Face the Wind and Fly (9 page)

‘Shorts maketh the man.’

‘That’s not what you said to me,’ Mike grumbled from behind the barbecue.

Charlotte always flirted with Andrew, she’d done it for years. ‘Fetch Andy a drink, Mike, why don’t you?

As they all settled with drinks, Kate said, ‘You know Summerfield Primary? They’ve discovered that that bit of land next to the building actually belongs to the school.’

‘Really? What are they going to do with it?’

Kate closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the evening sun on her face. ‘The head teacher wondered if I could suggest anything. Anyone got any ideas?’

Andrew said, ‘A new school library.’

‘It’s all computers these days,’ Charlotte teased him. ‘By the time those kids grow up, no-one will be reading your books, Andy. Not as books, anyway.’

Andrew grunted. Although he wrote on a computer, his knowledge of how to use them was basic. He had an almost pathological dislike of modern technology, particularly e-books.

Mike suggested, ‘A music room? School hall? Gym? Some of those kids look as though they could do with some exercise.’

‘Look who’s talking,’ Charlotte said. ‘What about a community space?’

‘That’s it!’ Kate exclaimed.

‘What’s it?’

‘A community space. Something everyone can get involved in. But not a building. A garden.’

‘A garden? It would get trashed.’

Kate shook her head. ‘Not if the whole community was involved in creating it. There’d be pride of ownership. Bet you.’

Mike was doubtful. ‘Good in theory, Kate.’

‘A garden’s something everyone can get involved in. The kids themselves, of course, but you could get the Summerfield residents engaged too – not just clearing the land, but planning what to do with it as well. And you wouldn’t need planning permission.’

‘I suppose it could be used as a teaching tool,’ Andrew said, his old training emerging. ‘They could learn about plants and the environment, maybe have a pond, and frogs and fish.’

‘You could have a maze,’ Charlotte contributed. ‘A summerhouse. A pergola. Use it for projects, like art and creative writing. Growing food and herbs.’

‘Hang on, Kate,’ Mike said. ‘Put the brakes on. I hate to be a spoilsport, but surely this would all cost money, however willing people might be.’

Kate said, ‘Yes – and I know where I could get my hands on some.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘Won the lottery, have you?’

‘The Summerfield Wind Farm Community Benefit Fund.’

‘The what?’

‘It’s not just the farmers who get rent from the land when we build a wind farm, AeGen always gives money back to the local communities the site might affect – in this case, Summerfield, primarily. The school would have to apply for it, of course, but I’m sure it would get funding. A scheme like this would be just the kind of thing they’d kill to put money into, something that benefits children and locals alike.’

Mike stood up. ‘Food for thought. And talking of food, time to eat.’

As the sun finally dipped behind the trees at the far end of Charlotte’s garden, Kate felt more content than she had for weeks. All projects have their challenges and Summerfield, perhaps, would have more than most, but good things would come out of it too. And she had her family, and her friends. What was there to complain about?

Chapter Ten

Frank Griffiths’ living room was packed – which wasn’t difficult, because it was quite small. Nevertheless, there were – Ibsen did a swift head count – eighteen people crammed into the space. Five on the sofa (three on the seat and one on each well-padded arm), three on each of the matching chairs (one on the seat and one on each arm), one on a footstool, one on a piano stool and five standing.

There wasn’t a single face he recognised, except Frank himself.

‘Good evening, everyone,’ Frank boomed above the hubbub.

A hush fell.

‘It’s great that you’ve all turned out tonight. Thank you. It shows, I think, how strongly we all feel about this.’

There was a mutter of approval and nods all round. A wiry-looking woman with a frizz of grey hair and a hard mouth, called, ‘Right on.’

Ibsen shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Feel free to bring Wellington,’ Frank had said when he’d invited him to the meeting, but he was glad now that he’d left the dog with Tam. Wellington liked space.

‘Right, first of all, I have to make it clear that I’m not acting tonight as Chair of the Community Council. The Council has not yet defined its official position but you all know I’m personally opposed. Clear?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Sure.’

‘Good. So let’s assess where we’re at. AeGen have put in a planning application for a Met mast on Summerfield Law. We’ve been told they’re planning to build twelve wind turbines on top of this wild beauty spot. My first question is, what do people think? Are you for or against?’

There wasn’t a single person here from Summerfield, Ibsen noted. Perhaps later, when they understood the impact more fully, the council estate would rally – or perhaps, like Mary Tolen at the meeting, they’d be seduced by AeGen’s promise of hard cash.

But money could never make up for the ugliness of the turbines.

‘Outrageous—’

‘Spoil everything—’

‘We don’t want turbines here—’

‘It’d never be the same again—’

This crowd, at least, was firmly opposed to the plans. Ibsen scanned their faces. Well-heeled, middle class to a man and woman, people his father would call ‘Nimbys’ – the Not In My Back Yard brigade.
Is that what I am?
But his objections weren’t because the wind farm was near him, they were about protecting an area of outstanding natural beauty.

Ibsen shivered, though the room was warm to the point of stifling. One day, five years ago, he’d climbed Summerfield Law with Lynn and her family, with his own parents, and with Cassie and Ian. The small lead canister in his arms weighed as heavy as the world and his legs had dragged unwillingly to a place he normally loved. It would have been fitting if the weather had been stormy, or icy, but there’d been no synchronicity – it had been a flawless day.

They scattered Violet’s ashes on the heather with a poem and a prayer. He’d put his arm round Lynn as they watched a playful breeze waft all that was left of their baby up to the heavens.

And now they wanted to plant a crop of turbines there, dig vast holes in the earth and pour in concrete, desecrate the loveliness of place with ugly machines.

‘Our task is to do all we possibly can to prevent them. Agreed?’

Ibsen tried to concentrate. The people at this meeting, at least, were behind Frank Griffiths.

‘What do we have to do, Frank?’ someone said above the chatter.

‘Okay, let’s talk about that. I suppose the first thing is to campaign against the planning application for the mast. If that gets turned down, end of story.’

‘What’s the importance of the mast?’

‘They need to test the suitability of the site, weather-wise.’

‘So it mightn’t be suitable at all?’

‘It’s a formality in the case of Summerfield Law, I fear.’

‘If they get planning permission for the mast, is there anything we can do? Like interfere with the readings, for example?’ This from the hippy woman.

Frank laughed. ‘Well, at some point we’ll need to decide how far we want to go in terms of direct action, but we’re not at that point yet. No, I’d say we concentrate on lobbying the planners. They’re the ones who’ll give permission for the mast.’

‘How?’

‘There’s several things we could do. Make a formal objection, laying out our case. Get up a petition, to back up our objection. Maybe have a march through Hailesbank, or stage some sort of protest at the Council offices. Lobby individuals too. Sandy Armstrong, for starters, the farmer who owns the land. He’s key.’

Ibsen wasn’t used to this at all. He’d only come along at Frank’s insistence and because he objected so viscerally to the plans for the wind farm. He took stock. Most of those present were middle-aged going on elderly and he’d guess that most of them were well heeled. The hippy woman looked as though she’d been at this kind of meeting a dozen times before. There was a teenager with her – her son, by the looks of him – who kept his mouth shut. He looked as though he’d be up for a bit of direct action, though.

Am I?

Someone opened the door to the hall, and a cold draught blew in. He was going to sneeze. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, found one, and blew his nose just in time.

‘You dropped this.’

A woman in a tweed skirt and loafers was handing him a scrap of paper.

‘Thanks.’ He took it from her. It wasn’t paper, it was a business card.

Kate Courtenay, Project Manager, AeGen.

It was the card Kate had given him the other night, at the end of the Council meeting. She was quite something, that woman. He hated what she did, but by Christ, she was sexy. He’d seen her in hiking boots and a rain jacket and he’d thought so then. He’d seen her in a tight black shift dress and high heels, and wow, that was quite something. What would he give to see her in nothing at all?

Ibsen blinked at the card. It was the first time, he realised with a jolt, that he’d felt this way about any woman since the divorce. Why the hell did he have to pick someone so completely unsuitable? See Kate naked in bed?
It’s never going to happen. Especially as your involvement with a protest group will put you and Kate on a collision course.

He shoved the card back in his pocket and tried to put shiny black eyes and a sweet, heart-shaped face out of his mind.

Ibsen might be emotionally scarred, but he was no monk. He’d had a succession of girlfriends since he and Lynn had split up, and every time he found a new one he could see hope in his mother’s eyes – hope that he might find love again, hope that he might settle down, hope that he might have another child to help heal the pain of losing Violet. But it hadn’t happened. He wasn’t capable of making it happen. Perhaps he never would be.

Maybe part of the problem was that he was still close to Lynn – even though they found it impossible to live together, no-one else understood the hurt in his heart the way she did. Sometimes he wondered if they might try again, then he thought maybe this was what was getting in the way of a new relationship.

So he did try to make a new start. Several times over the past couple of years he’d begun dating. Attracting women wasn’t the problem – they swarmed to him like bees to pollen. And they were nice women, though each had a flaw. Jackie had been pretty, but so clearly desperate, at thirty-eight, to bag a man, that she clung like a leech and drained his life blood. Karen fussed over him like a mother hen, obviously worried about him. It had been an unequal balance, and couldn’t last. Shelley was too young, their interests didn’t overlap at all.

Melanie was a girl for evenings in the pub and a nice bit of leg-entwining under the duvet. She was the most attractive of the lot, and when it came to bed-warming she was a real treat – which made it harder, of course, to do what he was going to have to do before too long.

He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Beside him, Melanie stirred, sleepily. He hooked an arm under her shoulders and rolled her towards him.

‘You awake?’

‘Mmm,’ she muttered sleepily.

She nestled close to him, her head on his chest, her shoulder under his armpit. After a moment he abandoned his examination of the ceiling and laid his cheek on her hair. Sometimes any body was better than nobody, but this wasn’t fair. Ibsen decided, with exasperation, that life would be a whole lot simpler if Tam hadn’t brought him up with an exaggerated sense of fairness. Mel’s expectations were growing, and that couldn’t be allowed to go on.

‘Shall I bring you breakfast in bed, Ibs?’ she whispered, her voice half drugged with drowsiness.

It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Ibsen knew what this offer cost her, because Melanie was not a morning girl and today was Sunday. It was another sign of the lengths she was prepared to go in order to keep him.

Reluctantly, he eased her away. ‘You’re all right, love. You stay there. I’ll bring you a cuppa and some toast.’

He let Wellington out and brewed tea. Melanie was half sitting up by the time he returned to the bedroom, her auburn hair tumbling round her shoulders like a bedjacket.

‘Fancy a quiet day, Ibs, just the two of us?’ She accepted the tea and placed it on the chair beside the bed, then patted the covers. ‘Coming back in?’

He shook his head and perched on the side of the bed. ‘I promised Frank Griffiths I’d do a bit of homework for him.’

The meeting at Frank’s house had begun by sounding people out, but ended like a military operation, with Frank allocating tasks to anyone who’d shown willing.

‘Check it out, Ibsen, would you?’ he’d tossed the request in Ibsen’s direction. ‘Have a look around, see where the turbines might go, have a think about access routes, and where we might have a sit-in, if we end up having to do something like that.’

Ibsen, still feeling like a foreigner in a strange land, nodded an acknowledgement. Outdoor reconnaissance he could manage.

Melanie pulled a face at his announcement. ‘Must you?’

‘You can come with me if you like. You’ll need boots though.’

‘I’ve got boots.’

An hour later, Melanie appeared in the kitchen dressed in ripped jeans, an off-the-shoulder tee shirt in luminous orange, and skin-tight boots in tan suede with four-inch heels.

Ibsen grinned. ‘When I said boots, I didn’t mean boots like that.’

‘I haven’t got any others.’

‘Well, you can’t walk in those. I’ll see if Ma can lend you something.’

Melanie looked horrified. ‘You want me to wear your mother’s boots?’

‘Mel, we’re climbing a hill, not going to a fashion show. You look totally gorgeous—’ he said quickly, seeing her face fall, ‘—just impractical. Listen, don’t worry, I can go on my own.’

‘No, you’re all right. I want to come.’

‘Right. If you’re sure. Wait there a minute then.’

Five minutes later, he returned with a pair of wellies. ‘Not ideal, but I couldn’t find her outdoor boots and she’s out somewhere.’

In fairness, Melanie was fitter than he’d imagined her to be. Her long legs ate up the yards and she strode with him, pace for pace, up the hill, with Wellington bounding ahead. She even seemed to be quite enjoying herself.

‘What’s this, Ibsen?’ she called, stopping by a tiny orchid almost hidden by heather.

He squatted down and felt its delicate flowers gently. ‘Looks like a Heath Spotted-orchid. Likes acid soil. You did well to spot that one, Mel.’

‘It’s pretty.’

‘It is. And if they build a road this way, that’ll be the end of it.’

‘They won’t, will they?’

‘Not if I can help it, no.’

The June sun was already warm and he was glad he’d only pulled on a tee shirt. It was good to be up here so early, there wasn’t another walker in sight.

‘What’s that bird?’

Mel was looking up in the sky, where a kestrel hovered like a moth.

‘A kestrel—’

Because he was looking up, he saw Kate before she saw him. She looked like a slip of a girl from here, jumping from boulder to boulder on the rockiest bit of the summit. What the hell was she doing up here on a Sunday?

Then Wellington sprang across the last twenty yards to where she was standing and did the obligatory ten-circles-round-a-new-friend dance before burying his nose in her crotch.

‘Does he know her?’ Melanie said, flicking her hair back from her eyes.

‘They’ve met.’

His eyes were on Kate because he couldn’t help it. He wanted to pick the woman up in his arms and carry her to his bed, but he knew that was never going to happen. Was that why he wanted her so much?
I want doesn’t get
, his mother used to say. But in this case, even asking with a ‘please, pretty please’, as Lynn used to put it wouldn’t do either. She was married and she was a bloody wind farm engineer. Two massive no-no’s.

‘Who is she, Ibs?’

Melanie’s gaze was boring into him, as if she could read his mind. Ibsen blinked and grinned at her. ‘No-one that matters,’ he said, and slung his arm across her shoulders in a gesture of togetherness as they crossed the last few yards to where Kate stood.

‘I knew if Wellington was here you wouldn’t be far behind,’ Kate said, smiling. She turned to Melanie. ‘Hi.’

Melanie ignored the outstretched hand. Instead she swung her arms round Ibsen’s waist, the gesture possessive. ‘Hi.’

‘Up here prospecting?’ Ibsen said, not bothering to introduce her.

‘Just needed some air. I like it up here.’

‘So do I. Just now,’ he added meaningfully.

Kate said nothing.

‘Did you know they’re going to build a wind farm up here?’ Melanie said. ‘Ibsen’s hopping mad, aren’t you Ibs? They’re planning a major protest.’

Kate didn’t look at Melanie, she stared at Ibsen, her dark eyes unwinking. ‘Is that right?’

‘Well, you knew we would,’ Ibsen said softly.

‘Yes,’ she said. She seemed to be scarcely breathing. ‘I knew.’

‘Christ,’ Melanie said as Kate swung round and began to pick her way down the hill. ‘What was that all about?’

Ibsen thought,
If only I understood.