by Jan Jones
“No, it’s interesting,” said Leo. “It all adds up to the picture I’m building in my head.”
“A picture?” said Penny. “It sounds more to me like a collage. Or perhaps the way Frances makes over clothes. She takes a sleeve from here and a skirt panel from there and scatters odds and ends of fabric all over her room, then gradually snips and stitches pieces together until she has a whole garment.”
“It’s a good way to describe it,” agreed Leo.
He let Daniel run up and down the stairs of number 16 a couple more times, then they went outside to look at the rest of Westcliff Close. Interestingly, only half the houses seemed to be properly lived in, the rest were clearly holiday lets. He wondered if they were all owned by Terry Durham’s furtive ‘T D Castle’ company.
“Been here since these were new, we have,” said a man who had appeared in the beautifully tended garden of number 14, rake in hand, obviously waiting to chat. “Affordable housing, that’s what the close was built as. Got our names on the list soon as the notices went up. What a view, eh? Wouldn’t swap that for anything.”
The view was currently of evil grey clouds building up on the horizon. Each to his own. “You don’t find it a bit isolated, this far along the cliff?” asked Leo.
The man shrugged. “There were supposed to be more homes here - a small estate - but in the end it was only Westcliff Close that was built. And then the caravan park was put up. Should have known there’d be a catch, eh? Still, the wife got a job cleaning the caravans on turn-round days, so we make a bit of money out of the nuisance. And sometimes we go up to the social club if they put an entertainment on. It makes a change from the Green Dragon.”
Affordable housing. Leo made a mental note to chase that up. It was also intriguing that the houses had been there before Terry Durham’s caravans. Had the developers got into trouble and he’d taken the remaining land off their hands?
They had a walk along the cliff, showed Daniel the outside of Outlook House which used to belong to Uncle Charles when Leo himself was growing up, then Daniel got thirsty, so they headed back. At the far side of the caravan park, Leo noticed a finger board pointing to the Green Dragon. “That’s useful,” he said. “Fancy a soft drink?”
“Soft?” queried Penny.
“I might just have a pint,” he admitted with a grin. “At least I know it’ll be good beer, coming from the Seagull.”
He made conversation with the lads at the bar while getting the round in. He praised the beer and asked whether they always had Seagull Bosun or whether it was left over from the recent function? To his very great interest, they said they hadn’t had a function for months. Also that the owner had made a mistake over the beer order just recently and they’d had to offload some at a loss to the working men’s club in town. Well, well.
Daniel was exploring the pub playground when Leo put down the glasses on the picnic tables. “There is a family room if you’re chilly out here,” he said to Penny.
“I’m a native, remember? One drink outside won’t kill me,” she replied. “Besides, your son is enjoying himself.”
Predictably, Daniel fell over as she said this, but she fished out antiseptic wipes from her bag and cleaned the graze without fuss before sending him back to the play equipment. Leo sat beside her, sipping his beer and reading the diary, thinking this was almost like being a family. Then an entry in the tiny blue book made him sit up.
Collected Burrows from Whitegates. His mother is pitiful to see. Wailing in the farmyard as if he was being torn from her living flesh. The poor woman had buried his boots in the midden the night before in an effort to stop him leaving. He joked that they’ll doubtless see worse before we’re done.
Frederick Burrows had lived at the farm they’d passed earlier! Leo was a firm believer in journalistic coincidence. Any reporter who said they didn’t set any store by luck was either lying or not using their opportunities to the full. He read the entry out to Penny. “If there’s someone in the Whitegates farmyard when we pass it on the way back, do you mind stopping so I can have a word?” he asked.
“Even if there isn’t, we can knock on the door and buy some eggs,” said Penny.
As it happened, there was someone there. Penny parked the car and Daniel scrambled out, eager to see the hens properly. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Leo politely to the woman upending a bowl of scraps on to the ground. “We had a holiday on a farm last year - my son has been fascinated by animals ever since.”
“Holiday on a farm, eh?” said the woman, looking interested. “Here you are, lad, fill this scoop up with seed from the tub and scatter it about. Don’t let the chickens bully you, mind.”
Daniel beamed. This had been his favourite job last year. He took the battered metal jug she gave him and trotted around the yard, hens clucking and pattering at his heels.
“Thanks,” said Leo. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking of calling anyway. I’m a journalist with the Messenger and I’m trying to trace a Frederick Burrows who lived at a Whitegates farm in 1912 or so. The poor chap was killed on the Somme, but I’m interested in his early life. Would that have been here, do you know?”
“Burrows is my husband’s family name,” said the woman. “And this is the only Whitegates I know of, so I’d guess so. There are boxes of old photographs in the attic. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”
Leo felt a rush of excitement. “It could be. Does your husband know anything about the family history?”
“Nothing at all,” she said cheerfully. “But he could tell you what’s been planted in which field and why for the past fifty years.”
Leo laughed. “I’d be interested in a sight of the photos if you ever have a moment to fetch them down.” He gave Mrs Burrows his card.
“I will. There’s all sorts in that attic. I’m thinking I’ll clear the lot and put it on eBay. You mentioning farm holidays has given me an idea. How much did this place you were at charge, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s tough making a farm pay these days without help.”
Fair exchange was no robbery. Leo told her the set up while Daniel ran to give Penny the empty scoop before zooming off to look for more animals.
“To be honest, I was surprised to see a farm here at all,” said Leo. “I’d thought everything was residential in West Salthaven. There are certainly more houses than when I used to come here as a boy.”
“A few farms hang on,” said Penny, joining in with the conversation. “It’s not as easy to convert rural land to housing as it used to be, is it?”
“We’ve had offers,” said Mrs Burrows, watching Daniel thoughtfully. “I’d have been tempted, but he’s right awkward is my husband. Won’t sell to anyone who isn’t going to keep it agricultural. Not after what happened to his father.”
CHAPTER TEN
Leo’s skin tingled. He opened his mouth to enquire further, but -
“Really? What was that?” asked Penny, settling herself more comfortably against the farm gate. Leo could have kissed her.
“Oh, it was twenty-five or thirty years ago, but the way the pair of them go on, you’d think it was yesterday. There was some big government scheme making money available for cheap houses, see? So my father-in-law sells this building firm the top two fields - the ones where he’s never been able to grow much anyway due to the wind and the salt.”
Leo grinned. She evidently had no illusions about her in-laws.
“He gets a very tidy price for them, enough to invest in the fields that do give a good yield, and you’d think that would be an end of it.”
“And?” prompted Penny.
“And then there were only twenty-four houses built - and the rest of the land suddenly sold on and full of caravans. Father-in-law was furious. Said if he’d wanted caravans there, he’d have put them up himself and taken the rent off the visitors to put into the farm. He still makes a big thing about having let family land go, out of the goodness of his heart, to provide local people with homes, only to end up l
ining Terry Durham’s pockets. I reckon he was mostly cross because he’d never thought of it for himself. Mind you, he’d have taken the metal detector over every square inch of those fields before he sold them. You’d be amazed what the ploughing turns over each year. Why, I found a silver tea set myself when we took up a row of flagstones in the dairy to put in a new counter. Someone in the old days didn’t trust banks, did they?”
Mrs Burrows straightened up. “Listen to me going on. This isn’t getting the men’s tea on the table. Thanks for stopping by. You’ve given me a lot to think about with those farm holidays. I could do with having a bit of life in the place over the summer and the Lord knows we’ve got the rooms to spare. Did you want some eggs, by the way?”
Penny took the hint good-naturedly and counted out the change for half-a-dozen eggs. “This is a funny old measure. Have you always used it?” she asked as she handed the feed jug back. Leo noticed her thumb running across the bulges and encrustations.
“My mother-in-law passed it to me along with the hens and the hen-house when I got married. Not quite the riches I was expecting as a new bride, but it means we’ve never been without a square meal or a bit of cash when we’ve needed it.” She shrugged. “As far as I know, it’s been on the farm forever.”
Leo lifted Daniel back over the gate and they waved goodbye. “What did you mean about the measure?” he asked Penny.
There was a tiny crease between her eyes. “Just a feeling. I need to check something first.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Oi, you stick to investigating Terry Durham. This is my little puzzle.”
He grinned fondly at her. “Okay. My archives are at your disposal should you need them.”
“That sounds vaguely suggestive. I’ll have you know I’m not that sort of landlady.”
“That reminds me, Mum and Dad would like to take you out for a meal to say thank you.”
“That would be very nice,” said Penny, opening the car door. “I accept.”
Penny arrived back to the news that Shane Durham had been charged with painting graffiti on the town buildings.
“Actually charged?” she asked her youngest daughter.
Frances shrugged. “Charged or cautioned or arrested or something. The news is flying all over the internet. First they were saying he’s blaming his dad. Now he’s refusing to say anything at all. What gets me is the way Terry Durham is on his own Facebook page being all sorrowful and sad-face and saying he’ll pay for Shane to go for counselling.”
“Oh good grief.”
“Exactly.” She made a sick expression at Penny. “If I graffitied Salthaven, please tell me you wouldn’t be all sorrowful in public?”
“If you painted graffiti anywhere near Salthaven, my girl, I’d have you out there scrubbing it off until your fingertips bled.”
Frances grinned. “Thanks, Ma.”
Penny searched back through the Salthaven Prize archive, half hopeful, half jeering at herself. She felt guilty for not mentioning her hunch to Leo, but it was awfully far-fetched. He was a bona fide journalist. His instincts had some validity to them. All she had was a wild, crazy idea.
And yet... and yet... she turned over another sheet and there it was. That was what she’d been looking for. That’s what she’d remembered from her skim through the history before. A photo in a page cut from a school magazine way back when, showing a very fancy Georgian silver mug. The photo was small and in black-and-white, but it was clear and crisp, even more so when she fished out the magnifying glass her mother had used for her embroidery. Penny peered closely at the raised leaves and flowers that embellished the tankard. In her mind she ran her thumb over the lumpy encrustations on the battered metal seed jug at Whitegates Farm.
“The poor woman had buried his boots in the midden.”
“Why, I found a silver tea set myself when we took up a row of flagstones in the dairy.”
“He jokes that he will come back covered with glory and all that business with the cup will be forgotten.”
Penny stared at the photo some more, then she rang Leo. “I think I might have found the missing trophy,” she said. “The Messenger can get your Frederick Burrows added to the memorial now. That poor boy. What might he not have achieved without the stigma of shame?”
The next day it rained again, soft and steady. Leo was needed at work first thing in the morning but Harry was happy for Daniel to be in the office too, provided he didn’t get in the way.
Penny called in with the magazine photo, shaking rain off her umbrella. “Here you are,” she said. “I’ve got a WI committee meeting this morning, but I thought I’d drop this off first. I really am sure that’s the Whitegates corn scoop.”
“Great stuff,” said Leo, scanning it into his computer. “I’ll give Mrs Burrows a ring and hopefully get the story in the paper next week. I’ve checked our archives and found it was Frederick who ‘lost’ the tankard. The implication was that it had been stolen. More likely his loony mother buried it for safe keeping, don’t you think?”
“No question about it,” agreed Penny. “Poor woman. And poor Frederick.” She smiled at Daniel. “Now then, what are you doing for the rest of the day?”
“We’re going on Daddy’s boat,” said Daniel.
Penny cast an involuntary look out of the window. “You aren’t really, Leo? In this weather?”
“It’s only water, Penny. Uncle Charles is looking forward to it. Mum and Dad are just waiting on my call to say I’m ready.”
Penny clamped down on her reservations. “Have you got time for Daniel to come and meet the Seagull dray horses first? Caitlin told me rather particularly last night that they aren’t going out today and that they’d love visitors.”
“Yes, please,” said Daniel instantly. “You too, Daddy.”
On the other side of the office, Harry waved him off.
“This graffiti business with Shane still bothers me,” she said as they passed through the re-repainted yard gates. “That family does nothing without thinking it through first. If he’s kicking back at authority - as Terry is sorrowfully claiming - why use easily washable stuff in highly visible sites and this dense painting only on the Seagull and out of town? I’m not counting the temper tantrum after the essay day. That was him, pure and simple. But I also can’t forget that sleek new motorbike which is a ridiculously over-the-top reward for good GCSEs. It doesn’t quite make sense.”
“What’s graffiti?” asked Daniel.
“Writing on walls,” said Penny. “It’s very naughty.”
Daniel looked shocked. “That is naughty. What’s it for?”
Leo cocked his head at his son. “Good question. What is it for? I wonder if we’re approaching this from the wrong direction, Penny. What was the effect of the graffiti on Salthavians before Shane was unmasked?”
“Apart from irritation, you mean?” Penny thought about it. “Well, I suppose it could have given credence to the idea that there is a swell of dissatisfaction in the town,” she said slowly.
“Go on.”
“We already know there isn’t enough housing for young people. It’s one of the things Alice campaigned on, freeing up unused building land for starter homes. The graffiti might possibly generate a belief amongst some people that we need more jobs and lower prices as well.”
“And where would lower prices come from but the large chains?”
“You mean,” said Penny, working it out, “that the graffiti might cause a section of residents to be more receptive, maybe, to the idea of a mall in the town.”
“Exactly. You said at the launch of the Salthaven Partnership that it was typical of Terry to make capital out of the graffiti. What if the graffiti has been occurring in order for Terry to make capital out of it? The motor bike, supposedly as a reward for Shane’s GCSE results, was actually payment in advance.”
They stared at each other. In front of them the Shire horses whickered softly.
“Oh, how stupid of me
,” said Penny. “That’s why the town centre paint was easy to remove. Because Terry wanted to stir the locals up, but not put the tourists off coming to Salthaven again.”
“And what about the Seagull?” demanded a voice behind them. “Why would Shane target us night after night?”
Noel and Caitlin had come in with carrots for Daniel to give to the horses. They had identical grim expressions, having overheard the conversation. “It doesn’t make sense, Ma,” said Noel. “If Terry Durham is buying up shares to be part of the Seagull business and putting more orders our way, presumably to maximise profits, why is he also trying to destroy the brewery?”
Something was tugging at Penny’s memory. Something Caitlin had said. “I don’t know that he is,” she said. “He’d certainly like control, but I don’t think he wants to destroy the Seagull if he can’t get overall command. That’s not his style. What he wants is for the brewery to move. Up to Lowdale, remember? It’s possible he’s been putting more work your way - which the pubs have no need for, we discovered - for two reasons. He wants to drive down the share prices when you can’t fill the orders so he can buy them cheaper, and he’s also trying to prove to you and the other shareholders that you need bigger premises so you can expand.”
“He might well be behind the letters to the paper complaining about the ‘unpleasant odour on brewing days’ as well,” said Leo, looking thoughtful. “I can check that.”
Noel gaped. “He wants us to move to Lowdale because he doesn’t like the smell from the malting process?”
Penny shook her head. “There’s got to be more to it than that. Terry Durham has a gold medal in devious.”
“Might it be so we aren’t here to object to the Market House redevelopment?” offered Caitlin. She was showing Daniel how to feed the horses, clearly thinking about the disruption to the beautiful animals. “But it won’t be just us complaining about that. It’s going to be dreadful for everyone. Dad said there was a huge palaver about it in the Tap last night.”