Widows & Orphans (34 page)

Archana was followed by Geoffrey himself, reading from a prepared statement. He spoke so haltingly that Duncan wondered whether the shock of Craig’s imprisonment had triggered a recurrence of his angina, before realising that it was a skilful ploy to avoid sounding overconfident. He began by professing his gratitude, first to the planning officer for presenting the application so cogently, then to the committee for adjudicating on such a vexed issue, knowing that whichever way they voted (‘rightly or wrongly,’ he said with a roguish smile), they would alienate some of their constituents, and finally to the public for its enthusiastic response to the consultation process. ‘We received over a hundred comments on the plans. After examining them closely, we chose to make several modifications to the original designs, as you can see from the model in front of you.’

Oblivious to the differences, Duncan wished that he had paid more attention to the display in the library.

‘The development is ecologically sustainable and carbon neutral. As you’ve just heard it meets the highest environmental standards. It will create hundreds of jobs both during construction and once it’s operational. I stand accused here tonight – and not for the first time – of selling Francombe down the river (or should that be into the Channel?), sacrificing its identity, its prosperity, even its moral fibre to satisfy my own greed. There’s only one word I can say to that and I’m sorry if it offends any of you but I speak as I find: Balls! I’ll say it again: Balls!’ Councillor Blackstone looked to her right as if for a legal ruling, but none was forthcoming. ‘I love this town. I’ve lived here all my life. I hope to die here – although not for a good while yet! I’ve made my commitment to it clear by funding many community initiatives in the past and I can assure you that my support will continue.’ He put down his notes. ‘This is a planning committee, not a moral rearmament meeting, but I have to address, if only briefly, the concerns raised by one of the speakers, the editor – or rather former editor – of the
Mercury
. He charges me with destroying the family-friendly atmosphere of the town. So where is it? When I walk along the Front or Jubilee Precinct, I see pensioners; I see drunks and druggies; I see scroungers; I see groups of bored teenagers. But the only families I see – the only mums and dads with their two point two children (though, in this case, it’s seven or eight) – are immigrants and asylum seekers.’ Duncan looked up at the gallery where there was not a single non-white face in evidence. ‘Is this the Francombe Mr Neville is so keen to preserve? I say to him and to all the other opponents of our plans: “Get real! We may look out on to the sand but that’s no reason to stick our heads in it.”

‘Far from undermining families, this development will strengthen them. The work it provides will keep young people – the mothers and fathers of tomorrow – in Francombe. The
cash it generates will filter through the community. And as for the danger that our … what was it?’ – he made a play of looking through his notes – ‘“illicit amusements” constitute to children: well, Mr Neville, Dr Kingswood and their friends may not have explored the darker reaches of the Internet, but take it from me, any ten-year-old with a laptop can – and does – access far more hardcore material in his bedroom than anything we propose to allow.’

‘Thirty seconds left, Mr Weedon,’ the Chair interposed.

‘Granting this application will do far more than simply rescue a much loved local landmark (although of course it’ll do that too); it will be the springboard for a groundbreaking leisure concept that will put Francombe back on the holiday map. Tonight you have a unique opportunity to approve a project that will be instrumental – some would say vital – to the survival of the town. I urge you to take it.’

Geoffrey’s exhortation was greeted by an unexpected and, to Duncan’s mind, encouraging silence. The Chair then turned to her right and invited any of the committee who wished to speak to do so. ‘Traditionally, councillors don’t have a time limit on their contributions,’ she said, ‘but in this case I’d ask you to be as succinct as possible and to restrict your comments to planning issues.’ This sparked a protracted debate among members as to whether all of them or only ward councillors had the right to take part, which was finally resolved by the legal adviser’s ruling that everyone had the right but ward councillors the priority.

Duncan was both angered and depressed by the time wasted on procedural issues, which said more about the committee’s self-importance than its civic concern. He was equally frustrated by the inconsequential questions that the members put to the planning officer. One asked whether, since the sex museum was to be built on the site of the Winter Garden, it should be made of glass (‘opaque, of course,’ he added, laughing at his own witticism). Another wanted to know why a
bus stop opposite the pier, for which she had led a ten-year campaign, was not included in the artist’s impression. A third queried the appropriateness of the eighteen-foot reliefs of mermaids on the entrance pavilions, only to be told by the increasingly tetchy planning officer that, since the pier was not in a conservation area, the decoration did not fall within his remit. Finally, Jim Dawson, a three-times Mayor, stood up with his hands clasped across what would once have been called his corporation and which remained a fitting term for a man reputed to have the Council in his pocket. ‘I’ve listened to both sides,’ he said in his elder statesman’s voice now choked by emphysema, ‘and find myself more persuaded by the developer. It’s clearly a contentious scheme and one not without risks, but in my view they’re far outweighed by the benefits. I therefore intend to support it.’

As if Dawson’s intervention had been her cue, the Chair proposed that the matter should be put to a vote. After the extensive preliminaries, this was remarkably quick: a show of hands with ten in favour, one abstention (the bus shelter champion), and one against (the man who had cavilled at the mermaids and who remained visibly piqued by the planning officer’s putdown). A chorus of boos, peppered with cries of ‘Fix’ and ‘Sell-Out’, rang out from the gallery and Glynis Kingswood sank her head in her hands. Duncan, however, felt strangely detached. Defeat was now such a part of his life that he was inured to it. He watched while Geoffrey shook hands with the architect and planning officer before crossing to talk to some of the councillors. The Chair struggled to maintain order as she wound up proceedings, but people were already starting to slip away.

‘I’ll have twelve hundred words on your desk first thing tomorrow morning, boss,’ Ken said to Duncan as he passed him on the way to the door.

‘I’ll look forward to them.’ Ken looked at him quizzically. ‘You know what I mean. I think it warrants a final one-word headline. “Shame!”’

As Ken left, Duncan turned back to Glynis.

‘Well, nobody can say we didn’t give it our best shot.’

‘There’s always the High Court. We can apply for a judicial review.’

‘True,’ Duncan replied without conviction. Whatever the flaws in the committee’s decision, Geoffrey was far too shrewd an operator to have bungled the application process.

‘So Weedon’s won?’ Glynis said, catching his drift.

‘The Weedons of this world always do. The Francombe we held dear is dead and buried. The tunnel of love has been boarded up and replaced by a massage parlour.’

He broke off as Geoffrey Weedon walked up to him, holding out his hand. ‘No hard feelings?’

‘Excuse me,’ Glynis said, heading for the door.

‘Is it something my best friends don’t tell me?’ Geoffrey asked, dropping the hand unshaken.

‘Oh, I’m sure they would,’ Duncan replied. ‘You look pleased with yourself.’

‘It takes forty-three muscles to frown and only seventeen to smile, or so I’m reliably informed.’

‘How many does it take to smirk?’

‘You should know by now that that’s not my style.’

‘I’ll leave you to enjoy your victory. I don’t see any sign of Derek.’

‘He and Linda had some meeting to do with Rose. Frankly it’s no great loss.’

‘Or Frances,’ Duncan added, refusing to become enmeshed in Weedon politics.

‘She’s a little down after all the business with Craig,’ Geoffrey said, lowering his voice accordingly. ‘She and Derek went to visit him in Ashfield on Saturday.’

‘How’s he coping?’

‘Not too well. Apparently he’s had a Union Jack tattooed on his wrist.’

‘No doubt you’re another one who blames me for what happened.’

‘On the contrary, I think it was the best thing for all concerned, especially Craig. He was out of control. Ashfield will knock him into shape. He’ll be taught discipline and respect.’

‘But Frances doesn’t see it that way?’

‘She’s more worried about his GCSEs. As you know, I don’t set much store by academic qualifications.’

‘No, as you never cease to remind us, your own alma mater was the University of Life, or was it the School of Hard Knocks?’

‘I always enjoy our skirmishes, Duncan. And not just because I usually come out on top. You’re the one person in this town who’s a worthy opponent.’

‘Am I supposed to feel flattered?’

‘Ever since we were at St Columba’s. Do you remember when you won the form prize and I won one for industry?’

‘That was forty-odd years ago!’

‘You’ll never know how much it rankled. I thought it was because of my dad’s car repair shop. Your dad owned Mercury House and mine was just a mechanic. Industry, see?’

‘You know perfectly well it means application … hard work.’

‘It’s still sweat, if only on the forehead.’

‘I wouldn’t complain. Look at you today. Industry pays.’

‘What will you do now you’ve sold the paper?’

‘I didn’t know you cared!’

‘There may be an opening at Weedon’s. We’ll certainly need some PR work for the pier. I’ve always admired your way with words.’

‘Is this what you mean by not smirking?’

‘I’m serious. Never at a loss for a pithy epithet, present company excepted. Have you totted up how often the
Mercury
’s described me as “controversial”? Derek says it’s a euphemism for shady, but I tell him my old pal Duncan would never resort to such underhand tricks.’

‘Thank you. To answer your question, I won’t be looking
for anything else for a while. I need some time to reflect: cultivate my garden.’

‘I didn’t know you had green fingers.’

‘It’s a metaphor.’

‘From Voltaire, yes, I know. Don’t look so astonished. I told you you were a worthy opponent. If only you’d realised the same was true of me.’

With a smile that stretched his seventeen muscles to the full, Geoffrey rejoined his architect and agent, leaving Duncan to commiserate with his allies. He finally escaped and drove back to Mercury House where, surprised to see the lights on in his flat, he assumed that Neil must have stayed late, until he heard a familiar drone from the stairs.

‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ he said to Mary who was vacuuming the sitting room carpet, a pointless exercise given the boxes stacked against the wall, ready for the removal men on Friday.

‘I’ll be out of your way in two ticks.’

‘There’s no rush.’

‘Only they kept me late at the Metropole and I knew you were at the Town Hall, so I thought I’d do downstairs first.’

‘That’s fine. It’s good to see you. I need a drink. Can I tempt you with anything? Whisky? Brandy? I may still have some sherry.’

‘No, I mustn’t.’

‘How about if I open a bottle of wine?’

‘Well, if you twist my arm. Only a small one mind.’ Duncan went into the kitchen, bringing back a bottle of office Shiraz. Dearly hoping that it now belonged to Newscom, he unscrewed the top and poured them both a glass.

‘To tell the truth I’m glad of your company.’

‘Did the pier thingamajig go through?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘It’s wicked. After all your hard work.’

‘If only it were just the work. Sit down a minute and enjoy the wine.’

‘I can drink and clean at the same time. It’s what Janine calls multitasking. Not that she’d know!’ As if to demonstrate her dexterity, she clasped her glass in her left hand while vigorously dusting the television stand with her right.

‘Was Neil here when you arrived?’ Duncan asked.

‘No, but he left his mark.’

‘The lavatory?’

‘I’ve got two sons so I know accidents happen, but with him it seems to be every time.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with it. Neil has problems.’

‘It can’t be easy for his mum.’

‘It’s not.’

Duncan was reluctant to admit that he had yet to mention Neil’s bathroom mishaps to Ellen. Over the past few weeks Neil had noticeably warmed towards him, seeking his help in the final stages of his history project and using his flat as a bolt-hole after school. Even the unfortunate choice of
David Copperfield
as his English set book had cast only a faint shadow over their rapprochement. Duncan was anxious not to threaten it by betraying him to his mother, who would either know about the problem already and be mortified that it had come to Duncan’s attention or else wonder why a boy who was so clean in his habits at home should be so messy at Mercury House.

‘And you?’ Duncan, asked, eager to change the subject. ‘Things can’t have been easy since Norman’s release.’

‘They haven’t,’ Mary said, putting down her duster. ‘We’re squashed in together like a tin of sardines. Honest, I sometimes feel like the old woman who lived in the shoe – you know, in the nursery rhyme? The two boys are at each other’s throats. Norman won’t take Nick’s depression seriously. He says it’s all in the mind. Still, it’s not all bad news. Now he’s back, we don’t have enough beds. So he has to bunk with his dad while I squeeze in with the girls.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Oh yes,’ she replied, her eyes glistening.

‘Let’s be devils,’ Duncan said, refilling their glasses.

‘I’ve been to see Jordan in Feltham,’ Mary said tentatively.

‘Really? He must be coming home soon.’

‘No, he was due out in March when he’s done three months. But he’s been in some trouble – he wouldn’t say what but his face was a mass of bruises – so they’re making him serve his full term.’