Paradise Fields (22 page)

It gave her a pang to pass a door marked ‘Planning Department' while she negotiated the miles of corridor to the department she needed to see about the farmers' market. But while building on the fields now seemed inevitable – a thought that was deeply depressing – at least if she got permission to have the market in the town itself, it would still give the hospice a little regular income.

Rather to her surprise, she walked out of the council offices an hour after she had entered them in slightly better spirits. Not only had the woman now in charge (Nel's original contact having gone to another department) confirmed that the council were behind the scheme and would give her a small ‘start-up' grant. She gave Nel a lot of statistics about increased footfall, opportunities for tourism, and the spin-off benefits for current businesses and she agreed that high-quality crafts would be a good addition. She was also very enthusiastic about having a chef cooking meals with food from the stalls.

‘What we want,' she had said, ‘is an embryo Jamie Oliver. And I know just the person!' the woman went on. ‘He's a nephew of mine. He's been working for a restaurant in London, but has moved down here so he and his girlfriend can get married. He's renting at the moment, but if we get those starter homes . . . Anyway, he might be just the person you want. He's gorgeous. The women will love him. Leave it with me, I'll get in touch.'

‘Thank you,' said Nel, wondering if the woman would be so helpful if she'd known Nel's original mission had been to prevent those particular starter homes being built. Still, she'd had a major reality check
since then. ‘That would be really useful. He would have to have passed all the relevant exams regarding hygiene, of course.'

‘Of course,' said the woman. ‘We take those things very seriously in this department.'

So, as Nel negotiated her car out of the car park, she had to admit that her spirits were better. One part of her plans was going well. She also had her date with Jake to look forward to, and however much she was trying to protect herself against inevitable heartbreak, she couldn't help feeling excited.

Nel decided to go first to a farm where she was sure of a friendly welcome, a cup of coffee, and possibly a piece of home-made cake. They not only produced several sorts of organic meat, including Nel's favourite burgers, but they could be relied on to write a letter declaring their support.

‘Have you thought about asking for deposits?' asked Catherine, a pretty, dark-haired woman.

‘I thought about it, but rejected it as too complicated. I'd have to keep the money separately, and it would be dreadfully fiddly.'

‘You'll have to set it up as a business sometime, Nel.'

‘I've got my grant, which should come through some time, and that will tide us over for advertising and what have you, and although I know I should be happy we might have a new home for the market, I can't help feeling sad about Paradise Fields.' She paused. ‘You do know about the plan to build on them, don't you?'

‘Given that I know you, yes I do. What sort of houses are there going to be? Do you know?'

‘Well, it really depends on who gets the contract to build them. There's one builder who wants to put up
executive housing and rabbit hutches, and another, a really sweet man, who wants to put up fewer houses, with much better materials.'

‘Oh!' Catherine suddenly became very animated. ‘I've got some gossip! It might even be useful gossip!' She lowered her voice confidingly, although only her husband and Nel were present. ‘Apparently, the solicitor acting for the Hunstantons . . . what's his name?'

‘Jake Demerand,' said Nel – too quickly, she realised too late.

‘That's him. Apparently a builder that a friend of mine knows – not well, I don't think, but they're members of the same golf club – can't remember which one. Which one was it, Robin?' she referred to her husband while Nel mentally bit her nails, urging her friend to get on with the story.

‘Anyway,' Catherine went on, after her husband had looked at her blankly, ‘apparently this builder said that the solicitor, Jake . . .'

‘Demerand,' snapped Nel.

‘. . . was involved in some dodgy deal or other. Something to do with having an old peoples' home, and using the site for building. Made shedloads of money out of it.' Catherine seemed triumphant. ‘That's good, isn't it? I mean, if the Hunstantons have got a crooked solicitor, it will weaken their application, won't it?'

Nel felt peculiar. Instinctively she felt the gossip was lies; no way was Jake Demerand anything but honest. She didn't technically know him well enough to know this for a fact, but every cell of her body told her so. On the other hand, if, by some bizarre chance, he had made lots of old people homeless, it might be worth restarting the protest campaign she'd abandoned in
depression at the meeting on Wednesday. For a sickening moment which literally made her feel faint, she debated which was more important to her, saving the fields, or trusting Jake's integrity.

‘Are you OK, Nel?'

Nel smiled and sipped her coffee. ‘I'm fine, I just felt a bit funny for some reason. Hungry, I expect.'

‘Have some more cake. Are you still going to Weight Watchers?'

‘Haven't been for ages. I feel so guilty.'

‘Load of nonsense,' said Robin.

‘So what do you think?' To Nel's regret, Catherine hadn't finished with Jake. ‘If the solicitor is dodgy, will it help?'

Robin, who didn't talk as much as his wife, said, ‘I doubt it. If they found out anything bad about the solicitor, the Hunstantons would just hire another one.'

‘But perhaps we should tell them,' said Catherine. ‘After all, they have a right to know.'

‘But it's only gossip,' said Nel. ‘If we told the Hunstantons, and it turned out not to be true, he could sue us for slander or something.'

‘True,' said Catherine. ‘But I just thought I should pass on any little snippet. Shame you can't use it. More coffee?'

‘No, thanks. I'm full of cake.'

‘Apparently this builder is tendering for the work,' said Catherine. ‘He thinks it's in the bag. Which is one of the reasons I told you about the solicitor.'

‘Did you sign my petition? I had more or less given up hope of saving the fields, but now, it might be worth a punt.'

Catherine sighed. ‘I doubt it. Not one of our letters protesting against the plans did any good, did they?'

Nel had to acknowledge this was true.

‘Hey!' Catherine said suddenly. ‘Have you thought of having home-made fudge? There's a woman over in the Forest who makes fudge to die for, and I'm not kidding.'

Robin finished his coffee and plonked his mug down on the table with a thump. ‘But she makes it in very unhygienic conditions. You quite often find dog hairs in it, the saucepans are ancient, and the kitchen floor is so sticky you can hardly walk across it.'

‘Mm, sounds like home,' said Nel. ‘I might go and investigate her, if only for a free sample.'

‘Talking of which, you must take this joint with you. Someone ordered it, then cancelled.'

‘Well, you must let me pay you for it—'

‘Don't be silly!'

Nel didn't have any time that day to investigate anyone she didn't know, but realised even if all the people she did know wrote letters supporting the market, she still didn't have nearly enough. She would have to seek out other products. The trouble was, while it was perfectly acceptable to have more than one cheesemaker, say, she would feel a bit disloyal to her friend who produced it if she positively looked for competition. On the other hand, if the market couldn't function because she didn't have enough people, it was a greater disloyalty. I wish I was an animal, thought Nel, developing a headache, then I wouldn't have to have morals. I could just follow my instincts. Then, remembering what had happened when she ‘just followed her instincts', she decided to end the day – and the week – with Sacha, and demand some soothing potion to cheer her.

Sacha was very pleased to see her. ‘Nel! Darling! You are the best! Thank you so much!'

‘It's nice to be appreciated,' said Nel, helping herself to a seat. ‘But what for?'

‘For introducing Kerry Anne to me! She's amazing! She came and helped me again the day after you brought her – I decided not to go to Oxford – she took loads of stuff with her to America yesterday, and she's absolutely positive that pretty soon she'll have orders coming out of her ears! It's fantastic!'

‘But will you be able to produce it all?'

‘It'll be a struggle, but when Kerry Anne gets back, she's going to help me.'

‘So I can't hate her any more, then? Viv will be furious.'

‘Why?'

‘She says it's boring the way I never hate anyone. She says that people who are always nice about other people are boring. I have to practise being waspish for her. If I know that Kerry Anne has helped you—'

‘She has! But I'll
really
have to have bigger premises soon if I'm going to make the products for her health spa. That Oxford place wouldn't have been right—'

But Nel had fixed on a different issue. ‘Health spa!' she interrupted.

‘Yes. In the old house. Should be fantastic.'

‘But I thought it was going to be turned into timeshare apartments!'

‘Well, the health spa is her latest plan. I think' – Sacha coughed modestly – ‘she was a little bit inspired by my stuff. And it's much more her, really.'

Nel frowned. She suddenly remembered Kerry Anne with Sacha's recipes in her hand. ‘You don't think she's
up to anything bad, do you? I mean, she could steal your secrets, sell them to someone else, and clean up!'

Sacha laughed. ‘Well, she could, if she knew the recipes. But she only knows them up to a point.'

‘And Kerry Anne isn't going to become your partner, is she? You know partnerships are almost as bad as marriages to dissolve?'

‘I won't go into anything without taking advice. I'd get a good solicitor.'

‘That would be sensible. Kerry Anne's got one, after all.' At least, she assumed Jake Demerand was a good solicitor. Was it her brain that told her that? Or her heart? She bit her lips to bring herself back to the matter in hand. ‘Now, Sacha, did I ask if you'd write a letter to the council? Before they give me the go-ahead for a bigger market, I've got to prove I've enough stallholders committed to supporting me. Oh, and do you know anyone else who makes or produces anything vaguely edible?'

NEL WAS SURPRISED,
but pleased to be rung by the nice woman from the council the following Monday.

‘I've got the number of that young chef, my nephew, from my sister. Shall I give it to you?'

‘Well, that would be very useful, but won't he be a bit surprised if some strange woman rings him up out of the blue?'

‘Oh no, I've warned him that you might phone. He's very keen.'

Striking while the phone was hot, she dialled the number and was lucky. The young chef could see her, and could be fitted in on her way to or from a potential ice-cream maker, a willow-hurdle maker, and a farmer who didn't want to be involved himself, but whose wife made wedding hats. Nel didn't really feel wedding hats were what people went to farmers' markets to buy, but, on the other hand, a visit might be fun. She decided to go and see the chef first, because she knew that he was a definite must. The others were just maybes.

The minute he opened the door to his cottage, Nel knew he would be perfect. He was huge, young, fair and handsome, with boyish charm in spades. All women would respond to him on one level or other and he might make even the likes of Fleur interested in cooking.

‘Ben Winters.' He shook her hand. ‘Come in. Sorry the place is such a mess.'

‘I'm Nel Innes.' As she followed Ben into the hall she glanced through the open door of the sitting room. Hideously familiar, she felt tired just looking at it. Nel had visited her sons at their universities; she was accustomed to student accommodation. In fact, she felt she lived in it herself a lot of the time, but the living room of this little cottage was bad, even by her generous standards. The floor was so covered in crumpled beer cans you could hardly see the layer of crisps which covered the swirly red carpet. Games machines were heaped around a pile of videos and cartridges and tomato-smeared plates stacked with pizza crusts occupied the fireplace. Every surface was covered by the detritus of food, alcohol, cigarettes or electronic entertainment equipment.

It was such a shame. He looked perfect, his manner was endearing, and he may very well cook like Gordon Ramsay, but if he wasn't up to standard hygienically, it was no good. How would she explain it to the woman from the council who had suggested him? It would be so embarrassing. ‘I'm so sorry, but your favourite nephew' – or whatever he was – ‘lives in something out of a documentary about garbage or a piece of art up for the Turner Prize.'

‘Come through to the kitchen, and I'll make you a cup of coffee. You might like to try a cinnamon whirl as well. They're pastry based, but not too cloying, I hope. I've just taken them out of the oven.'

Nel's volatile spirits recovered when she saw the immaculate state of the kitchen. It was as clean and tidy as the sitting room was filthy and chaotic. ‘What a relief!'
She laughed. ‘I thought I was going to have to turn you down.'

‘What? Turn down my cinnamon whirls?' His disappointment was enchanting. ‘That would be a first!'

‘No! Turn you down as the chef for the farmers' market. Everyone and everywhere has to comply with very high standards of hygiene. Even though you wouldn't be cooking here, I expect your kitchen would be inspected.'

‘I am a qualified chef! I have passed all my exams in that sort of thing!'