by Jo Carnegie
‘That’s right,’ answered Humphrey weakly. ‘The land won’t even be up for sale for six months or so. Sid Sykes just got to hear about it . . .’
‘I bet he did, he’s probably giving all you lot bloody back-handers!’ someone heckled.
‘Shush!’ said Clementine crossly. ‘So if I am correct, we could put an offer in for the Meadows? To save the village and keep it how it is?’ This was met with loud cheers.
Humphrey looked round the room dubiously. ‘I suppose so . . .’ he said. ‘But you will be up against some seriously stiff competition. Prices for land in this area have quadrupled over the last eighteen months.’
‘How much?’ asked Clementine bluntly.
Humphrey looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Developable land has reached a premium,’ he told them. ‘With the price of the land round here shooting up by the week, it’s been valued at . . .’ He ummed and aahed for a few moments.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Humphrey!’ said Clementine faintly. ‘How much?’
Humphrey looked at her. ‘Fifteen?’ he said hopefully.
‘Fifteen thousand?’ said Freddie. He looked rather relieved. ‘God I was expecting much more, that’s a bargain! I’m sure we can all dip in our pockets and get this sorted out right now.’
‘No, Freddie, you don’t understand,’ Humphrey was sweating now, beads forming on his forehead. ‘I meant fifteen million.’
‘Fifteen million pounds?’ asked Clementine, each word perfectly, painfully enunciated.
Humphrey nodded. ‘That is at the high end of the estimate, though,’ he added hopefully, as if it would soften the blow.
It didn’t. Silence enveloped the room once again as stunned, white faces struggled to take it in.
‘Christ on a bike,’ said the Revd Goody.
Chapter 22
THE NEXT DAY, the village was buzzing with the shock announcement. The Cotswold Journal sent a reporter, who was quickly accosted by Brenda when he popped into the shop to buy some cigarettes. It was all they could talk about in the Jolly Boot, with various scurrilous tales about the evil villain Sid Sykes flying around, while Beryl Turner quickly raised a petition amongst the regulars to send to the county council headquarters in protest.
Clementine had had a very trying morning. She’d woken up with a splitting headache and momentarily wondered why, until the events of last night had come flooding back. She had spent the night tossing and turning. How on earth were they going to raise fifteen million pounds to buy the Meadows? Clementine, like a few other village residents, could put her hand in her pocket and stump up a decent sum towards it, but it would still fall way short of the amount they needed.
Before he’d died of gout in 1978, Clementine’s darling husband Bertie had tirelessly run the Standington-Fulthrope Committee and this was just the sort of challenge he’d have relished. She could almost hear him shout: ‘Let’s get the buggers!’ Now Clementine felt the future of the village rested on her shoulders, and twenty years ago she would have approached the challenge with gusto. Now she just felt daunted and helpless, and too old for the fight.
The phone rang, briefly snapping her out of her gloom. She picked the receiver up wearily. ‘Hello?’
‘Clementine? It’s Fred.’
‘Oh, Freddie, hello.’ Clementine stared out of the kitchen window in the direction of the Meadows. Memories of her son Johnnie swinging from the trees pretending to be a superhero all those summers ago suddenly flashed into her mind. She blinked back a tear.
‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ There was a note of excitement in his voice that snapped Clementine out of her black mood. ‘Look, we can’t let this happen! I’ve lived in Churchminster all my life and the Maltings is my livelihood. It’s Angie’s and Archie’s too. We can’t let that Sykes character buy the Meadows and destroy our village!’
Clementine let out a sigh of despair. ‘But Freddie, the only option is to buy it ourselves, and where are we going to find that kind of money? I mean, I could put some in myself or even sell Fairoaks . . .’ The thought made her feel sick to her stomach.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Freddie, his voice strong and resolute. ‘There are other ways to raise the cash without making you homeless. Look, between you and me finances aren’t that great for us at the moment, otherwise I’d stump up for the lot myself. But Angie and I have been talking, and there are other ways to raise money. I’m sure I can put on a few deluxe shooting weekends and Angie says she can try and pull some strings in the antiques world, see if we can get some donations. Maybe auction them off? It may seem like little things, but if we all pull together and do what we can, then who knows, we might just raise enough. Better than us all just sitting on our arses! Er, sorry, I mean bottoms.’
‘I wonder . . .’ Clementine murmured thoughtfully.
‘Tam Spinker-Butworth for example,’ said Freddie. ‘He made a few cool mill with that sponsored yacht race last year, do you remember?’
The fighting blood suddenly coursed back through Clementine’s veins. She sat up straight in her chair and banged her hand firmly on the table. ‘Fred dear, you are absolutely right! An auction is just what we need! We are not going down without a jolly good fight. I survived the war and I’ll get through this as well. I’ll go to my grave before this village is swallowed up by some ghastly tin-pot housing estate!’
‘Hear hear!’ cheered Freddie down the phone and rang off, promising to start making plans for the shooting and fishing parties that very morning.
Clementine got out her address book and picked up the phone, her mouth set in a resolute line as she made the first of many phone calls that day.
By mid-afternoon, the offers were flying in. Babs Sax had donated several of her paintings (‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ asked Caro when she found out), and Sir Ambrose and Lady Fraser had generously offered to donate a wantonly expensive Louis XV table and chairs from one of the many rooms at the Hall. ‘Bloody uncomfortable to sit on, makes one’s backside go numb,’ boomed Ambrose down the phone. ‘Be glad to see the back of the blasted things.’
Caro had phoned Sebastian to see if his bank could make a substantial donation (he’d refused to give up his Christmas bonus), while Lucinda was going to organize a sponsored ride with the pony club. Spurred on by her increasing fitness levels at Henry’s attentive hands, she also put herself down for the Churchminster Fun Run in July. Jack Turner was to put on a French evening at the pub with all proceeds going into the fund. Stephen and Klaus popped round on their way back to London to offer their services. ‘Anything, anything at all Clementine, dah-ling,’ Stephen drawled through a haze of menthol cigarette smoke.
‘Ve are sure ve can persuade some of our clients to contribute to such a good cause,’ Klaus added in his distinctive German accent. By five o’clock, her ear burning from being pressed to the phone all day, Clementine was quite overwhelmed by the villagers’ goodwill and generosity.
That evening, Clementine invited her three granddaughters over for supper. So while the smell of Brenda’s burnt asparagus tart wafted out of the kitchen, they made themselves comfortable in Clementine’s cosy reading room, and discussed the day’s events.
Clementine recounted the response from the village. ‘That’s marvellous news, Granny Clem,’ said Caro, taking a huge glug of Chablis. Milo was asleep upstairs in one of the spare rooms and she was taking advantage of the break. He had been crying on and off all day, and her head felt like it was about to explode. Sebastian hadn’t helped by calling just as Milo was screaming blue murder in the background, and saying, ‘Christ, what are you doing to him?’
‘Nothing, he’s doing it to himself,’ she had replied furiously.
‘Yah, well, maybe you should get a nanny. Face it, darling; you’re really not coping, are you?’ Then he’d rung off, leaving Caro making a V-sign at the phone. Childish, but it had made her feel better. As did this huge glass of wine.
‘So you’re going to put on an auction?’ asked Ca
milla.
Clementine nodded. ‘That is the idea, yes. And there will be all the other money people are going to raise.’
‘And this is going to get fifteen million pounds?’ asked Calypso, one eyebrow arched.
‘It’s a start, Calypso!’ responded Clementine hotly. ‘What else are we going to do: stand by and watch our village ruined?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Calypso thoughtfully. ‘I think the auction and the other stuff is like, a really, really good idea. But will it be enough? Suppose we put on a ball as well? I have always, like, totally wanted to do that.’ She smiled. ‘Especially as I’ve been thinking about a career as a party organizer.’ Calypso had only just started looking her grandmother in the eye again after the downstairs loo incident. She’d packed a grumbling Sam back off to Brighton the next day.
‘You’ve got a new job? Oh, how marvellous!’ exclaimed Clementine.
Calypso flushed. ‘Well, not exactly. But I’ve been thinking about getting involved with organizing parties and stuff for ages. You know what great contacts I’ve got, especially with the girls from school.’ Unlike her sisters, Calypso had spurned the country comforts of Benenden and had boarded at Vespers, an achingly cool girls’ school in Notting Hill. Currently it counted two pop stars, seventeen It girls, four supermodels, and an Oscar-nominated actress among its alumni. ‘What better place to start than with Churchminster’s very own ball?’
Clementine looked doubtful. ‘There will be an awful lot to do, darling. I know from experience.’
But Calypso was on a roll. ‘We could have the auction at the ball! Make it like Elton John’s White Tie and Tiara Ball. We could invite loads of celebrities and stuff. Honestly, Granny Clem, I’ve got great contacts.’
‘Like Kate Moss!’ interjected Caro. ‘She’s got a country house round here. So has Liz Hurley.’
‘And I nearly ran over Paul McCartney in Stow-on-the-Wold last week,’ said Camilla excitedly. ‘He didn’t look very pleased at the time, but this is just the sort of thing he’d support. Ooh, tickets will go like hot cakes!’
‘Totally,’ said Calypso confidently. ‘We could get, like, loads of press with people like that coming. You need to think about media coverage,’ she told Clementine knowledgeably. ‘This is just the kind of thing people go nuts for.’
Clementine looked round at her granddaughters. They were right. ‘Do you think we can really do it? Put on an auction and a ball?’ she asked. ‘I will need all of you to help me.’
‘Deffo!’ they all chorused.
‘We’ll make double fifteen mill!’ shouted Calypso, jumping up and down on the sofa. Errol Flynn, who had been asleep at the end, woke up grumpily and climbed off, leaving a rather noxious smell in his wake.
‘Let’s not get too carried away,’ said Clementine, but her eyes were shining with excitement. She raised her wine glass. ‘To Churchminster!’
‘Churchminster!’ they chorused, toasting each other.
Clementine called an impromptu meeting at Fairoaks the next evening, and phoned round the village again. ‘No excuses, you must be here,’ she crisply informed Babs Sax after hearing her say she needed to attend a talk about the art of life-modelling genitalia. Babs meekly acquiesced: you didn’t say no to a woman like Clementine Standington-Fulthrope, especially when she was on such a mission as this.
As a result, everyone in the village turned up. Even Archie Fox-Titt, red-eyed and tousle-haired, was dragged along to stand between his parents. ‘Little bugger’s been lying in bed all afternoon!’ Freddie Fox-Titt informed Lucinda Reinard. ‘These students are a lazy lot, I tell you.’
Archie was, in fact, feeling terrible. He and Tyrone had been on a mammoth smoking session all day – Tyrone had managed to score some really strong weed called skunk – and he was still feeling completely out of it. He pulled his baseball cap further over his eyes and hoped no one would talk to him.
Once everyone was there, Clementine brought them up to speed with the events of the past twenty-four hours. Many people present, including Lucinda and the Fox-Titts, were already on the Standington-Fulthrope Committee, but Clementine needed more volunteers. With help and interjections from her granddaughters she put forward the proposal for the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction, or SCBA as it was to be known from then on. They were to start a fund now, for any other monies raised in the interim.
The suggestion went down a storm.
‘Bloody marvellous idea!’ yelled Freddie Fox-Titt.
‘Rather!’ echoed Angie, who was sitting beside him, looking ravishing in a gold and chocolate pashmina.
‘We are going to form a new committee, and I would be extremely grateful if people would put their names forward,’ said Clementine. ‘Those who can spare the time and are one hundred per cent committed please come and see me afterwards.’ Around the room heads were nodding vigorously.
‘So I suppose you need somewhere to hold the ball,’ boomed Sir Ambrose Fraser, looking like Toad of Toad Hall in tweed plus fours, walking stick, and cap pulled down over his florid face.
Clementine nodded. ‘Yes, Ambrose, we are looking for somewhere, so if anyone has any suggestions—’
‘Lady Fraser and I have just had a quick discussion,’ Ambrose continued, as though Clementine hadn’t spoken at all. ‘We would be delighted if it was held at Clanfield Hall. What ho! Got a bloody great ballroom that hasn’t been used for years, anyway.’
Clementine beamed at him. ‘Ambrose, what a fabulously generous offer. Thank you!’ More cheers echoed around the room.
‘Just as long as no one tramples on my rose garden,’ interjected Lady Fraser.
‘I’m sure Jed can build a fence around it,’ whispered Harriet, who was sitting behind her. ‘Oh, how exciting! A ball!’
‘That does mean you will have to wear a dress, darling,’ her mother replied, speaking through clenched teeth as she smiled graciously round the room. ‘Maybe that nice red one I got you.’
A vision of Horse, red-faced and sweating above her, came back to Harriet in a flash. ‘I might buy a new one for the occasion, if that’s OK, Mummy.’
Humphrey rang Clementine three days later. It had been confirmed – the Meadows was being put up for auction. Offers from interested parties were to start at five million pounds, but, as Humphrey explained, it was expected to go for a lot more than that. The accompanying red tape and paperwork was a hell of a job, so the auction wasn’t scheduled until the end of the year, on 10 December. The Standington-Fulthrope Committee had decided the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction would take place nine days earlier, on 1 December.
Sid Sykes had already put out a statement in the trade press to say he would be making an offer, and Clementine had read the article grim-faced. This was war. Six months later all their lives could change for ever. For the better or for the infinitely worse.
Chapter 23
IT WAS A beautiful sunny afternoon in the village, and Caro was taking full advantage of the weather. She and Milo were in their back garden on a huge Boden picnic rug. Caro had put up one of the garden umbrellas and Milo was under it, gurgling happily. Caro lay on her side next to him. Milo’s soft brown eyes looked innocently into hers and crinkled round the corners as she tickled his tummy. When he was like this, it was all worth it and nothing else mattered to Caro. She got her phone out and switched it on to camera. ‘Smile, darling!’ Milo obliged happily. Caro switched the picture to ‘Send’ and keyed in Sebastian’s mobile. ‘We’ll send this to Daddy at his office, just so he can see what a gorgeous boy you are.’ Caro was determined to show her husband she was capable of achieving domestic bliss at home, as well as screaming chaos.
Caro looked round the garden. It was a long, walled piece of paradise, the brainchild of an exotically named landscape gardener from Cirencester. Caro was hopeless with anything botanical, and she had to admit they had done a marvellous job. The French windows at the back of the house opened out on to a huge, decked patio. Exotic green plants
and an oak table big enough to seat fifteen stood on it, and a decked path led down the sixty-foot garden. In the centre of the lawn a polished brass sundial stood glittering in the sunlight. At the far end was a beautiful wooden summer house painted a rustic white, and brightly coloured flowerbeds provided a stunning background. They had a gardener in once a week, even though Caro felt guilty about it, with so much time on her hands. Sebastian had insisted. ‘I remember all those dead pot plants in your flat when we first met, darling,’ he had drawled. ‘There is no way I am letting you anywhere near the garden, especially when I’ve spent a small bloody fortune on it.’
There wasn’t a cloud in the brilliant blue sky. The sun beat down as the scent of the blue wisteria clambering up the back of the house wafted across the garden. Caro lay back, luxuriating in the moment. Right here, right now, the black cloud which seemed to have followed her around for so long had finally lifted. If only momentarily. Goodness, it was hot! Secure in the privacy of her garden, Caro peeled off her long-sleeved Whistles T-shirt and lay back in her bra and shorts. She didn’t need sun cream in this weather, did she? She only had Milo’s factor 50 and she wouldn’t get any colour wearing that.
As she relaxed even more, Caro’s thoughts once again drifted to her next-door neighbour. On the phone the next day, she had recounted to Sebastian, word by word, her heated encounter with Benedict Towey, but Sebastian had been predictably uninterested. ‘Probably working like a dog to keep his family in the manner they’ve become accustomed to. Like me,’ he had added unnecessarily. And untruthfully. Sebastian had spent about three hours at his desk that week, the rest of his time having been spent dining in offensively expensive restaurants, working out, having his weekly manicure and rutting with Sabrina on a thrice-nightly basis.
‘That’s not fair!’ Caro had responded hotly. She had paused. ‘Besides, I don’t think he’s got a wife and family.’
‘Man’s got the right idea if you ask me.’ So much for defending her honour.