Fairchild. “You'd rather build on pristine Green Belt land, destroying wildlife habitats and as Tom said, ki-boshing the local tourist trade. Rather than impact your profit margin, you'd prefer the local community to bear all the impacts, wouldn't you?”
“I'm sure my company will be making reparation to the local authority—”
“There's no reparation for the damage you'll be doing!” Sam burst out. “Once that landscape is gone, it's gone! I played on Jessop's Field as a kid, like loads of people here did! It's a precious resource for the area, let alone the wildlife there, and you want to just bulldoze through it!”
“But people need houses!” The woman with the blue nails spoke calmly and loudly. “They also want them at the lowest possible cost. And how much they pay out in a mortgage determines how much they can spend elsewhere—including in the village. Are you happy for village businesses to close because you want to save where you played as a kid?” The last words were said almost as a snarl, and Sam was startled at the aggression in them. But she didn't back down.
“Don't conflate the argument—who's talking about businesses closing? I have a business here! I'm saying—and lots of people in the village agree with me—if there are sites other than Green Belt land to build on, shouldn’t we do that first? And there are other sites available, aren't there, Mr Fairchild?”
Fairchild, who had sat back to let the audience argue it out among themselves, started as Sam addressed him.
“Well...”
“Or have you just gone straight for the easiest option that will get you the biggest return, regardless of what it will do to the local environment?”
“I'm in business, I don't work for Greenpeace,” Fairchild said. “In order to build houses for Everyday Working People at reasonable cost, we need to make a profit.”
“You’re not alone in that, you know! But have you looked at other sites? For example, Lower Edge Field, which is lying unused at the moment?” Sam demanded.
“I believe it was considered.”
Bloody liar! I bet you don't even know where it is!
“And on what grounds did you dismiss it?” asked Amanda. Fairchild looked towards his PR who shook her head in a tiny gesture.
“That information is commercially confidential,” Fairchild said.
“Commercially confidential my arse!” shouted Dorothy Pratchett, to the amazement of everyone. “I imagine, sir, that what 'commercially confidential' actually means is that you haven't got an answer because you didn't consider it!”
The PR executive stepped forward and appealed for calm. Flushed, Dorothy Pratchett sat down, muttering, and Jenny Sanders went to her, presumably to stop her physically attacking Fairchild.
The arguments went backwards and forwards and everyone got more and more heated. People began to swear at each other and there was lots of noise. It soon became clear that Fairchild, having delivered his pre-arranged messages, was not going to answer any further questions, and the audience began to turn upon itself, with the lobbyist leading what Sam soon categorised as 'the opp
osition'. After a few more words, Tyler Fairchild and the PR woman melted away.
Sam put a hand on Amanda’s arm.
“It's pointless,” she said. “They aren't going to listen to us. We'll just end up shouting at one another.”
“Maybe, but I'm damned if I'm going to let that blue-nailed cow leave without a word in her shell-like!” Amanda marched over to the Manchester lobbyist and faced her.
“Are you local? Planning to move here? Or are you just a paid troublemaker from Manchester?”
“I don't have to answer to you,” she said.
“Yes, you bloody do! Because if you're not local, and if you're not buying a house on Jessop's Field, what’s it got to do with you? I reckon you’re here because you're being paid by Anglo Homes!” Amanda pushed her face close to Ms Blue Nails and Sam started to wonder if there would be a fight. Tom obviously thought there would be, and quickly came between the two women before Amanda took a swing.
“Now, let's be civilised,” he said firmly.
“It's easy to be civilised when you already have a nice cosy property in Sherton!” said leather jacket. “You're just NIMBYs, that's what you are!”
“What's a NIMBY?” Mrs Pratchett asked Jenny.
“It stands for Not In My Back Yard,” Jenny said.
Mrs Pratchett swelled with indignation. “It's not my back yard, it's our heritage!” she snapped. “I want to save Jessop's Field for future generations! Not in my back yard indeed...”
“What bollocks!” Leather jacket sneered and thrust out his jaw towards her. Not to be outdone, Mrs Pratchett squared up to him and for one wild moment, Sam thought the widow would head butt him. Jenny also seemed to think the same, because she took Mrs Pratchett firmly by the arm and led her away.
“Don't waste your breath Dorothy,” was all she said, throwing a contemptuous glance at him. “He's an idiot.”
Leather Jacket made as if to go after them both, but Tom and Sam both closed ranks, blocking his path. A little startled by the size of the vicar—Tom was over six foot—he slunk off, muttering.
Sam shook her head in disbelief.
“This is unbelievable,” she said quietly. “Like a zoo.”
“People get pretty het up over places to live, dear,” drawled the lobbyist with the blue nails. “Like he said—you're just NIMBYs. I imagine if this represented a chance for you to get a home, you'd care a lot less about disturbing the bloody wildlife.”
“We're not asking for there to be no development—just not a development there,” Sam tried for a reasonable tone.
“So it doesn’t disturb your view?”
“It's not just my view! And it's not just about the bloody view anyway! Did you not hear a thing we said, or are you paid to be deaf?” Sam bit out, finally fed up with her and losing her temper. The woman looked shifty and started to edge away.
“I've a right to my opinion,” she said stiffly and flounced off. Sam let out a breath.
“Yo, bruiser,” remarked Amanda, grinning at her. She looked round the rapidly emptying room and called to the vicar.
“Hey Tom—I could do with a drink—are you buying?”
Tom, who was with Jenny and trying to keep a flushed Mrs Pratchett from assaulting anyone who disagreed with her, nodded heartily.
They decamped to the pub.
17
Jonas was lying mortified in bed next to Geraldine, who, despite her denial that all was fine, clearly wasn't happy. It was the first time ever he’d not been able to perform in bed. His penis flopped against his leg, testament to his failure.
“Of course I understand darling, it's not an issue,” Gerry was saying.
“I'm sorry. Perhaps I'm more tired than I thought,” he mumbled.
“Don't worry, Jonas! I'm a silly for not remembering how ill you've been,” she said, in a husky voice.
Jonas threw off the bedclothes and reached for his robe.
“Although perhaps you ought to talk to the doctor about it the next time you see him?” Jonas looked at the floor.
“Of course.”
Geraldine looked about the room. “Mind you, I do wonder if it's something to do with this house,” she continued. “It's awfully old-fashioned, nothing like your apartment in Manchester.”
He looked at her in amazement.
“The house? Gerry, it's got nothing to do with the house!”
She shrugged her slim shoulders, the covers slipping down to display her tanned body. Jonas looked away.
“No, of course not, it's your illness.” There was a pause. “How long did the doctor say your recuperation would take?”
“Don't fancy the wait?” asked Jonas, stung into unreasonableness.
Her mouth dropped open a little, and then she frowned.
“I think that's a little unfair,” she said, some of the huskiness leaving her voice. “All I wanted to know was how long you might be—out of action, so to speak—so I didn't pressurise you...”
“Thanks.” Jonas raked his hands through his hair, recognising he was being an arse, but strangely unable to stop himself.
She folded her arms over her magnificent breasts.
“Look Jonas, I'm sorry—really sorry—about tonight, but unless there's something you're not telling me, it's hardly my fault. Don’t take it out on me!”
Jonas tried to recall the last time they'd had sex. Lord, had it been before his illness? This virus hadn’t just affected his energy levels, it was now affecting his libido.
The thought of Sam Winterson's nipples in that dratted sweater a month ago waved at him over his subconscious. He pushed it away.
He looked at Gerry, with her blonde hair falling over shoulders like a golden waterfall. He'd liked her appetite for lovemaking, she'd been unashamed and adventurous in bed. They'd taken great pleasure in each other's bodies.
But now—nothing.
Geraldine was looking grumpy. Hardly surprising—for someone who had sex regularly, this was a disaster—he'd been out of action for the last two months. It wasn’t fair on her, he thought.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I book us a holiday somewhere hot? Mauritius or somewhere? I haven’t had a holiday in a while, and it can be just the two of us.”
Gerry looked at him and a slow smile spread across her face. She reached and took his face in her hands and kissed him gently and slowly. Jonas knew this was an attempt to arouse him, and also knew that it wasn’t working. After a minute, he drew away.
“So—is that a yes?” he said.
She looked at him for a long time before reaching for the glass of champagne which was sitting on the bedside table.
“Sounds fabulous, but don’t spring the dates on me. I have some big openings to attend through the summer.”
She took a sip and carefully replaced the glass. “I'm sorry you couldn’t—you know,” she added.
“Mmm. But I am tired, you're right.” Jonas lay down on his side of the bed. Now he thought about it, he was completely knackered.
“Well, hopefully you’ll soon get better. The holiday is a sweet idea. Thank you.”
He could hear her voice from far away.
“Perhaps tomorrow night we could try again? When you're rested?”
“Mmm...”
A couple of hours later, Jonas stirred. The bed beside him was empty and he forced his eyes open to see Geraldine in the armchair, looking at her phone, texting. As he watched, the phone buzzed softly, and she looked at a message. A smile curled her lips.
“Gerry?” he murmured. She looked at him, startled.
“Sorry—message from the States,” she said softly, switching off her phone.
“All ok?” Jonas said, barely awake.
“Yes, all fine.”
She put the phone into her bag and climbed into bed.
Sam put her drink on the table and looked at Amanda’s animated face.
“We have a very rare bat on the site! Protected under UK and EU law!” Amanda said excitedly to Sam as
they sat in the pub. She peered at her notebook. “Myotis bechsteinii, to be precise. They have the highest level of statutory protection in the UK.”
“Wow. Who knew?” Sam grinned over the top of her gin and tonic. “Does this mean they can’t build?”
“Sadly not, but it does mean they have to have a licence before they start any work.”
Sam looked at her.
“So? What happens next?”
“We ask for an independent ecologist to get involved, one with a bat licence.”
Bat licence? thought Sam, smothering a giggle.
“Mrs Pratchett is even now plotting to raise money to pay the ecologist’s fees—you should have seen Desmond’s face when he thought he might have to put his hand in his pocket!” Amanda laughed. “Apparently the local authority can’t agree the development without taking into account whether Nature UK is likely to give a licence,” she continued.
“Might they not?” Sam looked at Amanda sharply.
“Luke couldn’t say, but these bats are on the verge of extinction, so that should stand for something!”
“Luke?”
Amanda flushed lightly.
“Luke Pearson, from Nature UK. He’s an expert, you know. In bats. He’s one of the foremost authorities in the country.”
“Sound like he made quite an impression,” Sam said, watching closely as Amanda’s eyes went a little unfocused.
“Well, I got his number, obviously. And he took mine.”
Sam gaped a little.
“Just like that?”
“Are you kidding? When someone's got a smile like that, you don't hang around.”
“How do you know he's single?”
“No wedding ring, and anyway, I get feelings about people and I think he's a good 'un. Plus I'm going to check him out on Facebook later,” Amanda added as an afterthought.
Sam rolled her eyes.
“On the basis of a thirty-minute meeting—which wasn't even private!—you've given him your number?”
Amanda gave her a serious look.
“D'you know, Sam, sometimes I wonder about you. Don't you know when something's right? When someone looks at you and smiles and your body starts a little jig of celebration?”
The Garden Plot Page 15
