Country Pursuits (14 page)

‘Sold off for what?' asked a confused Freddie Fox-Titt.

Humphrey looked very apologetic. ‘For housing.'

‘We're going to get a bloody big housing estate in Churchminster?' boomed Sir Ambrose Fraser, looking appalled. Frances put a placatory hand on her husband's arm.

‘It looks that way,' said Humphrey. ‘Er, in fact an offer has already been put in by a developer called Sid Sykes. Sykes Estates are big in the building
industry. There are quite a few of them around the country.'

Howls of protest went up round the room. Only a few months ago, Sykes Estates had been the subject of a
Watchdog
programme, and accused of exploiting cheap labour and using building materials unfit for purpose. The estates were notorious for squeezing as many cheap, ugly, box-like houses in as possible, but somehow Sid Sykes had escaped investigation. A brash, vulgar, self-made millionaire, there were dark mutterings that he had paid the right people off.

‘This is awful! We can't have a Sykes Estate here! It will dwarf the village!' exclaimed Lucinda. Even the normally laid-back Nico was nodding vigorously in agreement.

‘We'll have bloody young kids trying to get served in the pub and causing no end of bother,' shouted Jack Turner.

‘And they'll all have ASBOs, I've seen
Crimewatch
,' squawked Brenda Briggs. ‘Oh lawks, this is awful!'

The room erupted into a babble of worried and angry voices. Humphrey tried to restore calm. ‘Ladies! Gentlemen! PLEASE. I understand this is unsettling news to take in, but do try to keep some perspective.'

‘Easy for you to say. You don't live here!' someone shouted angrily. Humphrey flushed various unbecoming shades of red.

Clementine couldn't bear it any longer. She stood up. ‘Humphrey, is this definitely going to happen? Have we
no
say over the future of our village?'

‘It's ninety-nine per cent likely to happen,' he
admitted. ‘All I know at the moment is that the Meadows is coming up for auction. The council will accept an offer from the highest bidder.' He looked round the room, pleading for some support. ‘Even if it does get sold to Sykes Estates, think what the money can do for the county. Improve public transport, local schools . . .'

Angry jeers and boos echoed around the room. Humphrey began to fear for his personal safety; the crowd was becoming distinctly mob-like. But Clementine suddenly felt the faintest glimmer of hope. She interrupted the hubbub, her loud, strident voice claiming attention.

‘Hold on, hold on everyone! Right.' She turned to Humphrey. ‘What you are saying is that the land is going to be sold off to the best offer? It doesn't automatically have to be sold to that horrible little man for a grotty housing estate?'

‘That's right,' answered Humphrey weakly. ‘The land won't even be up for sale for six months or so. Sid Sykes just got to hear about it . . .'

‘I bet he did, he's probably giving all you lot bloody back-handers!' someone heckled.

‘Shush!' said Clementine crossly. ‘So if I am correct,
we
could put an offer in for the Meadows? To save the village and keep it how it is?' This was met with loud cheers.

Humphrey looked round the room dubiously. ‘I suppose so . . .' he said. ‘But you will be up against some seriously stiff competition. Prices for land in this area have quadrupled over the last eighteen months.'

‘How much?' asked Clementine bluntly.

Humphrey looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Developable land has reached a premium,' he told them. ‘With the price of the land round here shooting up by the week, it's been valued at . . .' He ummed and aahed for a few moments.

‘Oh, for God's sake, Humphrey!' said Clementine faintly. ‘How much?'

Humphrey looked at her. ‘Fifteen?' he said hopefully.

‘Fifteen thousand?' said Freddie. He looked rather relieved. ‘God I was expecting much more, that's a bargain! I'm sure we can all dip in our pockets and get this sorted out right now.'

‘No, Freddie, you don't understand,' Humphrey was sweating now, beads forming on his forehead. ‘I meant fifteen million.'

‘
Fifteen million pounds?
' asked Clementine, each word perfectly, painfully enunciated.

Humphrey nodded. ‘That is at the high end of the estimate, though,' he added hopefully, as if it would soften the blow.

It didn't. Silence enveloped the room once again as stunned, white faces struggled to take it in.

‘Christ on a bike,' said the Revd Goody.

THE NEXT DAY,
the village was buzzing with the shock announcement. The
Cotswold Journal
sent a reporter, who was quickly accosted by Brenda when he popped into the shop to buy some cigarettes. It was all they could talk about in the Jolly Boot, with various scurrilous tales about the evil villain Sid Sykes flying around, while Beryl Turner quickly raised a petition amongst the regulars to send to the county council headquarters in protest.

Clementine had had a very trying morning. She'd woken up with a splitting headache and momentarily wondered why, until the events of last night had come flooding back. She had spent the night tossing and turning. How on earth were they going to raise fifteen million pounds to buy the Meadows? Clementine, like a few other village residents, could put her hand in her pocket and stump up a decent sum towards it, but it would still fall way short of the amount they needed.

Before he'd died of gout in 1978, Clementine's darling husband Bertie had tirelessly run the Standington-Fulthrope Committee and this was
just the sort of challenge he'd have relished. She could almost hear him shout: ‘Let's get the buggers!' Now Clementine felt the future of the village rested on
her
shoulders, and twenty years ago she would have approached the challenge with gusto. Now she just felt daunted and helpless, and too old for the fight.

The phone rang, briefly snapping her out of her gloom. She picked the receiver up wearily. ‘Hello?'

‘Clementine? It's Fred.'

‘Oh, Freddie, hello.' Clementine stared out of the kitchen window in the direction of the Meadows. Memories of her son Johnnie swinging from the trees pretending to be a superhero all those summers ago suddenly flashed into her mind. She blinked back a tear.

‘I've been thinking . . .' There was a note of excitement in his voice that snapped Clementine out of her black mood. ‘Look, we can't let this happen! I've lived in Churchminster all my life and the Maltings is my livelihood. It's Angie's and Archie's too. We can't let that Sykes character buy the Meadows and destroy our village!'

Clementine let out a sigh of despair. ‘But Freddie, the only option is to buy it ourselves, and where are we going to find that kind of money? I mean, I could put some in myself or even sell Fairoaks . . .' The thought made her feel sick to her stomach.

‘You'll do no such thing,' said Freddie, his voice strong and resolute. ‘There are other ways to raise the cash without making you homeless. Look, between you and me finances aren't that great for us at the moment, otherwise I'd stump up for the lot myself. But Angie and I have been talking, and
there are other ways to raise money. I'm sure I can put on a few deluxe shooting weekends and Angie says she can try and pull some strings in the antiques world, see if we can get some donations. Maybe auction them off? It may seem like little things, but if we all pull together and do what we can, then who knows, we might just raise enough. Better than us all just sitting on our arses! Er, sorry, I mean bottoms.'

‘I wonder . . .' Clementine murmured thoughtfully.

‘Tam Spinker-Butworth for example,' said Freddie. ‘He made a few cool mill with that sponsored yacht race last year, do you remember?'

The fighting blood suddenly coursed back through Clementine's veins. She sat up straight in her chair and banged her hand firmly on the table. ‘Fred dear, you are absolutely right! An auction is just what we need! We are not going down without a jolly good fight. I survived the war and I'll get through this as well. I'll go to my grave before this village is swallowed up by some ghastly tin-pot housing estate!'

‘Hear hear!' cheered Freddie down the phone and rang off, promising to start making plans for the shooting and fishing parties that very morning.

Clementine got out her address book and picked up the phone, her mouth set in a resolute line as she made the first of many phone calls that day.

By mid-afternoon, the offers were flying in. Babs Sax had donated several of her paintings (‘Are you sure that's a good idea?' asked Caro when she found out), and Sir Ambrose and Lady Fraser had generously offered to donate a wantonly expensive
Louis XV table and chairs from one of the many rooms at the Hall. ‘Bloody uncomfortable to sit on, makes one's backside go numb,' boomed Ambrose down the phone. ‘Be glad to see the back of the blasted things.'

Caro had phoned Sebastian to see if his bank could make a substantial donation (he'd refused to give up his Christmas bonus), while Lucinda was going to organize a sponsored ride with the pony club. Spurred on by her increasing fitness levels at Henry's attentive hands, she also put herself down for the Churchminster Fun Run in July. Jack Turner was to put on a French evening at the pub with all proceeds going into the fund. Stephen and Klaus popped round on their way back to London to offer their services. ‘Anything, anything at all Clementine, dah-ling,' Stephen drawled through a haze of menthol cigarette smoke.

‘Ve are sure ve can persuade some of our clients to contribute to
such
a good cause,' Klaus added in his distinctive German accent. By five o'clock, her ear burning from being pressed to the phone all day, Clementine was quite overwhelmed by the villagers' goodwill and generosity.

That evening, Clementine invited her three granddaughters over for supper. So while the smell of Brenda's burnt asparagus tart wafted out of the kitchen, they made themselves comfortable in Clementine's cosy reading room, and discussed the day's events.

Clementine recounted the response from the village. ‘That's marvellous news, Granny Clem,' said Caro, taking a huge glug of Chablis. Milo was
asleep upstairs in one of the spare rooms and she was taking advantage of the break. He had been crying on and off all day, and her head felt like it was about to explode. Sebastian hadn't helped by calling just as Milo was screaming blue murder in the background, and saying, ‘Christ, what are you doing to him?'

‘Nothing, he's doing it to himself,' she had replied furiously.

‘Yah, well, maybe you should get a nanny. Face it, darling; you're really not coping, are you?' Then he'd rung off, leaving Caro making a V-sign at the phone. Childish, but it had made her feel better. As did this huge glass of wine.

‘So you're going to put on an auction?' asked Camilla.

Clementine nodded. ‘That is the idea, yes. And there will be all the other money people are going to raise.'

‘And this is going to get fifteen
million
pounds?' asked Calypso, one eyebrow arched.

‘It's a start, Calypso!' responded Clementine hotly. ‘What else are we going to do: stand by and watch our village ruined?'

‘I didn't mean it like that,' said Calypso thoughtfully. ‘I think the auction and the other stuff is like, a really, really good idea. But will it be enough? Suppose we put on a ball as well? I have always, like,
totally
wanted to do that.' She smiled. ‘Especially as I've been thinking about a career as a party organizer.' Calypso had only just started looking her grandmother in the eye again after the downstairs loo incident. She'd packed a grumbling Sam back off to Brighton the next day.

‘You've got a new job? Oh, how marvellous!' exclaimed Clementine.

Calypso flushed. ‘Well, not exactly. But I've been thinking about getting involved with organizing parties and stuff for ages. You know what great contacts I've got, especially with the girls from school.' Unlike her sisters, Calypso had spurned the country comforts of Benenden and had boarded at Vespers, an achingly cool girls' school in Notting Hill. Currently it counted two pop stars, seventeen It girls, four supermodels, and an Oscar-nominated actress among its alumni. ‘What better place to start than with Churchminster's very own ball?'

Clementine looked doubtful. ‘There will be an awful lot to do, darling. I know from experience.'

But Calypso was on a roll. ‘We could have the auction at the ball! Make it like Elton John's White Tie and Tiara Ball. We could invite loads of celebrities and stuff. Honestly, Granny Clem, I've got great contacts.'

‘Like Kate Moss!' interjected Caro. ‘She's got a country house round here. So has Liz Hurley.'

‘And I nearly ran over Paul McCartney in Stow-on-the-Wold last week,' said Camilla excitedly. ‘He didn't look very pleased at the time, but this is just the sort of thing he'd support. Ooh, tickets will go like hot cakes!'

‘
Totally
,' said Calypso confidently. ‘We could get, like, loads of press with people like that coming. You need to think about media coverage,' she told Clementine knowledgeably. ‘This is just the kind of thing people go
nuts
for.'

Clementine looked round at her granddaughters. They were right. ‘Do you think we can really do it?
Put on an auction
and
a ball?' she asked. ‘I will need all of you to help me.'

‘
Deffo!
' they all chorused.

‘We'll make
double
fifteen mill!' shouted Calypso, jumping up and down on the sofa. Errol Flynn, who had been asleep at the end, woke up grumpily and climbed off, leaving a rather noxious smell in his wake.

‘Let's not get too carried away,' said Clementine, but her eyes were shining with excitement. She raised her wine glass. ‘To Churchminster!'