UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  He put something on the bedside table and turned his grin directly on her, making her love him even more, wet hair and all.

  ‘What’s with the bedraggled look?’ she wondered.

  ‘I’ll tell you later. We’ve better things to do that talk.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Such as this,’ he said, dropping the towel.

  ‘Oh my word!’ Penny blinked. ‘Get in here, big boy!’

  * * *

  ‘Never mind a BMW, she’s purring like a Roller.’

  The Border Collie gave John one of his looks.

  ‘Honest Injun,’ said the ex-farmer. ‘And we’re nowhere near the top yet.’

  Gyp did his usual trick, sticking his head out of the window to get away from all the nonsense. Chuckling, John kept his foot on the accelerator and enjoyed the way they were coasting up this steepest bit of hill. If he’d been in the old rattly heap he’d have been blinded by warning lights by now. As it was he was able to take in the scenery . . . what little he could see through the rain-lashed windscreen.

  Not that a bit of bad weather ever worried him.

  On leaving the accountants he’d had an impulse to have a look at Hunters Farm. That had lasted all of two shakes. He’d cut the birthplace out of his heart the day he’d left, vowing he’d never go there again. So here he was, on his way to have a gander at Hal’s instead.

  ‘No melted tarmac today, eh Gyp. And look at the state of the bloody road. We must be getting close.’

  Farmers and ex-farmers are very familiar with muddy tyre tracks, but the surface ahead was summat else. Never mind muddy tyre tracks, there was evidence of seriously heavy use: gouged furrows and potholes everywhere. It wasn’t tractors that had done all that.

  ‘Think about Micklethwaite Lane.’ John laughed. ‘There’ll be ruffled feathers if it’s as bad as this. They’ll be cursing me.’

  The gate to Hal’s farm was swiftly coming up. The significantly changed gate. Two years ago it had been a rusty iron thing, wide enough to admit a small milk tanker. Since then the wall had been knocked back, more than doubling the gap. John slowed as he approached, taking in the red and white pole barring access.

  ‘Checkpoint Charlie,’ he said absently.

  To the left of the new gateway there was a large sign with the house builders’ name, contact details and notice that:

  ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT TO SECURITY

  John supposed the wooden cabin to the right would be SECURITY. He also supposed he wouldn’t pass as a visitor, so drove on a hundred yards before pulling up on a wider stretch of grass verge.

  Leaving the dog to guard the Defender, he donned his waxed jacket and found a convenient bit of coping stone to lean against. Back at the gate three HGVs were waiting to get in. They were probably waiting because the site was already full. Admission seemed to be on a one-in, one-out basis.

  ‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘What a nightmare.’

  And it was a nightmare. Hal had said his land had been poisoned but this was more like rape. There was hardly any green in sight. The largest field, the nearest, had been a bit uphill and down dale. Now swarms of diggers and bulldozers were flattening the bugger, taking all the hill out of it, creating a big muddy terrace in its place. Just like the one they’d already created on a lower level; the one that used up the rest of Hal’s land.

  The scene was too much to take in at a glance. It made John think of those old books of Heather’s; the ones with hundreds of different things going on wherever you looked. Where’s Wally? he wondered.

  He took a deep breath then tried to order the chaos. The old rutted track from the gate had been replaced by a three-lane highway of white stone, running down the farm like a spine. The disappearing hill this side of it buzzed with bright yellow earth movers. More white tracks circled and crisscrossed the completely flattened lower terrace. They were narrower but there were lots of them, all just as permanent-looking. The crushed limestone suppliers must have made themselves a fortune.

  And hold on a minute, where was the farmhouse? What had happened to the sheds and the laithe?

  John shook his head. Hal had let his land run to seed but it didn’t deserve this. All those years of blood, sweat and tears.

  Thank God I gave Hunters Farm a miss.

  The lower level would be Phase 1, he reckoned. There was shape appearing there, and not so many diggers and dozers. Those guys beavering away in hardhats and rigger boots had to be groundworkers. Wasn’t that what they called them, the ones who did foundations, pipes and the likes? Were they the ones who’d torn down Hal’s home? Or had someone else done that before they’d arrived?

  The tug on his jacket surprised John. So did the way Gyp brushed against him when he finally noticed he was there. Daft thing didn’t usually want attention. He reached down and ruffled the dog behind his ears.

  ‘You’ll get yourself wet,’ he said mildly.

  Gyp didn’t seem bothered.

  ‘Go on, boy, back in the Landy. I’ll be there in a moment.’

  Gyp considered before obeying, as off-duty Border Collies usually do. John watched him pad his way back to the dry and relative warmth. He’d had plenty of dogs but Gyp was far and away the best, and never mind the leg he’d lost as a pup. Only having three paws hadn’t ever stopped him from working.

  Not that he was blaming Hal. It was just so . . . so exasperating to watch him give in like that. Okay, another man’s business was another man’s business, but how he wished he’d got hold of the doylum and shaken him.

  Probably wouldn’t have done any good, though. Hal had been a victim waiting to happen.

  John’s feet were getting soggy. New shoes for the accountants’ office, he thought. No good for Bingley Moor.

  He walked to the Land Rover and stood beside the open door. His eyesight had allus been excellent and distance wasn’t a problem with the sign by the gate. At the bottom, in tiny letters, there was a list of PROJECT STAKEHOLDERS. No mention of Greaves Junior’s selling-on company. But there wouldn’t be, would there? Not the way things worked nowadays.

  House builders; they’re as bad as supermarkets.

  And moneylenders; don’t forget them.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, my friend,’ he said as he climbed in behind the wheel. ‘West Yorkshire’s buggered. It’s falling to bits all around us, can’t trust nobody anymore. There’re kids running about with knives and guns. Even the bloody builders have swallowed encyclopaedias.’

  Gyp looked at him and seemed to shrug.

  ‘No, I mean it. I’ll come back to see Hal buried and that’s it for me. I won’t be going farther than Skipton after that. Sod ‘em.’

  * * *

  It was after three when Geoff decided it was time for a rest, but not in a floppy way. No, not in a floppy way at all.

  ‘Just a tea break,’ he said. ‘Old Faithful will be back on the job shortly.’

  ‘Good,’ Penny replied. ‘Despite the odd hiccup, I’m starting to admire his work ethic. Is he on a new productivity deal?’

  They were both watching him as she spoke. From half-resting he was frisky again already.

  ‘Shortly?’ She smiled. ‘He looks game for more right now.’

  ‘He might not need a tea break,’ Geoff said, ‘but I do.’

  So did Penny when she thought about it. ‘Okay. You relax. Tell me about your morning. Did you get bedraggled changing a tyre or something?’

  ‘No. I spent a couple of hours up at Druid’s Altar. It was raining, hence the bedragglement.’

  ‘Druid’s Altar?’ Penny was more than slightly surprised. ‘What were you doing up there? Sacrificing virgins?’

  ‘In Bingley? Sorry, we’re fresh out of virgins.’ Geoff’s grin faltered. ‘Actually, I was scattering ashes.’

  Surprise changed to astonishment. ‘You’ve had Samantha’s ashes all this time?’

  ‘Yeah. I was too hung over to scatter them when they arrived. And afterwards the time’s never felt right.’


  ‘Where . . . where’s she been?’

  ‘Not in the house. Don’t worry; I’ve kept her well out of the kids’ way. She’s been in the boot.’

  ‘My Goodness Geoff, what are you trying to do? Turn her into a poltergeist or something?’

  ‘It’s nice in my boot,’ he protested. ‘I even vacuum the carpet. Anyway, she’s not there anymore. I’ve set her free.’

  Penny gave him a hug. ‘Your eyes are leaking. Let it out, darling. It’s what Samantha would want, I’m sure it is.’

  ‘I let lots out earlier.’ He sniffled and kept hugging her. ‘It was cleansing. Deep down I’ve been afraid it would be like throwing her away. But it wasn’t like that at all. It really was like setting her free.’

  ‘No poltergeists then?’

  ‘No. And no hang-ups anymore, I promise. From now on I’ll cry at your sad films every time we watch them.’

  ‘Once a century then.’ She laughed and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I love you, Geoffrey Rodgers.’

  ‘And I love you, Penelope Browning.’

  Her heart skipped a beat. A second miracle! Although she’d been sure they were in love, this was the first time it had been said out loud.

  ‘I do,’ she said, ‘really, really, really.’

  ‘So do I.’ He reached for something. ‘That’s why I got you this.’

  It was a small, wrapped parcel; obviously a box with a ring in it.

  Penny hesitated. She’d longed for this moment but suddenly felt like an imposter . . . and a nervous imposter at that. If it was what she assumed it was, where had it sprung from? And what exactly was it? Her granny had told her how, back in the Thirties when everyone was on the breadline, the only ring she ever got was sawn off some brass piping. And even her mother had had to get by with a cheap engagement ring, only getting the mega-expensive replacement years later, long after she’d married and Dad’s business had taken off.

  Please, she thought, I can take a brass ring . . . or a cheap high street jewellers’ ring . . . or great-granny’s heirloom. Just don’t let it be Samantha’s old ring. Neither of us deserves that.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, steeling herself.

  Still silently pleading.

  As soon as she got the wrapping paper off she realized her fears were groundless. The box was brand-new and marked Fattorini.

  ‘Crikey,’ she said. ‘Were you bedraggled when you went in Fattorini’s?’

  ‘Very bedraggled. They looked worried until my credit card worked. Then they couldn’t have been nicer. Go on, have a proper look.’

  ‘Crikey,’ she repeated as she opened the box. The ring was a band of silver with a stylish twist that mass-produced rings simply don’t have. Not that the ring itself immediately caught her attention. She had believed that most of the world’s largest diamonds were safely locked away in the Tower of London. This one must have escaped. It made her mother’s rock seem like a pebble.

  She didn’t dare begin guessing the price, which was certainly in lots of thousands rather than just a few hundreds.

  ‘Geoff. You shouldn’t have. This is much too expensive.’

  ‘Too late, I’ve bought it now. Why don’t you try it on?’

  She looked at him. ‘Does it signify what I think it signifies?’

  ‘It signifies I want you to be the kids’ new mummy. I think that makes five of us.’

  ‘Oh. You overheard, did you?’

  ‘Don’t play for time. Try it on.’

  She did and it fit perfectly. ‘Big Mistake Number Two,’ she said. ‘Now you really will never be rid of me.’

  ‘I sincerely do not want rid. And I’m not planning on a long engagement. We never did get that holiday in the sun. Shall we go for it late December? Honeymoon over Christmas and New Year? Lanzarote’s the same all year round so, like you said, lashings of sun block and the kids’ll be fine.’

  ‘Honeymooning with the kids sounds wonderful,’ she said, and meant it.

  ‘Is it a yes, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ She swung her leg over him and climbed on top. ‘Yes being something I plan to be saying a lot more this afternoon.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  She took hold of his hard-again thingy then paused. ‘You never went down on one knee.’

  ‘I’m saving that for this evening. I’ve booked a table at Valentino’s. Now I know you’re going to accept, we can put the ring back in the box. I’ll propose while we’re there.’

  ‘With the kids?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re going to propose in front of the kids?’

  ‘Do you think they’ll be impressed?’

  ‘I do.’ She laughed softly. ‘If you go down on one knee in Valentino’s, I think we’ll all be impressed. I can’t wait to see the girls’ little faces.’

  ‘One knee it is then. And never mind what the other customers think.’

  ‘The other customers will think the same as the girls. That it’s the most wonderful and romantic thing they have ever seen.’

  ‘Jamie will think it’s soppy.’

  ‘Jamie will be as charmed as everyone else. He’ll think he’s watching one of his Disney films.’

  ‘Good job he can’t see us now then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Consummating in advance, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Geoff chuckled. ‘Until we’re officially engaged, we probably shouldn’t be consummating at all.’

  ‘What time have you booked the table for?’

  ‘Six thirty.’

  ‘That’s ages away. And we won’t get home until well after eight. I can’t possibly wait so long for my next consummation. I’m seriously in need.’

  ‘Go on, then. If you must . . .’

  PART TWO

  Nine years later - October

  If you steal something small you are a petty thief,

  but if you steal millions you are a gentleman of society.

  Greek proverb

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sean Dwyer cast around The Kings Head, taking in all the smart suits and cocktail dresses. To the casual glance it wasn’t easy to tell between VIPs and freeloading reserves. Although, come to think of it, some of the reserves did have a look about them . . . a lean and hungry look.

  The great entrepreneur grinned. Tonight was the grand opening of his latest venture. Situated next door to its namesake, The Kings Table Ristorante was aimed at Bingley’s more upwardly mobile, putting it in a very different class to the pub. In fact he’d spent the last month insisting that the only thing the two had in common was the missing apostrophe . . . while always encouraging potential diners to also be drinkers, of course.

  Sean’s shark-like grin widened. This opening night was going to be a success at any price. Every table had been sold more than a fortnight ago but there were still sixteen reserves standing by, just in case. As well as being immaculately turned out, those reserves really were lean and hungry. Not to mention eager. And with good reason: the deal was for seven courses with complimentary wine and champagne, plus an invite for late drinks in the pub afterwards. Most of the VIPs knew what that meant. The reserves certainly did.

  Totally at ease in his white tuxedo, Sean glad-handed his way from the bar to the door then nipped out into Main Street. There was only one sitting tonight, not half an hour away now. He wanted to see how ready Marco Pierre was, despite being sure he couldn’t have left anything to chance; not after two exhaustive dress rehearsals.

  “Marco Pierre” was really Mark Whitley, who Sean had known forever. At school Mark had been quiet, almost timid. Since catering college he’d become a tyrannical control freak, bold enough to demand full command of the ristorante and a profit-sharing deal with his hard-bargaining boss. The Kings Head regulars had re-christened him long before he settled on today as the big day.

  Sean was cool about Marco Pierre running The Kings Table. He allowed trusted lieutenants to run other businesses an
d never had problems. Okay, so he had to keep an eye on them, but that was life, wasn’t it? Marco Pierre was just getting a bit more rope than the others. He’d not be getting chance to hang himself.

  Using his own key Sean let himself in through the front door, admiring the ambiance yet again. Everything about the ristorante was classy and new. He’d be eating here a lot himself. It was ideal for that special occasion or for romancing a lovely lady. It was going to stay that way too. Most of his lads had been barred as a matter of course, including Pat on match days. And there would be absolutely no riffraff tonight; even the reserves had been hand-picked.

  Marco Pierre had typically gone for overkill, calling in his entire team, insisting everyone was involved. When Sean arrived he had them gathered around for his final brief and pep talk. Sean hung back and listened, pleased to see they were all paying attention. Marco had chosen each member of staff himself and had chosen well. Everything was positive. Sean had already sampled most of the menu, which was excellent. The waitresses looked just as tasty.

  Speaking in his huddle Marco Pierre didn’t sound so tyrannical, he sounded passionate about good meals and good service. The team was visibly infected by his enthusiasm. Sean started to feel very upbeat. He half-expected the meeting to end with group hugs and high fives. Instead Marco Pierre asked him to have the last word.

  ‘I didn’t expect to have to make a speech,’ he began truthfully, but without any nerves or self-consciousness. He liked speaking in front of people; this didn’t faze him in the least. ‘And I don’t have any expert advice to add. Marco’s your expert. All I’ll say is enjoy yourselves and do what you did this afternoon. The food was great and the service was brilliant. And when you’ve finished, please come next door for late drinks on me.’

  ‘How late’s late?’ asked one of the prettiest waitresses.

  Sean gave her his most winning smile. ‘Don’t say you have to be in bed by midnight?’

  ‘I don’t have to be,’ she replied. ‘Bed can be anytime, so long as I’m home by three.’

  Everyone laughed and Sean said, ‘I will personally make sure you’re home by three.’