‘Don’t know why,’ said Tess. ‘It’s just—he’s so weird about the campaign. Have you noticed?’ She felt as if she were betraying something as she said this, but it was true.
‘He’s weird about it because he’s behaving like an adolescent,’ Francesca sounded firm. She poured a large slug of rum into the bowl. ‘You know, I love Adam.’ She paused. ‘I don’t mean like that. I—’ She smiled, mistily. ‘I really like him. But he’s got to grow up. Fine to stay here all your life, but not fine to use it as a stick to beat other people with when they dare to disagree with you about anything connected with Langford.’
Francesca had a way of saying things which summed up what Tess wanted to say so perfectly but couldn’t articulate without using five times as many words. Tess laughed. ‘I’d love to hear you say that to him.’
‘I have,’ said Francesca, and she smiled her cat-like smile. ‘He knows I’m right, he just doesn’t see it yet. But he will.’ She nodded and for some reason Tess shivered, as if a goose had walked over her grave. ‘I’ve got him where I want him. He just doesn’t realize it yet.’
‘Oh, Francesca—’ said Tess, not sure what to say next, because she knew Adam well, so well, knew how stubborn he was, how little he liked being told what to do, manipulated, which was why she thought he was such a bloody-minded idiot, still living in his mother’s house, still working shifts at the pub and the museum. ‘Please don’t get your hopes up with him. He’s…’ She said frankly, ‘He’s never going to change. He’s so stubborn.’
Something flickered across Francesca’s lovely face, but she said nothing. Tess got up. ‘What are we having tonight?’
Francesca looked blank. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, as well as the mojitos,’ Tess said. ‘Not that they won’t be lovely…’ She trailed off.
‘Dunno,’ said Francesca. ‘I haven’t cooked, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve made cocktails and it took bloody ages. You could have a bit of appreciation for what I’ve done, thank you very much.’
Tess ran over to her and hugged her, feeling her bony arms, her hand on her back. She was fragile, she thought, she’d be so easy to crush. ‘I do have appreciation for what you’re doing. I just assumed—completely insanely, obviously, that you’d made supper as well.’
‘No,’ Francesca said. ‘My plan was, we get trashed and then do karaoke with these cool new karaoke DVDs that I ordered from Amazon.’
‘Great idea,’ said Tess. ‘And we can have the rest of that shepherd’s pie I made yesterday. I’ve got some peas in the freezer.’
Francesca rolled her eyes, opened her mouth as if she would say something, then shut it. She smiled at Tess. ‘Bless ye, old lady. Come on. Give me your glass.’
CHAPTER TEN
Jan Allingham was in a flap. She was usually a rational woman, with an unshakeable faith in humanity, but when an event occurred to test this faith, she was conversely distressed out of all proportion.
She hated being late, even if it was only by a couple of minutes, and she was going to be late. If someone said ten o’clock, they meant ten, not five past ten. It was one of the things that drove her absolutely mad about her dear husband Jeremy, though time—thirty-five years of marriage—and wisdom—fifty-five years on God’s green earth—had taught her to accept with as good a grace as possible things like Jeremy’s breaking of his solemn vow that he would pick her up from the garden centre outside Thornham at twelve thirty. No, she had learned simply to smile and say, ‘Don’t worry, dear, thank you for coming.’ Conversely, of course, he was always absolutely furious if she was over a minute late to pick him up from anything—with the righteous indignation of the truly guilty.
It was thanks to Jeremy that she was going to be late for the committee meeting of the Save the Water Meadows Campaign. Bloody Jeremy, who had said she shouldn’t get involved, that it was asking for trouble, that it was putting other people’s backs up. Accept the inevitable, he’d said, looking at her over his copy of The Times that morning.
‘It’s going to happen,’ he said, his ruddy face creasing into lines as he munched his toast. ‘It’s inevitable, I’m afraid, dear. Market forces.’
Jan didn’t care about market forces. She whisked some cling film over the remains of the Galia melon pieces she’d had for her breakfast. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she demanded, pushing the fridge door shut.
‘It’s got to do with the council and the Mortmains and a whopping great company that’s used to having its own way, that’s what they’re used to.’
‘Leonora Mortmain’s an evil old woman,’ said Jan, pettishly.
‘That’s the trouble with you lot,’ said Jeremy, putting down his paper. The phrase you lot infuriated his wife. ‘You think because she’s old and grim-looking and eccentric that she has no real power. She’s one of the most important landowners around here, she wields enormous influence. Just because she’s a woman and she hasn’t invited you all round for tea and cakes doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s an impressive woman, I’ll give her that. Intelligent, too.’
Jan paused in her wiping down of the draining board. ‘How do you know that?’ she said, curiously.
‘Met her a few months ago when I had to value a couple of the cottages down towards the water meadows,’ said Jeremy. ‘Had a bit of a chat, actually. I told you.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Jan said, exasperatedly. ‘You had a bit of a chat? With Leonora Mortmain? Typical you, Jeremy, that you don’t even think to mention it.’
‘Well, I did, and she was rather interesting. I reckon she was quite a gal in her time.’ Jan frowned. ‘Honestly, love. Something quite special, I bet she was popular with the…’ Jeremy recalled himself. ‘Anyway, her family’s lived round here for three hundred years, did you know that? Used to play in the meadows when she was a little girl, with the gardener’s son, or the vicar’s son or something,’ said Jeremy reflectively, picking up his paper again. ‘Got quite misty-eyed about it, in fact.’
Jan couldn’t imagine black-clad, iron-jawed Leonora Mortmain as a young girl, let alone one who did anything as fanciful as playing in fields. ‘Look,’ she said, whipping Jeremy’s breakfast plate smartly away from under him, much to his surprise. ‘She ought to know better. I didn’t move to Langford to spend my final days in a suburb of an out-of-town shopping centre. I moved here—we moved here,’ she amended hastily, ‘so we could live in a beautiful, historic town and enjoy all the amenities.’
‘Greg wants it to happen,’ said Jeremy, grabbing another piece of toast and defiantly buttering it on the tablecloth. Greg was Jeremy’s junior surveyor, who was rare in Langford, in that he’d lived there all his life. ‘Says it’s just what we need. Bit of reality. Plus he’s right, we don’t have a decent DIY shop round here for miles.’
‘Greg’s talking rubbish,’ said Jan firmly. ‘So are you, Jeremy. I know we need more jobs in the town, and it’s too expensive, and everything, but we don’t need that. Don’t take a sledgehammer to crack a nut.’ She thumped her hand dramatically down on the walnut kitchen surface, and looked out of the window of the bungalow towards the spire of St Mary’s church.
The Allinghams had moved to Langford from Southampton, seven years previously. Their youngest daughter Jenny had finally left home, and Jeremy had been offered a job in the local chartered surveyor’s office, four days a week, by an old friend who was retiring. It was to be his last job before he himself retired, and the plan, as far as he was concerned, was to spend more time playing golf and reading Robert Ludlum thrillers. In a decent place, where there was a decent pub within walking distance.
Jan had different ideas, however. She had, along with many children around the country, come on a school trip to the town and the Roman villa when she was a girl, and had fallen in love with the place. It had seemed to her, mired in suburbia, the height of Englishness, for her outwardly practical demeanour concealed—as is so often the case—an intensely sentim
ental, romantic soul. That, plus an unshakeable faith that what was right would always prevail, made her an optimist of the most terrifying order. Here, untrammelled by ugly modernity, was a place so unchanged that Charles I might well recognize the town that had hidden him, at great danger to itself, from the Roundheads. Here, too, was a high street down which Jane Austen had walked, where she would still feel at home. Living here was like a dream come true for Jan. Yes, of course, one had to live in modern times, but she had her hessian ‘Langford’s Own Plastic Bag’ bag for shopping at the farmers’ market, didn’t she? And didn’t she get the bus everywhere she could, instead of using the car, and didn’t she recycle everything, even though it meant driving the green box down the road as the recycling truck never seemed to make it into the cul-de-sac?
‘It’s the realities of the modern global economy,’ said Jeremy, taking his plate back firmly, and putting the paper down on the table. ‘If you want to be able to fly to Rome to waft around looking at old dead statues, you have to accept there are downsides.’
‘Look, I’ve got no problem with the modern global economy,’ said Jan, who had spent many years working for a luxury cruise company and was well aware of ‘market realities’, as the firm had been wont to call them just before they hiked up the prices. ‘And that’s rubbish, Jeremy, I’d go to Rome by coach if I had to, that’s how we went to Italy for our honeymoon, remember? It’s more that I don’t believe for a second this is going to help the town.’
Jeremy turned over a page of The Times. ‘Ah,’ he said, in placatory tones. ‘Twenty-three degrees in Rome. When are you off?’
It infuriated Jan when Jeremy patronized her like this. She had worked as long as him. Just because she was a woman, and a woman in her fifties who liked a tea shop and who fussed a bit—she knew she did, she tried not to—why should that mean that her opinion was risible? Her opinion and so many other women like her. It was sexism, that was what it was. She bit her tongue, as she had done so often in their marriage. ‘For every one job it creates, there’ll be four tourists who don’t come to Langford because they’re put off it by this horrible development, and that’s potentially far more jobs lost, not to mention what a violation of planning laws and everything else it is.’ She was getting worked up. ‘And I hate that attitude, Jeremy, that one that says it’s either or, that either you’re a fuddy duddy who’s clinging to some old tradition and can’t see the modern world around them or else you’re a dynamic thrusting young individual. It’s rubbish. This is about community!’ She banged her hand on the surface again. ‘It’s about the heart of the town! It’s about…’ She ran out of steam and looked at her watch. Damn it.
Jeremy said, after a pause, ‘I thought we drove to Italy for our honeymoon. We didn’t get the coach, did we? I had the new Austin. Green. Nice car, that was.’
‘That,’ said Jan awfully, picking up her bag, ‘is not the point, Jeremy. I have to go to my meeting now. Goodbye.’
The conversation with Jeremy—who was a fool, she had to remind herself—had made her late, and now she would be late for Ron and Francesca, the dear girl, who was so sweetly offering to help with the campaign. Jan hurried out of Water-meadows, the sweetly inaccurate and inappropriately named cul-de-sac where she lived, walking briskly towards the pub. She cut behind the warren of backstreets that formed the old heart of the town, where the lanes twisted and curled and where many a visitor to the town had found himself ending up by the old town walls that led down to the meadows, rather than the high street. Jan was a local though, of course, and it was with no little pride that she knew how to navigate her way through the maze, coming out at the back of the garden to Leda House, Leonora Mortmain’s home. The garden was huge for a townhouse; though she was trying something between a walk and a trot, Jan glanced up as she always did, at the rose that climbed up the back of the house, and took in the sweet smell of the garden stocks in the air.
Jeremy’s words rang in her ears. What was he doing, chatting away to Leonora Mortmain, and not mentioning it to her? For starters, she’d do anything to see inside Leda House (apparently, there was a Faberg?egg in the drawing room!). The idea of a teenage Leonora Mortmain, gambolling in fields with the butcher’s son or whoever, was ridiculous. It struck her then, and she slowed down, that it was probably something to do with the fact that she just didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d ever been a child. Much less been happy, been in love, got drunk, kissed someone she shouldn’t. Unimaginable, really! Jan thought of Jeremy suddenly with a smile, she didn’t know why. She turned the corner, onto the high street.
It was only five minutes past ten when she arrived at the Feathers, but they were five minutes too many. Mick was outside, wiping down the blackboard.
‘Hello, Jan,’ he said, standing up. ‘You here for the meeting? Francesca’s just arrived.’
‘Yes,’ panted Jan, practically running towards the door. ‘See you later, Mick.’
Inside, she found Ron, Andrea Marsh and Francesca, sitting around a table at the back of the pub. She bustled towards them.
‘Gosh. I am sorry, honestly. It’s been a bit of a hectic—’
Ron looked up, and Jan stopped as she saw the look on his face.
‘Council just called, Jan. It’s all over.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Jan, her breathing short. She put her hand on the table.
Ron’s face seemed to have aged twenty years in one day. ‘That old—that woman signed the agreement yesterday. Council’s approved it. The Mitchells have offered to finance some community park or something, so they’ve given planning permission for the shopping centre to go ahead. They start draining the land next month.’
Andrea gave a huge sniff; Francesca patted her hand. ‘I’m calling them this afternoon,’ Francesca said, drumming her pen on the table. ‘This isn’t over, Jan. I’m telling you.’
Jan smiled at her. ‘Of course it’s not,’ she said, steadying herself on the table and catching her breath. ‘We’ll fight it, and we’ll win.’ She raised herself up, with a proud expression. ‘Won’t we?’
But somehow, she didn’t believe it was true. It would take a miracle, and that sort of thing just didn’t happen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A couple of days after the council had approved the application, the changes it would bring were already being felt. Tess noticed it as she walked to the college and saw people standing outside their front doors talking to neighbours, or little knots forming on street corners. The posters up in Jen’s Deli and the cheese shop, the sign outside the pub, they were still there: but they each had a thick black line through them. In the window of the Feathers that directly faced onto Leonora Mortmain’s house there was a sign: ‘HAPPY NOW?’
Andrea Marsh crept around with a face as long as a broom handle and Ronald Thaxton was a broken man. Langford was small enough that all of the main players were well-known, and Tess was in the deli one day with Francesca, sitting at one of the tiny tables squeezed into the shop, when a man came up to them.
‘Is there really nothing you can do?’ he said to Francesca. ‘I heard you were a lawyer, is the application all in order?’
He was about forty, rather sturdy and traditional-looking, wearing a battered old Barbour, and a neat, short blue tie.
‘Here’s your coffee, Tess,’ said someone, putting a tray down.
‘Thanks,’ said Tess absent-mindedly, not looking up but watching Francesca for her response. Francesca smiled, her most scary smile.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ she said. ‘The council is being extremely difficult about it, but it is all in order. I’m still—’
He interrupted her, putting his hand on the wobbly painted metal table. It lurched alarmingly to one side. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But has anyone been in touch with English Heritage, or someone similar? Those water meadows are without equal in this part of the country. They can’t just drain them and concrete them over, there must be a law against it.’
‘You’d th
ink,’ said Francesca, nodding up at him. ‘But I’m afraid not. Morely and Thornham have rich reserves of flora and fauna too, and since Langford’s the town, their reasoning is that it’s the one that can best support expansion.’
Tess, aware that someone was watching them, looked over and realized the person who’d given her the coffee was Liz. She was standing next to Claire, who was also in her class at school, a girl around the same age as her and Liz.
‘Hi!’ Liz said, waving. She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Do you need anything else?’
‘No, thanks.’ Tess shook her head, almost impatiently, turning back to the stranger.
‘But that’s absolutely ridiculous!’ the man snorted. ‘I’m sorry, but—’
Francesca frowned at him. ‘It’s not my fault!’ she said, not unreasonably. ‘I’m on your side, remember! But that’s what they’ve said. We’re appealing, of course we are—’
He stood up straight. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, looking at her with an expression of remorse. ‘That’s incredibly rude of me.’ He held out his hand. ‘Guy Phelps. I own George Farm, just the other side of town.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Francesca said, as if she was well aware of George Farm and all its doings. She took his hand. ‘Francesca Jackson,’ she said. ‘And this is Tess Tennant,’ she added, indicating Tess next to her.
‘Nice to meet you.’ Guy Phelps shook Tess’s hand enthusiastically too, but returned his gaze almost immediately to Francesca and Tess went back to eating her carrot cake. ‘Well,’ he continued, as Francesca smiled politely up at him, ‘I’d better be off—thanks again,’ he finished, though he hadn’t thanked her before.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Francesca.
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ said Francesca. She looked at Tess. ‘I’m sure there will be at some point. See you soon.’
‘She youw shoon,’ Tess added, her mouth full of cake.
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