The Garden Plot

by Sara Sartagne

  “Quite sure. You can talk to me about the development while we walk.”

  Sam relaxed. That would be a good use of her time, certainly.

  “Well, thank you. I'll get my bag.”

  Magda was chattering as Jonas opened the door to Brook Lodge. He wanted some quiet, a scotch and some thinking time.

  His daughter paused.

  “Well? What do you think?” his daughter prompted him. He stared at her. “You haven't been listening, have you?”

  “Sorry, I've been drifting a bit. I think I'm tired. Could you run that past me again?”

  Magda rolled her eyes.

  “I said perhaps we ought to invite Lisbeth and her family over for a return supper! We should do it to celebrate when the garden’s finished!”

  Jonas ran his mind over the suggestion and thought it seemed eminently reasonable. So why wasn't he more enthusiastic?

  Fraser, that was why. Pompous arse.

  “We should invite the whole team—including Sam, and Andy and that young lad who works with them, too!”

  Jonas felt his stomach turn over. Of course they'd invite Sam. Perhaps he could cope with Fraser and his pretty, colourless wife if there were other compensations.

  “We'll see.”

  “Did you have a good time tonight Dad? I thought it would be nice to meet a few other families in the village...” Magda seemed to be watching him closely, he thought. He'd better concentrate.

  “Mmm, yes, what about you?” He clicked on lamps.

  “Oh yeah, but there seems to be a bit of an atmosphere between Sam and Lisbeth's dad, don't you think?”

  “They're very different people, I think.”

  “Yeah... Sam's got a really different view of the world. Lisbeth's dad seems a bit...well, old!”

  Jonas laughed.

  “He's got a very responsible position as a Member of Parliament; I imagine that ages him a lot!”

  “But Sam's got a really responsible attitude too—all this stuff about Jessop's Field, she's really into it!”

  He poured himself a drink, sinking into his favourite armchair.

  “Can I have a bit?” Magda wheedled.

  “A thimbleful—no more. You'll get me arrested for corruption of a minor. Plus, this is my best scotch.” Grinning, Magda skipped to the drinks and poured enough to cover the bottom of a glass.

  “What do you think? About Jessop's Field?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jonas said.

  “Will you help her? I think she was telling you about it so you might offer her some advice!”

  “Not sure she needs it. They’re doing all the right things from what I heard just now. If there's a sensible reason why the development shouldn't go ahead, I think she's got a really good chance of finding what it is.”

  “But you know all about this stuff! Can't you help?” Magda looked at him suspiciously. “It's not one of your developments, is it Dad?”

  “Anglo Homes is the developer,” he said immediately. Not the whole truth, but not a lie either.

  Magda was watching him with her head on one side. She was quiet for a second. “Right,” she said. Jonas tried to steer the conversation to safer ground.

  “I tell you what—if the group looks like they're making a mistake, I'll tell her.” Magda gave him what his mother would have called 'an old-fashioned' look.

  “Whoopy-doo, Dad.”

  “It's not up for discussion, Magda. Can you imagine the publicity if I was found to be advising a protest group to interfere with the business of another property developer? It's not that I don't want to help—I can't.”

  Magda was silent. “I hadn't thought of it like that,” she admitted finally. “Sam's really nice, isn't she?”

  The question caught him by surprise. “Yes, she's lovely,” he said without thinking.

  Magda drained the final drops of her drink and jumped up.

  “Thanks for coming out tonight Dad—I had a great time. Love you,” and she kissed him and then whirled off out of the room.

  He smiled as she left and kicked off his shoes, stretching back in the chair. Time for him to go up as well, he felt like he'd been run over by a truck. But he stayed where he was, thinking over the evening.

  The prickliness between Sam and her brother-in-law had been impossible to miss, but what he'd been particularly struck by was the way in which Lisbeth had been affected. She'd looked—tense.

  And Sam had been fascinating to watch too. He'd known she was feisty simply from their discussions about the garden design. What he hadn't known was how articulate she could be about other things.

  He focused with an effort. The plans he’d seen in the library were standard fare, he thought. They didn’t have the features which were Halcyon’s hallmark and he didn’t know why. Sam had been right, too—the position of the site would give plenty of scope for objections. He needed to talk to Neil and sort it out if they were to protect their investment.

  He sat in the soft light of the lamps, remembering the conversation at the table tonight. The relationship between the sisters looked complicated, he decided.

  Probably because of Fraser... Career politician, he decided with a twist of his lips. Doubtless a very good one, and tipped, according to his lobby team in London, for great things in the Cabinet. Jonas hadn’t liked him much. He wondered idly what Charlotte had seen in him, and his thoughts turned back to Sam.

  Intelligent, passionate, articulate.

  And beautiful, don't forget beautiful, with skin like silk, prompted his brain.

  “Bugger,” he said softly, before putting down his glass and going to bed. He needed to text Gerry, he reminded himself.

  The room was spinning just a bit as Sam flicked on the light.

  “Tea,” she mumbled to herself. “Tea will sort you out.”

  She struggled out of her jacket and dropped it carelessly on the kitchen chair, kicked off her heels—ridiculously high for a dinner with the family, she thought—and grabbed a big mug.

  She waited for the kettle to boil. Her mind was a blank. This was probably a good thing—when she started thinking, she felt she might have rather a lot to think about.

  Minutes later, mug in hand, she walked carefully to the big squishy armchair.

  Quite an evening, she thought as she sipped her hot tea.

  Fraser—she wrinkled her nose. Well, it was hardly unexpected, but at least she'd tried.

  “Tory arse,” she muttered.

  And then there was Magda. And Magda's father.

  She closed her eyes briefly. Dinner, even if you took Fraser and his irritating point-scoring out of it, had hardly been stress-free. Okay, Charlotte had been the perfect hostess, as smooth and vanilla as always, and Magda had been bright and bubbly. But seeing Jonas at the door had been a shock, the first of several during dinner.

  The walk home had been tight with tension between them, despite the bright chatter of Magda. Sam had tried to get more information out of Jonas in much the same way as Fraser had done and was met with the same response. He wasn't rude, he was just firm, and remarkably skilled at turning the conversation into other avenues and getting her to talk about herself. Useless.

  On Monday she would try again in the hope of squeezing more information and perhaps some advice out of him.

  She'd fallen silent as they'd approached her cottage, starting to wonder what the social etiquette was for a situation where a client (with his daughter) had walked you home. A wave from the path? Air kissing? Shaking hands?

  A real kiss?

  She'd been giving herself such a strong talking-to about even thinking about a real kiss, she'd almost walked past her own front gate and stopped abruptly, causing Jonas to bump into her.

  “Oh!” she said, as his hands caught her shoulders and steadied her.

  “All right?” he said with a lazy smile she could just see in the evening gloom.

  “Yes,” she said, her breath unsteady. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”<
br />
  There was a second's silence and then Magda launched forwards.

  “It's been great to spend a bit of time with you! I'm home for the summer in a few weeks so I'll see you then!”

  Then Magda planted a kiss firmly on each of her cheeks. Sam turned to Jonas and before he could follow his daughter's example, she thrust out her hand.

  “Goodnight—thank you for walking me home.”

  There was a glint in his eye as Jonas took her hand.

  “No problem,” he said politely, taking her hand. He pulled her towards him and pressed his lips to one cheek and then the other. She thought he was almost as surprised as she was. “See you on Monday.”

  Sam stared into her mug and played back in her head the feel of his lips on her face and the slight bristle of his cheek against her skin.

  She sat up and shook her head as if to clear it.

  No messing with the customers, was one of the cardinal rules of business, she knew.

  But now she was simultaneously looking forward to Monday and dreading it.

  16

  On Monday morning, Jonas had risen at his normal time. So far, he'd nicked his throat shaving, changed his shirt twice and spilt coffee on the kitchen table, soaking one page of the Financial Times.

  He was swearing under his breath and mopping up when he saw Andy stroll into the back garden. Then the doorbell rang. Throwing the dishcloth towards the sink, it missed and fell to the floor.

  Grumbling, he went to the front door, wiping his hands.

  Sam was standing on the doorstep. It was starting to mizzle with rain, and she was peering at the sky.

  “Morning!” she said brightly. “Doesn't look all that promising today, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” He held the door open and after a pause, she stepped into the hall.

  “I wondered if you were still interested in hearing a bit more about the action group later today?” she smiled hesitantly.

  “Yes, of course—but will you really work through this today?” he said, waving at the weather.

  “If it's completely throwing it down, it's self-defeating—the soil gets too heavy to work and all you end up doing is making a mess. This,” she indicated out of the now open door, “is just drizzle, and to be honest, it might make the soil a bit softer. And after all, I do have a deadline to meet, don't I?”

  She shot him a challenging look and he laughed. She smiled again and then she was gone.

  Jonas looked at the closed door for a moment and then went to clear up the mess in the kitchen. Gerry wasn’t returning until late afternoon. He needed to hear all about the action group uninterrupted.

  Really? said a voice in his head. He cursed under his breath as he wrung out the coffee-soaked dishcloth.

  The light rain didn't stop, but it didn't get any worse and as Sam had predicted, it did soften the ground. The air was warm, which was a good job, as although the rain was light, it still soaked Sam's hair. She eventually pulled on a beanie, but the damage was done, she thought, resigned.

  She was just pulling out the roots of a dandelion which appeared to be digging to Australia, when Jonas appeared. He was wearing a big waterproof jacket and looked even larger than she remembered. As the previous day, he was carrying a tray, but this time there were only two steaming mugs on it. Sam glanced at her watch—ten forty-five.

  “This is kind of you,” she said, as the boys downed tools and came over for the drinks. Steve had mud on his face and in his hair, flicked up by the rotavator, but Jonas just nodded as he handed over a plate of chocolate biscuits.

  “You're spoiling us!” Sam said. Jonas laughed.

  “Yours is inside,” he grinned and turned back to the house.

  After a brief pause, Sam followed him to the patio doors and carefully toed off her muddy boots before stepping into the room. Her toes scrunched into the luxurious carpet.

  “Hello?” she called.

  She saw Jonas’ dark head pop around the door.

  “Come on in. How do you take your coffee?”

  “White, one sugar.”

  “Sugar? I have some here somewhere...” Jonas began to search in a cupboard and Sam forced herself not to apologise for her sweet tooth.

  She took off her jacket and hung it over a chair back, pulled off her cap and finger combed her wet hair.

  She slid onto a stool at the shiny black granite counter and smiled brightly as he put the mug of coffee, a jug of milk (not the bottle) and after some decanting, a bowl of sugar, in front of her. He smelled wonderful, she realised, as he moved to the other side of the counter.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “No, no—I’ll soon warm up with the coffee.” And she wrapped her hands around the mug, feeling the heat seep into her fingers. She sipped and then coughed as it went down the wrong way.

  “Sorry,” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “You wanted to know a bit about Jessop's Field?”

  He nodded, and she was aware of his eyes fixed on her face. Stumbling at first, and then getting into her stride, she told him about the public response to the development, and its impact on the village.

  “What about the local Council?” Jonas asked.

  “Completely non-communicative,” she replied bluntly. “We've noticed the difference between this planning application and the one we fought against the big supermarket—the officers were really friendly and helpful on that. On this, we can barely get them to take our phone calls.”

  “And the elected councillors?”

  “Mixed views, one undecided. One of our biggest worries is if we fail, and this goes ahead, there'll be little to prevent further developments alongside it. The damage will have been done, the wildlife disturbed, and the Green Belt cut up—so why not build a few more houses next door?”

  Jonas looked sharply at her at that, his brows snapping into a frown. Sam wondered what she'd said.

  “What's been the response from the developers? Have they come back to you?” Jonas asked carefully.

  “Pah!” Sam took a biscuit and snapped the end of it in her teeth. Jonas blinked. “We've asked for meetings and finally, finally after three weeks of asking, they're deigning to have a public meeting! It's tonight.” She looked at him speculatively. “You could come along, if you want. I'm going.”

  “Ah...no, I'm sorry, I can't.”

  “Shame,” she said. There was a short silence and Jonas swigged his coffee.

  “Anyway, I thought as you worked in development, you might give us some advice,” she said smiling. Silence.

  Or not.

  Jonas took a deep breath.

  “Well, as I said at supper, I've been ordered to avoid anything to do with work and giving advice about a development probably falls into the category of work.”

  Sam tried not to look disappointed.

  “Although I think you're doing everything you should,” he added hastily. “If you think the development will affect wildlife, make sure the council ask the developers for an environmental impact assessment.”

  “Yes, we have that on our list.”

  “And check the proposed number of houses won't put additional stress on existing facilities.”

  “Yes, we've done that, and it will.”

  He was silent. Sam swallowed the rest of her coffee and put the mug carefully on the counter.

  “Well, if you think of anything we haven't done, perhaps you could let me know?” She smiled again but didn't manage to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “Of course. I'm sorry I can't be of more help.” He sounded formal.

  “Well, I don't want to be responsible for you having a relapse. I'm not sure my public liability insurance is up to that.”

  As a quip, it was weak, but he smiled broadly at her and she felt her stomach dip, as the intimacy she’d felt on Friday returned.

  “No, it might not be. But thanks for being so understanding,” he said seriously, catching her gaze.

  She dragged on her boots and made her way
back to Steve and Andy.

  The village hall had standing room only, to Sam's amazement. She wasn't the only one surprised, she thought as she saw a young woman in a London-style suit and rather startling dark eyebrows talking urgently into a mobile phone. The woman was gesturing rather wildly at the heaving room.

  Amanda squeezed through the crowd and nudged her arm.

  “I see the PR girlies have arrived,” she said.

  “How do you know she's a PR girlie?”

  “Ever seen heels like that in the village?”

  Sam glanced at the four-inch spikes of shiny leather.

  “Fair point.” She glanced around. “It's rammed. I never thought it would raise this much interest.”

  “Sweetie, these are not all supporters of our cause,” Amanda said. “I reckon these are folk who’ve turned out in return for being put at the top of the waiting list for a house.”

  “You're joking!”

  “Sadly not. See that chap by the window with the leather jacket?” Sam's eyes sought him out. “He's from Stockwell, looking forward to moving into a 'posh' part of the district—with his used car and scrap metal business.”

  “Surely not,” Sam said faintly.

  “And the lady with the bright blue fingernails? A lobbyist from Manchester, who's worked with a number of developers and she’s not choosey—her last developer was looking to introduce fracking in the Lake District.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She was handing a card to the PR woman and she dropped one. She’s from—ELG—Enlist Lobby Group,” Amanda explained. “I got the rest from Google,” she tapped her phone.

  “Our hostess with the mostest,” she continued, nodding towards the suit and the heels, “is from a PR firm who’ll likely be flooding the village with leaflets, telling us all about the new development, the jobs it will bring, how carefully the design has been done—the usual bollocks.”

  “Good grief, don't we have anyone who's really from the village, other than just us?”

  “Well, our esteemed chairman Desmond had a game of golf, so he's not coming, but Tom and Jenny, Susan Miles and Dorothy Pratchett, plus a number of the B&B owners are here.”