‘But, Matthew, surely, with the perpetual uncertainties in farming such as climate change, farmers are in the unenviable position of not actually knowing what their future might be?’ Edward reached behind him for some notes he’d obviously brought with him and said, ‘As it is, the whole farming industry is propped up by subsidies. The report by Informa Agribusiness Intelligence estimates that without subsidies ninety per cent of farms could collapse and land prices could crash. The Government has promised to provide subsidies only in the short term Beyond that it has promised nothing…’ He peered over his glasses at Matthew. ‘The ball’s in your court, Matthew.’
Matthew snorted disparagingly. ‘You’re reading out statistics meant to frighten us. But folk who have been working this land for generations believe in farming and we know it’s viable.’ He looked around the hall and, counting on his fingers, said, ‘There are one, two, three, four other farmers here in exactly the same position as me and you are going to destroy us, our families and our histories…’
‘Shame on you,’ a woman shouted from the middle of the hall towards the Bamforths and Matthew sat down heavily, Fi patting his arm.
Because of my own worries over the past month, I realised I’d not really thought about anyone else. I’d not had much time for Fiona and felt ashamed of myself. ‘Sorry, really sorry,’ I mouthed and she nodded. Although Clare rang or texted me every couple of days to see how I was coping, to ask how I was feeling, I’d no idea, I realised guiltily, how she was now feeling about her rescued stag. What a dreadful friend I was.
Lost in thought, I didn’t see the elderly woman next to Harriet stand and face the rest of the people in the hall. ‘Lilian Brennan,’ she said quietly in a mesmerising Irish lilt. ‘Sure, and I’m not from found here originally, as you can probably tell…’
‘Speak up, can’t hear you,’ Karen Adams shouted rudely from the front. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t we be hearing what Mr Bamforth has to say – listen to his plans – rather than everyone piling in with negative comments?’ She stood and glared in our direction but whether the hostility was aimed at me or Lilian I wasn’t quite sure.
‘Who’s that?’ Freya whispered.
‘The dreaded Karen Adams,’ I whispered back. ‘You know, one of my staff at school.’
‘Oh, is that her? What’s she got to do with all this? Does she live in the village?’
‘No, she doesn’t. Shhh, listen…’
‘I may be from another country,’ Lilian was saying, ‘but I’ve lived on the outskirts of Westenbury – in Netherbridge – for several years now and I settled here because it reminds me of home.’
‘Another bloody immigrant,’ a bald-headed man with an incredibly red face sitting across from us spoke too loudly to his wife, and then glared at me, sniffing defiantly as he realised I’d overhead.
‘This village is a little oasis,’ Lilian went on. ‘Do we really want to be covered in concrete? Just another urbanised part of Midhope town itself? I rent my cottage from the Bamforth Estate but, even if I were lucky enough to own it outright and so be in a position to block the Bamforths’ path, as it were, I’d still be here, fighting for the countryside. And I urge you all to do the same, regardless of where you live.’
‘I bet if you were fifty years younger you’d be talking a different tale,’ Baldy across the aisle shouted. ‘Not being a skier, you won’t be interested in a dry ski slope round here.’
‘I can assure the… gentleman to my right…’ Lilian spoke with feeling and I wanted to laugh because I was convinced she’d been listening to Prime Minister’s Question Time on the radio and was about to say ‘I can assure the honourable gentleman’. ‘… I can assure the gentleman to my right,’ she repeated, ‘I am a superb skier, having just spent the last nine months in Cortina d’Ampezzo where I skied black runs daily.’
‘Maybe you should have stayed there then and allow the kids rounds here to have a ski slope themselves.’
Freya, who had becoming increasingly fidgety as Lilian fought her battle, suddenly shot up out of her seat.
‘Freya…’ I put a warning hand on her sleeve but she shook me off.
‘And I can assure the gentleman,’ Freya looked at him with some disdain, ‘who implied that all fourteen-year-olds want this damned silly ski slope, that I am fifty years younger than the last speaker and the very last thing I want round here is a dry ski slope.’
‘You’d hang yourself skiing with that thing round your neck,’ someone yelled, but was immediately turned on.
‘Sshh, let her finish, let her have her say…’
‘This is a beautiful place to live,’ Freya continued. ‘We have Meadowhall in Sheffield, if we want to shop. But you build on the land round here and you’ll no longer have Norman’s Meadow. We have the new Trinity centre in Leeds as well as the Trafford Centre in Manchester, both right on our doorsteps. How much shopping can a person do?’
‘I don’t think you’ve seen our latest plans, Miss…?’ Edward Bamforth interrupted.
‘Ms Beresford. Freya Beresford, but Freya will do.’ I saw Karen Adams turn to look at me, and then say something obviously disparaging to the man with her.
‘Freya, it’s so good to have the future generation not only interested, but confident enough to get up and speak. We’ve totally abandoned the idea of a shopping centre. It would only have been a very small one anyway, but we agree with you – there are far too many shopping areas around here.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment Freya was nonplussed, but then came back fighting. ‘But the ski slope stays?’
‘Well, that’s why we’re here, to get the residents’ views,’ Edward said smoothly. ‘And to outline some plans; no one has given us the opportunity yet—’
‘But you don’t deny you want to build three thousand houses on green belt?’
‘Freya, you are very young. When you are older and want to get on the housing ladder, you’ll be really grateful for our house-building programme.’
‘Please don’t patronise me, Mr Bamforth.’
‘Freya…’ I tugged warningly at her arm but she ignored me.
‘I’d just like to ask one question and then I’ll sit down and let someone else speak.’
‘Thank the Lord for that,’ Baldy muttered, and I gave him a filthy look.
‘Do you deny, Mr Bamforth, that the idea of a ski slope has been put in place in order to bribe the local authority into granting planning permission on your land – our beautiful green belt land – for three thousand houses?’
‘I really don’t like the word bribe, young lady, and I’d like it retracted.’ Edward Bamforth was getting angry. ‘What we’re doing is offering an exciting opportunity to develop the area, to build much-needed houses for this and for future – your future – generations on farmland that is becoming increasingly unviable in today’s economic climate. If the community is with us, we will build a fabulous school for the new trust, combining Westenbury High and its three feeder schools into one big, community school.’
As heads nodded in agreement and murmurs of assent filled the hall, Edward Bamforth visibly relaxed and, ignoring Freya, who was now left awkwardly standing, asked for the lights in the hall to be dimmed as he and Xavier took it in turns to run through plans outlined in a slick, twenty minute PowerPoint presentation.
‘Well done, lass.’ Granddad Norman patted Freya’s hand while Paula kissed her cheek and carefully replaced her emo fringe over her left eye.
‘I’m very proud of you, darling,’ I whispered. And I really was.
Xavier Bamforth, obviously skilled at presenting, spoke crisply and concisely, and soon had the majority of the audience eating out of his hand. The long round of applause he received was started and kept going by the elfin brunette who’d given my penis – not literally mine, but you get my drift – such a withering look in The Liquorist in Leeds, the night of the hen party. ‘Well done, darling,’ she mouthed at Xavier. ‘You were marvellous.’
I nudged Harriet. �
�Who’s the brunette clapping like someone demented in a television audience?’
Harriet laughed. ‘She is a bit over the top, isn’t she? That’s Ophelia Bamforth, Xavier’s wife. Gorgeous, isn’t she?’
For some reason, I suddenly felt terribly deflated. I gathered my bag, leaflets and various members of my family.
‘Come on,’ I said, trying to be jolly. ‘Let’s get the little revolutionary home. She’ll never be up for school in the morning, otherwise.’
18
I Owe You One, God…
I was forty. Half my life gone already. I lay in bed on the following Sunday morning, taking stock of my life so far.
Mark had always said he’d been planning a great surprise for me for my big birthday back in April, and that I’d never guess what it was. Well, he’d been spot on there: ten out of ten for originality, Mark darling. April and my big birthday had come and gone and, he’d put off the much-lauded surprise until the summer break, and then, because I was so busy preparing for my new deputy headship, postponed it again until the October half-term holiday, which was now just a week away. I wonder what he has planned, I mused, as I pulled up the duvet over my head and decided I deserved another half-hour in my pit. A cruise? A trip to the Aurora Borealis? Or to that ice hotel up in the Arctic Circle? Was October too early for that? I did hope it hadn’t been that: I hate being cold. God, can you imagine going to bed on ice? The very thought made me chilly, and I stretched out my legs searching for the hot-water bottle I’d started taking to bed to replace Mark’s warm feet. Daft bint, I chastised myself, I was going nowhere with anyone. Let alone my husband whose biggest surprise had been to bugger off with my best friend.
Sod that for a game of soldiers. I sat up in bed and grabbed my iPad.
I searched around on the internet until I found just what I wanted: Clementine’s, just down the road from here. I’d met Clementine herself several times, her daughter being a pupil at Little Acorns. Under David Henderson’s patronage, she’d built up a national reputation in a very short time and there was always a waiting list for her very select fine-dining restaurant, and her cookery school classes were booked as soon as they were advertised.
Bugger. Everything completely booked for months ahead. I’d suddenly had the brilliant idea of taking Fi and Clare out to thank them for all their friendship over the years.
There must be a way. I decided I’d get up, have a shower and, after breakfast, wander down the lane to see what turning up in person might achieve.
Tom was already up, squirting brown sauce into a pile of bacon sandwiches and, for once, reading the Sunday papers rather than deciphering exponentials and logarithms. To my utter shame, I’d still not talked to him about his – oh God, what did I call it? His sexuality? His preferences? Every time I’d been about to take the plunge, Freya had walked in on us or the phone had rung or he’d been so involved in a textbook he’d given me a murderous look for even daring to disturb him. Basically, I’d lost my bottle, asking him if he fancied a cup of tea and a brownie rather than if he fancied boys.
I made myself a coffee and sat down with him. The kitchen table, I saw, needed a good wipe, the milk bottle was on the table and the sauce bottle lid gunged up, but I made a big effort to ignore these and concentrate on my son instead. Bent over the ‘Business and Money’ section, his exposed neck between his short hair and sweatshirt appeared so vulnerable I wanted, needed, to plant a kiss there.
Tom looked up from the paper, surprised. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Can’t I kiss my son if I want?’
‘Sure.’ He went back to his paper but, realising I was still intent on getting his attention, he put the paper back down on the table and turned to me. ‘OK, what is it?’
‘I was just wondering how you are? I’ve been pretty well wrapped up in myself since… well, you know…’
‘Since Dad did the dirty? Understandable.’
‘I know I keep asking you, but has Dad been in touch with you? You won’t upset me by telling me.’
Tom shook his head. ‘He’s texted me a few times. You know, to ask about college, to tell me he’s put money into my account. To ask if I want a beer…’
‘A beer? Since when have you been drinking beer? And since when has Dad been encouraging you?’
Tom gave a sound something between a laugh and obvious exasperation. ‘Mum, for heaven’s sake, I’m seventeen…’
‘Only just. I saw Dad sent you a card.’
‘I wasn’t hiding it, Mum. I just didn’t want to flaunt it. And no, it didn’t say “from Dad and Tina” …’
I knew that; I’d had a jolly good look at it in his bedroom.
‘… And I know you’ll have had a jolly good look at it in my bedroom…’
Blimey, was the boy psychic?
‘… so, pointless trying to say he hadn’t sent me one.’
‘Well, I hope he was generous with his birthday money?’
Tom looked slightly embarrassed. ‘He was actually. He put five hundred pounds into my account.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous. Why did he give you so much?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Driving lessons. That was the plan, if you remember, to have driving lessons for my seventeenth birthday.’
Oh God, of course. ‘I’m so sorry, Tom, I should have been organising them for you. How about we get some booked in for half term next week?’
‘Well, I’m away for half of it.’
‘Away?’
‘The maths taster thing at Cambridge?’
‘Oh, gosh, yes.’ My heart dropped. With Freya being chosen for some national netball training course in Newcastle, it meant I’d be spending quite a bit of the break alone, instead of swanning off with Mark on my surprise half-term treat. I needed to be upbeat about this. Here were my children being selected for two top national events and I was just feeling miserable.
‘Tom…?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You know the evening you saw Dad with Auntie Tina and you realised what was going on?’
Tom looked wary. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, why were you there?’
‘Why not?’
I felt my heart begin to thump. I took a deep breath. ‘Tom, The Blue Ball out on the Manchester Road is a gay pub.’ He didn’t say anything, but looked down at the table and began peeling the gunge off the sauce bottle. ‘Tom?’
‘What?’
‘Dad saw you there that night.’
‘Oh.’ Tom’s neck went very pink and, as he rolled the solidified sauce gunge into a ball and flicked it across the table, I noticed how his fingernails were bitten down almost to the quick.
Well, here goes, I might as well bite the bullet. ‘Do you think you might be gay, Tom? I mean, if you are, that’s fine, it’s not a problem, no one minds about these things these days…’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mum, you’ll be telling me next your best friend is gay.’ Tom was cross.
‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m just worried for you.’
‘Oh, so you do think being gay is a problem? All that stuff about it not being a problem is just… is just bollocks.’
‘Darling, if you’re gay I’d rather know…’
‘Mum, I don’t know. All right?’ Tom suddenly got up from the table, pushing away his chair with such force it nearly fell backwards. ‘I’m off to do some work. OK?’
*
I knew better than to make an awkward situation worse with Tom by harping on; leaving him to cool down was a far better strategy. So with Tom’s anger still ringing in my ears, I donned my trainers and walked the fifteen minutes across the fields to Clementine’s. It had rained a lot the previous week and the ground was sodden, the grass long. The fields, I conceded, were beginning to look unkempt as if, with the uncertainty of their future, no one could be bothered with them. A couple of the dry-stone walls had lost some of their stones and, whereas before, the farmers would have been out almost immediately to build them back up, rearranging the
pieces in the way that only those with the knowledge and experience of these structures could, the stones now lay forlorn on the fields like extracted teeth, leaving gaping holes in the wall. Granddad Norman always loved dry-stone walls, had always pointed them out to me when I was a little girl on one of our walks to gather blackberries or elderflowers for his home-made wine. He’d explained a wall’s load-bearing façade of interlocking stones, stroking its rough side almost reverentially and always picking up fallen stones, easing them back home like the final piece of a difficult jigsaw puzzle. I knew that if the wall lost a stone it was a bit like a dropped stitch when knitting: ignore the lost stitch and you’d soon have a big hole. The farmers, it occurred to me on this dull and misty October Sunday morning, as I climbed stiles and wished I’d put on wellingtons instead of my now soaked trainers, had seemingly abandoned their knitting.
At ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, the reception area of Clementine’s appeared deserted, the only sound the rather jolly cacophony of church bells belting out from nearby All Hallows, Westenbury ringing to call its flock to order. I was just about to ring my own bell for attention when I heard laughter coming from what I presumed was the kitchen area. A door opened and out came a little woman enveloped in a huge white pinny, flour up her arms and smudges of the same on her nose. She started when she saw me and then laughed when I said I was after a table for the coming week. She soon gave me short thrift, telling me in no uncertain terms that tables at Clementine’s were like gold dust and the earliest available one was at least six weeks into the future and did I want to book that? Deflated, I shook my head, and was about to leave, when Clementine Ahern herself came down the stairs that led into the reception area.
‘Oh, Mrs Beresford? You’re out and about early.’ Clementine’s chef was heavily pregnant with her second child, her tunic strained across her abdomen, and she smoothed an escaped tendril of dark hair behind her ears as she spoke. ‘Has Betty here, been able to help you?’
‘I’ve just been telling her, she’ll have to get with the rest of them in the queue – we’re fully booked until Christmas.’
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