A Village Affair

by Julie Houston

  ‘Xavier’s mother is French.’ I said. ‘He’s just been staying with his grandmother in Paris.’ I broke off as I heard a key in the door. For a split second, I thought it might be Xavier returning.

  ‘What’s up?’ Tom walked into the kitchen and looked at us both, frowning as he saw me with a tear-stained face once more. ‘Is it Dad? What’s he done now?’

  ‘No, darling, it’s not your father this time. I wish to goodness it was.’

  *

  After a week of typically morose, damp November weather, the Saturday morning promised a respite from the mist and rain – perfect for the Norman’s Meadow protest. Tom, who had sat with me after Paula had finally gone around 10 p.m. and listened while I told him all about Xavier, as well as Paula’s revelations, was up early and brought me tea in bed.

  ‘Right, Mum, you’re not going to cry today,’ Tom warned sitting on my bed. ‘You can give me a driving lesson and we’ll drive over to Granddad’s and see what’s happening. You do know Freya’s been on Twitter and Instagram saying Harry Kennedy’s going to be there?’

  ‘What, saying he’s definitely going to be there, not that he might be there? Oh lordy, she’s going to get lynched…’

  While I was in the shower, my mind went over and over what Paula had revealed the previous evening. Once she’d left I’d been very tempted to ring Xavier there and then and tell him, but how do you tell the man who’s still got your bra in his trouser pocket that he might be your brother? And what about his poor mother, knowing that her husband of forty years has a love child? It really wasn’t a nice feeling to think I was the result of three stoned kids getting carried away in a huge garden.

  I’d always wondered about my father, of course, who he was, where he was, why he didn’t live with us like other dads. It was always my cousin, Davina’s, final insult in any childhood argument: ‘Well, you don’t even have a daddy.’ At first, when I was really small, Paula told me Daddy was an explorer and couldn’t live with us as he was off exploring new places. I remember learning about Columbus at school (Paula had tutted when I said we were doing Voyages of Discovery, asking whether the native Americans hadn’t realised who they were until some little Italian had come along, discovered them and plundered their resources) and shouting out that my daddy was out in the world discovering new places, too. It had given me some credence with the other kids in the class who regularly scoffed at Paula’s dreadlocks, piercings and flowing dresses.

  I stepped out of the shower, drying myself on one of the huge fluffy cream towels I insisted on having in the bathrooms. It had been years before I realised towels were meant to be big, soft and bouncy, not cheap, scratchy affairs that remained wet and slightly odorous from having nowhere to dry in between use. By the time I was in my early teens and knew about sex, I quickly worked out that my mother had got herself pregnant and my father had done a runner. Rowan in Morocco took over from Daddy the Explorer and, fairly uninterested, I’d put him to one side and got on with my life.

  I’d cried enough over Mark, I told myself severely as I felt tears threaten once more. I really didn’t want to start all over again with Xavier. But it was very tempting to get back into my pyjamas and curl up on the sofa with hot chocolate and the remote control. You are a strong woman I reminded myself. I looked in the mirror. Slim, tanned and with long blond hair into the bargain: well at least I looked OK. Sort yourself, girl: get out there and support your daughter, mother and grandfather. I found a pair of jeans I’d bought and never been able to get into before, added a cream cashmere polo jumper, flat brown leather boots and my shearling jacket and went downstairs to find Tom.

  *

  ‘My goodness, look at this lot. Do you want me to park the car?’ Tom had driven the fifteen minutes or so to Granddad Norman’s but my usual parking place down the lane was already occupied.

  ‘’S OK,’ Tom breathed. ‘I can do it. He reversed the car, manoeuvring it into a tiny space in front of a brand-new Mini.

  ‘Stop, Tom, STOP.’ There was a gentle bump as the car’s back end made contact with the front of the Mini and a woman immediately jumped out of the driver’s seat.

  ‘Shit.’ I jumped out myself and walked to where the woman was examining her car.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I gushed. ‘Tom’s learning.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s fine, really, no damage at all. I’ve been there myself when Harry was learning to drive. He wrote off a brand-new Porsche when I was sitting with him.’

  ‘Oops.’ I glanced at the boy sitting in the passenger seat, looking out at Tom and grinning.

  ‘Aren’t you Cassandra Rhodes?’ the woman asked, peering more closely at me.

  ‘Well, I was. Cassandra Beresford now.’ I looked at her. ‘Oh, Nicola Foreman?’

  ‘Nicola Kennedy now. Heavens, I’ve not seen you since junior school.’

  ‘Kennedy? Oh gosh, is that Harry Kennedy? Is he your son?’

  ‘Yes, we’re just deciding whether to go round to my mother’s house or go straight to Norman’s Meadow. I seem to remember you and me playing in there when I came round to visit her.’

  I smiled. ‘You’re right, I’d forgotten all about that. I think you were the only person I did play with round here. There weren’t many other children.’

  ‘Harry’s feeling a bit nervous about speaking but he wants to help.’

  Harry got out of the car and shook both Tom’s and my hand. He was older than Tom, probably around nineteen, but Tom appeared to remember him from school.

  ‘We’re going to walk up through the playing field at the side of the meadow,’ Nicola said. ‘Do walk with us and we can catch up. Gosh, can’t believe it’s been over thirty years since I last saw you.’

  We set off, Tom and Harry behind us chatting non-stop as if they’d known each other for ever, and made our way up the lane, climbing over one of the broken dry-stone walls and into the field that had been used by local football teams as long as I could remember.

  ‘I used to love coming and watching the footballers,’ Nicola grinned. ‘Great place for getting off with the lads when you’re in your teens.’

  ‘Really?’ I’d obviously missed out somewhere.

  ‘Ooh, yes. The only reason I didn’t put up too much objection whenever I was dragged to see my granny, who also lived along here, on a Saturday and Sunday. I just offered to take her mangy old dog for a walk up the fields.’

  I laughed and then stopped. ‘Oh, my goodness, look at that cow.’ A small black and white Friesian was ambling curiously towards the touchline, scattering the small crowd of spectators. ‘You see, this is what’s so brilliant about these fields,’ I laughed again. ‘You wouldn’t get a cow coming to watch a game anywhere else. And where are the locals going to play if the Bamforths get their way? I assume this field is owned by them, too?’

  Nicola nodded.

  ‘Never mind the foreplay,’ one of the crowd was shouting in exasperation. ‘Bloody well shoot…’

  ‘Bring on the sub…’ another yelled.

  ‘Never mind the sub,’ another laughed. ‘Bring on the bloody cow…’

  There was a collective groan as the home team let in a goal. ‘It wasn’t my bloody fault,’ the goalie protested, looking our way as the four of us walked behind the nets and towards Norman’s Meadow. ‘I’m sure that’s Harry Kennedy over there…’

  ‘Yah, you gay twat,’ his team-mates jeered, but nevertheless stopped to gawp, too.

  Would Tom be followed, wherever he went, with homophobic insults once people were aware of his sexual orientation? I glanced back at my son. He was animated, perfectly at ease with the little superstar that Harry Kennedy had become since Second Coming had won The X Factor two years previously.

  ‘Come and join us once your game is over,’ Nicola shouted at the staring faces. ‘It’s your playing field you’ll lose if you don’t fight for it.’

  *

  If I hadn’t been feeling so dreadful about Paula’s revelation I would have enjoye
d every minute of the protest organised by the NMLA (Norman’s Meadow Liberation Army). Harry Kennedy’s presence had brought out teenage girls in their droves and, while they themselves might not have had much influence on trying to stop the Bamforths building on the fields, their accompanying mothers, who were just as star-struck as their daughters, certainly had. Petitions were signed, balloons released and speeches made. Paula kicked off, then Freya and then Granddad Norman got up, leaning on his stick and breathing heavily as he lifted the megaphone with his free hand. He was wearing his war medals on his chest and he’d replaced his usual flat cap with his purple British Legion one.

  For the first time, as Granddad Norman spoke, haltingly at first but then with some gusto, I began to realise where Paula’s fighting spirit, her constant railing against inequality and what she saw as the pernicious destruction of the planet, had come from.

  ‘I fought the Germans,’ Granddad shouted. ‘I don’t like war: war’s a dreadful thing, but it were a necessity. This too, is a just fight. There is no reason to build on these meadows. People need houses, of course they do, but not in your backyard and not in my backyard. Not here. There are brownfield sites just begging to be built on away from t’countryside…’ His voice faltered, seemingly overcome with emotion, and Freya joined him on the makeshift stage she and Paula had cobbled together with packing cases and – I saw – my filched kitchen steps.

  A pair of arms went around me and for one hopeful moment I thought it might be Xavier. Why would the enemy be here, you stupid woman? I chided myself.

  ‘They’re good,’ Clare smiled, kissing me. ‘Matt’s going to say something soon… Oh my goodness, look, Harry Gration from Look North. They’ve obviously got wind of Harry Kennedy being here… Oh, sorry, this is Rageh…’

  The tall, dark man holding Clare’s hand grinned at me. ‘Hi, you must be very proud of all your family. What fighters they are. Brilliant.’

  I smiled back. ‘You’re right, I’m really proud. If there’s something worth fighting for then…’

  ‘… it’s worth fighting for?’ Rageh finished. He was smiling down at Clare from his six-foot height with such love and adoration I almost felt like crying with envy.

  ‘He’s lovely, Clare,’ I whispered. ‘Really lovely.’

  ‘I know.’ She squeezed my hand with her free one. ‘I love him. Simple as that. I love him.’

  Matt was standing by the packing boxes, Fi at his side. Freya and Paula helped Granddad Norman down the makeshift steps before handing Matt the megaphone. He spoke for a good five minutes, obviously very nervous to begin with, but then his passion for the fields, for farming and for the way of life in the Westenbury area came through.

  ‘This is our village,’ he said. ‘It’s been our village for hundreds of years. The church has been here for many hundreds of years. The village school…’ Matt glanced over in my direction and smiled, ‘… is one of the oldest church schools in the country. Do not believe the Bamforths when they tell you the land is untenable: I know of at least two young farmers, at present still up at Askham Bryan agricultural college, as well as my own two sons, who are eager to get their hands on farmland of their own around here, should the opportunity be there.’ Matt paused, not through emotion but, I could tell, through a burning anger. ‘That opportunity will not be there for them if you people here don’t protest against the planned destruction of these beautiful fields. If you want a ridiculous ski slope instead of flowers and fresh air then do nothing. If you want farming round here to disappear, then do nothing. If you want your little ones to have to travel to a huge community academy instead of being educated like they have for years in small classes in a small caring school – then do nothing…’

  There was a round of applause and cheering.

  ‘… But if, like me, you want to see the area stay as it is, to be farmed and looked after as if should be, for your kids to walk to school…’

  More applause.

  ‘… then fight this. Sign the petition, speak to your local MP – he’s over there – and let the council know you don’t want this in your back yard. You won’t allow this in your back yard…’

  Harriet and Grace, and an ensemble of small children all clutching the brightly coloured balloons, were standing to one side of the platform with David and Mandy Henderson and I waved across at them. Fi helped Matt down as the crowd cheered, hugging him and wiping her eyes as she did so.

  David, a beautiful little dark-haired girl with Down’s syndrome clutching one of his hands, patted Matt on the shoulder and then made to take his place on the platform. Grace tried to take the little girl from him but she refused to let go of David’s hand and, instead, he took the hand of the little boy at Grace’s side and led the two children up the steps.

  ‘Where’s Swampy?’ someone shouted. ‘I thought he was coming to lie down and protest?’

  David grinned. ‘’Fraid not,’ he shouted through the megaphone. ‘You’ve got the home-grown protesters instead. These two here are my grandchildren. It’s their future I care about. I want them to be able to run through Norman’s Meadow…’

  ‘But you’re not home grown, David Henderson,’ the same man interrupted. ‘You’re a bloody southerner. Coming up here and lording it over us; living in your big house. What do you know about not being able to get on the housing ladder because there aren’t houses being built? And don’t tell me your grandchildren will be going to school locally. They’ll be off to some posh boarding school.’

  ‘They most certainly will not,’ Grace turned, shouting. ‘I teach at Little Acorns – best school I’ve ever taught in, with a superb head teacher, and those two there…’ she inclined her head towards her children, ‘… will, if I can get them in there – if the Bamforths don’t knock the place down first – be attending there and then on to the local high school.’ Grace was angry.

  ‘That school needs knocking down,’ a different voice shouted. ‘Giving it a daft new name doesn’t modernise it. It’s full of vermin. A squirrel fell out of the ceiling and into our Mikey’s dinner the other day. Edward Bamforth would build a brand-new school for our kids where squirrels don’t land in your dinner.’

  ‘D’you hear that, Mr Henderson?’ the first man continued. ‘We want progress round here: new houses, a modern school where there’s dinners without squirrel on the menu.’ Hoots of laughter went up from that part of the crowd.

  ‘Let him speak,’ one of the football dads yelled towards the heckler. ‘You’re frightening the kiddies.’

  ‘I’m just saying…’

  ‘Well, shut it, mate, and let the man have his say.’

  ‘I can assure you, as Chair of Governors, I was fully aware that squirrels had made their annual pilgrimage into the school roof, and can also put your minds at rest that the incident was dealt with immediately. The hall was out of bounds for the rest of the day and experts removed the squirrels and mended the very slight damage to the ceiling. It’s a rural school: we should give thanks for the wildlife in our midst. Now then…’

  As David Henderson spoke, urging the locals to sign the petition and to attend other meetings being planned, I looked round. Harry Kennedy, waiting nervously to get up and speak, was still with Tom, standing close to my son and occasionally smiling across at him while a whole gang of teenaged girls and their mothers hovered. I continued to scan the crowd. Clementine Ahern had arrived with Allegra, her daughter, and a dark-haired man I assumed to be her husband. They walked over to join Harriet, Grace and Mandy and the two men standing with them, presumably Harriet and Grace’s husbands. Clare had also made her way towards them, introducing Rageh to the other couples, laughing and joking and listening to David, and then to Harry Kennedy speak. Couples. That was it: they were all couples.

  I don’t think I’d ever, even in the weeks after Mark had gone, felt so alone.

  29

  So, He’s Good at His Times Tables…?

  Later that evening I keyed in the postcode Xavier had texted me
and set off for his house and the promised food. Clementine had asked me to join them for a quick impromptu victory gathering at Clementine’s before she ushered in her first customers of the evening, but I managed to make my excuses and left them all to it. Tom and Harry seemed joined at the hip – much to Freya’s chagrin – and Tom was given a lift by Harry and his mum down to the restaurant.

  ‘I’ll see Granddad’s OK,’ I’d said to Paula. ‘As one of the main organisers of the NMLA, you’ve been invited down there, too. Could you give Freya a lift down and tell her she’s got to stay with you again tonight? I’ll stay here with Granddad; make sure he has something to eat.’

  ‘So, why aren’t you coming, Cassandra Moonbeam?’ Paula had looked at me intently.

  ‘Because I’m going to have supper with Xavier.’ I looked back at my mother, daring her to question my decision.

  ‘Just be careful, Cassandra…’

  ‘And it’s all couples. I’m a bit short of another half.’

  Following the Satnav instructions, I indicated left and followed the lane down until I was ordered by the bossy woman to turn a sharp left and I’d have reached my destination. The evening was clear, the black sky starlit and illuminated by a silvery moon sailing by on the left, and I peered through my windscreen to see where I was going. I pulled up outside the only house at the bottom of the lane and exited, pulling my bag, wine and flowers after me. I felt sick with nerves. How on earth was I going to tell this gorgeous man I’d fallen in love with that he was quite possibly my brother?

  Xavier was at the door before I knocked. ‘Hi, I heard the car. Come on in, it’s far too cold to be out there. Flowers? For me? How lovely. Now, food won’t be long. I do hope you like lamb…?’ Xavier seemed almost as nervous as I was. He turned to look at me and smiled. ‘I just needed to see you’re as I remembered.’ He bent to kiss me on the cheek, unwinding my woollen scarf from around my neck before abandoning it on a cream sofa and then, taking my hand in his, led me through a door into a warm sitting room where champagne stood on an antique table, cooling in an ice bucket.