by Roz Marshall
The architect's drawings of the hotel were impressive — it was to be a large and luxurious facility — but to Mike's eyes, the columns and porticos appeared to be more suitable for an American resort in California or Florida, rather than a little village in the Scottish Highlands.
It was when he moved to the stand exhibiting the map which showed the proposed location of the hotel, that pieces of yesterday's mystery began to fall into place, and Allan's change in attitude suddenly began to make sense.
The hotel was to be situated at the edge of the wood above the village; but their main access road — their only possible access from the main street — was to be through the ski school building, and across Jude's paddock.
The developers must have made a hefty offer to purchase the Winters' shop and land; an offer that could make Allan even more arrogant and selfish than usual. And if Jude was selling the shop, would they also be giving up on the ski school?
Mike's heart sank, and he stepped away from the board and found a seat at the back of the room. Just when he'd thought he'd found somewhere to settle, somewhere that didn't remind him of Emily, somewhere with a job he liked and people he cared about — a person he cared about — things were going pear-shaped. He stared out of the window. Perhaps it's time to move on again.
Jude followed Allan into the hall, wincing as he grabbed her hand and pulled her close beside him, leading them to seats near the front of the room. Lucy trailed behind and slumped into a chair beside her mother.
The hubbub of noise in the room had stilled somewhat as they entered, and Jude tried to dismiss the paranoid feeling that everyone was looking at them. But as the noise level increased again, a voice from the row behind assailed them.
"You'll no' be lettin' those shysters knock down your shop, will ye?" It was Angus from the post office, his bushy eyebrows doing as much of an interrogation as his words.
"They wouldna do that, Winters' Ski School has been there for years," chipped in Lachie the postman. "Jude's dad would turn in his grave."
She started to turn round to speak to them, but Allan's grip on her hand tightened and he jerked her back round to the front.
"Say nothing!" he hissed in her ear.
"Ladies and gentlemen," an American voice boomed, too loudly, through the PA system, stopping all conversations around the room. "My name is Tyrone Palmer, and tonight I'm here to represent Haywoods' Hotels. If you could please take your seats, I'm going to run through a short presentation about our plans for The Grand Cairns Hotel, and then there will be the opportunity for questions. Thank you."
As the American scrolled through his slide show, Jude glanced surreptitiously around the room. At the far side, she could see Forbes, stroking his moustache thoughtfully as he listened to the speaker. Could he have known about the hotel plans? Was that why he'd been trying to buy their paddock? To make some money at her expense? Jude hated to think ill of anyone, but the Segway tours idea had never made sense. She clenched her teeth, and resolved to step carefully around Forbes in future.
When Tyrone's ice-white teeth had flashed for the last time, and his final platitude had been uttered, the local librarian stood up. "My name is Betty McDonald, Mr Palmer; I've been asked to represent the villagers. Thank you for your presentation. I think we are all considerably clearer now on your company's plans for our area. Could I ask that you and your staff leave us now, and we will discuss our response to it? Thank you again." She nodded dismissively at the American, who narrowed his eyes at the bird-like woman but gathered his things and left the hall, followed by his henchmen.
Betty turned to the audience, looking over the top of her half-moon glasses. "Before we get into the debate, it might be worth having a show of hands — just in case we're all of the same opinion." She scanned the faces in the front rows. "Jude, could you please come and do a count for me?"
Jude stood up and pushed to the end of the row, then made her way to the front.
"Could everyone who is opposed to the hotel development please raise their hands?" said Betty.
A forest of arms rose towards the ceiling. Defiantly, Jude raised her hand to join them, ignoring Allan's malevolent stare.
"Ah, okay, perhaps it would be easier to count those in agreement. Could those in favour of the hotel development please raise their hands?"
This time, there were only a few arms raised; including, Jude noticed, both Allan's and Forbes'. She counted quickly. "Eleven," she said, as clearly as she could.
"So I see we have a majority against the hotel. But it's not unanimous." Betty pursed her lips. "I think we perhaps need to discuss this further. Who would like to start us off?"
Jean, Sandy's wife, stood up, her cheeks pink. "I think a big hotel like that would destroy the village. All those strangers wi' their big cars and golf buggies, causing traffic jams and accidents."
"Personally, I think it'll be a good thing," said Donal, who owned the local garage. "More customers for our local businesses, and more jobs for our youngsters — it'll stop so many of them leaving the village and moving to the cities — or England — after they finish school. Surely more local jobs is a good thing?"
"Aye, if the jobs ever materialise." Sandy stood up, his hands clasped on his round belly. "These big companies usually import most of their staff. We'll be over-run with Americans, buying up all the houses and making them unaffordable for locals. Any jobs they do create will be menial ones like cleaners or kitchen porters, you mark my words." For once, Sandy's pessimistic attitude actually sounded realistic to Jude.
"Well, I'm against it," said Iain, the owner of The Rowan. "For purely selfish reasons, if nothing else. It will be competition for my business, and there's little enough profit to be made around here when you're not in cahoots with the big breweries. I don't think there's enough trade in the village for two pubs, let alone two hotels — regardless of how many golfers it brings in."
There was a momentary silence in the hall, as people digested Iain's statement, then Jude was surprised to see Mike stand up.
"Folks, seeing as I'm not a local, I hope it's okay to speak. But doesn't Haywoods' whole plan rest on one thing?" Heads turned to face him, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "They need to buy the ski school building and land to get access to the site in the wood." He shrugged. "Without that, there won't be a hotel."
"Aye!" Lachie spoke up. "But they wilna sell." He turned to Jude. "Will ye, lass?"
Allan pushed his chair back angrily and jumped to his feet. "We'll do what's best for our business," he flung at Lachie, then turned to face Jude. "And best for our family."
"I think we need to get some advice from an architect or someone who's familiar with planning laws," Iain said in the silence that followed Allan's pronouncement. "Maybe they're contravening some bye-law."
"But, my dear Iain," said Sandy, "advice like that will cost money. A lot of money. And who's going to pay for it?"
"What about the environment agency, they might help us?" Angus, the postmaster, suggested. "There are laws about what they can and can't do. Those are pretty ancient woods."
"Maybe there's badgers," drawled Ed Griffiths, the manager of Ski-Easy ski school. "You can't build if there's badgers."
"Or bats or ospreys, or otters or toads — there's a whole list. And if there's any archaeology nearby, that might stop them too," added Geoff, the senior ski patroller.
"We should start a collection. A fighting fund." Iain turned to Betty. "Could we set something like that up?"
As the plans for the fighting fund were discussed, Mike could see Allan's face turning redder and redder. I might just have to contribute something to the fund. Not that he wanted to antagonise Allan. Not much.
Chapter 11
Friday 17th March
PUSHING OPEN THE door of the ski school hut, Mike's heart sank as he stepped inside. Once again, Jude had not come to work and Allan was ruling the roost, as he had done for the last few days. That's been most of the week. Would she ever come back?
He glanced across at Allan, who was writing class allocations on the whiteboard. Probably not, if he has his way. And Allan had carried on organising the lessons, as if his conversation with Mike at the talent show about keeping schtum had never happened. I'll need to find a way to speak to her. Soon.
Most of the other instructors were taking advantage of the good weather and had gone for a quick ski before work, but Zoë was sitting at the table, sleepily leafing through a celebrity gossip magazine, and Spock sat in the corner munching on a rather unhealthy-looking pastry from the café.
Scanning the hieroglyphics on the whiteboard, Mike saw that, just for a change, he'd been allocated Beginners and Tiny Tots. It was like the man was trying to annoy him by giving him the hardest classes every day. He probably thinks that'll make me leave. Mike smiled to himself as he pulled on his ski boots. Shame that I actually like teaching beginners.
As Mike shrugged into his jacket, the door opened and a young woman with a trendy haircut and enormous glasses popped her head around the jamb.
"Er, good morning, could I speak to the owner please? My name's Izzy Sherman, from Highland Region." she said, stepping into the room and flashing an ID card. An oversized woollen jacket topped a short black skirt, thick knit tights and Doc Marten boots.
Allan strode across to meet the newcomer. "Can I help? I'm Allan Winter, the ski school owner."
"Ah, er, could I get a word please?" Her eyes traversed the room, and she added, "In private."
"Sure. What can I do for you?" said Allan.
"I'm afraid it's a rather delicate matter." Her eyes flicked left and right. "Could we talk outside?"
"Good morning Angus." The bell over the door tinkled as Jude walked into the Post Office and headed for the fridge. A moment later, she placed a carton of milk on the counter.
Angus caught her eye, his bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle. "This hotel thing, Judith — you won't sell to those Americans, will you? Nobody wants it."
Jude's head jerked back. Nobody wants it except Allan. "Erm…" she paused. "I need to discuss it with Allan. The money is attractive, but—"
"Money isn't everything, though, is it? Village life surely means something?"
"I'll talk to him. Nothing's been signed yet."
Outside, she took a huge breath and started to cross the road. I'll just check the shop before I head back home. On the opposite pavement, Jean was walking towards her, and Jude started to raise a hand in greeting. But when Jean spotted her, she turned suddenly and crossed to the other side, head down and staring at the tarmac.
Did she just blank me? Jude shook her head. Surely not. I must be imagining things.
Spock had just finished his breakfast and was debating whether he had time for a quick ride on the Highlander before work started, when the door of the ski school crashed open and Allan came in, followed by the young woman whose taste in clothes looked like it belonged more in art school than a Scottish ski resort.
"Simon!" Allan shouted. "Over here. Now!"
Spock's insides quailed at the anger in Allan's voice, and he was reminded of his schooldays. His whole body stiffened in anticipation of the onslaught to come. Slowly, he stood up and made his way across the room.
"What's this about you messing with one of the boys in your Beechfields class?" Allan demanded.
In the background, Izzy flapped a hand. "We don't need to—"
Spock shook his head. "Messing?"
"You've been accused of grooming."
His brows knitted together. What was Allan talking about?
"Sexual grooming," Allan added.
Spock felt like he'd been punched in the middle. All the air left his lungs and his head started to spin. "W—what?"
"Really, we shouldn't do this in public," said Izzy, glancing anxiously around the room.
Mike stepped forward. "When was this? Beechfields haven't been here since Tuesday."
"Yes. Tuesday," said Izzy.
Mike frowned. "How has it taken till Friday to come out?"
She shrugged. "The school didn't say."
Mike looked across at Zoë, who had abandoned her magazine in favour of this real-life soap opera, her head darting left and right like a spectator at a tennis match. "Zoë, could you go outside and stop anyone else coming in so that we get some privacy here? I'll let you know when you can come back in."
The girl pouted but said, "Yah, will do," as she pulled a jacket from the back of her chair and slouched outside.
"Simon," Allan turned to Spock with an icy glare. "As you'll understand, we can't employ any instructor with a slur against his name. I'm afraid we'll have to let you go."
Let me go? Go where? Spock shook his head, instinctively knowing that this was not a good thing. "Where do you want me to go?"
"Home." Allan narrowed his eyes. "You're sacked. Fired. P-forty-fived. Get it?"
Spock's chest cramped up. Suddenly he was struggling to breathe, and he could feel his face tightening, like all the blood had been sucked out of it. Sacked? How could he be sacked? He hadn't done anything. Had he? What was all that they'd been saying about grooming? Wasn't that what you did to horses?
"We don't need to go that far, Mr Winter," Izzy cut in. "I just need to speak to Mr Jones to clarify a few things; and I need to ensure that you have proper training and procedures in place to stop anything like this happening again."
"Of course we do," snapped Allan, "and the easiest way to stop this happening again is to get rid of Simon, isn't it?"
"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?" Mike asked mildly.
"Yes, Mr Winter, it was only an accusation, which may be perfectly easily explained away if I could just speak with Mr Jones?" said Izzy. She turned to Spock. "Perhaps we could go for a coffee in the café and have a chat?"
Chapter 12
SPOCK SAT ACROSS the café table, fingers drumming nervously on the surface as he waited for the stranger to bring the drinks over. His mind ran over and over the same refrain. He was enjoying working in Scotland; he had his osprey project to work on, and the ski season wasn't over yet. He wasn't ready to go back to London. Plus, if he lost his job, how would he afford to go to LegendCon and meet EvenStar?
Izzy placed a glass of water in front of him, and sat down opposite with her cup of herbal tea and a spiral-bound notebook. "Now, Simon," she started, "I don't think I was properly introduced. I'm Izzy Sherman from Children's Services in Inverness. We got a report from Beechfield's School that you'd been accused of grooming one of the children, which is how I got involved." A finger pushed her red-framed glasses more firmly onto her nose. "At this stage, we're just investigating and trying to ascertain the facts. Nobody is formally accusing you of anything, and there should be no need for you to worry about your job." She glanced quickly out of the window, across the car park to the ski school. "I just need to know a little more about the gift you bought for—" she glanced down at her notes, "Harold. Harry, I think they call him."
"Gift?" Spock thought back to the lesson with Harry and the others. "Oh— you mean the prize?"
She tilted her head at him. "Go on?"
"Harry was getting bullied by one of the other boys. William. Like Prince William and Prince Harry." He smiled at her.
"William?" She didn't smile back, but glanced down at her notebook again.
He lifted his shoulders. "Yeah. Harry had it hard. He had a gross jacket that made him look like a girl. So I got a prize for the most improved skier and he won it."
"And the prize was?"
"A new jacket."
She inclined her chin slowly, and wrote something in her notebook. "So you gave Harry a new jacket?"
"Um…yes. As a prize."
"Which he was always going to win?"
Spock nodded. "To stop the other dudes picking on him."
"And did you have any contact with Harry apart from in the ski lesson?"
"No." Why would she think he'd do that?
She looked at him, unblinking, for a
moment.
"I'll see them again next week for their lesson," he added.
"Mmm." She tapped her lip with the end of her pen. "I think it would be better if one of the other instructors was to teach that class. You can tell whoever takes it over to watch out for bullying."
She sat back and closed her notebook. "I'll recommend to the ski school that they swap you to a different group for the remainder of the school session. And I'll speak to the school about the bullying."
She stood up, and, after a moment, Spock stood up too, realising that the interview was at an end.
"If I can give you a word of advice, Mr Jones?" She looked at him earnestly. "If you see any bullying again, just separate the children. And then tell the school. Let them sort it out. Don't try to be the hero."
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Spock turned and followed Izzy out of the café, wondering what would have happened all those years ago if his teachers had spotted the bullying going on in his class at school and separated him from his persecutors. Perhaps his life would have been very different. But then, if that had happened, perhaps he wouldn't have been able to help Harry to stand up to William. He sighed. Life was complicated.
Mike felt like a giant surrounded by Lilliputians as he tried to match tiny bundled-up children in rainbow-hued ski suits with the names on his list.
Outside the ski school hut, Izzy, the social worker, was speaking animatedly with Allan and Spock. Then Spock disappeared inside, and emerged couple of minutes later, snowboard over his shoulder and red uniform jacket noticeably absent. Stomping down the steps, he turned towards the Highlander.