by Simon Brett
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Though the coup that was announced on the Monday evening at Hiawatha was not Quintus Braithwaite’s, characteristically he wanted to claim credit for it. So he took a long time to weave his introduction to the evening’s undoubted star.
‘… and I like to think that our efforts on the SPCS Action Committee have helped to raise the profile of Polly’s Cake Shop and the issue of its survival and the form in which it survives. It is often the case – frequently through the input of organizations like this one which I have initiated – that ground-roots lobbying produces better results than approaches through more official channels. And I think that is undoubtedly the case in this instance.
‘I am very pleased that my idea of bringing Kent Warboys into our discussions has proved so fruitful. Because Kent has some news for us.’
The Commodore smiled patronizingly at the younger man, as though introducing his protégé. Jude remembered what Sara had told her about Kent being interested in Polly’s Cake Shop long before Quintus Braithwaite ever talked to him about it.
But the architect wasn’t about to mention that fact. If the Chair of the SPCS Action Committee wanted to take on unmerited glory, that didn’t bother him.
Instead, he grinned around at the group in Hiawatha’s sitting room. (There was a much better turnout than there had been the previous Wednesday. The announcement of an ‘EGM’ prompted cheering hopes for some scandal or disaster.)
‘The fact is,’ said Kent Warboys, ‘that you are currently looking at the owner of Polly’s Cake Shop.’
The committee burst into spontaneous applause.
‘My lawyers completed the necessary formalities on Friday. I paid the asking price for the premises, though some of my commercial estate-agent advisers thought it was rather steep.’
So Josie Achter had got her pound of flesh, thought Jude; then had a momentary anxiety that the reference might be thought anti-Semitic. She reassured herself that it wasn’t, but reflected how cautious Josie’s hypersensitivity on the subject had made her.
‘But my concern,’ Kent Warboys continued, ‘has always been – even if it meant paying a bit over the odds – to secure the Polly’s Cake Shop premises for the community of Fethering. And that has now been achieved.
‘My plans for the development of the site – you know, for the affordable housing at the back – are still being finalized. Then they’ll have to go through the local planning process—’
‘Which can be a nightmare,’ interrupted Arnold Bloom, who knew about such matters (and also thought that Quintus Braithwaite and Kent Warboys had so far monopolized the evening’s proceedings to his disadvantage).
‘Yes, I agree it can be.’ Kent Warboys smiled knowingly. ‘But I do like to think I have a good track record with them … after the work I’ve done on the Smalting Lifeboat Centre and the Clincham Haymarket Gallery.’ Once again the names of these projects drew approving nods from the committee. If the Polly’s Cake Shop development matched the standards of those two environment-friendly schemes, no one would have any worries.
‘So I like to think I’ve built up a level of trust – even respect – with the local planning committees. They are aware of the architectural values that I hold dear. As I always say to them, “I’m a Warboy, not a Cowboy.”’ This was clearly a line he’d used on many occasions, but it still brought a friendly titter from the assembly. ‘So I’m optimistic about the response we’re likely to get from the planners. Though it’ll all take time, of course, I’m aware of that, I am confident that the outcome will be positive.’
‘But I think, Kent,’ said Quintus Braithwaite, fearing he was losing his central position in the evening’s proceedings, ‘that you have something even more important to announce to the committee.’
‘Yes, I was getting there.’ The architect spoke without reproof. If he was riled by the Commodore’s obsessive stage-managing of the evening, he didn’t let it show.
‘The main point is that since I am – or rather my company, Warboys Heritage Construction is – now the owner of Polly’s, I can decide what happens to the place in the immediate future – you know, before we get into the business of planning and structural work.
‘And what I would like to do is to move as quickly as possible to running Polly’s Cake Shop as a Community Project just in the way that this committee envisages!’
This was the big announcement of the evening and it was greeted with warm and sustained applause.
‘What you mean,’ asked Wendy Roote, who liked to have everything in her life clearly defined, ‘is that Josie Achter is no longer in charge of Polly’s Cake Shop but we are?’
‘That is exactly what I mean.’
‘And does Josie know about that?’
‘Yes. I’ve had a few meetings with her – and your Treasurer sat in on a couple of them.’ Alec Walters inclined his head to confirm this. ‘But Josie Achter seemed completely unconcerned about what happened to the café after she’d sold it.’
‘So how would the day-to-day running of the place work?’ Wendy persisted.
‘What I’m proposing in the short term,’ Kent Warboys replied, ‘is that the café will continue to be run by the existing staff, for whom I will pick up the tab, paying them exactly what Josie Achter did, until we’ve sorted out how it’s going to work with the community running it.’
‘But how do we know,’ said Arnold Bloom, ‘that you won’t find that running the place yourself is rather lucrative and you’ll want to keep on being in charge?’
‘I can assure you,’ said Kent Warboys evenly, still showing no signs of annoyance, ‘that amongst the many ambitions I have held at one time or another, running a café is not one of them. No, I’m just talking about the next few weeks, while you’re sorting out how the community organization of the place is going to work.’
‘Well, it’ll be done by volunteers,’ said Quintus Braithwaite, as though the answer was self-evident.
‘Right, if that’s the way it’s going to be done, fine.’
‘My wife Phoebe is highly skilled in organizing volunteers. While we were posted in Dar es Salaam, she established a wonderful organization to set up coffee mornings for the wives of local sailors. All done by volunteers.’
‘Excellent. I’m sure there are many people in Fethering whose talents we can call on to ensure the smooth running of the project. But it is going to take a few weeks to get the whole thing up and running.’
‘Not long, you know.’ The Commodore chuckled. ‘In the Navy we have a reputation for sorting things out quickly. We’ll have the volunteers’ rota set up in no time.’
‘Well, let’s see how that goes,’ said Kent Warboys. ‘You just keep me informed of your timescale. Fortunately we’re entering a time of the year when business at Polly’s slackens off, so we should be able to make the changes gradually.’
‘I think what we need to do,’ enthused Lesley Tarquin, ‘is to have a major relaunch when the café’s taken over by the community. That’s the kind of project the local press loves – ticks all the right boxes about sustainability, historical continuity and Big Society enterprise. We could get just mega-coverage for an event like that.’
‘Excellent idea,’ said Quintus Braithwaite, who was still not very good at concealing his attraction towards the youngest and most glamorous member of his committee. She was looking very good that day in a shocking pink top and silver leggings. In spite of her greyed hair, she still contrived to make all the other women present look frumpy.
‘I was thinking it might be good to have the launch just before Christmas,’ said Lesley. ‘I’ve done some market research with local traders and they say the Parade gets busy round then. Be a good time to stage a massive media blitz.’
‘Good thinking,’ said the Commodore. ‘We’ll discuss the fine-tuning at the next meeting.’
‘Could I just ask one thing?’ said Jude, ‘Is the plan for Polly’s, once it becomes a Community Proj
ect, to have the entire business run by volunteers?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ asked the Commodore.
‘Well, I’d have thought there might be an argument for employing a paid manager to keep an eye on—’
‘Nonsense! We won’t need anyone like that.’ Quintus Braithwaite was beginning to sound distinctly testy.
‘Also,’ asked Flora Claire, ‘how soon should we start exploring the other uses we’re going to put the café to? Can we do that straight away – you know, developing a Mindfulness Centre and—?’
‘There will not be any bloody Mindfulness Centre!’ came the even testier reply.
‘And will Polly’s have to close down for a while?’ asked Wendy Roote. ‘You know, for refurbishment?’
Kent Warboys fielded that one. ‘I had thought of that possibility. And as a gesture of goodwill, and because I believe strongly in helping start-ups, my company is prepared to put up twenty grand for any basic refurbishment that’s required, so that doesn’t have to come out of the SPCS Action Committee budget.’
Through the applause that greeted this, Arnold Bloom was heard to ask whether the SPCS Action Committee actually had a budget. The Commodore assured him that it was all in the hands of their Treasurer. Alec Walters agreed that the budget was in his hands, but wished to point out that the SPCS Action Committee did not actually have any funds. Kent Warboys’ offer of twenty grand was very generous, but maybe they should also think of other forms of fundraising.
Quintus Braithwaite then took it upon himself to give the Treasurer and everyone else present a lesson in economics. ‘Fundraising may be necessary in time, though I doubt if it actually will. Now the major costs of running a small business like Polly’s Cake Shop is always going to be paying the staff. There are obviously other expenses like maintenance of the building, purchase of the food and drink, but those are tiny next to the staffing. And of course, the way this place is going to be run from now on, we won’t have any staffing costs!’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Wendy Roote.
‘What I’m saying is that when Polly’s is up and running as a Community Project, we won’t have any paid staff. It will all be run by volunteers!’
‘Do you mean,’ asked Jude, thinking of Sara Courtney’s job, ‘that all the existing staff are going to be sacked?’
‘That’s a harsh way of putting it, Jude. The existing staff will be given notice and, if they wish to, they will work out their notice in accordance with the existing employment laws. And after they’ve left, any of them will of course be at liberty to come back as volunteers.’
‘Unpaid?’ asked Jude.
‘That is normally what the word “volunteer” implies.’
Jude was tempted to launch into a diatribe about how such working arrangements might be fine for Phoebe and her circle of Joannas or Samanthas, whose husband’s salaries and pensions could fund whatever daytime activities they chose to indulge in. But how the situation was rather different for people like Sara. And probably for people like Binnie the waitress and Hammo the cook.
But before she could manage to introduce some social politics into the proceedings, Flora Claire raised another issue. ‘I think, like, it’s really good that Kent has, like, made this offer of twenty grand. That’s really cool, but I think we should, like, prioritize how that money’s going to be spent. You know, like, can we agree to put, say, five grand of it aside to develop the Mindfulness Centre element of Polly’s? And how are we going to fund the start-up of the Naturopathy bit of the—?’
‘Listen!’ Quintus Braithwaite roared. ‘All of these questions can and will be dealt with at a separate committee meeting … where I am sure they will be treated with the seriousness that they deserve.’ There was a distinctly sceptical sneer in the last few words. ‘The sole purpose of tonight’s EGM was for Kent to pass on to us the glad news that his company now owns Polly’s Cake Shop. Which is the first of what I’m sure will be many triumphs for the SPCS Action Committee that I set up. The fine-tuning we will sort out at a later date. The only decision we need to make tonight is about the change of name for the café.’
‘Why does it need a change of name?’ asked Jude.
Arnold Bloom agreed. ‘It’s been Polly’s Cake Shop on Fethering Parade for years. It’s a local landmark. We don’t want to change that.’
‘I think we need to,’ the Chair countered, ‘to symbolize the new direction the café will be taking.’
‘We need no such thing. What the Fethering community always wants is continuity. We find that with almost every issue that is brought up at the Fethering Village Committee. To change the name would be—’
‘I think we should put this to the vote straight away,’ said Quintus Braithwaite, keen to take advantage of the supportive mood of the committee. ‘By a show of hands. If you agree that Polly’s Cake Shop should henceforth be known as Polly’s Community Café, will you please—?’
‘You can’t do that!’ protested Arnold Bloom. ‘That word “community” is the kiss of death to any commercial enterprise.’ Jude was surprised. He was the last person she would have expected to share the views of Carole Seddon.
The Commodore continued unperturbed, ‘So those in favour of the change of name, please raise your right hand …’
He won the vote overwhelmingly, and derived great pleasure from the expression of disgruntlement on Arnold Bloom’s face.
‘So what I wish to do now is to close this meeting and to …’ he raised his voice, shouting towards the kitchen ‘… ask the lovely Phoebe to bring in the champagne with which we are going to toast Kent Warboys’ good news!’
The lovely Phoebe, who had been waiting for her cue behind the kitchen door, came hurrying in to the sitting room with trays of champagne bottles and flutes to celebrate this wonderful breakthrough.
During the impromptu party that followed, Arnold Bloom was heard to mutter that the SPCS Action Committee wasn’t Quintus Braithwaite’s own bloody project, it was a Community bloody Project for all the residents of Fethering. And he reiterated that, though he was a great supporter of the principle of ‘community’, the use of the word attached to any business project was the ‘absolute kiss of death’.
Arnold was also heard to mutter that he wasn’t ‘the kind of man to be bought off by bribes of the Braithwaites’ champagne’. That didn’t stop him from drinking quite a lot of it, though.
SEVENTEEN
It was two days later that Jude received a telephonic summons from Phoebe Braithwaite. Could she come at ten o’clock the following morning, the Thursday, for coffee at Hiawatha? Jude suggested it might be more convenient for them to meet at the Crown and Anchor or Polly’s Cake Shop, but those venues did not fit in with Phoebe’s preconceived plans. Maybe, like her husband, she liked to ensure home advantage.
Part of Jude wanted to tell Phoebe to get lost, but saying something like that was not in her nature. She was intrigued too as to what her conspiratorial hostess wanted to talk to her about. And a residual investigative instinct in connection with Amos Green’s death made her want to glean any information she could about anyone with a connection to Polly’s Cake Shop.
Jude felt her customary claustrophobia as she entered the Shorelands Estate. Though the main gates were never closed it did still have the feeling of a ‘gated community’. The list of regulations behind glass on a board nearby also seemed designed to discourage freedom. Presumably the Shorelands residents knew when they were allowed to mow their lawns and hang out their washing, so having the list as the first thing visitors saw presumably had the sole aim of making them realize just how exclusive the estate was.
The whole complex with its huge, expensive, well-spaced houses in a variety of architectural styles felt about as welcoming to Jude as Colditz.
She hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe this would be a large meeting with a lot of Joannas and Samanthas. But it was clear when she arrived and was ushered into the state-of-the-art kitchen that the occasion was just g
oing to be a tête-à-tête for her and Phoebe Braithwaite.
While her hostess busied herself with the state-of-the-art Italian coffee machine, Jude looked out at the best view of the house. A long, over-titivated garden, all of whose plants had been dragooned into straight lines, sloped down towards a tall fence with double gates in it. Beyond that, because of the gradient, the mess of dunes, shingle and khaki sand could not be seen. Just the sparkling of the English Channel, which turned bluer the further it was away from the shore.
Against the fence at the end of the garden stood a neat hut and a blue rowing boat on a manoeuvrable two-wheeled trailer. Along the top of the fence and gates were coils of razor wire. Undesirable people would at all costs be kept out of the Shorelands Estate.
‘Anyway,’ said Phoebe as she placed their coffees on the table (showing off the range of her Italian machine, she was having a skinny latte, Jude a cappuccino with sugar), ‘the first thing you must do is have a look at this.’ She gestured to an expensive-looking blue cardboard box on the table in front of Jude.
‘May I open it?’
‘Of course.’
The contents were revealed to be very good-quality headed notepaper. Under a naval-looking design involving an anchor and a cannon was the legend: ‘SPCS Action Committee’. Centred beneath that in the same large font were the words: ‘Chair: Commodore Quintus Braithwaite’. No other names featured.
Jude did rather tentatively recall that there had been an agreement that the committee’s other officers should get a name-check, but Phoebe swiftly swept away that objection, saying, ‘No, it’s a design thing. The little girl from the printers who advised us on layout – charming she is, ex-Roedean – said it’d look bolder with just the one name.’
Bolder maybe, thought Jude, but not what the committee voted for. However, she kept her opinion to herself.
Phoebe smiled at her ferociously. ‘Now, I’m sure you’d like to know the reason why I wanted to have this little chat.’
