by Jenny Harper
‘It’s a formality in the case of Summerfield Law, I fear.’
‘If they get planning permission for the mast, is there anything we can do? Like interfere with the readings, for example?’ This from the hippy woman.
Frank laughed. ‘Well, at some point we’ll need to decide how far we want to go in terms of direct action, but we’re not at that point yet. No, I’d say we concentrate on lobbying the planners. They’re the ones who’ll give permission for the mast.’
‘How?’
‘There’s several things we could do. Make a formal objection, laying out our case. Get up a petition, to back up our objection. Maybe have a march through Hailesbank, or stage some sort of protest at the Council offices. Lobby individuals too. Sandy Armstrong, for starters, the farmer who owns the land. He’s key.’
Ibsen wasn’t used to this at all. He’d only come along at Frank’s insistence and because he objected so viscerally to the plans for the wind farm. He took stock. Most of those present were middle-aged going on elderly and he’d guess that most of them were well heeled. The hippy woman looked as though she’d been at this kind of meeting a dozen times before. There was a teenager with her – her son, by the looks of him – who kept his mouth shut. He looked as though he’d be up for a bit of direct action, though.
Am I?
Someone opened the door to the hall, and a cold draught blew in. He was going to sneeze. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, found one, and blew his nose just in time.
‘You dropped this.’
A woman in a tweed skirt and loafers was handing him a scrap of paper.
‘Thanks.’ He took it from her. It wasn’t paper, it was a business card.
Kate Courtenay, Project Manager, AeGen.
It was the card Kate had given him the other night, at the end of the Council meeting. She was quite something, that woman. He hated what she did, but by Christ, she was sexy. He’d seen her in hiking boots and a rain jacket and he’d thought so then. He’d seen her in a tight black shift dress and high heels, and wow, that was quite something. What would he give to see her in nothing at all?
Ibsen blinked at the card. It was the first time, he realised with a jolt, that he’d felt this way about any woman since the divorce. Why the hell did he have to pick someone so completely unsuitable? See Kate naked in bed? It’s never going to happen. Especially as your involvement with a protest group will put you and Kate on a collision course.
He shoved the card back in his pocket and tried to put shiny black eyes and a sweet, heart-shaped face out of his mind.
Ibsen might be emotionally scarred, but he was no monk. He’d had a succession of girlfriends since he and Lynn had split up, and every time he found a new one he could see hope in his mother’s eyes – hope that he might find love again, hope that he might settle down, hope that he might have another child to help heal the pain of losing Violet. But it hadn’t happened. He wasn’t capable of making it happen. Perhaps he never would be.
Maybe part of the problem was that he was still close to Lynn – even though they found it impossible to live together, no-one else understood the hurt in his heart the way she did. Sometimes he wondered if they might try again, then he thought maybe this was what was getting in the way of a new relationship.
So he did try to make a new start. Several times over the past couple of years he’d begun dating. Attracting women wasn’t the problem – they swarmed to him like bees to pollen. And they were nice women, though each had a flaw. Jackie had been pretty, but so clearly desperate, at thirty-eight, to bag a man, that she clung like a leech and drained his life blood. Karen fussed over him like a mother hen, obviously worried about him. It had been an unequal balance, and couldn’t last. Shelley was too young, their interests didn’t overlap at all.
Melanie was a girl for evenings in the pub and a nice bit of leg-entwining under the duvet. She was the most attractive of the lot, and when it came to bed-warming she was a real treat – which made it harder, of course, to do what he was going to have to do before too long.
He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Beside him, Melanie stirred, sleepily. He hooked an arm under her shoulders and rolled her towards him.
‘You awake?’
‘Mmm,’ she muttered sleepily.
She nestled close to him, her head on his chest, her shoulder under his armpit. After a moment he abandoned his examination of the ceiling and laid his cheek on her hair. Sometimes any body was better than nobody, but this wasn’t fair. Ibsen decided, with exasperation, that life would be a whole lot simpler if Tam hadn’t brought him up with an exaggerated sense of fairness. Mel’s expectations were growing, and that couldn’t be allowed to go on.
‘Shall I bring you breakfast in bed, Ibs?’ she whispered, her voice half drugged with drowsiness.
It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Ibsen knew what this offer cost her, because Melanie was not a morning girl and today was Sunday. It was another sign of the lengths she was prepared to go in order to keep him.
Reluctantly, he eased her away. ‘You’re all right, love. You stay there. I’ll bring you a cuppa and some toast.’
He let Wellington out and brewed tea. Melanie was half sitting up by the time he returned to the bedroom, her auburn hair tumbling round her shoulders like a bedjacket.
‘Fancy a quiet day, Ibs, just the two of us?’ She accepted the tea and placed it on the chair beside the bed, then patted the covers. ‘Coming back in?’
He shook his head and perched on the side of the bed. ‘I promised Frank Griffiths I’d do a bit of homework for him.’
The meeting at Frank’s house had begun by sounding people out, but ended like a military operation, with Frank allocating tasks to anyone who’d shown willing.
‘Check it out, Ibsen, would you?’ he’d tossed the request in Ibsen’s direction. ‘Have a look around, see where the turbines might go, have a think about access routes, and where we might have a sit-in, if we end up having to do something like that.’
Ibsen, still feeling like a foreigner in a strange land, nodded an acknowledgement. Outdoor reconnaissance he could manage.
Melanie pulled a face at his announcement. ‘Must you?’
‘You can come with me if you like. You’ll need boots though.’
‘I’ve got boots.’
An hour later, Melanie appeared in the kitchen dressed in ripped jeans, an off-the-shoulder tee shirt in luminous orange, and skin-tight boots in tan suede with four-inch heels.
Ibsen grinned. ‘When I said boots, I didn’t mean boots like that.’
‘I haven’t got any others.’
‘Well, you can’t walk in those. I’ll see if Ma can lend you something.’
Melanie looked horrified. ‘You want me to wear your mother’s boots?’
‘Mel, we’re climbing a hill, not going to a fashion show. You look totally gorgeous—’ he said quickly, seeing her face fall, ‘—just impractical. Listen, don’t worry, I can go on my own.’
‘No, you’re all right. I want to come.’
‘Right. If you’re sure. Wait there a minute then.’
Five minutes later, he returned with a pair of wellies. ‘Not ideal, but I couldn’t find her outdoor boots and she’s out somewhere.’
In fairness, Melanie was fitter than he’d imagined her to be. Her long legs ate up the yards and she strode with him, pace for pace, up the hill, with Wellington bounding ahead. She even seemed to be quite enjoying herself.
‘What’s this, Ibsen?’ she called, stopping by a tiny orchid almost hidden by heather.
He squatted down and felt its delicate flowers gently. ‘Looks like a Heath Spotted-orchid. Likes acid soil. You did well to spot that one, Mel.’
‘It’s pretty.’
‘It is. And if they build a road this way, that’ll be the end of it.’
‘They won’t, will they?’
‘Not if I can help it, no.’
The June sun was already warm and
he was glad he’d only pulled on a tee shirt. It was good to be up here so early, there wasn’t another walker in sight.
‘What’s that bird?’
Mel was looking up in the sky, where a kestrel hovered like a moth.
‘A kestrel—’
Because he was looking up, he saw Kate before she saw him. She looked like a slip of a girl from here, jumping from boulder to boulder on the rockiest bit of the summit. What the hell was she doing up here on a Sunday?
Then Wellington sprang across the last twenty yards to where she was standing and did the obligatory ten-circles-round-a-new-friend dance before burying his nose in her crotch.
‘Does he know her?’ Melanie said, flicking her hair back from her eyes.
‘They’ve met.’
His eyes were on Kate because he couldn’t help it. He wanted to pick the woman up in his arms and carry her to his bed, but he knew that was never going to happen. Was that why he wanted her so much? I want doesn’t get, his mother used to say. But in this case, even asking with a ‘please, pretty please’, as Lynn used to put it wouldn’t do either. She was married and she was a bloody wind farm engineer. Two massive no-no’s.
‘Who is she, Ibs?’
Melanie’s gaze was boring into him, as if she could read his mind. Ibsen blinked and grinned at her. ‘No-one that matters,’ he said, and slung his arm across her shoulders in a gesture of togetherness as they crossed the last few yards to where Kate stood.
‘I knew if Wellington was here you wouldn’t be far behind,’ Kate said, smiling. She turned to Melanie. ‘Hi.’
Melanie ignored the outstretched hand. Instead she swung her arms round Ibsen’s waist, the gesture possessive. ‘Hi.’
‘Up here prospecting?’ Ibsen said, not bothering to introduce her.
‘Just needed some air. I like it up here.’
‘So do I. Just now,’ he added meaningfully.
Kate said nothing.
‘Did you know they’re going to build a wind farm up here?’ Melanie said. ‘Ibsen’s hopping mad, aren’t you Ibs? They’re planning a major protest.’
Kate didn’t look at Melanie, she stared at Ibsen, her dark eyes unwinking. ‘Is that right?’
‘Well, you knew we would,’ Ibsen said softly.
‘Yes,’ she said. She seemed to be scarcely breathing. ‘I knew.’
‘Christ,’ Melanie said as Kate swung round and began to pick her way down the hill. ‘What was that all about?’
Ibsen thought,If only I understood.
Chapter Eleven
Willow Corner was the last Georgian house at the northern end of Forgie and the road was a cul-de-sac.
There was no reason for a car to be parked outside the house. Kate saw it from the upstairs landing, squatting low on the road like an iridescent beetle, on the exact same spot it had been a dozen times in recent weeks. She could make out a figure hunched over the steering wheel. She couldn’t even tell if it was male or female. Twice she had gone to the front door and started down towards the gate, determined to find out who it was, but as soon as she’d passed the rose arch half way down the path, she heard the engine turn over and saw the car drive off.
She was being watched, she was certain of it. It was a threat, nothing more. AeGen were big on personal safety and there were strict guidelines. House visits should never be made alone, no-one should leave a meeting alone. Kate had experience of protests and knew that when feelings ran high people could get vicious. Protestors might congregate in car parks, cluster round cars, bang on the windows or the bodywork. It could be frightening. Yet what could she do? There was nothing concrete to report.
Frank was certainly becoming a nuisance, phoning Kate every day, sometimes several times a day. Kate’s patience – never her strongest suit – was beginning to wear thin. I can handle your father, she’d told Charlotte. She could, she was sure, but she was beginning to wish fervently that she didn’t have to.
Eight weeks after the application, planning permission was granted for the Met mast on Summerfield Law.
‘Brilliant!’ Kate high-fived Jack, who happened to be passing when the news came in.
‘First step achieved,’ Jack grinned back at her. He’d been on best behaviour recently.
‘We’ll have to see what the mast records, of course. We shouldn’t get too excited,’ Kate warned. ‘But still, it’s into public consultation now. Full steam ahead.’
Mark was pleased with progress. ‘The thing about women managers,’ he told the Friday wash-up meeting with a broad grin, ‘is that they can juggle a dozen balls in the air because they don’t have to use their hands to protect the other two.’
Everyone laughed dutifully. It was a small compliment, and a joke they’d all heard before, but it would do.
‘I told you,’ Mark said to her after the meeting, ‘that putting you in charge of Summerfield would be a good move. You’re doing all right, Kate. Well done.’
Kate smiled her acknowledgement of his praise, but privately, she had her worries. Feelings about the wind farm proposals were already running high in Forgie and this would bring things to a boil.
As Project Manager, Kate’s job was a complex one. Every task was vital and Kate knew that her days were about to get a lot busier. Over the weekend she took the decision to put the half-planned summer holiday on hold.
‘We’ll go somewhere fabulous in the October break,’ she promised Ninian.
‘Mu-um. This always happens.’
‘And we always go somewhere nice some other time. Chill, Ninian,’ Kate responded cheerfully. She loved getting her teeth into a complex project. Ninian could visit her mother in Devon for a week or two, he always liked that, and maybe Andrew would take him somewhere. A bit of bonding would do those two no harm – Ninian had been so snappy with Andrew recently, it would be a good time for them to rediscover each other. Seeing his expression, she relented a little. ‘I’ll try to find a few days at some point Ninian, I promise.’
Ninian stomped out but Kate’s thoughts were already jumping ahead to the next task. Spinning plates was a skill that required concentration.
On Monday, when she turned on her computer at work, a wave of new messages rolled in. Some of them were extremely aggressive. None of the addresses was immediately recognisable, though someone in AeGen would have the technical capability of tracking down the computer they’d been sent from. If they got too threatening, the police would be notified.
The threats had been escalating. Or else? What did that mean? We’re watching you. Was that one person, or a lot of people? Was it the person in the iridescent car? Was it a team?
She contemplated telling Jack or Gail, but decided she should cope with this herself. She created a new mail folder and transferred the messages into it. The worst thing was that these were probably from people who lived near her, maybe from people she actually knew. She could no longer trust anybody. She couldn’t even walk down the street without wondering whether the woman carrying supermarket bags she had just passed was one of the writers, or the jogger who always nodded, or the mother with the pushchair and the dog.
She stopped by Lisa Tranter’s desk. Lisa was fresh out of college, the youngest member of her team. ‘How are the environmental studies coming on?’
The slight blonde looked up, eager to make a good impression. ‘They’re all under way. We’ve got a bird surveyor up there today, as a matter of fact, Geoff Harkins.’
‘Good. He’s been briefed, I take it? And he’s properly equipped?’
‘Yes. I did it myself, yesterday afternoon because he was going up really early this morning, about three o’clock, he said.’
‘Make sure he checks out with you, won’t you?’
Lisa had reverted to reading her emails, multi-tasking, being busy and being seen to be busy. ‘Will do, Kate.’
Andrew caught her in the middle of everything. He sounded buoyant. ‘You’re remembering that the Bertolinis are here for supper?’
‘I had
n’t forgotten,’ she lied. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
It was good to hear Andrew sounding so positive. She made sure she finished on time. The job was important, but family had to come first, today at any rate.
The smell of lamb pervaded the house. Andrew was in the kitchen and Kate halted on the threshold to watch him. He was reading a recipe in some recipe book – Delia or Jamie or Nigel or Claudia or Elizabeth, he had them all – his glasses half way down his nose as usual, his concentration absolute. She tiptoed up behind him, put her arms round his waist and laid her cheek on soft white cotton.
‘I’m so lucky to have you.’
‘You’re back.’ He sounded pleased. He was certainly pleased enough to lay the book down and turn to gather her to him.
‘Something smells wonderful. Want me to do anything?’
‘All under control.’ He released her and waved towards the dining room, where she glimpsed crisp damask and fuschia cotton, the gleam of silver and a bowl full of sumptuous peonies.
‘Wow.’
‘Not my doing.’ His smile was the smile that wooed her and won her. ‘Mrs G had a lot of fun.’
‘I didn’t know she had such a sense of style,’ Kate said, surprised.
‘There was a magazine or something—’ he gesticulated vaguely.
‘God, that woman—’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s meant to clean and iron, not act the hostess.’
‘Well, if you weren’t out all the time—’
‘Don’t start that, Andrew. Just because you work from home.’
‘She was just doing you a favour.’
‘She makes me feel useless in my own house.’ Kate wrinkled her nose. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’
In a sudden change of mood, Andrew pulled her into his arms and kissed her. ‘Don’t be crotchety, darling. Why don’t you just go and make yourself look beautiful?’
Kate sighed. ‘It might take too long.’
‘Silly.’ He kissed her again.
What was she so worried about? She smiled. ‘Where’s Ninian?’
‘Out for the evening with Banksy and Cuzz.’
‘Oh God, no.’