by Jo Carnegie
Brenda pulled a mock curtsey, ‘OK, Mrs S-F.’ They gravitated over to where Stacey was, Sandra pulling a face behind Clementine’s back.
Gradually more people filed in: the Fox-Titts, a few of Clementine’s bridge-playing friends, Lucinda and Nico, Eunice and Dora Merryweather. Camilla was there with Angus, who goggled at Stacey’s cleavage each time she passed by. Babs Sax swayed into the room with her eyes slightly crossed and red lipstick all over her front teeth.
‘She’s obviously been at the sherry already,’ Stacey whispered to Camilla.
Lady Fraser had even made a rare village outing with Harriet. Normally she and Ambrose wouldn’t have been seen dead at any social gathering with a head count of less than five hundred, but, although she would never have admitted it to anyone, Lady Frances Fraser had had rather a crush on Devon Cornwall in her youth. Tonight, curiosity had got the better of her: would he still be a bit of a dish after all these years?
‘Camilla, where is your sister?’ Clementine beckoned Camilla over to the other side of the room, where she had just been discussing the quality of afternoon tea at Claridges with Mitzy Gibbs-Bourke. The room had filled up nicely; there was a buzz of conversation above the tink of glasses. But the guest of honour hadn’t turned up yet, and there was only an hour to go.
‘Calypso?’ replied Camilla. As far as she knew Caro had been let off coming because Milo wasn’t very well.
‘Yes, she was meant to be here an hour ago!’ Clementine looked at her watch. ‘She promised she’d be here on time. Honestly, that girl won’t be on time for her own funeral.’
Which is what it will be if Calypso leaves it any longer, thought Camilla. As if on cue, her younger sister sashayed in. With Sam, who was dressed in camouflage army trousers and a tight pink T-shirt with ‘Helmet Hater’ emblazoned across it. Camilla’s innards curdled.
‘Good lord!’ said Clementine. ‘Who on earth is that? I thought I’d seen it all with Calypso’s wardrobe.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know, when one was young one dressed how God intended; like a lady.’ She suddenly spotted an old friend and bustled off, much to Camilla’s relief. Watching her grandmother cross the room, Camilla noticed that Freddie Fox-Titt had been cornered by Eunice and Dora, who were both talking at once, while Babs Sax was deep in conversation with Nico Reinard, spilling her glass of wine as she gesticulated madly.
Camilla was about to walk over to her sister and Sam, when there was a loud scream from the corner of the room. Brenda and Sandra were looking out of the window on to the drive, clutching each other. Everyone turned to look.
‘It’s him!’ they shrieked in unison. ‘Devon Cornwall!’ Sandra pretended to swoon and Brenda caught her, giggling.
‘Kevin Who?’ said the husband of Mitzy Gibbs-Bourke, who was rather hard of hearing.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Clementine, bustling out to the front hall to open the door. A grim-faced Devon stood on the step with Nigel, who was smiling broadly. Another shriek came from behind Clementine. She winced in embarrassment and smiled back. ‘Mr Cornwall, Nigel, we’re delighted you could make it. Come in, please.’
Devon was certainly not delighted to be there. He’d been engrossed in a really good book about spiritual practices in the Himalayas, and Nigel had practically had to drag him out. And now here he was, in this fusty old house full of people gawking at him. Especially the two old trouts in the corner. They looked like they wanted to take him upstairs for a threesome. Devon shuddered at the thought.
‘Do come this way,’ Clementine artfully steered Devon past Sandra and Brenda into the drawing room. Instantly, Babs Sax was on them, fluttering two-inch-long false eyelashes and breathing sherry fumes in Devon’s face.
‘I’m Babs,’ she said, holding out a gnarly hand decked with rings. It was as cold as ice. ‘Darling, as a fellow artist I know the pain of living amongst cultural heathens,’ she slurred. ‘You must come and see me if you feel like you are dying a death and need to spread your wings of creativity!’
Who is this hideous, insect-like creature? thought Devon as Babs staggered off in search of Stacey and the drinks tray. Clementine propelled him onwards. ‘Come and meet our host for the evening, the Reverend Arthur Goody. He does quite marvellous work here in the parish, you know, and . . .’
From across the room, Lady Frances Fraser eyed Devon surreptitiously. He was rather handsome still. One could have let oneself go like that scruffy Keith Richards, but Devon looked more like Sting, instead, with a healthy complexion and a lean, strong body. He was slightly crinkly around the eyes, but at least he had all his own hair. Which was cut respectably short and not in some awful eighties throwback ponytail.
Devon was scanning the room, and immediately caught her eye. There was a strange, electrically charged moment between them before Frances blushed and lost her usual composure. She quickly looked away and feigned interest in a watercolour on the wall. Devon had only a second to contemplate the elegant, attractive blonde woman, before being steered firmly towards a man in a dog collar who reminded him of Penfold from Dangermouse.
An hour later, Devon was getting bored. The party was thinning out and he hadn’t seen the elegant blonde again. For the past twenty minutes, he’d been stuck talking to a stuttering vicar about the damp in his pulpit. Before that, he’d enjoyed a quick chat with Angie Fox-Titt, who’d proved sexy and fun with her enticing eyes and lively wit. Some of the women round here were lookers, Devon reflected to himself, even though he’d sworn off them for life after his last marriage. But that ice queen . . . Devon shook himself and looked round for Nigel, who was chatting to a slightly worse-for-wear Freddie. Nigel noticed his boss was becoming restless, and a moment later excused himself and appeared at Devon’s elbow.
‘Nige, I’m dying. I’ve talked to the Reverend Toody or whatever his name is, I’ve been harassed by two women who wanted me to sign their norks, and I got stuck with some old dear banging on about how good-looking Richard Whitely used to be. Me ’ead’s about to explode. Can we do one?’
‘I’m having rather a good time, actually,’ Nigel chortled, an empty glass of wine in his hand. ‘I’ve met some real characters.’ Devon’s brow darkened. ‘All right, all right, let’s say our goodbyes. Better get you back home before you turn into a pumpkin.’
It was ten thirty and the Reverend had just poured the last guests out of the front door. Jack Turner hadn’t listened to Clementine’s plea and ended up providing a huge amount of wine: ‘It was bargain bucket stuff I couldn’t sell in the pub anyway.’ And most of the guests had stumbled home completely blotto. Including Eunice Merryweather, who had to be retrieved by Lucinda Reinard from the Reverend’s privet bush.
Clementine, Camilla and Angus were in the drawing room. Calypso and Sam were nowhere to be seen. ‘They must have gone already, I barely had a chance to talk to them all night,’ remarked Clementine. ‘Samantha seems like a rather odd girl, though.’
‘That’s one way of putting it!’ chortled Angus, who was several sheets to the wind.
Clementine shot him a quizzical look and Camilla squeezed his knee a little too hard just as the Revd Goody came back into the room, rubbing his hands. ‘That all went rather well, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, there was a good turnout,’ said Clementine. ‘I hope Mr Cornwall enjoyed himself. I did hear you extolling the virtues of St Bartholomew’s, excellent work, Reverend. Now, we must be off.’
The Revd Goody showed them out to the hallway and helped Clementine with her coat.
‘Hold on, ladies,’ boomed Angus. ‘I must pop to the little boys’ room, first.’ He pulled open the door of the downstairs loo, which was situated right off the hallway. Camilla’s hands flew to her mouth as they were all confronted with a full view of Calypso and Sam, frantically snogging the faces off each other. Her sister was sitting on the sink, with her legs wrapped around Sam’s trunk-like middle. They were so engrossed in each other that they didn’t realize they had an audience.
‘Good lor
d!’ exclaimed Clementine. ‘Calypso, what are you doing?’ Calypso screamed in horror and leapt apart from Sam like a scalded cat. She then burst into tears and rushed down the hall and out of the front door.
Sam looked at them belligerently. ‘Well, excuse me!’ she huffed and pulled the door shut.
Outside in the hallway, there was a deathly silence. Then Clementine continued fastening the buttons on her coat, her face like granite. ‘Reverend, I do apologize for my granddaughter’s disgraceful behaviour.’
‘Oh no, really . . .’ he spluttered.
‘I will be having words with her, I can assure you,’ Clementine announced. ‘Goodnight.’ She swept out, a stunned Camilla and Angus following in her wake.
‘Of all the things!’ Clementine said, as they walked down the front path.
Camilla hurried to catch up as she strode along. ‘Granny, I am so sorry you had to find out about Calypso like that . . .’
‘I have never seen such a disgusting thing in all my life!’ continued Clementine.
‘Granny, please!’ Camilla pleaded. ‘I know it’s a shock, but just because Calypso’s dating a – er – girl, well, it doesn’t make her a bad person.’
Clementine stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that!’
‘You aren’t?’ Camilla was confused.
‘Of course not. Heavens, my first crush was on a wonderful creature called Angelica Featherbrook. She was in the year above me at school, gave me my first orgasm in the fourth-floor dormitory you know. Girls will be girls; I’m sure it’s a phase, anyway. No, what I am extremely cross about is the way Calypso has conducted herself. She is a Standington-Fulthrope and cannot be seen carousing like a gutter tramp in downstairs lavatories! She must learn to conduct herself correctly in public, and I for one will be telling her so.’ With that, Clementine swept off ahead of them.
Camilla’s jaw was still sitting on the road where it had just dropped after her grandmother’s revelation. A strange gargling noise sounded in her throat, and she couldn’t seem to speak. Angus was more vocal.
‘What, your grandmother used to be a lezzer?’ he asked in a horrified tone.
Camilla finally found her voice again. ‘Oh Angus, shut up!’
Chapter 21
THE ANNUAL PARISH meeting was on 1 May. After an unseasonably grey and wet April, the weather had changed for the better. Fluffy white clouds scudded across bright blue skies, like a frieze in a child’s nursery. The sun had finally decided to make an appearance, and shone down on the village. The countryside, wet and sodden for most of the last month, now looked green and lush. The hedgerows were full of life: wild flowers peeked out from the shiny dense foliage, while rabbits and birds nestled beneath them.
Held in the back room of the Jolly Boot, the parish meeting usually turned into a rather raucous, lively occasion in the bar next door. But, first and foremost, it was a chance for the local residents to raise and address any pressing issues, fundraising ideas and forthcoming social events, and indeed anything village-related.
The day before, Clementine had received a very worrying phone call from one of her old friends, Humphrey Greenwood, who was high up in the county council. Clementine was surprised to hear from him – he was a busy man these days and normally sent one of his representatives to parish meetings on his behalf. Humphrey’s usual jovial voice sounded strained.
‘Humph? What’s up?’ Clementine wasted no time with preamble.
He hesitated. ‘Clementine, I just wanted to let you know I shall be attending the meeting tomorrow. I am afraid I have some rather serious news that I want to tell you all personally.’
‘Good God, man, out with it. What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you at the moment. Damn procedures,’ Humphrey said. ‘So sorry to keep you hanging like this, old girl, but I just wanted to warn you there is going to be a rather big announcement tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’
As Clementine replaced the receiver, she knew it was bad news. Her hand clutched her throat. What on earth could it be?
Desperate for someone to talk to, Clementine mentioned the phone call to Brenda later that day, and, predictably, by that evening the news was all round the village.
Still, it wasn’t a bad thing, reflected Clementine, looking round the warm, cosy room at the back of the pub as she waited for the meeting to begin. They had never had such a large turnout. All the chairs were taken and people were even standing up, squashed against the walls. Tension hung in the air. Freddie and Angie Fox-Titt were there, the Revd Goody, Lucinda and Nico, the Turners from the pub, Mrs Bantry, Camilla and Harriet . . . Even Sir Ambrose and Lady Fraser were present, looking slightly uncomfortable as they squeezed round a small table.
Stephen and Klaus had also made an appearance, looking wonderfully flamboyant in matching white jeans, cowboy boots and flowing flowery smocks. Aged sixty-two and forty-three respectively, the two men ran a hugely successful furniture-making business just off Sloane Square. Despite the age difference, the couple had been together for years and were utterly devoted to each other. They lived in London, but had a weekend cottage next door to Pearl Potts and loved coming down to recharge their batteries. Last year Harpers Bazaar had hailed them the new Lord Linleys of the bespoke cabinet world.
Jed was also there, sitting beside his mother. As Stacey squeezed past to go to the loo she rubbed herself against him provocatively, but Jed just stared stonily ahead. The villagers would never have guessed that, just two hours earlier, Stacey had been bouncing around on top of him screeching like a banshee.
At 7.32 p.m., Humphrey bustled in with his secretary, and two other colleagues from the council who Clementine recognized vaguely. The room went quiet.
At the front of the room, Humphrey got straight down to it. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to say it was a pleasure to be here, but I do have a rather serious announcement.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Four days ago, I received correspondence from Whitehall. I don’t know if any of you have been following the news recently, but the Prime Minister Gordon Brown has been under huge pressure to address the issue of overcrowding in our cities. Last week’s riots in Stockwell, over families being forced to share houses by Lambeth Council, have provoked what some might say is a knee-jerk reaction. Consequently, a new law is about to be passed that will allow areas of Green Belt land to be put up for sale around Gloucestershire.’
A pin could have been heard to drop in the room as Humphrey continued. ‘One piece of land within this area that could be affected is the Meadows.’
Clementine started to feel faintly sick. The Meadows was a fifty-acre woodland site on the south-western outskirts of Churchminster. It was not far from her front door. Until a hundred years ago, it had been used for farming, and then it had been left to grow and flourish as an unofficial area of natural beauty. Clementine had spent her childhood summers playing in the Meadows, and now spent many an hour walking Errol Flynn there.
As if sensing her thoughts, Humphrey looked over at Clementine briefly before continuing. ‘Due to the new law, that piece of land has been earmarked for development, and it is now going to be sold off.’
‘Sold off for what?’ asked a confused Freddie Fox-Titt.
Humphrey looked very apologetic. ‘For housing.’
‘We’re going to get a bloody big housing estate in Churchminster?’ boomed Sir Ambrose Fraser, looking appalled. Frances put a placatory hand on her husband’s arm.
‘It looks that way,’ said Humphrey. ‘Er, in fact an offer has already been put in by a developer called Sid Sykes. Sykes Estates are big in the building industry. There are quite a few of them around the country.’
Howls of protest went up round the room. Only a few months ago, Sykes Estates had been the subject of a Watchdog programme, and accused of exploiting cheap labour and using building materials unfit for purpose. The estates were notorious for squeezing as many cheap, ugly, box-like houses in as possible, but s
omehow Sid Sykes had escaped investigation. A brash, vulgar, self-made millionaire, there were dark mutterings that he had paid the right people off.
‘This is awful! We can’t have a Sykes Estate here! It will dwarf the village!’ exclaimed Lucinda. Even the normally laid-back Nico was nodding vigorously in agreement.
‘We’ll have bloody young kids trying to get served in the pub and causing no end of bother,’ shouted Jack Turner.
‘And they’ll all have ASBOs, I’ve seen Crimewatch,’ squawked Brenda Briggs. ‘Oh lawks, this is awful!’
The room erupted into a babble of worried and angry voices. Humphrey tried to restore calm. ‘Ladies! Gentlemen! PLEASE. I understand this is unsettling news to take in, but do try to keep some perspective.’
‘Easy for you to say. You don’t live here!’ someone shouted angrily. Humphrey flushed various unbecoming shades of red.
Clementine couldn’t bear it any longer. She stood up. ‘Humphrey, is this definitely going to happen? Have we no say over the future of our village?’
‘It’s ninety-nine per cent likely to happen,’ he admitted. ‘All I know at the moment is that the Meadows is coming up for auction. The council will accept an offer from the highest bidder.’ He looked round the room, pleading for some support. ‘Even if it does get sold to Sykes Estates, think what the money can do for the county. Improve public transport, local schools . . .’
Angry jeers and boos echoed around the room. Humphrey began to fear for his personal safety; the crowd was becoming distinctly mob-like. But Clementine suddenly felt the faintest glimmer of hope. She interrupted the hubbub, her loud, strident voice claiming attention.
‘Hold on, hold on everyone! Right.’ She turned to Humphrey. ‘What you are saying is that the land is going to be sold off to the best offer? It doesn’t automatically have to be sold to that horrible little man for a grotty housing estate?’
