Paradise Fields (23 page)

‘That's all right then. Can I sit down?'

Nel sat at the kitchen table and watched this large, handsome boy move about making coffee, producing plates, sifting icing sugar through a tea strainer onto the plate of pastries. He was built like a rugby player, and yet he moved about with grace and economy of movement, everything appearing under his hand the moment he wanted it. Nel was not a professional in these matters, but she felt that he would be able to cook anywhere and make it look easy.

The cinnamon whirls melted almost before they got to her mouth, and didn't linger there long, either. ‘These are fantastic!' she said. ‘Oh, I'm so glad I've given up going to Weight Watchers.'

‘Weight Watchers? Why?'

‘The normal reasons. Now, tell me what else you can cook. You won't have an oven at the market. It'll all have to be done on gas burners.'

‘Well, I've been practising pastries because they've always been my weak spot, but really, I like to use fresh ingredients, cook them quickly, and eat them without too much in the way of sauces and fancy bits. I love
doing pan-fried stuff. I plan to have my own restaurant in ten years.'

‘Wow! And would you be happy to do demonstrations for us in the farmers' market?'

‘Oh yes. Helen – whom you met? – she told me all about it. She said you probably wouldn't be able to pay me, but that I wouldn't have to pay for the ingredients either, and that it would be a good way of getting my name and face known in the area.'

‘Well, I would hope to be able to pay you. If I get enough stallholders, and they all pay their twenty quid or whatever, I should be able to take a bit of it for you. I'm not actually going to be paying myself, just to begin with. I've just had an idea!' she added suddenly. ‘Why don't we have a farmers' market at the spring fundraising jamboree for the hospice?'

‘Sorry?'

‘I must sound mad, but I've just thought we could have an inaugural farmers' market at a fundraising event I organise. It would be good for the event, and would advertise that the farmers' market should be continuing on a different site! It could be great!'

‘And you'd like me to do some cookery demonstrations? Cool!' He smiled, a wide, white smile which could sell beer to breweries, coals to Newcastle, and, if necessary, ice to Eskimos. ‘Would you like to try some pâté I've made? I could sell that at the farmers' market.'

Having sons did not make Nel susceptible to young men, or so she believed. She concentrated on sounding professional. ‘Only if you use a local source. If you want to make pâté, you should get together with someone who produces the main ingredient—'

‘Duck.'

‘—and make it with them.' Then she forgot about being downbeat and businesslike. ‘I know a duck person! I'll give you the address. I think they also keep rare breeds of some sort. Can't remember what. I must contact them about the market. I'd forgotten I knew about them until you reminded me. You should definitely get in touch.'

Nel was reluctant to leave the haven of Ben's kitchen and his boyish exuberance, but as staying would require more eating and she already felt slightly sick, this didn't seem a good idea. She found her way down narrow, winding lanes to the hurdle maker.

‘Most farmers' markets only do food,' she told him, after she'd seen what he could create with willow. ‘But I'm working on the council to let me have good quality crafts – pottery, blacksmithing, that sort of stuff. I think they'd go well alongside food products, and if they're produced locally, why not?'

‘Well, thank you.' The man was in his thirties, bearded and wearing a boiler suit. Several young children clustered round him and, in the kitchen, his wife was making tea. ‘It'd be good to have a regular outlet. I spend most of my time laying hedges, but you've got to have something to do when the weather's bad. Come in and get warm.'

They were a nice family. The kitchen was snug and not too tidy, and Nel felt at home there. ‘I expect you know the market is having to move from Paradise Fields,' she said eventually. ‘I know you're a bit far away for it to affect you directly, but it's a terrible shame. It's very rare and precious meadowland. It's also where the children's hospice does its major fundraising.'

Ewan looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I'm sorry about
that, but people do need houses. Who's the builder?'

‘Well, at the moment it's someone called Gideon Something.' She sighed. ‘A dear old chap on our committee – Isaac or Abraham, something biblical – said he might be able to build something better, but quite honestly—'

‘Abraham? I know him! I used to work for him. He's a good bloke. Good builder, too.'

‘But he must be getting on a bit.'

‘He took early retirement. Made a pile before he did, mind. Is he interested in this bit of land? That's good. He builds nice houses.'

This was a bit unexpected. Ewan was green from his boots to his woolly hat with ear-flaps; Nel would have sworn he'd have been against building even a bus shelter if it was on a bit of grass, let alone an executive housing estate on rare meadowland.

‘We do take the children there sometimes in the summer,' said his wife. ‘They play on the rope swing. It would be a shame to see the meadows built on.'

Ewan shook his head. ‘No. People have got to live somewhere. Are there any starter homes planned? You can't object to that. But Gideon Freebody's a thoroughly bad bloke.'

‘You seem to know a lot about it. How come?'

‘I was a brickie by trade until I settled down here. We saved up and bought this bit of land with trees on it, and now I work on the land, mostly. But Gideon Freebody should be locked up. His houses fall down before the paint's dry.'

‘Oh.'

‘He made a lot of money from buying up old people's homes, letting them fall into disrepair and then
knocking them down and building expensive houses on the sites. He had a dodgy solicitor who helped him get away with it.'

Nel felt as if someone had punched her directly on her heart. She didn't dare ask the name of the dodgy solicitor in case she recognised it. She might be able to dismiss Catherine's gossip as gossip, just, but to hear it from two different sources made it harder.

Ewan drained his tea mug. ‘You should go and see Abraham, see what his plans are.'

‘Do you know where he lives?'

‘Not far from here. I'll give him a ring if you like. See if he's home. He works from there, so he might be.'

Nel was not at all sure that she wanted to visit Abraham the builder. She knew nothing about builders, and wouldn't know what to say. She put out a hand to stop Ewan, but he had already picked up the telephone. Ewan, for all his gentleness and love of nature, was clearly very determined that people should do what he felt to be the right thing, even if they had other ideas.

Nel listened to him making arrangements, telling his mate that this woman would be on her way. She couldn't get out of it now. Once he was off the phone, he turned to her in great excitement. ‘This is an amazing coincidence. He's been trying to get hold of you. He needs to talk to you asap – can you go round now?'

Nel sighed. ‘OK. Can I use your loo?'

Abraham lived in a large new house that had more charm and elegance than she was expecting. There were no inappropriate diamond panes, knicker blinds or sentimental children supporting birdbaths in the
garden, nor did the doorbell play the first few bars of the William Tell Overture when she rang it. Waiting on the doorstep, Nel chastised herself for prejudice; even builders who've made a packet building houses she wouldn't personally care to live in could have good taste in their personal lives.

Abraham seemed pleased to see her, and even given her bad record for hating people, Nel found herself succumbing to his old-fashioned manners worryingly easily.

‘Come in, my dear. My wife's at the hairdresser's, but she'll be back shortly and will make us a cup of coffee. I realise you don't want those meadows built on at all, but I think if you see what I've got in mind, it'll soften the blow a little.'

It was hard not to be soothed by his fatherly kindness. Nel followed him into the dining room, on the table of which were spread the plans.

Nel had seen them before, when she'd inspected them in the council offices at the planning meeting before Christmas, but she was glad of an opportunity to see them in more peaceful surroundings. They were also on a larger scale. She peered at them. They didn't seem to be the same plans.

‘You see it's all very ambitious,' said Abraham.

‘Very expensive, of course.' Nel was confused, still trying to fit what she was looking at now, with what she had seen before. The larger scale would make a difference, of course. But still . . .

‘Hang on, Abraham, I'm sorry to be stupid, but how are all those houses going to fit onto Paradise Fields?'

‘By pulling down the hospice and building on that land as well.'

She felt all the blood drain away from her head, for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

‘That's why I tried to contact you. I realised you didn't have a clue as to the extent Gideon Freebody was planning to build.'

She sat down on a chair which was pulled out a little way. ‘But why didn't anyone know about this?'

Abraham shrugged. ‘Because they didn't want you to know.'

‘Who? Gideon Freebody?'

Abraham shook his head. He seemed to have information she needed, but was clearly reluctant to give it to her for some reason.

‘You mean someone at the hospice?' She felt hot all over. ‘Chris Mowbray?'

The old man nodded. ‘Reckon so. You look a bit pale, love. Do you want a drink of water?'

Nel nodded, wanting not so much the water, as the time on her own to gather her thoughts.

They were still un-gathered when he came back with the glass.

‘You think he's planning to sell the hospice for building land?' she asked, when she had taken a sip.

Abraham nodded.

‘That would explain how they could get all those houses onto the space, but where's the access?'

‘Here,' Abraham pointed.

‘So why's that in a different colour? Sorry to ask such stupid questions.'

‘It's not a stupid question. It's a very sensible question. It's in a different colour because the Hunstantons don't own it. At least not any more.'

‘Then who does?'

‘It's not exactly clear. You see it's not outlined in the same colour as whoever owns this land here.'

Nel peered more closely, and pulled the plan at a different angle. ‘That's the hospice!'

‘Reckon it is. Was it the dower house for Hunstanton Manor?'

‘Mm. Sir Gerald gave it to them years and years ago. It's why we thought the hospice owned the meadowland.'

‘I dare say he didn't feel he could give too much of his son's inheritance away. But that little strip of land, a ransom strip, you might call it, could be very useful to the hospice.'

‘How? It's not very big.'

‘Well, without that, Gideon Freebody's revised, bigger plans would never get planning permission. There isn't sufficient access without that land.'

‘And you think it might belong to the hospice.'

‘Aye.'

‘But why?'

‘Something a little bird told me. I'll not say who, I'll just say I think you should check it out. Before someone else does. Whoever owns that land has a lot of power in all these shenanigans. Without that strip, there'd be no point in pulling down the hospice building.'

Hope flickered briefly. ‘We couldn't stop the building altogether?'

Abraham laughed. ‘Nay lass, you'll not do that. The Hunstantons are set on building, and they've already got planning permission for Paradise Fields. But you'll stop Gideon Freebody in his tracks, though.'

Nel's head was whirling. She couldn't believe that people, Chris Mowbray in particular, could be so
devious. Could she trust anyone? ‘What about you? What about your plans? You don't have to do anything dreadful for your scheme, do you?'

Abraham chuckled. He was remarkably calm, useful when Nel felt on the verge of hysteria. ‘No! My scheme's much smaller, and the feeder road on the other side will be more than adequate.

‘I've always liked to produce quality. It pays in the end. Ah, that's my wife home. Fancy a cup of tea or coffee and a piece of home-made shortbread?'

Nel didn't, really, she wanted to go away and think about the implications of everything she had learned. Supposing the hospice wasn't listed and so could be pulled down quite easily? Supposing it did become too expensive for them to maintain? Could they depend on Abraham doing the maintenance for ever? Could they sell a dilapidated building for enough money to have something new and purpose built? Or, if they just sold the ransom strip, might that raise enough money to keep the hospice going for a little while – but for how long? Every way she looked at it the situation was hideously complicated.

But Mrs Abraham, whose name was Doris, produced tea and shortbread, and Nel couldn't refuse it. Doris was as motherly as her husband was fatherly, and it was soothing to be in their gentle company.

‘Tell me about this hospice,' said Doris, as if sensing Nel was in a state, and needed to be calmed. And her sensible, kindly voice did indeed steady Nel. ‘Abraham's hopeless about telling me what's going on. I hear you do wonderful work.'

It was good to be made to answer, equally sensibly, when she really wanted to throw herself onto the carpet
and howl. ‘Oh, we do. I just hope we can go on doing wonderful work.'

‘What might stop you?'

Passionately Nel described the work that went on, the difficulties with the fields (suitably censored, for the sake of good manners) and the problems with the building itself. She had to be given another cup of tea halfway through to sustain her.