Honeycote (36 page)

Lawrence spread out a sketch of his plan for the brewery on the formica table. He’d worked on it all night, using the computer programme that the landscapers used in the garden centre. He’d put in all the features – the trees, the fountains, the rose beds – and it looked thoroughly professional. He was inordinately proud and thought he wouldn’t mind living there himself. Excitedly, he outlined the project to Cowley, who was frowning.

‘If it’s planning permission you’re worried about, don’t be. The council will be falling over themselves to make that brewery residential. They don’t like the traffic, you see. All those heavy delivery lorries thundering through Honeycote.’

‘But it’s a great source of employment locally.’

‘Rubbish. They employ what – twenty max? And the project I’m talking about would employ that many easily in terms of maintenance. Plus it would bring the right calibre of resident into the village – people with money to spend. They’d rejuvenate the post office, the pub, attract other small businesses to the area…’

Suddenly, Cowley felt incredibly protective. In particular because the thought of losing Honeycote Ales was a travesty. It was local history; it was local economics, for God’s sake. It had kept the village afloat for nearly a hundred and fifty years. OK, so he’d pulled Mickey in before Christmas, read him the riot act, painted him a pretty grim picture of what could happen if he didn’t get his act together. And they hadn’t been empty threats at all. But if he could stop Honeycote Ales being sacrificed in the name of progress, to the likes of Lawrence Oakley, then he damn well would. It was a matter of pride to him.

More to the point, Cowley didn’t hold with Lawrence’s description of the ‘right calibre of resident’. It was bad enough that young people who had been born and bred in Honeycote had no hope of purchasing a house there, not when a simple three-bedroomed cottage would set you back the best part of a quarter of a million. Council houses were as rare as hen’s teeth and most of them had been bought by their owners so they were out of the loop. Converting the brewery into luxury apartments would only drive the prices in the village ever higher, making it even more exclusive and out of reach, and Cowley didn’t approve. He’d seen enough young men and women forced towards Evesham, towards starter homes on faceless estates that little resembled the rural idyll they’d been brought up in and were no longer allowed to be a part of.

There was a hiatus before Cowley could give his reaction, while the waitress brought coffee for them both. Cowley added cream and sugar and stirred deliberately slowly. He then took a sip, put his cup down carefully in its saucer and shook his head.

‘It’s out of the question. I consider it of utmost importance to both ourselves and the community to keep Honeycote Ales afloat at all costs.’

‘Let’s put it another way,’ said Lawrence reasonably. ‘How would the bank manage if Honeycote Ales went bankrupt and Barton Court moved its business elsewhere? You’d be up the proverbial creek without a paddle, wouldn’t you?’

Cowley drew himself up with dignity.

‘If that’s a threat, then I think I’d better pretend to ignore it. Contrary to what you might think, our branch is not entirely dependent on the input of your business. And I wouldn’t be a very good manager if I allowed my judgement of one client to be influenced by another.’

Lawrence gritted his teeth. He had to admit that he was rather flummoxed. Graham Cowley wasn’t playing ball at all. They were talking about large sums of money here. Millions, in fact. Which in a small branch like Eldenbury was make or break. He didn’t have time to mess about, though, so he changed tack. In his experience, if threats didn’t work in the first instance, bribery was always worth a go.

‘Let’s put it yet another way.’ Lawrence paused for a moment, then leaned forward. ‘What do you think of the new Jaguar?’

‘Good morning, Mr Oakley.’ Cowley put his coffee cup to one side, got up from his chair and left the room without shaking Lawrence’s hand, which was the biggest insult he knew. Lawrence pushed his drawing away with impatience, managing to spill coffee all over it in the process, then snarled at the waitress when she dabbed at the mess ineffectually with a damp cloth. Frustrated, he scrunched the paper up into a ball and tossed it into the bin on his way out.

Cowley drove his sensible bank manager’s car out of the car park. He laughed to himself as he looked back at the morning’s conversation. Lawrence Oakley wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. What on earth did he imagine people would think if they saw Graham Cowley driving around in a Jag? They’d know he was on the bung.

He thought he ought to have another word with Mickey, make sure he knew what people were saying about Honeycote Ales and reassure him that the bank really would be there to support him. The pep talk before Christmas had been a short, sharp shock designed to galvanize Mickey into action, shake him out of his complacency – Cowley had known Mickey long enough to know that would be the only tactic that would work. It was the sort of talk a headmaster gave to a promising but recalcitrant pupil in order to frighten him into doing well in his exams. He hadn’t really meant any of his threats. Well, obviously if Mickey didn’t pull his finger out, things could turn nasty, but he thought he’d seen the writing on the wall and was getting it together. Though judging by Lawrence’s meeting today, word had already got out, which was a bad sign. Confidence was being lost.

He looked at his watch – there was just time for him to call in at Honeycote House and be home in time for his casserole, served with steaming mash and his wife’s slow-cooked red cabbage.

When Sandra opened the door of The Cedars to Patrick Liddiard, she looked him up and down with glee. She welcomed him in effusively and he caught the whiff of gin fumes.

‘They’ve gone to the sales. Never content, are they, women? They always want more.’ She flashed him a conspiratorial smile containing several grand’s worth of cosmetic dentistry.

‘I thought I’d come and collect them. I suppose I should have phoned.’ Patrick surveyed Sandra curiously, seeking any evidence of a genetic link between her and Mandy. She had a good figure for her age, he had to admit that – but somebody really should have had a quiet word. No one over twenty could carry off mock croc trousers if they didn’t want to be laughed at.

‘Never mind. You can come in and keep me company till they get back. I was starting to get a little bit bored. What’s your poison? Gin and tonic?’

‘I’ll just have a beer. Thanks.’

Patrick followed Sandra tentatively into the house and watched in alarm as she poured herself a hefty top-up and got him a Bud.

‘Fancy a nibble?’

There was so much innuendo in the query that Patrick felt suffused with relief when she popped open a can of Pringles and pushed them towards him. He wondered what time the girls had gone to the sales and prayed that they wouldn’t stay out too long. Hopefully they wouldn’t be in need of too much so soon after Christmas, but he knew James had given Sophie and Georgina spending money tucked inside zebra-skin purses, for which they’d covered him in grateful hugs and kisses.

Half an hour later, while Sandra was regaling him with a detailed account of her weight for the past twenty years, he accepted a third beer. He was going to be over the limit, but he didn’t have to drive back straight away. He flipped off the top and knocked it back.

‘… the minute I go over eight and a half stone, that’s it. Fruit juice and steamed vegetables until I’m back on target. There’s absolutely no need to let yourself go just because you’ve reached a certain age.’

She smiled wolfishly at him and Patrick assumed he was supposed to say something.

‘I can see you’re in great shape.’

She positively glowed and rested a hand on his arm.

‘You’re a sweet boy.’ She squeezed his biceps and raised her eyebrows appreciatively. ‘I can see you are too.’

He looked down with distaste at her silvery-pink talons, imagining them embedded in his flesh. He tried not to shudder. Older women fascinated him, but there was a limit. He also tried to bury at the back of his mind the old adage about looking at the mother if you wanted to know how a girl would turn out…

Cowley had only stayed at Honeycote ten minutes. He didn’t even really want a coffee, but Mickey insisted and rushed round finding sugar bowls and cream jugs like a cat on hot bricks. He just wanted Mickey to know that word was out; that someone had made an offer on the brewery. Mickey looked perturbed.

‘Is it one of the big breweries? Why didn’t they approach me direct?’

Cowley looked uncomfortable.

‘It’s not another brewery. It’s a private purchaser – he wants to do a residential development.’

Mickey looked appalled.

‘What – you mean apartments or something? One of those awful gated communities?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it Tremletts?’ Tremletts had a reputation in the area for buying up unmanageably large properties and converting them into the sort of aspirational dwellings that no genuine self-respecting country person would be seen dead in. Butler’s pantries and boot rooms and libraries abounded – none of which ever saw a butler or a boot or a book.

‘It’s not Tremletts, no. It’s a private individual, and he wants to remain anonymous. In fact, I’m breaching confidentiality by telling you this much, but I thought it was important you should know.’

‘Well, you can tell him to forget it. Over my dead body.’

‘That’s my view entirely. But we can’t get away from the fact that we’ve got a lot of hard work to do if we’re going to be able to resist these hostile takeover bids.’

Mickey liked the way Cowley said ‘we’, as it implied some sort of spirit of co-operation between him and the bank, which marked a change of attitude. Cowley went on to underline the fact that the last thing he wanted was for Honeycote to go under, though he didn’t want Mickey to gain a false sense of security from this admission. The forecast was grim, but not irredeemable. Now he’d fired a warning shot across the bow, it was time for the two of them to work more closely together. Mickey eagerly mentioned a marketing plan and made to fetch it, but Cowley waved it away.

‘This is a bank holiday. Emphasis on the word bank. And my wife’s waiting for me at home. It’s more than my life’s worth to be late.’

So they made an appointment for Mickey to come in the next week, once the bank was open again. They’d go through everything with a fine-tooth comb.

After he’d gone, Mickey considered what he’d been told. Someone wanted to develop the brewery. Actually, on reflection, it wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d get a decent whack out of it, enough to cover his debts, he was sure. Perhaps he’d try to persuade Cowley to consider the offer. There was no point in trying to preserve Honeycote Ales out of sentiment – and Mickey suspected that deep down Cowley was a sentimental old fool. They could at least have a meeting with the developer, who’d have to sacrifice his anonymity –

Suddenly an icy cold trickle slid down his spine as he realized who the developer must be. The plan had Lawrence Oakley written all over it. Who else had the knowledge, the cash, the experience, the lack of conscience – not to mention the motive?

Which meant he must know about him and Kay. Mickey began to shake. This threw completely new light on the whole sorry mess. And just when he thought he was in control…

Kay slept the soundest sleep she’d had for days and woke up feeling thoroughly excited. Her entire world had been turned upside down, rugs had been pulled out, goalposts moved – yet she felt as if she was on the brink of her biggest adventure yet.

Before she got up, she lay still for a moment and concentrated. The nurse had told her that she should be able to feel the baby by now. For a while she felt nothing, and she panicked. Perhaps she’d pickled it in Crozes-Hermitage? Then suddenly she felt a flicker, a tiny little movement that could easily have been overlooked. It was followed by a barely perceptible sensation, like tiny little bubbles popping. That was it! That was her baby, shuffling around, trying to get comfy. Kay put her hands on her stomach protectively and the feeling went away. But she’d felt it, and the nurse had told her that in the next few weeks the movements would get stronger and stronger until they would be quite unmistakable.

Seeing her baby on the scan the day before had been an extraordinary moment. If anyone had told her of the happiness, the protectiveness, the utter fulfilment that would flood through her, she’d have laughed. But seeing it there on the screen in black and white had meant she could no longer deny what was happening to her. Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy. Kay was no fool. She was on the brink of a huge test, emotionally, physically and practically. Single motherhood was no ball game; everyone knew that. But at least now she had something to hold on to, something that was hers and that no one could take away, something that was going to give her hope and a focus and, with any luck, great joy.

Because it was meant to be. Her baby was meant to be. Somebody up there had made sure that she got to this point, the point of no return. And she wasn’t going to turn her back on it now. For heaven’s sake, it was all she’d got. The only reason she had to live…

For the time being, however, she was in limbo, between the upheaval of the last couple of days and the decisions she knew she was going to have to make. But Kay was determined to enjoy the peace while she thought over her next move. All she had to consider was herself and the little being inside her – which was hardly any trouble at the moment. She marvelled at how well she felt, now she was rested, and realized she was starving.

She called up room service and enjoyed a delicious breakfast – home-made muesli with fresh chunks of apple and dates and full cream, mini Danish pastries and a huge cup of hot chocolate. Somehow she couldn’t face either tea or coffee. As she set aside the tray she had to laugh at herself – she might not have put on too much weight so far, but if she continued devouring food at that rate she was going to run into serious problems. She’d eaten more calories in one meal than she usually consumed in a day – but she didn’t care.