He frowned. ‘But you’ve barely touched your coffee.’
‘Bit strong for me. Anyway, lots to do before the restaurant opens.’
‘Hey. Before you go.’ He put one hand on my wrist and looked up into my face. ‘I wanted to say well done on all this. I know it’s tough when you’re still grieving.’
‘Oh. Cheers,’ I said, dropping my gaze. ‘It kind of helps actually. You… cry less, I think, when you’ve got something to focus on.’
‘Do you cry a lot?’ he asked quietly.
‘At bedtime. I… I can’t sleep unless I cry at bedtime.’
He stood and took my shoulders in his hands. ‘You know, your dad’d be proud as anything. That calendar shoot took a lot of guts, kid.’
I smiled. ‘He’d go spare, more like. But thanks, Stewart.’
‘Call me Stew. I like it.’ He dipped his head to my level, and before I knew what was happening he’d planted a little kiss on my cheek. Gentle, brief: just the softest touch of his lips.
‘That’s for you,’ he said. ‘You’re a brave lady, Lana Donati. And for what it’s worth, I thought you looked beautiful. Even with the fake legs.’
‘You’ve seen it already?’
‘Yeah, sorry. Yolanda popped in 20 minutes ago to show me her Miss May shoot. Very… flamingoey.’
My face was burning scarlet now, the blush seeming to spread from the place his lips had brushed my cheek. With a mumbled something – a thanks, or a sorry, possibly – I floated in a confused daze back to the restaurant.
Chapter 21
Over the next month, even as we prepared for the Tour people’s visit, our fundraising really kicked into gear.
Plans for The Boneshaker – which, we’d decided, would be a sort of autumn fete with spooky cycling theme – were progressing well. Roger organised a Hits From The Shows concert for Egglethwaite Silver at the Temp, Ladies Who Lunch held coffee mornings and cocktail evenings like their lives depended on it, and even the morrismen’s curry and quiz night was packed out, despite them insisting on a longsword dancing display.
And our enthusiasm seemed to be catching. The school, nursery, Scouts, Guides, pub, churches – practically every group and business in the village, in fact – all organised events to get the cash rolling in. By the end of August we were nearly halfway to our 25 grand total. I couldn’t walk past the big thermometer outside the Temp without a grin.
To my mingled delight and dismay, the calendars were selling brilliantly, too. We had to do a second print run, then a third. Every village shop was flogging them over the counter and Cameron set us up a website to sell them online as well.
Purchasers seemed to fall into two camps: randy women who wanted to see Harper Brady with his kit off, and the sort of rubberneckers who probably stared at car crashes, desperate through some sort of sick curiosity to see what Roger Collingwood looked like as a nude unicycling clown.
‘We’re all looking forward to next July, Lana,’ Billy said when me and Tom stopped off in the Fox one night after band practice.
‘I wouldn’t make any big plans for the Départ just yet. We’re still waiting on the decision.’
‘Not that.’ He held up his copy of the calendar. ‘This. We’ll have one up behind the bar, of course.’
I groaned. ‘God, do you have to?’
‘Are you kidding, lass? With the Tour hopefully in town and a juicy pair of good-cause knockers to lure people in, it could be my most successful month ever.’
My eyes went wide.
‘Shit!’ I hissed to Tom when we’d paid for our drinks and were making our way to a table. ‘The Tour! The Tour’s in July!’
‘So?’
‘So, if we’re successful the village’ll be packed.’
‘I know, brilliant.’
‘I mean, the village’ll be bursting with offcumdens and every single shop and business is going to have a picture of my tits up with the caption “nice hooters” underneath!’
‘Ha! You’re right. That’s hilarious.’
‘It bloody isn’t! There’ll be TV cameras and everything.’ I shook my head. ‘Yo-yo planned this, didn’t she? I knew there must a reason she wanted me to be Miss July.’
‘Nah,’ Tom said. ‘This is Yo-yo. If she’d thought there was a chance of getting some tits on telly, she’d have bagsied July herself.’
‘Oh. Good point.’
We claimed a recently vacated table, pushing the previous occupants’ empty glasses and Yorkshire Post to the edge.
‘Sort of appropriate though, you being pin-up for Tour month,’ Tom said. ‘This was your idea.’
‘Yeah. Worst I ever had.’
‘Give over, you’re loving it. Don’t try to deny it.’
‘It does feel good to be doing something positive,’ I admitted. ‘I can see what Dad used to get out of stuff like this.’
‘Looks like the council are well on with the safety survey. There were a gang of lads in high-vis up on the viaduct when me and Cam walked Flash this afternoon.’
I snorted. ‘Well I hope they don’t disturb the bats. Barbastelles can read their souls, you know.’
‘Yeah, she’s gone quiet, hasn’t she?’
‘Suspiciously quiet.’ I nodded to the Yorkshire Post perching on the edge of the table. ‘Chuck us that then. Let’s see what’s going on in the world outside Egglethwaite.’
Tom’s eyes widened. ‘There’s a world outside Egglethwaite? Why wasn’t I informed?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to shout about. Drinks’re overpriced.’ I started flicking through the paper he passed me. ‘Some Tour news here. One of the first British Yellow Jersey holders has donated a load of money to a kids’ cycling club in Mirfield.’ I pointed to a photo of a kind-faced old man surrounded by children on bikes.
Tom took a gulp of his pint. ‘Wish he was from round here, he might donate to the viaduct.’
‘Yeah. Can’t see our local millionaire spending his hard-inherited champagne fund on it, can you?’
‘You rung him yet? Maybe you can shag him into a donation.’
I snorted. ‘The day I get that desperate, I may as well marry Deano.’
I was still flicking absently through the paper. Suddenly Tom’s hand shot out to stop me.
‘Go back!’ he hissed. ‘Thought I saw something.’
I turned to the previous page and blinked in shock. It was our viaduct: a massive photo spanning a double page.
The council surveyors were on top, neon yellow and ant-like, and Sienna Edge at the base with a gang of others. They were all wearing ‘Save the Barbastelles’ t-shirts and doing a thumbs-down, under the headline Viaduct plan is ‘batty’, claims wildlife group. Inset was a baby barbastelle, looking sad and disgustingly cute.
‘Cazzo! I knew she was up to something!’ I skimmed the article. ‘Listen to what she says, Tommy. “The Egglethwaite cycling group is acting with typical human callousness towards the barbastelle colony that has made the viaduct its home, putting their own greed and self-interest before the needs of these gracious creatures.” Oh, and then she gets fucking personal. “I went to meet the group, all successful owners of large businesses –” large businesses! A struggling restaurant, a farm and a cycle shop, Jesus. And then she has a go at Stew. “One of them, Stewart McLean, a bike shop owner who I believe had some limited success as a pro cyclist, in particular stands to gain financially if the group is successful in opening the viaduct as a cycle path. And while they are fundraising through such crass and undignified means as a nude calendar, the barbastelles, once evicted from their home, will very likely die from the shock.”’
‘Ooooh!’ Tom said. ‘She’s got a nerve. The bats wouldn’t die, we’d rehome them.’
‘“Greed and self-interest”,’ I snorted. ‘Who the hell does she think she is? She doesn’t even mention Dad.’
>
‘So what do we do?’
‘We have to respond, don’t we? Especially as we haven’t got that grant in the kitty yet. The council is sensitive to bad publicity, it could jeopardise the application.’
‘If we write to the paper it’ll just turn into a slanging match,’ Tom said. ‘She writes back, we write back, etc. They’ll keep campaigning, and we’ll look guilty and defensive by engaging. Doesn’t move us forward bat-wise, does it?’
I paused to think. ‘She wanted a fight. Let’s fight,’ I said at last. ‘I’ll write a response stating our case. Just once: if she comes back after that we’ll be the bigger person and ignore her. Then we need to humanely sort out these bloody Barbie dolls.’
‘How though?’
‘Take it to a higher power.’
‘I don’t think praying’s going to help us much, sis. I’m sure if there’s a man upstairs he’s got bigger fish to fry than unwanted bats.’
I grinned. ‘The Lord helps those who help themselves, Sue always says. We’ll write to Harold Fitch.’
‘Who?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t you follow politics at all? He’s been our local MP for three years.’
‘Oh. Yeah, I knew that.’
‘The council won’t intervene because they’re worried about losing face with the public, but if we can get Fitch to, Sienna Edge won’t have a leg to stand on.’
Chapter 22
Coming home from Holyfield Farm one evening, I discovered Stewart outside his shop, topping up the black paint with an equally black look on his face.
‘Doing up the place already?’ I called.
‘Thanks to bloody Sienna Edge.’ He nodded to a patch of red he was giving a vicious rollering. ‘Nice of her to single me out in the paper. Some prick vandalised my shop last night.’
‘Oh my God!’ I went to join him. ‘Did you report it?’
‘Yeah, I couldn’t paint over it until the police and insurance people had taken photos. It’s been there all day for everyone to see.’ He scowled at the paint. ‘Whoever it was sloshed “Save the Barbastelles” across the shop in red paint. Probably supposed to represent the bloody murder of innocent bats by us evil capitalist tycoons.’
‘Bastards!’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t target the restaurant, too.’
‘God, yes. We’d never have sorted it in time for opening. A whole night’s takings lost.’
He snorted. ‘We can afford it, according to Sienna.’
‘So you want a hand, love?’
‘No, I’m ok. Got reinforcements on the way.’ He turned to me. ‘We need to get this bat thing sorted though, Lana. I can’t have this happen again.’
‘I know, we’re running out of time. I wrote to Harold Fitch last week making our case. I’ll do a letter to the paper correcting what Batwoman said now.’
‘You want me to do anything?’
‘If you’re offering. You can help me get a petition out supporting the viaduct plan, show the public’s on our side.’
‘How will that help with the bats though?’
I tapped the side of my head. ‘Public support equals public votes equals a sympathetic MP. Capisci?’
He grinned. ‘Pretty cynical for a youngster, aren’t you?’
‘It’s one of my more endearing qualities.’ I looked at the ugly graffiti and shook my head. ‘I’m sorry about this, Stew. It’s not fair you were singled out when it was my idea.’
‘Belongs to all of us now though, doesn’t it?’
‘S’pose it does. See you later.’
In the restaurant, I said a quick hello to Tom on the front desk and jogged upstairs.
Flash immediately bounded up and threw himself against my legs in welcome. He didn’t seem to realise he wasn’t puppy-sized any more, acting like the same tiny, fluffy rocket he’d been when we’d adopted him seven months ago. I bent down to pat him and he gave my cheek a rough lick.
‘Right, doggy features. Me and you have got work to do.’
As soon as we’d set up camp in a corner of the sofa, I grabbed my netbook to write a response to Sienna Edge.
What was it she’d said? Greed and self-interest. Yeah, that’d been bloody irritating.
I started tapping away and after ten minutes or so, I had this:
Sir. In your issue of Thursday last, you included an interview with Ms Sienna Edge regarding plans for the reopening of Egglethwaite Viaduct as a public right of way. In particular, Ms Edge raised a number of concerns relating to the colony of rare barbastelle bats resident there. As spokesperson for the campaign group seeking the reopening, I would like to state that the council have assured us the bats can be translocated with minimal loss of life, thus ensuring a future for both the colony and the viaduct.
Yep, that sounded good. What else? I thought about Dad and felt my anger rising.
Ms Edge also accuses the group of self-interest. While several of us are indeed business owners – albeit small village enterprises rather than the mega-industrialists she paints us – our primary interest is as local residents.
My late father, Filippo Donati, had a vision for the viaduct. He believed it could be opened up for the enjoyment of everyone. As a memorial to him, it is our intention to fight for this.
We have nothing but the greatest respect for Ms Edge and her colleagues, nor do we wish to act inhumanely to any wildlife resident in the viaduct. We remain open to future dialogue with the bat protection group, especially if it can help us find a mutually acceptable way forward. But we won’t stop fighting. We owe it to my dad and to local people to make the viaduct useful once again.
Faithfully,
Lana Donati
I wondered if I should mention Stewart and the graffiti too, but decided against it. It might sound defensive, and I wanted the tone to be calm and businesslike compared with the over-the-top rhetoric of Sienna’s statement.
My Adele ringtone fired up and I grabbed my phone from the table.
‘Hi, Lana. Andy Chen.’
‘Let me guess. Good news and bad news, right?’ This was the third time he’d rung me, and he always opened the conversation the same way.
‘You know me too well,’ he said, laughing. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not bad bad news. Just ringing about your grant.’
I felt a stab of panic. ‘The council didn’t reject it?’
‘No, but there’s been a hold-up processing the application while they check you definitely fit the criteria for a historic structure grant. Nothing to worry about. With an amount like that they need to be extra cautious, that’s all.’
‘So what’s the good news?’ I asked.
‘The workmen finished the safety survey today.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I frowned. ‘That’s good news?’
‘It’s not just that. Look, I shouldn’t really be telling you this before the official report, but it sounds like the 2001 survey still stands: everything structural is fine. In terms of making it safe, it’s just a case of clearing out the plant and animal life, getting the old rails up and having the thing resurfaced. No new problems.’
‘Oh my God, really?’ I almost squealed. ‘Andy, I think I love you.’
He laughed. ‘Then you’ll be naming the wedding date in a minute.’
‘What, is there more?’
‘Yep.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Lana, you have to promise this goes no further than you and me for now, ok?’
I hesitated. ‘Not even my brother?’
‘Well, you can tell your committee if you trust them to keep it in confidence. But no one else.’
‘I’ll be careful. Go on.’
‘You wrote to Harold Fitch, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t trying to go over your head or anything. I was just
running out of ideas for moving things forward.’
‘It’s fine, honestly. Anyway, he contacted the council demanding to know more. Said the viaduct plan was obviously polarising his constituents and he was taking a personal interest.’ I could tell he was grinning.
‘What did you do, Andy?’ I said, smiling.
‘I convinced him to send a wildlife expert up with the survey team. I can’t announce anything yet, but… well, there’s a good chance there might not be any barbastelles. The expert thinks they might’ve died out or moved on since the 2001 survey.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Nope. He’ll have to analyse all his photos and make an official report, but it could be problem solved. Keep schtum for now though, ok? Remember, this conversation never happened.’
‘As long as my mobile isn’t going to self-destruct.’
‘I’m afraid the council don’t have the budget for that level of espionage. You’ll just have to eat it.’
I laughed. ‘Well, thanks, Andy. You know, you’re getting to be my favourite person.’
‘No problem. Oh, nice calendar shoot by the way,’ he said just before he hung up.
I winced. So our calendar had found its way to the council, had it? Another group of people I could never look in the face again without blushing.
But even that thought couldn’t bring me down. Our biggest problem, seemingly unconquerable just a few minutes ago, gone! No more Sienna Edge, no more nasty letters in the paper, no more graffiti. I felt like I’d burst if I didn’t tell someone.
I almost skipped down to the restaurant, where Jasmine was on the front desk.
‘Where’s Tom?’ I demanded.
‘Popped out. Cameron came in to say hi after work, your brother’s walking him home.’
Damn it! Who else could I tell? Andy had said only to talk to committee members I could trust. That ruled out Yolanda for a start. I wasn’t even sure about Sue. Deny it as she might, she liked a good gossip as much as the next farmer’s wife.
I thought of Stewart. Surely he deserved to know. The barbastelles had just cost him an afternoon’s work.
A Bicycle Made For Two Page 17
