A Village Affair

by Julie Houston

  ‘Well, it will if you stick damned great houses on the farmland. And it’s you lot that’s upset my granddad.’ I could feel myself going pink in the face.

  ‘Your granddad?’ Xavier Bamforth frowned once more and looked across at me, his dark eyes fixed on me as he tried to work out what my granddad had to do with his family.

  ‘His field. Norman’s Meadow.’

  ‘Oh, Norman is your grandfather?’ Edward said, surprised. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Cassandra, your granddad might have adopted that field as his own, but it’s ours. And people need houses. People have to live somewhere.’

  ‘But not in my granddad’s field…’

  ‘Our field…’

  ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere.’ Xavier Bamforth looked at his watch. ‘We need to tell you what the Estate is proposing. You might even like it.’

  I folded my arms. ‘OK, go ahead.’ I was beginning to feel really angry that these men were in the school, trying to get me on their side. The Bamforths may have planned it as an informal, friendly meeting, but what they were mooting was anything but friendly.

  ‘As David so rightly says, we need this land that the school is built on. I’m sure the Church would be very grateful for us to take an old building like this off its hands. At the end of the day it’s ancient – Victorian.’

  ‘Yes, and with a huge amount of history,’ I tutted. ‘Did you know that the original building here was one of the first Church schools ever built? Over a hundred and fifty years ago?’

  ‘We would build a brand-new, up-to-the-minute, state-of-the-art school complete with computer suite and technology room.’ Xavier was reading from his notes, as if only just realising what he and his father had on the cards.

  I wavered slightly – a room for design technology and food technology would be heaven – but only for a second. ‘I can almost guarantee any new school would be a concrete block with too-small classrooms and a flat roof that leaks. And I bet there’d be nowhere near as much land with it, if any. Here we have playing fields, a nature area; don’t tell me you’d give up your precious land for wildlife.’

  ‘We’ve already consulted the best architects and builders,’ Edward Bamforth said smoothly. ‘And what is the one thing parents want?’

  ‘Besides happy well-rounded children in a country environment?’

  ‘A car park. A decent car park to drop off their kids. You have the country lane alongside the front of the school here and you know as well as I do the problems with parking and the frayed tempers that go along with it every morning and evening.’

  He had a point there. Dropping kids off at the school gates was a major headache for most schools in this country. It brought to mind my neighbours who had just moved to Houston, Texas with their kids, and Maureen writing to tell me how, every morning they waited in a line in their over-sized air-conditioned motors outside the school, handing over their offspring directly to the teachers who then ferried them straight into the air-conditioned schoolrooms. They thought it was marvellous. I thought it horrendous. I wanted kids to walk to school down country lanes, picking blackberries on their way, scraping their knees and being late as they chased each other into the yard. Blimey, I’d be having them bowling hoops along and carrying a hot potato for their dinner next.

  ‘Mr Bamforth does raise a pertinent point about cars, you know, Cassandra. The lane right down to the vicarage is jammed every morning.’ Ben Carey tapped his pen against his teeth. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m agreeing with him about all this,’ he added hastily as he saw my face.

  ‘You’d be ripping out the very heart of the Westenbury community if you demolished this school. Parents send their children here because it’s small. And we actually have a computer suite, thank you very much. This may be a Victorian building but don’t forget the school had a huge refurbishment two years ago: we are bang up to date with our technology, albeit on a smaller scale than I would like. And,’ I continued, now on a bit of a roll, ‘once you take away the school from the village, others will follow. The baker will go, as will the organic butcher and the little hardware store where I go for a quick screw when I really need one…’ Blimey, hark at you, Cassandra Moonbeam, I chided myself as all three men stared at me, wide-eyed and obviously impressed. You’ve been head for a week and you’re acting as if you own the place. I suddenly realised that being rode roughshod over by Mark and Serpentina had brought out a fighting spirit in me. But I knew that at the end of the day, the governors and the Trust would be making decisions about Little Acorns’ future. Not me.

  ‘And,’ David leant forward and spoke slowly, enunciating every word, ‘I shall object to this whole development with every power I have; with every fibre of my being.’

  I stole a glance at him. David’s face was calm but set.

  ‘Well, obviously you would,’ Edward said just as calmly. ‘With your place just across the fields from here, I wouldn’t have expected anything other than your objection. What you should be thinking of is the people without homes – we will be building social housing as well as the more upmarket, five-bedroomed properties – and those children for whom a fabulous, brand-new, well-appointed school is their right. Nimbyism will reign supreme for the “haves” in this area. Try thinking about the “have nots” for a change, David.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Edward. The last thing I want is a sodding great soulless estate built right up to my garden wall. This is green belt, beautiful farmland that should remain untouched for generations to enjoy. Would you—’

  ‘We’re not talking about me, David,’ Edward interrupted. ‘But our plans do incorporate the fields around where I actually live…’

  ‘And you will then sell up and go and live in your place down in the Cotswolds and your house in, where is it…? The South of France?’

  That shut Edward Bamforth up for a second, but he soon came back fighting. ‘You know, Priscilla was very much in favour of having a brand-new school built for her pupils.’

  ‘It would have to be a jolly big school if you’re planning on three thousand extra houses in the area.’ Ben Carey raised eyebrows and continued the rather irritating tapping of biro against his teeth.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Xavier smiled. ‘It would be one of the biggest in Midhope.’

  ‘And Priscilla was more than ready for the challenge,’ Edward added. ‘She would have loved being in charge of such a flagship school.’

  I was beginning to understand the source of all those tins of luxury biscuits. And, maybe, the expensive bottles of wine I’d come across in the tall wooden cupboard in which Priscilla had kept her coat. I’d thought at first Priscilla Theobold had a secret drinking habit but, according to Jean, she rarely touched the stuff, just liked having it in the cupboard to take with her to any dinner parties she was invited to.

  ‘I think you’re forgetting that the school and the land belong to the Church.’ Ben Carey sat up straight and stopped tapping his teeth.

  ‘The land, obviously, but I believe, Mr Carey, that the Church has relinquished some of its rights over Westenbury C of E to the Trust?’

  ‘Where does that leave us, Ben?’ If the Trust was happy to get its paws on a brand-new school I wasn’t sure what options we had.

  ‘I’m not actually sure, Cassandra. At the end of the day I’m a vicar, not a politician or an education expert.’

  ‘But would you be in favour of demolishing Little Acorns, Ben? Building a concrete box in the middle of a huge estate?’

  Ben sighed and looked a bit shifty. ‘I wouldn’t personally, but I’m not convinced the parents and some of the other governors, particularly those who don’t live round here, wouldn’t jump at the opportunity for a brand-new, state-of-the-art school. You only have to mention computers, iPads, science equipment…’

  ‘But the building is of historic importance,’ David argued. ‘I bet it’s even listed. Actually, there you go: if it is listed they’ll never get permission to knock it down. By flattening the school, they�
��d be flattening history.’

  Edward Bamforth smiled somewhat smugly. ‘Progress. We have to have it. Have to move on. You need to rid yourselves of your Luddite mentality, have vision, as we have.’

  ‘Mr Bamforth, are you saying that without the Little Acorns site you wouldn’t be able to go ahead with all your plans?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not saying that at all, Cassandra,’ he said smoothly. ‘What I am saying is that we’re determined to go ahead and build on the fields and we’ll find a way. We have to. We’re in the twenty-first century and need to move on. As landowners, we just can’t keep up with the farmland. Do you know how many farmers have thrown in the towel in the last ten years? Those farmhouses and their accompanying barns are now houses for those wealthy enough to convert them. And David here, what did he do with Peter Broadbent’s old farmhouse? He had no compunction in turning it into a successful restaurant. I’m sure you are aware of Clementine’s, just down the road?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone knows Clementine’s. Clementine Ahern’s daughter, Allegra, is a pupil here…’

  ‘I do think we’re getting off the point again,’ Xavier Bamforth said, glancing at his watch once more and beginning to gather his papers.

  ‘I think Clementine’s is very much a case in point,’ his father interjected. ‘Progress. Moving on. And what we do intend, in return for planning permission from Midhope Council, is to build a super new leisure centre with ski slope, a cinema complex and a small shopping centre to serve the new houses.’

  ‘You are joking!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it!’ David, Ben Carey and I spoke as one.

  ‘This is the countryside,’ I finally spluttered. ‘What the hell do we need a ski slope for? And we have Meadowhall in Sheffield, the Trinity centre and the new John Lewis in Leeds a train journey away.’

  ‘People want these things here, on their doorsteps. Not everyone has a car – although by the jammed-up lane outside the school every morning one might beg to differ.’

  ‘Beg all you like, baby…’ Oh heavens, had I just said that? I could feel myself blushing and David Henderson’s look of astonishment which quickly turned to amusement. But this was not funny.

  ‘We need to calm down a bit,’ Edward Bamforth said. ‘Look, we’re obviously a long way from a solution, but I need to tell you, we are very serious. We’ve been contemplating selling the land around here for many years. Farmers don’t want to buy it. If we don’t develop, the fields will go to rack and ruin. Try and think of Titus Salt and the village of Saltaire he built for his workers. And George Cadbury who built Bournville with homes for twenty-three thousand people. Did the locals object when those great philanthropists built a community for their workers?’

  ‘Those are totally different.’ I almost laughed at the very idea of his comparison.

  ‘Why?’ Xavier Bamforth held my gaze. ‘Why are they different?’

  For the life of me, put on the spot, I couldn’t think why it was OK for George Cadbury to build thousands of homes back in Victorian times, but certainly not bloody OK for Edward Bamforth and his family to build the same, right here and right now.

  ‘Progress, Cassandra. The population is rising. Immigration is high.’

  ‘As is emigration. And to be quite honest, if you’re thinking of covering acres of beautiful green belt round here with dreadful shopping centres and… and ridiculous ski slopes then I’m going to be first on a plane out of here.’

  ‘That is your opinion.’ Edward Bamforth, I could see, was irritated by my constant counter arguments. ‘You will find, particularly amongst young people round here who have nothing to do at the weekend, the general consensus is, bring it on.’

  I turned to Xavier Bamforth, who had not said a great deal the whole of the time. He appeared incredibly deadpan, bored, almost, of the whole proceedings. He was around my age, I reckoned, with longish dark hair and very dark eyes. With a name like Xavier – as unlikely a Yorkshire handle as Lancashire Hot Pot – he must have foreign blood somewhere. The Bamforths, so far as I recalled Granddad Norman talking about this dynasty of an engineering family, were Midhope born and bred. The air of bored complacency Xavier exuded was marred only by the constant twisting of the gold band on his left hand. ‘So, you’re all for this as well, I suppose? You’ve not said much.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He was succinct. ‘I see no reason not to move forward. The plans have already been forwarded to Midhope Council and we want Little Acorns and the local community on board with us. It really would make life a lot easier.’

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ I snapped, suddenly very weary. ‘As a local – forget my being acting head here – I would, like David here, oppose this all the way.’ I had a sudden vision of Granddad Norman almost in tears at the very thought of the vandalising of the field behind his house. ‘Particularly as you’re planning to destroy Norman’s Meadow.’

  11

  Do You Fancy a Stint as the Poison Dwarf?

  I knew I was shattered and emotionally drained, but when I was startled awake from a dream where I was having my legs waxed by the team effort of both Mark and Tina, I realised I must be in a pretty bad state of mind. Mark was yanking off strips of hot wax from one leg while Tina, enjoying every sadistic moment, was pushing red-hot needles into the other. ‘Mine, now,’ she was laughing gleefully. ‘He’s all mine.’

  My head was buzzing. Literally. I opened one eye, trying to figure out whether I was having some sort of nervous breakdown, the buzzing in my ears symptomatic of the most traumatic week I’d ever been through.

  The buzzing was getting louder and more insistent, shifting around but singularly monotone. I sat up, shook my head and peered through the dimness of an early September dawn. The work clothes I’d abandoned in a heap, after downing a couple of particularly huge gin and tonics before falling, almost comatose, into bed, stared up at me accusingly. My face felt dry, papery and very old, while my mouth was just as dry, but furred like a new Christmas slipper. I tried to locate the buzzing and, instead, recalled the conversation I’d had with myself as I fell beneath the duvet:

  ‘Cassandra Moonbeam, get back out of this bed, take off your makeup, moisturise your face, clean your teeth, and hang up your clothes properly.’

  ‘Fuck off, Cassandra Moonbeam.’

  I really needed to get a grip. I didn’t think I’d ever, in all of my adult life – even when I had new-born babies – gone to bed not having hung up clothes on their correct wooden hanger, replaced shoes in their proper shoe box and put used underwear in the laundry basket. I’d definitely never gone to bed in my makeup before. I switched on the bedside lamp, grimaced at the trail of mascara and foundation on my white Egyptian – 800 thread count – cotton pillowcase and then screamed out loud as I realised the buzzing was coming from a whole zoo-full of wasps crawling on, and flying above, the bed.

  I leapt out of the bed, screaming and stubbing my big toe on the bedside cabinet for good measure, and looked on in horror at what must have been twenty wasps on the pillow while others, with an open invitation to join the party, buzzed and dive bombed like the Dam Busters, through the open bedroom window.

  ‘Jesus, Mum, what’s the matter?’ Tom appeared at the bedroom door, his short fair hair tousled, his eyes full of sleep. ‘Has something happened? Were you having a nightmare?’

  ‘Wasps,’ I yelled, grabbing him as I rushed for the door. ‘Millions of them.’

  ‘Slight exaggeration there. Having said that… Jesus!’ He slammed the bedroom door behind us both and we stood on the landing, in the half-light, wavering as to what to do next. ‘You’ll have to get the council in.’

  ‘On a Saturday morning at six a.m.? It’s hard enough getting them to empty the dustbins on the right day; I can’t see them coming over for a bedroom full of wasps. Ooh, and I’ve been stung.’ I pulled my nightie up around my knees. ‘Look, look at this lot.’ I counted four red raised welts, each with a tiny white mark at it
s centre. ‘Jesus, they hurt. Oh God, what if I have an anaphylactic shock? I feel a bit funny, a bit sick and dizzy…’

  ‘That’s probably the gin from last night,’ Tom said drily. ‘They were jolly big ones you downed.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been watching.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Freya put her head round her bedroom door before joining us on the landing.

  ‘Wasps,’ I whispered. ‘A whole mad gang of them.’

  ‘A couple of wasps and you’re both terrified?’

  ‘A couple?’ I whispered, affronted. ‘There’s a whole army moved in. Look at my legs.’ I touched the tender areas that seemed to be swelling and pulsating more readily with every second that passed.

  ‘Why are you whispering? They don’t understand English, do they?’

  ‘This is your father’s fault,’ I sniffed.

  ‘Dad’s fault? Why?’ Freya looked baffled.

  ‘Well, if he hadn’t gone, he’d be dealing with them. He’d know what to do.’

  ‘Are you a man or a mouse, Mum?’ Freya tutted in the way only a fourteen-year-old forced out of her pit on a Saturday morning can tut. ‘You’re a head teacher, for heaven’s sake. I bet if you’d been asked the question at your interview: “Mrs Beresford, you suddenly see that the wasps’ nest that has been brought in for Chantelle is actually full of live wasps, reproducing at an alarming rate and heading towards the children in your care. How would you react?” you’d have an answer.’

  I considered for just a moment. ‘Have a shower, make a strong coffee and Google wasp murderers.’ Oh, and while I’m about it, see if there’s also a quick and discreet service for the murder of husbands found shagging one’s best friend. I didn’t vocalise this last bit, obviously, but just thinking about some sort of torture, if not actually doing away with the pair of them, made me feel slightly better as I headed for the shower, the coffee machine and Google.