Chapter Five
hat Gresham Reed found at the newly developing wetland site interested him more than he had expected. Not because of any change of conservation heart or the sight of a graceful whooper swan, his birds remained cooped chickens, but for the potential that his business eye saw. He well knew the growing social criticism of his style of farming, just as he was fully appreciative of the growing demand for his products. Liberal-hearted, over-sentimental opinions, held by hypocritical consumers or not, could be a danger to future business rather than merely a nuisance. See what happens to animal research laboratories! The fact had to be faced that the admass had to be soothed as well as fed. So! Here, he thought, as he paid his little fee – that was too low for a start! – is a way into the best of all compromises. Build his new sheds, screen them, and the associated traffic, from view, and invite the great British public to wander awhile and refresh their inner selves by going around the CKC wild bird garden. Of course, free entry, if he was to go that route, and that would depend on political necessity, would entail money-gathering stations along the way. He didn’t think that the natural highlight would be a tour of the factory. That was unreservedly open to, but limited to, Health and Safety and any other officialdom bodies. Reed had no fears on his standards within the required law, but no open-house policy for him. An over-priced ice-cream or bun would suffice for the tourist visiting ‘his’ wetlands, along with suitably placed tempting adverts to remind them of the succulent produce of their benefactor.
All this ran through his mind as he trod the simple plank walkways and admitted a certain degree of credit to the man who was striving to bring this thing into full being. He, Reed, once the owner, would not proceed with, what seemed to him, the over-ambitious plans of Alan Tewkes. He had spent quite some minutes studying the diagrams of proposed development on show in the simple reception hut and had seen what the man was about. Since gaining whatever initial planning permission he must have needed, Tewkes had certainly got cracking. Reed was concerned that such planning permission could impinge on his developing the land for his next factory farm. But he took heart from the way in which those plans were displayed. They seemed to indicate that they were copies of what had yet to be presented to the planning authority. Not what they had already approved. That consoled him, and he walked on with a lighter tread to view the empire that was sure to be his.
At Fox Lea the few duty hands had been played. It was strange. The eight gathered each month at Galina’s, and also once a month at the Middletons, and played for pleasure. But after no more than four or maybe five rubbers it was time for tea – Mrs Carmichael was not entirely accurate with her timings, as Gresham Reed would have found out had he called that afternoon – and, somehow, the impetus would be lost and the mood change to that of a discussion group. Especially at Galina’s. This had happened now.
“It is a problem. It really is.” Daphne Jackman was concerned. And worried that the others might not fully appreciate that concern. By the rate voices failed to rise in response, she had cause. There was a silence indicating a wish on each of the others’ parts not to become involved. Daphne pressed on.
“It really is,” she repeated. “So unhelpful. I would say so inconsiderate, although I suppose if the dear man’s wife has dropped dead of something one has to make allowances. But you can see the problem?”
A few eyebrows indicated assent, but all still played for safety. Daphne was a dear. She was also a worker. She did things. Arranged things. And this thing, the one which was now causing her carefully structured features such agonising concern, was the monthly dining club. An exclusive Club. By decision of some past committee only forty-two were allowed to join; could be invited to join. The latest ‘recruit’ was the wife of the new MP. Such a nice person. Quite an efficient body, it seemed, but then, MPs’ wives have to be these days. They must show that they actually do something practical with letters and phone calls and so on to safely qualify for the thousands a year they properly deserve just for putting up with their husbands’ diaries. Reformed hours in Parliament or not, only those with cosy seats in inner London could afford the luxury – no one ever laughed when Galina so described it – of going home to the loving bosom of a waiting wife and photogenic children each night. The others had their little flats and, now, even longer hours to be stuck in them. Or to venture into the bright lights. The little group had not extended an invitation to their woman MP. She had, thank the Lord, been beaten last time.
None of this helped Daphne with her problem. She forced it up the agenda and into undeniable, unavoidable view.
“So, you see. I must, I simply must, find a new speaker for Wednesday week. How does one do that? Without enormous expense, I mean.” She had hurriedly tagged on that last phrase as she knew only too well that someone, almost certainly Veronica, would say that the answer was simple. One merely rang up one of these speaker agency thingies and, hey pronto, speaker! ‘Who was to pay?’ moaned Daphne to herself.
Technically, money was not a problem. Between the ladies present and their husbands’ bank accounts, they could have hired Royalty in the Albert Hall. That was not the way they worked. They had decided from the start that local people, local issues, with a minimum of expenses for, after all, a very decent free lunch was provided, would suit their pockets as well as it would suit their political wishes. Fingers in local pies. That was their motto. Big fish in small ponds. All that sort of thing. It was a system that Daphne wanted to be seen to adhere to.
“So, what am I going to do?” and this time she stared direct at Galina who, with all her experience, realised that, as host, she could no longer duck the issue. That was it! She wouldn’t ‘duck’ it. Chuckling inwardly at her mental foible, Galina looked around her assembled party of gossipy guests.
“It’s all rather simple, my dears. I’ll ask my brother Alan. He of the new duck ponds. Since he’s got permission to start developing the old reed bed and watercress areas there’s no stopping him. Except the money. He’s up to his eyes in plans and debt. Of course we won’t pay him more than, say, twenty-five pounds?” – she looked around for silent confirmation and, being assured of it, continued – “but he will be pleased to grasp any opportunity to promote his wares. He’s quite civilised, you know. Despite his watery ways” – there was a gracefully received scatter of little laughter – “and I’m sure I can get him de-mudded and into decent suit and shoes in time. Will that do?”
All agreed, nem con, that it would do nicely. In addition to neatly solving the problem, they all wanted to know what was really going on in that corner of their, if not exactly woods, then homeland.
It was too late of an early Spring afternoon to go down to Alan’s centre and beard him in his den, as it were, with an offer he couldn’t refuse. Had it not been, and Galina had gone straight there, she would have had her first meeting with Reed earlier than it was to be. But she did not. Inspired, however, by fresh thoughts about Alan’s doings, and with brother Jeremy’s telephone call fresh in her mind, she put her cognitive cap on over a recuperative gin and tonic after the last of the plotting coterie had left. What Jeremy had said had interested her. She could see what he hoped to get out of it. Her support. He would not have rung her had there not been a worthwhile prize in his sights. But what was in it for her? For sure, she could help him. Her ladies, aided by the good offices of their husbands and their many contacts, could influence affairs locally. Throughout the County indeed. Whatever democracy brought in its wake, it would never eliminate that underlying, ever-flowing, tide of human nature. A word here. A word there. I’ll scratch your back if… Peter should have tried that approach in the courtyard told of in last Sunday’s sermon! ( It played well, Galina had decided, to be seen regularly in Church.) Her late husband had relied entirely on the power of Mammon, and see where that had got him! The point in her mind, recalled from the Vicar’s earnest homily, was that Peter might have had a more useful effect by the time the cock had crowed thrice had he done some
back scratching himself. Galina was not too certain of her Theology. One hardly went to church to listen to the sermon but to be established as a part of the ritual.
By this meandering chain of memory, she linked the story to Jeremy’s phone call. Her brother was out to charm her. He, from what he had told her of his and Marcia’s musings, clearly thought that she had in her hands, in her group, a weapon powerful enough to help forward his plans to gain control of what was now Alan’s. He saw her as an ally. Why? Because, she reasoned, Jeremy had some carrot to console her for getting nothing from their father’s Will. That, she knew from long experience of her elder brother – although the man had not committed himself right away – would be Jeremy’s style. So long as he got his fringe around the house, and a chap called Reed got his factory, then there was a decent enough acreage remaining that could slip effortlessly into her back pocket. Did she want it? Why should Alan give up any of it in any case? Galina, pondering these questions, decided to do a family tour the next day, taking in the wiles of Jeremy and the needs of Alan. She, too, could play a good hand of political personal poker.
Again it was as well the light deterred Galina from venturing forth further than the drinks cabinet after her card group had left, for she would not have found Jeremy at home. He had been paying a visit to DeLacey Thornley. They had been in regular contact since that upstart of a solicitor had dared to suggest that their shooting days in the area were over and that it was Alan who held all the rights he needed to protect his precious geese. DeLacey had been all for blasting every bird out of the sky when Jeremy had first told him of the legal opinion.
“What the devil is Gaskell up to?” was the first calm response he got after a fusillade of expletives. “Partner, you say! Well, if I have anything to do with it, that partner will be divorced most rapidly and sent on his bleeding-hearts way if Gaskell wants to keep a viable practice in this County. There are some very well-paid contracts, for a start, that he might find suddenly drying up. We locals tend to stick together when our heritage and way of life are threatened, believe you me. I know of what I speak”. And speak on he did.
However, Jeremy eventually had got him to accept that it was in their long-term interests to go along with that whipper-snapper Bingley’s line at first. No point in appearing dismissive or uncaring about the legal situation. The old Duke was long dead. It might be best to allow that an update, a revision of the existing order, might be necessary. Just so long as, by the time that came about, we – and by this Jeremy meant no more than the two of them – had made sure that all the right noises had been made and the right people were in place. He also hinted that not all was lost in his campaign to gain possession for himself. DeLacey, not without a grumble or three, finally gave his blessing to this stratagem. With an inner sigh of relief, the elder Tewkes got on to the reason why he was paying The Grange a visit that day. It was about guns.
Jeremy felt in his bones that, while he had to keep in with DeLacey and his contacts, he would also have a better chance of getting hold of the land from Alan if the old boy didn’t go blundering – he almost said blunderbussing – into affairs too soon. His strength, for all his outrages, really lay in the behind-the-scenes setting up and influencing of committees and their like. It was this card that Jeremy wanted to play as an ace, and only as an ace, as and when the situation was ripe. Until then, his ploy was to keep the wheels greased, as it were, by flattering the old boy but holding him back from premature involvement while he tried the tactics talked over with Marcia. Hence the guns.
Jeremy had decided to buy himself a new pair. He could now well afford it, and they would not only look splendid, but would help shine yet further the image of the Squire-cum-Duke that he was working to establish. To Marcia’s delight and wholehearted support. He had made up his mind on the purchase, but took the opportunity to make play at asking DeLacey’s opinion. Not that he had the slightest intention of following it, unless it fully accorded with his decision. A bit of buttering up was no more than part of that wheel-greasing schema. Jeremy thought himself rather good at advanced diplomacy. Could he gain the County seat? Government office? Or find his way to a peerage? Money did talk. For the nonce, he let his gun plan talk.
DeLacey was, although he tried hard not to show it, pleased to be consulted. As one not only of standing but of great experience. He told Jeremy, yet again, of the pair left him by his father. Jeremy had to agree that ‘they don’t make them like that any more’ before trying to unveil what was – but tentatively, of course – on his mind. He was, temporarily, blocked.
“I say my father. They were my grandfather’s too, don’t you know.” Jeremy knew very well, but mentally settled back for the unavoidable that was to come. A price worth paying. Over all.
“Holland & Holland. Or, to be exact, Perkes & Holland. It was Perkes patent. 1878. The patent, that is. I have been told enough times for even my old brain to remember it.”
So had Jeremy. But, on.
“16-bore. Funny thing, for some reason that bore never caught on in this country. Still used a lot on the continent though, I am assured. Wonderful pair. Don’t use ‘em, of course. But can’t display them either. That’s what’s sad. Damn nanny state. Still, must show you them once more. Get ‘em from the safe, what!” Jeremy strove to bring things round to the present day without that time-eating rigmarole of unlocking and loving and re-locking.
“Another time, maybe, Lacey. Want your advice on my next pair.” He went on to describe his dream acquisition.
“Brand new. Webley & Scott. Their Wildfowler model. 12 gauge. Semi-automatic. It’s designed specifically for wetland wildfowl hunting. Features a 28” barrel with a 4” removable barrel extension and 3½” MaxiMag chambers, steel shot proofed. It’s also got five interchangeable chokes, 2 + 1 capacity and a truly rugged stock. And all for about five hundred quid. I’m thinking of a pair.” Jeremy beamed at his own ability to remember and to quote accurately from the brochure he had been sent.
Thornley looked his magisterial best.
“Thought about a Litt’s? Or a Browning come to that? Seen their range? Maybe worth a look. Not that I’ve anything against Webley & Scott, mind.”
The conversation meandered into, for DeLacey, well-trodden grooves. For Jeremy, uncertain and unwanted by-ways.
“Of course,” DeLacey was well away by now, “a top model Salvinelli can cost you three thousand. Now, if you were thinking of a Beretta Gamescene you could head towards ten. Each.”
Jeremy was not thinking of a Gamescene or anything like it, but he began to be irritated by the growing feeling that he was being accused of buying some cheap runner-up in the desirable gun stakes. He became more convinced as his host, clearly enjoying himself and beginning to wax fine, went on:
“Then again, you can still pick up a Holland and Holland. Saw a sidelock 12g only last month. Just browsing around. Not made for your mass market those guns. They were made to meet the individual customer’s requirements.”
“Money is not the point, Lacey. I am not going into the international shooting sphere. Just a bit of local sport. Personal pleasure. Over my own ground,” he hoped that last would drive home to his now boring neighbour who owned what. “The Webley & Scott pair will suit that requirement just right.”
DeLacey seemed to take the hint that he had pushed a little too far, but waded in to try and show his real line of thought. One that had just that moment sprung to mind.
“Of course, my dear chap. I’m not suggesting for a moment that you spend more than you need to, or that you couldn’t if you so wished. But, and allow me to put this to you in view of your point about who owns what shooting land now, why not back Alan?”
“In what way?” Jeremy showed surprise.
“You tell me that he has the land and you have the money. In simple terms. Whatever the set-up, and it’s no business of mine to pry, if that brother of yours is short in the cash stakes, why not go into partnership with him? Give him the spondoolicks and get
the right to a bit of controlled shooting.”
“You don’t know Alan. ‘Controlled shooting!’ He’d as like shoot me.”
“But his bloody birds need money. That is if he’s genuine about going into business with the things. All cluck-cluck, and little kiddy-widdies toddling around the place hand in hand, can’t pay all that well.”
“I concede. Not easy, though we are going to have enough of a task getting Reed’s factory in there, however much public opinion and official backing we can muster. If I back him financially he’ll be that much stronger to resist our plans.”
“If you were in partnership with him?” Lacey let the phrase hang. Jeremy gave it more than a while’s consideration. Then:
“He won’t buy me. He might, on the other hand, buy Galina as a partner. My sister, you know. She’s a step back. Neutral, as it were, in the affair of my father’s Will. I have outlined something of the factory business and what I want out of it to her. Hadn’t thought about her coming in as a partner? Hmmm. Might just work. He wouldn’t see her as a bird-slaughtering threat. Some time since we three were made to go shooting with father. Alan disliked it even then, but the old man was determined that we should fit ‘properly’ into the County set. Become real country people. A partnership you suggest. If possible, even with Galina. To what end?”
“I haven’t thought this one through yet. Might have a word with one or two who better understand these things. But, well, a partner has certain rights. Legal rights”
“Wouldn’t Alan smell a rat?”
“What does he know of Reed and all that?”
“Nothing, yet, so far as I know.”
“Well then, get talking to your sister. We can tread water on the planning application side so long as Reed doesn’t get too impatient.”
“He doesn’t want to hang around.”
“But he would like that plot of ground.”
“True.”
“Then speak to your sister. Get her to explore some sort of partnership with Alan, and then, if there are any grounds for hope in that, and my guess is that there would be if she plays on his dreams cleverly enough, let her meet Reed. Put him in a waiting frame of mind whilst things get signed up. For all his be-feathered partner, Gaskell will handle that smoothly enough.”
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