A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  ‘Well,’ he said ruefully, turning off the main road into the village of Summerstoke, ‘I reckon we’ll find out soon enough, and whatever it is, she’ll make us suffer, you can be sure of that.’

  But on one point, Stephen was wrong – Elsie had decided that until she could see a way through, she would say nothing, to any of them, so that when Alison and Stephen arrived home, there was no sign of her.

  Jenny, when asked by Alison what was ‘eating Gran’, shook her head, ‘I’ve no idea. She hardly exchanged a word with me, not even when I went to collect her supper things, and she refused to come down and watch telly…’

  ‘Sounds like there’s a storm brewing,’ Stephen shook his head gloomily. ‘And I hope it’s not my head it’s gonna break over!’ And in spite of his mother’s protestations that he was, in all things, completely blameless, he went to bed with a heavy heart, his thoughts alternating between broken water pumps, no milk cheques, and the lovely, elusive Nicola, who had smiled so sweetly at him when she had arrived at the start of the rehearsal, and then had said nothing to him for the rest of the evening.

  4

  According to the vicar, whose passion was for local history rather than for his flock, the village of Summerstoke had grown up on the side of a valley where, in the early Middle Ages, the river was shallow enough to cross for a few months in the year. The High Street had once been part of an old drover’s road, which ran down from the Mendip Hills to the river, crossed the valley, and made its way up onto the outlying fingers of the Cotswolds, where it connected with the Fosse Way and other routes across the heartland of old England.

  The ancient track had long since been replaced by a metalled road; the old flood plains had been drained and the river banks built up to prevent any meandering, which meant that a bridge had had to be built to cross the deeper, swifter water, and Summerstoke Bridge now marked the southern boundary of the present-day village. The vicar had proudly produced a pamphlet explaining all this; a small pile had been placed in the church of St Stephens, and visitors were invited to take a copy in return for a modest donation in the ‘honesty box’. The box had remained steadfastly empty, but the vicar was gratified to see the pile dwindle.

  Summerstoke was generally perceived to be a pretty place to live. Its proximity to Bath and Bristol, the motorways and the commuter lines to London meant that house prices were high. On their first visit to Summerstoke, house-hunters would proclaim ecstatically about the church bells, the daily procession of cows along the High Street and the presence of the village shop. Inevitably, once they moved in, those cries became ones of complaint:

  ‘Sunday is meant to be a day of rest… Do those bells have to ring so loud, so often?’

  ‘Those bloody cows – doing their doings all over the road; it must be a health hazard; why does he have to bring them along the High Street?’

  ‘The shop is useless; if I have to go to Sainsbury’s for my smoked oysters, I might as well do the rest of my shopping there! And it’s so expensive – do you know how much they charge for butter?’

  The village shop and post office, struggling for survival, was owned and run by Rita Godwin, Jenny Tucker’s best friend. It was situated right in the middle of the village, next to St Stephen’s, the parish church, the manor house and the pub.

  The Foresters Arms looked hospitable, but it was not a friendly local. It had been turned into a ‘gastro’ pub, employing a chef with a name, and with an eye to inclusion in good food guides. Consequently, it actively discouraged certain of the locals, Lenny Spinks and Charlie Tucker among them, from dropping in for a pint.

  The houses, mostly pre-Victorian, were all stone-roofed and built of honey-coloured sandstone, their front doors opening directly onto the pavement, and large, hidden gardens behind. In more prosperous days, quite a number of the houses had been shops, but these were long gone and they were now all private dwellings known as The Old Bank or The Forge or The Old Bakery, and so on. There were few original villagers left, and they lived mainly in the meaner cottages, or on the small council housing estate tucked out of sight at the bottom end of the village, or in the odd Sixties housing development that had sprung up before anyone had shouted planning permission.

  Locally, the half of the village that stretched from St Stephen’s down to the river was known as Lower Summerstoke, and in the opposite direction, Upper Summerstoke. The larger houses, the bigger gardens and the greater egos were all in Upper Summerstoke.

  The two farms in the parish, at either end of the village, mirrored this social division: Marsh Farm, occupying the rather boggy land on the other side of Summerstoke Bridge, at the bottom end, and Summerstoke House Farm, looking down over the village and the valley, at the upper end. They couldn’t have been more different.

  ‘I don’t bloody believe this!’

  Hugh Lester, of Summerstoke House, had just driven over Summerstoke Bridge, and was looking down on the world from the driver’s seat of his brand new, gleaming Land Rover Sport, expecting to be home in a matter of minutes, when he was confronted by the swaying hindquarters of a herd of cows ambling up Summerstoke’s main street.

  Stephen had finished the afternoon milking and, with the aid of his dog, Gip, was taking the herd on its daily perambulation through the village, back to graze on the lush meadows beyond.

  Fuming, Hugh Lester was forced to grind down to second gear and trail in their wake. He was already in a bad mood, and since the cause of it was the Tucker family, this delay compounded his fury. Stephen, glancing over his shoulder, registered who it was being held up and nodded an acknowledgement.

  Hugh Lester ignored him.

  ‘The whole sodding afternoon wasted, and now this…!’ He muttered under his breath, banging the steering wheel in frustration. It was a hot, airless day, and Hugh’s immaculate khaki shirt was beginning to wilt and stick to his back, dark patches appearing under his armpits. He tapped a button, the windows slid shut and the air-conditioning sprang into icy action. He longed to get home, have a shower and down a large gin and tonic, but he was trapped. There was no way past. The village had just the one main street. There was nothing he could do - a position that always brought out the worst in Hugh Lester - and he was forced to trail in the wake of Stephen Tucker’s herd until he reached the entrance to his drive.

  Summerstoke House was Victorian. It had been built by a successful merchant who had wanted to marry off his daughters to local gentry. Its tall windows and lofty gables proclaimed its superiority as a residence, and it was sufficiently set back from the road to allow itself a gravel courtyard with an ornamental fountain in the middle. A high, stone wall and elaborate, iron gates operated by an electronic device kept the world out.

  Summerstoke House farmyard, which had been in existence long before the present house was built, was tucked out of sight and approached by a separate entrance, on the outskirts of the village. It bore no resemblance to the farm that had been there originally, the merchant having demolished the old farmhouse, and subsequent owners having modernised and invested in new buildings, so that now state-of-the-art barns housed state-of-the-art farm machinery, with ultra-modern grain stores and all the associated equipment that a skilful manipulation of EU subsidies had made possible. The only livestock visible on this farm were horses – lots of them.

  Closer to the house, a smart quadrangle of stables had been built to house the very expensive nags that were kept in livery here, and a menage completed the farm buildings. That had caused some consternation in the village, as its roof was visible from the road. But it had got planning permission anyway. Hugh Lester and his wife, Veronica, were used to getting their way. Except, that is, when it came to the Tuckers.

  ‘An excrescence on the landscape’ was how Hugh Lester described Marsh Farm, and there were many who thought like him. It divided the village of Summerstoke into two camps: those who joined the Lesters, loudly denouncing the state of Ma
rsh farm as a disgrace, expressing opinions like ‘the sooner they sell up and move on, the better’; and those who resented the newcomers, townees, rich buggers, and fat cats, of whom the Lesters were regarded as the worst example, even though the family had lived in the village nigh on forty years.

  Hugh Lester had moved to Summerstoke with his parents and older brother when he was seven. His father had been a successful industrialist who had bought the house and farm so that his family could live in the style his wife expected, and so that he could play at farming, whenever he could make the time. He was passionate about cattle breeding, and at different times, Belted Galloways, South Devons, Longhorns and Highland cattle grazed the upland pastures of Summerstoke Farm, together with his pedigree herd of Herefords.

  The day he triumphantly negotiated the takeover of a rival company, Hugh’s father suffered a massive heart attack. Unfortunately for him and his wife, it occurred while he was driving her home on the M4. His car had ended up under the wheels of a truck transporting veal calves to the Continent, and Hugh became an orphan at the age of twenty-four.

  Hugh’s brother took over the firm, and Hugh took on the farm. He lost no time in getting rid of all the cattle, and sacked his father’s long-suffering manager. Apart from his horses, for which he had a passion, he had no interest in livestock of any sort. An intelligent reading of market forces led him to decide to turn the farm over to cash-crop production.

  Accordingly, whatever attracted the subsidies, Hugh produced. Pastures were ploughed up; hedgerows grubbed out; field divisions removed; the soil fed and fed again, with chemicals approved by the NFU and the Min of Ag to make the desired plants grow and the undesired wither. The woodlands were spared and stocked with pheasants. His parents had entertained shooting parties; Hugh made a business out of it. Similarly, his father had extended the stables and stocked them with horses to entertain his wife and their friends; Hugh extended them still further, and putting a number of his richest pastures under the hoof, he turned Summerstoke Farm into a highly profitable livery stable.

  The cows finally ambled passed the gates of Summerstoke House and, with a snarl at Stephen’s impassive back, Hugh turned the wheel into his drive, narrowly missing his wife’s car and almost hitting his son’s bike.

  He stomped into the cool, dark hall of the house, shouting as he went, ‘Vee! Vee! Where the bloody hell are you?’

  While the fortunes of many farmers around him had dwindled, Hugh Lester had become richer and richer. In the process, at the age of thirty, he had met and married Veronica, five years his junior. Veronica, known to her friends as Vee, had been participating in a dressage event at Badminton. She had not been very impressed when he first introduced himself. Hugh was a good-looking man, with dark, almost black curly hair, cold blue eyes and a strong jaw, but he was barely five feet six and Veronica was a good two inches taller. But they met again at a Point to Point, and Hugh on horseback was a very much more desirable proposition, particularly when she discovered what else he had to offer.

  In the course of time, they had two children, a boy, Anthony, who was nineteen, and a girl, Cordelia, who was fifteen; and when they were both old enough, they were packed off to boarding school.

  Veronica appeared at the top of the curved, highly polished, wooden staircase, her tall, slim figure silhouetted in the light that streamed from a long, elegantly draped window. She was dressed for tennis. ‘I’m here, Hugh. There’s no need to shout like that. You were a long time.’

  ‘I would have been back a damn sight sooner if I hadn’t got stuck behind Tucker’s herd taking an afternoon stroll up the High Street,’ he growled.

  Vee lightly descended the staircase and followed Hugh into his study,

  ‘Something wrong, darling? You do sound put out.’

  ‘George Ranwell hasn’t delivered.’ Hugh slumped into a leather swivel chair behind a huge mahogany desk that seemed to reduce him to the size of a Lilliputian. ‘Bloody Tuckers are refusing to budge. He said they didn’t even look twice at my last offer…’

  ‘But it was a generous increase on the first one...’

  ‘But not enough to interest them. Bloody morons – they’re looking a gift-horse in the mouth. What a bunch to have to deal with!’

  Ordinarily the Lesters would not have wasted any time or energy on a family like the Tuckers. The Tuckers, however, had something that the Lesters wanted – very badly. That was land. The livery stables were filled to capacity, and it was only by the judicious management of their fields that the grass survived. Veronica and Hugh wanted to expand their empire and run a stud, but for that, they needed more land, and, to get round planning restrictions, land where buildings suitable for conversion were already in existence. Marsh Farm was the obvious solution. The Tuckers, however, had no intention of selling to anyone, let alone the Lesters, whom they saw as unpleasant, stuck-up snobs who would do the Tuckers down, given half a chance. On this point, they were not wrong.

  Veronica sighed and came into the room. She was expected on the tennis courts at the club in half an hour, but she knew better than to leave Hugh simmering. ‘I thought they were teetering on the brink of ruin and would do anything for cash?’

  ‘No, no – it’s more complicated than that. The stumbling block is the old granny. She owns half the farm and George says she’s as shrewd as they come.’

  ‘Then offer them more –if she’s that shrewd she must know you’re offering way under the current market value.’

  ‘Vee! Be reasonable. I’m going to have to invest a great deal in the building work. Bugger current market values. That farm’s a mess and I’ve offered as much as I’m prepared to pay. We’ll just have to wait until they go bankrupt. Then they’ll be sorry they didn’t accept my offer...’

  Veronica smiled at the petulant expression on her husband’s face. ‘I can’t see you being content to sit back, waiting for that to happen. We’ll have to give them a little help, won’t we?’

  Hugh stared at her for a moment. ‘ Well, there’s a thought. What had you in mind?’

  Vee took out a lipstick from her purse and peering into a little compact, caressed her lips with a creamy stick. ‘You’ve told me often enough that Marsh Farm staggers from crisis to crisis. Why don’t we do a little gentle squeezing? It shouldn’t be difficult to nudge them over the edge.’

  Hugh looked at her admiringly. For a forty-something woman, she was in very good shape. Her long brown legs were flatteringly topped and tailed by a short tennis skirt and white ankle socks; her waist trim, her breasts - how firm and round they looked under that tiny cotton top; admittedly her nose was a bit sharp and her eyes and teeth slightly protuberant, but her hair, held back in a wide white band, was still as thick and blond as it was the day he met her. And she was bright – by God she was! Without her, he doubted the livery stables would have been half as successful. He licked his lips. He still found her very desirable, but he knew she disliked sex outside the bedroom, and outside bedtime hours.

  ‘I don’t mind doing a little squeezing, but I may not be very gentle…’

  She smiled at him and flung her cosmetics back in her bag. ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got a tennis date. But I’ll leave you to think about two courses of action you might take. One is Lenny Spinks.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Lenny Spinks is the husband of our cleaning lady, Paula.’

  ‘Why should I be interested?’

  ‘Local talk has it that without the help of Lenny Spinks, Marsh Farm would not be able to function….’

  ‘I’m interested. Tell me more…’

  ‘He keeps all their derelict machinery going. He’s some sort of whiz at engineering or mechanics or whatever it is. Paula is forever droning on about how good he is with his hands and I don’t think it’s just pillow talk, although from the number of kids they’ve got…’

  ‘I get your drift – take Lenny
Spinks away from Marsh Farm…’

  ‘And you will deal a very effective blow to their efficiency…So, offer him a job at a rate he can’t refuse.’

  ‘I’m sure I could find a use for a man with his talents.’

  ‘Once Marsh Farm is ours, you let him go, of course.’

  If only he could take her now, strip that top from her brown, smooth shoulders, cup her round creamy breasts in his hands and bury his face in her soft belly. It had always been like this: the more ruthless, the more Machiavellian, the more vicious she was about the people in their lives (himself excluded of course, for he wasn’t any sort of masochist), the more he desired her.

  He swallowed hard and said, somewhat thickly, ‘ I’ll get on to that this afternoon. Lenny Spinks…and what was the other thing you had in mind, Lady Macbeth?’

  She laughed and ruffled his hair. ‘The three weird sisters, the Misses Merfields.’

  The puncturing of his libido was instantaneous. He stared up at her, resentfully. ‘You must be joking. Those witches. Why should I humiliate myself again?’

  The Merfield family, who had lived in the manor house since time immemorial, owned the water meadows on the village side of the river. Hugh had longed to get his hands on them, for years, but the Merfields had rented the land to the Tuckers ever since Elsie and Thomas, with the help of Elsie’s father (then the mayor of Bath, and appalled at the thought of his only child marrying a tenant farmer), had bought Marsh farm from them. The fields were adjacent to Summerstoke Farm; lush, rich meadows, and Stephen’s cows flourished on them.

  Vee picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘Because Hugh, if you can get those meadows off them, the life of Marsh Farm as a viable dairy unit will be at an end…’

  ‘But there’s no way those bitches would agree…’

  Vee smiled coldly at him. ‘I have it on good authority the Merfields thought you were an arrogant little shit when you tried before, but that was some years ago. Go and eat humble pie for a change; exercise your charm, darling. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you to twist three old ladies round your fingertips…’