The Moon At Midnight

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘I miss Granddad, a lot.’

  Mattie nodded, staring down at the gravestone. She did too, but she was more reconciled to his going than perhaps Max was. Lionel had been Max’s father figure, his counsellor, his best friend in a way that John could never be, however kind.

  ‘Grandfathers are very special,’ she said simply.

  After that everything seemed to get better, and Max drove back to town resolved never to talk to his stepfather about anything real, because it made for such trouble with his mother. He would keep to trivial things, like golf and sailing. Not that they were trivial, but they were, or at least he hoped they were, a great deal safer. But it was his mother’s voice as they walked back to the house after church that stayed in Max’s head for the next few weeks. Whenever he felt a bit low he would hear Mattie’s voice saying, ‘Your granddad was very proud of you, Max. Never forget that.’

  On Monday evening an emergency meeting was called of what was now called SABEX – an acronym for Save Bexham, which Loopy thought a bit pompous, but everyone else thought was clever. Not that it mattered now that everyone realised that their whole way of life was being seriously threatened by the development plans of the company owned by Martin Markham, otherwise known as The Beast.

  ‘Has anyone noticed?’ Loopy wondered idly as she took her seat next to Mattie on one side and Hugh on the other. ‘Has anyone noticed The Beast has no real back to his head? I think he’s an alien, I do.’

  ‘What he’s planning to do to Bexham’s certainly alien,’ Rusty said, turning round from the row in front where she was sitting. ‘What I don’t understand is how it has all got this far. It seems incredible. I don’t know how the authorities could even contemplate these plans.’

  ‘Money. The sort that slips easily into back pockets.’ Hugh leaned across Loopy to speak to Rusty. ‘You know he’s been letting it be known that anyone who stands in his way will regret it? He’s been canvassing a lot of the people in the Crown and the Three Feathers.’

  ‘They’re hardly locals to us, surely?’ Loopy wondered. ‘What possible good could that do?’

  ‘To get as much support on his side as possible,’ Rusty put in. ‘The planners take notice of such things, even if it’s marginal. He’s promised a lot of employment in the area, if he gets his permissions. You can imagine the work it’ll bring. A new marina where the Yacht Club is, redeveloping the Three Tuns into some great big fancy hotel, a housing development on the south shore of the estuary – heck, the place will be swarming with constructors, and constructors need labour.’

  ‘You should know, Rusty dear,’ Hugh said. ‘Peter’s developed enough sites in your time.’

  ‘But none that weren’t garages already,’ Rusty said in his defence. ‘It’s not as if Peter’s been putting up garages and showrooms where there weren’t such things already.’

  ‘Hugh didn’t mean that, Rusty,’ Loopy interposed. ‘He meant, like us all, he’s glad to have you both on side with your experience, Peter with his car businesses and you with your shops. If anyone knows about planners and their ways and means then you two must do.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Peter’s flying home tomorrow.’

  Rusty tried to look happy about this, when in actual fact a part of her dreaded sharing her life again. She had been independent for too long, and she knew it. On the other hand, it might well be that once Peter was home she would find that she’d been lonely for too long.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen? If I may have your attention, please?’ Waldo called, from his position on the dais at the end of the village hall where he stood behind a green-baize-covered table in the company of those actually on the official committee. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I shall try to be brief,’ he continued. ‘We are at a crucial stage of the proceedings and the omens are not good. We have received unconfirmed reports that Markham has redrawn his plans after the initial refusal, and the planning officer in charge of the submissions is now going to recommend acceptance. If this is so, then we will have to take our case to appeal. Markham has already let it be known that come what may he will get his permissions to develop Bexham, even if it means going to the High Court. If he did, then we would have to find yet more money to employ the best Silk to oppose him. As you know there is very little we can do about it once permission is granted.’

  Waldo paused, took a drink of water and then a deep breath.

  ‘From the first, it seemed the only way we were ever going to succeed against this threat to Bexham was prepare as good a case as possible to show why this development would prove to be such a disaster for the area. To do so wasn’t cheap certainly, but I think the money that was so generously donated by so many of you has been well spent, and it certainly helped to get the plans thrown out first time round. But I don’t think there’s very much more we can now say – at least not on paper. We’ve argued every argument there is to be argued, and we’ve had them expressed by all the best people – to whom we owe our gratitude.’

  Waldo waited for the round of applause to die down before continuing.

  ‘So we have to ask ourselves what else is there we can do? Nothing, alas – short of buying up Bexham.’

  Everyone in the crowded room who had come to the meeting still with some hope intact now sat forward to stare at Waldo in surprise, while others looked helplessly from neighbour to neighbour, exchanging looks of bewilderment and disappointment until Waldo was forced to drop his gavel on its base to call the meeting back to order.

  ‘To make myself plain.’ Waldo paused, looking round. ‘I know I’m not a true Bexhamite and never will be, alas – that I’m an interloper, someone who’s only lived here for twenty years, so who am I to say? But I do say and I do believe – I believe the only way we save Bexham is to buy Bexham. And when we have done that – when we have bought what Mr Markham wants – we shall then refuse to sell Mr Markham the sites on which he wants to build his version of the dark Satanic mills.’

  The mixture of sounds in the hall now changed. It changed from apprehension and concern to hope.

  Hugh was among the first to hold his hand up.

  ‘This is all very fine and large, Mr Chairman,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet, one hand steadying himself on the back of the chair in front of him. ‘But how do we buy Bexham when Markham already has most of his deals in place? Secondly, even if we manage to shake him down and somehow get these deals rescinded, where’s the money going to come from? We’re looking at the Three Tuns, the Yacht Club with its ancillary buildings and mooring rights, and four acres of land that is or was being offered for sale with building consent. Surely Mr Markham isn’t the sort of entrepreneur who would go into a project of this scale without first securing the properties he needs?’

  The faces all turned from Hugh back to Waldo.

  Waldo cleared his throat, and nodded. ‘That would seem to be the case, I will agree. I mean, if it were me, I wouldn’t go out for a drive unless I had a car, but then people do business in some very funny ways – and nowadays some very funny people do business, as we know. We owe Mr Jeremy Michaels from Michaels, Michaels and Lamont here for the information I’m about to impart to you.’ Waldo indicated the small, rotund and shiny-faced man sitting on his left before continuing. ‘Should Mr Michaels ever think of forsaking the Law, he would make an extremely good detective. It appears from his “researches” that everything that should be in place is . . . not quite. As we all know, the lease on the Three Tuns runs out in six months’ time, and, as we also all know, our much-treasured landlord, Mr Richards, has so far failed to obtain a renewal. But then neither has anyone else. There are some interesting little refinements in the lease with which – it appears – the new applicant has not yet found fit to agree. I won’t stipulate what these are at the moment – all I can say is that the deal is by no means signed and sealed. As for the Yacht Club, we understand that although a price is in place not all the signatories have agreed to Mr Markham’s proposition. But in spite of a great deal of pressu
re’s being brought to bear on the board by the Club’s new chairman, who just happens to share business interests with the purchaser—’

  At this a sound came from the audience, a sound made of part disbelief and part shock, but it was a sound that grew into something more, as everyone began to talk at once, requiring Waldo once again to tap his gavel.

  ‘Despite the new chairman’s trying to force the resignations of three of the standing directors so that he could railroad the deal through, the ink is a long way from dry on the contract. As for the acreage of Bishops Fields – again this is unfinished business. The vendors have agreed, Markham has agreed, the contracts have been drawn up and duly presented to the purchaser, but – so far – these have not been signed either, no deposit paid.

  ‘So it may be that Markham is hedging his bets. Perhaps he is waiting until the last moment to part with his company’s money – or perhaps, ladies and gentlemen – perhaps, as rumour has it, his company is suffering from a shortage of cash. If this is the case, while far from saying that Markham is not a genuine threat because he is not a genuine buyer, I think we must appreciate his business methods.

  ‘He offers, he agrees, he waits for his permissions – and once they are granted he pays, but not before. We know he pays because there are Markham projects all along this beautiful coastline, many of which have recently been completed, alas. But what we do see here is a chink of light – our man has left the door open, and if possible the foot that should be in it must be ours.’

  ‘Fine,’ Rusty agreed, having been granted the floor. ‘Excellent sentiments, Mr Chairman. But as Hugh Tate has just pointed out, where is the where-withal? We are talking quite a sum of money here, because in order to thwart Markham in advance of any permissions we would have to put in higher bids than his, and quite frankly I can’t see how we could even afford to match his bid on one of these properties, let alone three.’

  Rusty sat down to disappointed applause, after which all eyes turned back to Waldo. But the magician wasn’t quite ready yet to perform any further tricks. Instead he lifted up a pile of typed sheets from the table and nodding to a young boy who was standing ready to help gave them to him to hand round.

  ‘You’ll find a few facts and figures here,’ he told the audience. ‘How much money we have been able to raise so far, how much we could call in from our benefactors if needs be, and lastly how much I think we should need to pull this off. Once you have read through everything, you may recommend we take for our motto – Never Say Die.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Despite his commitment to saving his adopted village, Waldo was feeling more than restless, he was feeling sad – missing his bridge games with old Lionel, missing his lunches with Loopy. In fact, he felt he was missing almost everything. Outwardly of course he remained quite the same. He went to committee meetings for the SABEX Fund, he was looked after by the goodly Maria and her husband. He sat in front of the fire and stared into it, or stared up at Meggie’s portrait and reminisced to himself, recalling the fine times they’d had together, but nothing helped to fill the void that he now knew was central to his life. He was empty, and he knew it. He was lost for how to go on from day to day. Everything he did, he did mechanically, because that’s what you do when you’re lonely. Everything he once thought mattered now seemed not to matter in the least. Everything he had ever loved seemed to have gone.

  Above all there was no gaiety left in his life. No one calling round unexpectedly, or phoning out of the blue just out of passing interest, wanting to talk about something inconsequential, wanting to share a joke, wanting to tell him something that he didn’t know. Nothing like that had happened to him since his dinner with Judy, since those few hours when a brighter future had seemed to open up only for the curtain to fall once again. His world was closing down.

  So when the telephone rang in his drawing room one Saturday evening and it was Loopy asking him round for drinks and Sunday lunch, Waldo felt as if his life had been transformed.

  He tried not to sound excited about going to Shelborne, because to sound excited might be to turn himself into something pathetic, someone to be pitied. Not that he hadn’t been to Shelborne recently for various fund-raising events, but this was different. Tomorrow he was going to have lunch with Loopy alone, because Hugh was away on business with John, and she said that she was lonely, and needed company.

  And that was so typically Loopy. Where Waldo avoided publicly admitting that he was in just such a state, Loopy, in her still attractively husky voice, said it.

  She opened the front door herself.

  ‘Oh, good, you’re quite on time, so that means I won’t be in a state of delayed excitement before we mix the first of many martinis.’

  Waldo and Loopy alone could be not only truthful, but very much themselves. Loopy loved to remind Waldo that whether or not they liked to admit it they were both still Americans living abroad. Bexham didn’t feel like abroad, but it was. Although on a good day it could be quite like Cape Cod.

  ‘Shall I?’

  Waldo stood by the newly installed bar in the old conservatory, his hands raised over, but not touching, the sacred instruments for martini making. There the ice box with the cubes, there the cut glass cocktail jug with accompanying long silver spoon, and next to it the small pieces of lemon on a plate, and beside the plate the perfectly shaped glasses.

  ‘Shall you? Waldo, if you don’t,’ Loopy stated, lighting a Menthol cigarette, ‘I personally will not speak to you again, ever.’

  The gin was poured over the ice cubes into the bottom of the cut glass jug, and over the gin was passed a few drops, certainly not more than a teaspoon, of martini. They both waited, holding their breath. It was after all a sacred ceremony. Next came the stirring – Waldo did not shake, he stirred, believing that shaking ‘bruised’ the gin. Finally the curl of lemon placed in the centre of the drink.

  Loopy watched every moment of the martini’s being built, thinking as she did what pleasure there was in simple things. If you made a martini in a hurried fashion, you broke the sacred trust between enjoyment and consumption. It was necessary, if you were not to dismiss life, that everything enjoyable must be done in an unhurried fashion.

  ‘Perfection.’

  They both sat down together in front of the fire.

  ‘Gwen is making lunch today,’ Loopy said in a low voice. ‘Please, therefore, don’t expect too much, will you? Heaven only knows I’ve tried to teach her how to make our kind of food, but the moment my back’s turned she boils everything within an inch of its life and forgets to add salt. The pudding should be good – I made that – and at least she can’t boil it.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be sensational. It smelt sensational.’

  ‘Roast pork, apple sauce, roast potatoes done in that blackened way that she so favours, sage and onion stuffing, and a rich brown gravy. Very English.’

  ‘And very delicious, my mouth is watering already. I have had nothing put paella all week, and there is a limit to how much paella even I can eat. Maria overdoses me on it. It’s all the shellfish around here, she can never stop thanking God for Bexham and its fish, alas.’

  Loopy smiled, suddenly and brilliantly.

  ‘Oh, hark at us, Waldo. We’re like a couple of old maids discussing our servants and their funny ways. Next thing we’ll be complaining about the manners of people nowadays.’

  ‘Never!’

  They both laughed, and sipped their martinis.

  Waldo knew that Loopy could be counted on not to say ‘How’s things?’ or ‘Everything going along OK?’ or any of that sort of nonsense. He knew that she could be counted on to know just what the state of play of all her friends might be, and to shut up about it. She was too wise to go to people with their problems, only waiting until they came to her with them. Not that she was above prompting them to come and see her for what she called ‘a mild jolly’, or above listening when it was needed. In other words, Waldo knew that he hadn’t been asked round
for nothing. He had been asked to Shelborne, to have lunch alone with Loopy, so that he could talk if he wanted to, or not.

  He had actually resolved not to say anything about his life, but once they were embarked on their second martini he found he’d forgotten his resolution.

  ‘This is so nice, the fire, the drinks, the drinks – and the, er, drinks! No, but most of all the conversation. I only wish I could meet a woman like you, Loopy.’

  Loopy looked startled.

  ‘Come, come, Mr Astley, this is going too far! And Hugh would certainly warn you off women like me, I promise you. He finds me difficult, temperamental, and inclined to be self-absorbed, or so he told me the other day.’ She laughed appreciatively. ‘I told him he was right, on every count.’

  ‘Still jealous of your painting, eh?’

  ‘No, not jealous, but he does find it gets in his way. And you really can’t blame him. It’s that faraway look that comes into my eyes when I’m embarked on a canvas. It’s terribly annoying to anyone remotely civilised, and let’s face it, Hugh is civilised. He does like to think that when he talks, someone is listening. It’s just a fact. He says he’d do better living with Gwen – at least she likes listening to the same radio programmes!’

  Waldo smiled. He knew that Loopy was deflecting from the fact that he was hoping, so hoping, to end his loneliness somewhere, with someone.

  ‘I thought I might have fallen in love you know, a few weeks ago,’ he said suddenly, out of the blue, not caring that she might have guessed with whom.

  Loopy fell silent for a second, lighting another cigarette, and slowly breathing in before replying.

  ‘Falling in love can be quite painful, I always think. Sometimes one just doesn’t want it to happen, but it does. Like the flu, or measles, but then it goes away again, and one is quite relieved, don’t you think?’

  ‘This won’t go away again. I keep trying to make it, but it just won’t. It hangs around, like a double dose of the flu, and it’s making me very, very miserable.’