Standing under the shower ten minutes later, her head was still clear, and her legs were still holding up. She was cautiously optimistic.
“I wonder what day it is?” she mused, as she towelled herself dry. She heard the ping of a message on her phone and slowly pulled on her robe and went back into the bedroom. Lisbeth was texting her, asking how she was and saying she’d call round later.
She put on some clothes and drew back the covers on the bed, opened windows. She dried her hair and was pleased to see a little shine on it. Her stomach rumbled and she made herself toast and tea and sat at the kitchen table, looking out of the window at the bright sunshine glancing off the leaves of the trees.
Another text arrived, this time from Amanda.
Hi, hope you're feeling better. Did you know the planning decision is on Thursday night? Are you going to attend? Are you well enough? Let me know, lots of love Ax
“Blimey, what’s the date?” she muttered, checking the calendar. She'd been ill for more than a week!
And what about the Keane garden?
She dialled Andy.
“Sam! How are you?”
“I'm feeling a lot better, thanks. How are things at Brook Lodge? Have you started the planting? How far behind are we?”
“Sam, relax. It's all under control, and we're still more or less on schedule.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She gave a shaky laugh.
“So, I can just go back to bed?”
“If you're not completely better, yes, you bloody well can! You looked like death warmed up when I last saw you. But really Sam, it's all fine. We did the planting just as you designed it, and I think you've done an amazing job.”
“How's the client?”
“Jonas? He's been cool with everything. More worried about you than the garden, I think.” Sam was silent. “He's got the eye for you, you know—he's been asking after you,” Andy said casually.
Sam tried to stop smiling and failed. She pulled herself together. “Well, I hope to be back on Monday. I'll take the rest of this week off to fully recover. Has Paul been taking care of everything else?”
“He's been predicting the end of the business while taking more calls than he's taken for the last six months, but yes, everything’s fine.”
“Great. I'll call him in a bit and tell him I've not died.”
“He won't believe you.”
Sam rang off, still smiling and made some more tea before calling Paul. He scolded her for overdoing things—just as he’d told her, mind you—and then spent ten minutes telling her about all the potential clients waiting for her when she returned to work.
She left a message with Amanda to say she hoped to be at the meeting on Thursday and saw the light on the answerphone flashing. Lisbeth had turned off the ringer. She listened to five messages, two from Desmond talking about meetings and voting, one from Amanda asking after her and sending love, one from Charlie clucking that she needed to take care of herself and take on more staff. And one from Jonas.
“Hello Sam, it's Jonas. I presume your sensible niece has turned off the ringer. So I hope you get this…I just wanted to say that I hope you're feeling better and I'm looking forward to you finishing the garden. I'm looking forward to that very much, but if you think it might take longer, please let me know. I hope to see you soon. We need to talk” —he paused— “and get to know one another better.”
Sam shivered as she listened to his velvet, slightly gravelly tones over the machine and closed her eyes as the sound swept over her.
Feeling like a teenager, she played it again.
How to respond?
She picked up the phone and paused, weighing the receiver in her hand. Before she could change her mind, she punched the redial button.
“Keane.”
“H-hello,” she said. “It's Sam.”
“How are you? Are you feeling better?” Jonas' voice dropped, sounding soft down the phone.
“Yes, I’m OK. I'll be back on Monday to work, but I thought I might come at the weekend to see what the planting looks like, if that’s ok?”
There was a silence on the line.
“That would be wonderful.” His voice dropped a tone and she could see her nipples peak under her light shirt.
“When shall I come?” She tried to be business-like.
“Come when you’re ready. I'll be in. I might even be alone.”
Sam’s stomach dropped, even while her libido was cheering.
“Hmm. Not sure that’s a good idea. After all, the job isn't finished yet, is it?”
“Not quite. But I'm anxious to see you.”
Sam leaned her head back and tried to focus her suddenly wayward thoughts.
“Likewise,” she managed.
There was an intake of breath on the line and Sam pressed her suddenly tingling thighs together hard.
“This is all a bit fast, isn’t it?” she added with a laugh. “We know nothing about one another. I know you’re a convalescent, but apart from that, you’re a man of mystery!”
There was a pause.
“I know. But we will talk, I promise. I’ll see you whatever time you get to the house on Saturday—I’ll be in all day, waiting for you.”
Sam put the receiver down very carefully as though it might explode and took a deep breath.
“Well. Roll on the weekend,” she murmured to herself.
23
Sam sat down next to Amanda with a gasp of relief.
“Bloody hell, it's a madhouse! Almost as bad as the public meeting.”
“Except there we had more space,” grumbled Amanda, pointedly shuffling to one side as someone's elbow almost went into her ribs. The Council Chamber wasn't used to hosting this number of people, and in the gallery, there was standing room only. Amanda, blithely ignoring the glares of others looking for a seat, had sprawled with her bag over two seats until Sam arrived.
“Is Luke coming?”
“No, sadly, he's had to confess a conflict of interest,” Amanda grinned at her. “I've got to call him when the meeting's finished. His colleague did the investigation for the council instead and she's going to speak. She's sitting down there with someone—I think it’s her boss.” Amanda pointed out a dumpy young woman at the table with a huge pile of paper in front of her. Behind her was a much older man in a very worn tweed jacket and slightly untidy hair.
Sam grinned at Amanda.
“No Luke, then? That serious a conflict of interest?”
“Oh yes.” Sam saw her eyes soften and felt a twinge of envy. Still, in a couple of weeks... She shivered.
“But how are you? Are you fully recovered? Should you have come tonight?” said Amanda, looking at her closely.
“No, no, I've been in bed most of today, I'm feeling much better!” Sam said, feeling the warmth on her cheeks.
Looking around, Sam caught sight of other members of the action group. Mrs Pratchett with her new bulldog puppy, Susan Miles seated in the gallery. Down on the Council Chamber floor, Desmond was sitting with the reverend and Jenny, scowling horribly. Sam also saw Tyler Fairchild, looking relaxed and arrogant as well as a lot of people at the back of the hall. Some of them were carrying signs sporting a variety of witty slogans from “Bats over Homes is Batty!” and “Homes for Sherton” to “Rights for Villagers, NOT Wildlife”.
“God, there are some real nutters in here tonight, aren’t they?” she said.
“If I’d have known it was that kind of meeting, I’d have brought my own banner. I feel a bit underdressed,” agreed Amanda.
Finally, the meeting began. The raft of planning applications for lofts and extensions were waved through and then the meeting room seemed to grow tense.
“Us next on the agenda,” said Amanda, her eyes fixed on the councillors below.
“Was that the independent councillor Mrs Pratchett talked to?” Sam murmured, nodding at a very tall, well-built woman in a smart suit.
“Yes, Cou
ncillor Whitehouse—Dorothy's sitting practically opposite her on the other gallery,” replied Amanda. “Very off-putting...”
The Chair of the committee introduced the agenda item.
“Now we come to the application for three hundred and fifty houses close to Jessop's Field. We've taken quite a lot of public feedback for this application. Mr Stanford, would you like to take us through the details?”
The Chief Planning Officer stood up and presented the report. Sam listened as he talked through the implications of the building work—quite fairly, she thought. There were some whistles and heckles from the back of the hall, and the Chair began to look a little nervous.
“The planning department has considered the considerable need for local housing in the area. However, the development has attracted a great deal of correspondence from village residents. I'd like to call forward Mr Desmond Black, the chairman of the Sherton Environment Protection Group. I should remind you, Mr Black, you only have three minutes.”
Desmond rose to his feet, to the whistles and jeers of those supporting the development and Sam's heart sank a little as his chest puffed out.
Oh, don't blow it for us, Desmond, she prayed.
But the vicar Tom Sanders had coached him well. Desmond spoke simply and clearly about the history of Jessop's Field, and drew attention to the alternative brownfield site on the other side of the village. He also spoke of the impact of the access road, cutting the Green Belt in half. He didn't speak about the bats, but generally about the impact of the development on wildlife. He sat down bang on three minutes and Sam cheered, just about making her voice heard against the boos of the placard-waving crowd. Desmond's chest puffed out even further.
Mr Stanford stood up again and cleared his throat.
“There is a colony of Bechstein's bats in the woodland and we've taken advice from Nature UK about this. Miss Gordon, would you like to speak?”
“Thank you,” said the dumpy Miss Gordon, rising from her seat. Her voice was light and clear. “It is the legal duty of a local planning authority to take note of the Habitats Directive when making decisions about planning applications which may have an impact on European Protected Species,” she said. “Before the developer comes to us for a licence, the authority must take into account the three derogation tests which we as Nature UK will consider when deciding whether to issue such a licence. These tests are, as I'm sure you're aware—overriding public interest, no satisfactory alternative to the proposed site, and alternative favourable conservation of the species.”
“Blimey,” said Amanda under her breath. “Do you think she talks like this at home?”
“In short, the planning authority needs to consider whether Nature UK is likely to issue a licence before granting planning permission. The authority can’t discharge its duty simply by adding a condition to the application which requires the developer to obtain a licence from us. This is not engaging in the Directive, and as such, any decision can be challenged in the courts.”
Sam sat up straighter, listening hard.
“I should like to add that the Bechstein bat has the highest protection in the country and previous conversations with the executives of Anglo Homes don’t fill us with confidence as to the provision of proper alternative habitat. I am here to tell councillors that there is no guarantee that we would grant a licence.” Miss Gordon sat down, smiling sweetly as Tyler Fairchild scowled at her. Sam approved of Luke's replacement, who had held her own even against the catcalls. The Chair asked for quiet and threatened to have people removed. The noise subsided a little.
Mr Stanford, the Chief Planning Officer, looked a little taken aback at the directness of Miss Gordon's comments and shuffled his papers. “There are provisions made in the plans,” he said. “Has Nature UK taken these into account?”
“We've noted the changes made to the plans since the public meeting, certainly,” Miss Gordon said acidly. “They have included elements not normally seen in Anglo Homes developments, but even so, the company does not have a stellar record in terms of protecting the environment.”
Sam noticed that Tyler Fairchild was muttering to a thin, anaemic-looking man besides him, who nodded slowly. He looked as if he was scribbling a note.
The Chair tried again.
“But your opinion is being sought on this development, not the previous history of the developer, Miss Gordon,” he said. She nodded.
“Quite, but our duty is to assess whether the organisation is capable of—in this case—providing a suitable habitat for the bats they will disturb, and I repeat—the developer does not have a stellar record. Or even a mediocre one.”
The Chair hmphed and sat back. There were some mutterings in the hall. A clerk passed a note to him and Sam saw his face change. He nodded at Tyler Fairchild, who stood up.
“We’ve heard a great deal about Anglo Homes’ lack of sensitivity to the local wildlife and Ms Gordon has implied that my organisation is incapable of handling the implementation of the wildlife directive. She may be right. As a large builder of many homes for Hard Working People, we tend to value our human customers over the wildlife we find alternative locations for. However, knowing this development was likely to be sensitive, Anglo Homes has teamed up with another developer, and it’s some of their work that is reflected in the plans that Ms Gordon—” he nodded at her “doesn’t recognise.”
Miss Gordon looked at her colleague behind her, who didn’t seem to move a muscle.
“Our partner is Halcyon LLP, one of the most sustainable developers in Europe. I presume you’ve heard of them, Ms Gordon?” Tyler sneered. Miss Gordon’s eyebrows almost shot off the top of her round, pleasant face.
“If Halcyon is involved, I presume their credentials would be strong enough to allay your concerns about issuing a licence?” said the Chair. Miss Gordon turned to her colleague and there seemed to be a heated discussion.
“Who?” whispered Amanda. “Who the hell are Halcyon?” She took out her phone and began to tap its face.
Sam looked around and saw a lot of whispering, and from the village action group, some nervous faces. The Councillors, including the independent, were starting to mutter amongst themselves.
“Well, Miss Gordon?” asked the Chair again after a few minutes. Sam could see the man from Nature UK shaking his head, and some imploring gestures from Miss Gordon. She turned back to the Chair.
“We’d need confirmation that the business proposal is as Mr Fairchild says it is,” she said. “But if that is the case, we would be prepared to issue a licence for the development if conditions were laid that an alternative habitat for the Bechstein bats would be arranged.”
Tyler smirked and there were cheers and whoops, led by the objectionable man in the leather jacket Sam had seen at the public meeting. Her heart dropped. Amanda was looking grim.
She listened as the councillors said their piece. As Desmond had said, they were split for and against, the only one not declaring her hand was Councillor Whitehouse. She raised her hand and the chair nodded at her to speak.
“The proposals show no evidence that other options for the location of the development have been fully evaluated,” she said in a cool, precise voice. “Quite aside from the emotional pull of Jessop's Field, there will be an impact on local tourism, which I understood from figures provided by the Economic Development Unit in Derby,” she looked at her papers, “to add more than six million pounds to the area's economy. While we don’t have cast-iron evidence that we will lose this if the development takes place, without the green space, the walkers and photographers would surely find our area less attractive. I’ve heard Mr Stanford’s arguments that people here need more housing and I agree. We’re faced with a difficult choice. My view is that an amendment is needed so that the site is moved away from Jessop’s Field.” She paused and then sat down.
Tyler raised his hand and the Chair nodded to him.
“I’m sure we can come to some agreement to move the development back a hundred
metres or so,” he said easily. The Chair nodded.
“I propose we move to a vote,” he said. “May I have a motion to approve the application?” A councillor nodded.
“Votes for?” Three hands rose from the group of six, including Councillor Whitehouse and the Chair, who frowned. Sam tensed. “Votes against?” Two hands rose. There was one abstention.
“The application for planning permission is approved,” the Chair said.
There was roar of approval from some of the crowd, who began to catcall and jeer at Desmond and the Nature UK representatives. Sam was left silent in shock. Tyler Fairchild rose to his feet quickly, gathered his files and swaggered from the hall, followed by his entourage.
Sam looked at Amanda. “We lost. Goddamn it all, we lost. Who’s this other company?”
“I don’t have a strong enough signal,” said Amanda in frustration, tapping her phone. “I’ll need to move somewhere else.” She stood up.
“We’ll appeal,” declared Mrs Pratchett, bustling towards them as Sam made her way into the main hall. Tom the vicar was sitting with his hands hanging limply between his legs. Jenny was patting him on the back, looking tearful.
“This can’t be the end, surely?” Sam said.
The man in the leather jacket swaggered over to them.
“So, common sense won out in the end, eh?”
Sam could see the vicar’s hands curl into fists.
“After all, it was a democratic decision and let’s face it, that’s what this country is all about, innit? A king in his castle and the power of the vote,” leather jacket continued.
“When your kids want somewhere to play, you’ll be able to show them photos of what used to be around, won’t you?” said Amanda through her teeth. He grinned.
“Now, now—no need to be a sore loser. You might have had something there with the bat-lady but after all—what are a few bats when people need homes?” He poked his finger close to Amanda’s face. “You lost. Get used to it.” Amanda knocked away his hand and headed towards the door, glued to her phone.
Sam turned to follow her when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and faced a pale woman.
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