Carlton’s development. Someone she presumed was the
cleaner answered the phone, said Mrs David was out ‘at the
physio’s with Megan, but she’ll be back any minute. Do
you want to leave a message?’
Octavia remembered Mrs David now from the AGM, a
tall, slim, exhausted-looking woman, pretty in a faded
blonde way, whose ten-year-old child was in a wheelchair.
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Octavia. ‘I’ll call back.’
‘Not even a name?’
‘Oh, well, could you say Octavia Fleming—’
Octavia could hear a washing machine spinning, a dog
barking, and then the front door opening, and a voice
calling for Mrs Jackson.
‘Just coming, Mrs David. There’s a lady on the phone for
you.’
‘Well, I can’t talk to her now, I have to get the shopping
in. It’s piled on top of poor Megan. And it’s just starting to
rain. Tell her — oh, look, you go and start on the shopping,
would you, Mrs Jackson? I’ll deal with the call. Yes, hallo,
Patricia David speaking.’
Not the best moment, thought Octavia, very inauspicious.
‘Mrs
David, I’m sorry, bad moment, I can tell. I’ll call
[tack. It’s Octavia Fleming here from Capital C, the
Consultancy, you know, that helps with Foothold.’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. No, that’s quite all right,
anything for that charity, it’s done such wonders for us.’
‘I’m glad. How is your little girl?’
‘Not too bad. She’s just been for her physiotherapy in the
local pool. She loves that, but of course it’s not very often
we can get a booking, it’s very overloaded with people.’ That’s promising, thought Octavia; maybe a new, custom-built one…
‘It won’t be terribly quick, I’m afraid. I wanted to see
what you thought about the new development proposed
down your way, near Bartles Wood.’
‘Oh, we’re all marshalling ourselves for that one. Hoping
Swampy will be down to help us. Seriously, it’s an appalling
prospect. How much have you heard about it?’
‘Not much,’ said Octavia.
‘Well, what the developers have bought is Bartles House,
a rather odd old place, currently being used as a nursing
home. That and the grounds. They’re going to rack and
ruin - a tragedy in itself— and Bartles Wood sits just on the
edge of the grounds, near the lane. There’s a right of way
cutting through it, fenced off from the rest of the land, but
it does still belong to the same people. It’s always been
regarded as public property and there’s a lot of wildlife
there, dragonflies and so on, and wonderful water plants.
Children have collected tadpoles there for generations: it
really is a tragedy.’
‘Is the house coming down?’
‘Oh, yes, but that’s no great loss.’
‘And the old people, what about them?’
‘They’re being rehoused in some modern place the other
side of the town apparently. I expect the developers are one
and the same.’
‘Maybe…’
‘Anyway, how did you hear about that? Nothing to do
with you, I hope.’
‘Okay,’ said Cadogan turning back to him. ‘You’re on.
Now, what sort of fee are we talking here?’
Tom took a deep breath. ‘Twenty grand a month,’ he
said.
There was a silence, for at least five seconds. ‘That your
standard fee?’
‘Yup. For a case like this.’
‘It’s extortionate.’
‘It’s realistic’
Another silence. Then, ‘Okay, I pride myself on being
realistic. But you’d better deliver.’
Tom experienced the adrenalin rush very physically.
She couldn’t put it off any longer, Octavia thought: she
must phone the chair of the Felthamstone branch of
Foothold, see what reaction, if any, she got to Michael
Carlton’s development. Someone she presumed was the
cleaner answered the phone, said Mrs David was out ‘at the
physio’s with Megan, but she’ll be back any minute. Do
you want to leave a message?’
Octavia remembered Mrs David now from the AGM, a
tall, slim, exhausted-looking woman, pretty in a faded
blonde way, whose ten-year-old child was in a wheelchair.
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Octavia. ‘I’ll call back.’
‘Not even a name?’
‘Oh, well, could you say Octavia Fleming—’
Octavia could hear a washing machine spinning, a dog
barking, and then the front door opening, and a voice
calling for Mrs Jackson.
‘Just coming, Mrs David. There’s a lady on the phone for
you.’
‘Well, I can’t talk to her now, I have to get the shopping
in. It’s piled on top of poor Megan. And it’s just starting to
rain. Tell her - oh, look, you go and start on the shopping,
would you, Mrs Jackson? I’ll deal with the call. Yes, hallo,
Patricia David speaking.’
Not the best moment, thought Octavia, very inauspicious.
‘Mrs
David, I’m sorry, bad moment, I can tell. I’ll call
back. It’s Octavia Fleming here from Capital C, the
consultancy, you know, that helps with Foothold.’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. No, that’s quite all right,
anything for that charity, it’s done such wonders for us.’
‘I’m glad. How is your little girl?’
‘Not too bad. She’s just been for her physiotherapy in the
local pool. She loves that, but of course it’s not very often
we can get a booking, it’s very overloaded with people.’
That’s promising, thought Octavia; maybe a new,
custom-built one …
‘It won’t be terribly quick, I’m afraid. I wanted to see
what you thought about the new development proposed
down your way, near Battles Wood.’
‘Oh, we’re all marshalling ourselves for that one. Hoping
Swampy will be down to help us. Seriously, it’s an appalling
prospect. How much have you heard about it?’
‘Not much,’ said Octavia.
‘Well, what the developers have bought is Bartles House,
a rather odd old place, currently being used as a nursing
home. That and the grounds. They’re going to rack and
ruin - a tragedy in itself-and Bartles Wood sits just on the
edge of the grounds, near the lane. There’s a right of way
cutting through it, fenced off from the rest of the land, but
it does still belong to the same people. It’s always been
regarded as public property and there’s a lot of wildlife
there, dragonflies and so on, and wonderful water plants.
Children have collected tadpoles there for generations: it
really is a tragedy.’
‘Is the house coming down?’
‘Oh, yes, but that’s no great loss.’
‘And the old people, what about them?’
‘They’re being rehoused in some modem place the other
side of the town apparently. I expect the developers are one
and the same.’
‘Maybe
‘Anyway, how did you hear about that? Nothing to do
with you, I hope.’
‘Not directly, but I did hear that the developer might be
going to open a community centre. With facilities for the
disabled. I wondered if you were aware of that, whether
Foothold might welcome it.’
A snort came down the line. ‘Bribery. Nothing more. I
tell you what’ll happen, Mrs Fleming; the house will come
down, the wood will be torn up, the houses and shopping
mall will be built, and somehow, mysteriously, the community
centre won’t materialise. It’s always the way.
Something similar happened near my mother. It’s an
absolute outrage, all this development, and I have every
intention of lying down under that bulldozer when it
arrives.’
‘Yes, I see. Right. Well, I can see I’m wasting my breath
and your time.’ Octavia managed to laugh. ‘I’m sorry. Go
and get your little girl in, please. It was only an enquiry. I
just heard, as I say, that this was on the cards, and I thought
you might welcome it.’
‘Sorry, Octavia - you don’t mind if I call you Octavia,
do you? And do call me Pattie - but welcome is the last
thing I’d give it. We’ve a very big protest committee being
drawn up, and a great deal of support. Including, hopefully,
our new MP, a very nice young man, although he is Labour. But he told me privately, at one of the meetings, that he would be very sad to see Bartles Wood go.
Although he was playing devil’s advocate, saying there was
a need for more housing round here. Anyway, if you want
to discuss this further, just phone. Any time. Perhaps you
could help us with publicity …’
‘It’s rather unlikely, I’m afraid, since it’s nothing to do
with Foothold, but we’ll certainly keep in close touch about
it,’ said Octavia carefully, and put the phone down.
‘Oh, God,’ said Tom.
‘What’s the matter?’ His secretary, Barbara Dawson, had
just brought the morning’s mail and the papers.
‘Look at this.’ He pushed the Daily Mail at her: there was
a photograph of a group of women with small children in pushchairs on page three, holding banners which read, ‘Save our countryside’ and ‘Save Bartles Wood’. It was
captioned ‘England’s New Army’.
The women of Felthamstone are drawing up contingents
and preparing to fight a long hard battle to save
their local beauty spot, Bartles Wood. It is under
threat from a developer, who plans to build a large
complex of houses, shops and a multi-storey car park.
‘The whole of our country will be under concrete
soon,’ said one of the young mothers who have
spearheaded the campaign. ‘We have to save what is
left for our children and grandchildren. We owe it to
them.’
‘If the men won’t help, we’ll fight them alone,’ said
another woman, whose daughter is in a wheelchair
suffering from juvenile arthritis. .‘We’ll lie down
under the bulldozers if we have to.’
The property developer in question, Michael
Carlton of Carlton Homes, was not available for
comment.
‘Oh dear,’ said Barbara.
‘I thought you said we could keep this out of the nationals,
Tom.’ Carlton’s voice was raw with irritation. ‘What went
wrong?’
Tom sighed. ‘I didn’t say I could keep it out. I said the
best thing was to play it down. Usually it is. Look, I really
don’t think the rest of the press are going to pick up on it.’
‘Is that right? Well, perhaps you could tell that to the
chap at the Express. He’s been on to me.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Tom. ‘Leave it to me, I’ll talk to him.’
‘I keep leaving it with you. Fat lot of good it seems to be
doing me. All right, see if you can sort this one out. I’ll
hang on a bit longer. And let me know what the Express say. I’m available for comment any time.’
‘Sure.’ Tom put the phone down, noticing with
irritation that his hand was slightly shaky. Get a grip, Fleming. This is serious stuff.
‘Octavia? This is Michael Carlton.’
‘Oh, hallo.’ Octavia tried to sound welcoming.
‘I expect you’ve seen the paper.’
‘The story about the protest? Yes, I have.’
‘Monstrous regiment of women. Now, I rang to see if
you’d been able to sound out your contacts down there.
Put in a good word for us, tell them about the community
centre, the facilities for the—’
‘Michael, I’m afraid they’re naturally very against the
development. Well, not the development, as such, of
course, but the destruction of Bartles Wood.’
‘Rather an emotive word, Octavia, that. I don’t think
Tom would like you to go round using it.’
Her hackles rose; how dare he imply that Tom had any
control over what she said?
‘I don’t know how else you’d describe it, Michael.
You’re going to cut down the trees, aren’t you? Bulldoze
the site? Some people would call that destruction. Whatever
the pros and cons of the development, of course.’
There was a silence; then he said, ‘So you won’t help?’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘I see. Oh, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, at Ascot. We can
perhaps talk about it more then.’
Octavia hesitated. ‘Michael, look — if you feel differently
about that now, if you’d rather pull out of the sponsorship
…’
Go on, Michael Carlton, say you would. It would make
life so much simpler and cleaner.
‘Oh, no, Octavia.’ He sounded quite amused. ‘No, I do
want to work with your company very much. And with
you. I think all this mutual involvement is extremely beneficial.
See you tomorrow.’
Bastard! He was very clever. He knew he’d got her over
a barrel. It was quite a small barrel at the moment, but it
could get bigger.
Octavia wondered if she should mention any of this to
Melanie, and decided not. The whole thing would die
down of its own accord. She probably should have
mentioned the possible Foothold connection, but … for
God’s sake, everything was connected with everything else,
if you looked far enough. And Melanie was in a filthy
mood this morning.
‘Darling, we’re going to have to work very hard on
Michael Carlton tomorrow. At Ascot. He’s raging about
that piece in the Mail. I don’t give a fuck about the
countryside, or whether Bartles Wood gets blown up or
bulldozed down. All I care about is keeping Carlton sweet.
I’m relying on you.’
‘Tom, I told you, the meeting’s been fixed. For Friday.’