Shadow on the Fells (11 page)

“You see,” Roger said, his voice rising with excitement. “Because the buildings you are converting are set around the farmyard, the visitors will have a degree of privacy at the back, but at the front there's a kind of communal feel for those who prefer to socialize. There is one thing, though...”

“Go on, then,” Will said apprehensively.

“I'm not sure about the properties being so basic. Perhaps you could have a shower block, or even a disguised shower in each one—it's what people expect.”

“Do you know,” he said. “I'm not really interested in what people expect.”

Roger gulped. “Don't you think that's...”

“Pompous?” Will finished for him.

“Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but—”

“The thing is, Roger, I have a vision for this. I know city people—or at least the kind of city people I used to mix with. They love the idea of getting back to nature, and I believe that they will pay a small fortune for the experience of living here in the fells in the same way that our ancestors did. I don't want it to feel like pretense—I want it to be real. Open fires with old-fashioned cooking stoves, and—”

“Please don't say tin baths in front of the fire,” Roger groaned.

Will stifled a smile. “That did cross my mind, but then I decided that was going a bit too far. So it will just be the most basic of bathrooms—with running water, of course, but it will be heated only by the fire.”

“I suppose that's something, but I'm still not sure that people will go for the whole experience.”

“That,” Will said, “is for me to worry about. Now, about these plans.”

Turning away from the computer, Roger spread a large sheet of paper on the table. “This is the main plan for the whole setup,” he explained. “We need to sell it to the planners because they aren't too keen on turning these outlying farms into anything else. They are our heritage, pieces of our past, and we don't want to lose them.”

Will nodded. “Yes, and I get that. The last thing I want to do is change Craig Side—I want to keep it traditional. Despite what Chrissie Marsh and some of the other locals may think, I really don't want life, or farming, around here to change at all. Surely, the Lake District needs the revenue tourists bring into the area in order to thrive.”

“Ah, but if they are way up here, living in the past, as it were, then surely they won't be spending money in the local shops,” Roger pointed out.

“They may want this experience, but they'll also still want to go into the shops to buy gifts and mementos. They'll probably want to go to the local bars and restaurants, too.”

“Oh, well...it's your project.” Roger pulled off the top sheet and spread out the one beneath. “Now, this I am really pleased with,” he continued. “I just need your input regarding bedrooms etcetera. It depends on how many you want to cater for... Are we thinking couples or families?”

“That is something I haven't really given much thought to,” Will said.

“Well, it's probably time you did. Yuppie couples or affluent young families. You are, or at least were, a city dweller—would you have come here for a holiday?”

Will smiled with genuine humor. “No,” he said. “I definitely wouldn't. The thing is, though...”

“The thing is what?”

“I know lots of people who would. Both couples and families.”

“Okay.” Roger began rolling up the plans. “Just let me know when you've decided. Two large bedrooms per cottage, or three average ones.”

As Will drove home half an hour later, the answer suddenly came to him and he rang Roger immediately. “We'll cater for both,” he told him.

“If you're sure...”

“I'm sure.”

“All right.” The relief in Roger's voice was plain enough for anyone to hear. “I'll get the drawings finished right away and then we can go for next month's planning meeting.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

C
HRISSIE
HURRIED
DOWN
the main street in Little Dale, late for her appointment with Tom Farrah. She'd have been on time if it hadn't been for her run-in with Will. How did he always manage to show up at just the wrong moments? Still, it felt nice to be going out somewhere for once.

Tom had suggested they meet for lunch at The Dalesman, a popular pub in the center of the village, and as she approached the long, low whitewashed building, she thought about what Will had asked her.

At first, she'd wanted to laugh out loud at his audacity, but there was something moving about the way he pleaded for his dog, so she held back. Still, she'd had to turn him down, harden her heart against him. Why should she help Will with his dog, anyway? It had chased her sheep, killing one—albeit indirectly—and it had claimed a duck's life, too. The creature was a menace. And Will's entire reason for being here threatened her way of life. He didn't deserve her help, arrogant lawyer that he was.

Then she'd seen Max, and his delight at seeing her had made her feel guilty again. She had to make a stand over this, though. Trying to put Max's naive smile out of her head, Chrissie increased her pace. She needed to focus on the positive: today she was going to voice her objections to a member of the south Lakeland planning committee. Tom Farrah would be on her side, she was sure of it.

Chrissie stepped through the front doors of the pub, looking around for Tom. An open fire roared in the grate and horse brasses gleamed in its rosy light. Old oak floors, worn by thousands of feet over the past two hundred years, shone with polish, as did the huge oak bar. A long row of colorful beer taps denoted a dozen different real ales. The whole place had a warm, comfortable, lived-in atmosphere.

“A small glass of white wine, please,” she said to the barman, reaching for her purse before realizing with a sinking heart that she'd forgotten it. Maybe she really did need to get out more.

“Allow me,” said a voice from behind her, and she turned around to see Tom Farrah's smiling face. He produced a twenty pound note and ordered a half-pint of Blonde Witch ale. “I'll bring them over,” he said. “You get us a table.”

Chrissie chose a small round table near the window, annoyed with herself for leaving her purse at home. She had instigated the meeting, after all, and it had been good of Tom to agree to it. She'd intended to insist on paying for the meal.

Tom approached, carrying the drinks. He appeared very self-assured and professional today, with his neatly combed gray hair and his sharp navy suit. Last time she'd seen him he'd been in his farming clothes. Today he looked like a councillor, not a farmer. She squirmed in her seat, embarrassed to have to tell him she'd forgotten her purse. She, too, had made an effort to dress for the occasion, hoping to be taken seriously, but she'd let herself down.

“Thanks so much,” she said as he placed the two glasses on the table. “I'm sorry to start us off on the wrong foot...” He sat, raising his eyebrows. “But is there any chance you could cover my lunch? I intended to treat you, but I've forgotten my purse. I'll pay you back right away.”

Tom grinned as he handed her a menu. “Absolutely not. I mean, no, you won't pay for me back and of course I'll cover it. You did a darned good job of training Tilly for me and the least I can do is stand you a meal and, hopefully, give you some advice.”

“Well, if you're sure?”

“I'm sure. Now, let's order the food and then you can tell me why you wanted to meet. The fish is very good here, by the way.”

“Fish it is, then,” said Chrissie, glancing briefly at the menu before putting it down. She was eager to get her point across. “The thing is—”

“Are you ready to order?” asked a bright-eyed young girl, pen poised above her pad.

Tom lingered over the menu, settling on steak pie, and Chrissie hurriedly ordered fish and chips, taking a gulp of her wine before trying again.

“The thing is,” she repeated. “My neighbor at Craig Side is putting in a planning application—”

“And I presume that you want to object,” Tom cut in, raising his eyebrows.

“Er...yes,” Chrissie said. “I suppose that's about it.”

He pressed his fingertips together, studying her thoughtfully. “You know, planning isn't always quite as simple as people think. We have strict guidelines to follow—it's not just a case of what we want personally. For instance, there are firm rules surrounding new builds, and they are only allowed in selected areas. Conversions, on the other hand, must be tastefully done to fit in with surrounding buildings. There are exceptions to this, of course, and we do have to promote tourism in the area.”

“I hate tourists!” The words just burst out, making Chrissie feel like a sulky child.

“Ah,” said Tom. “But would you hate tourists if they provided your livelihood?”

“Sorry. Of course I don't hate tourists, and yes, if they provided my livelihood then I guess I would like them. It's just the countryside, you see—I can't stand to sit by and watch it being altered by people who don't appreciate it...you know, dogs that create havoc and gates being left open, causing all kinds of problems for farmers. I just think that holiday rentals should have to remain down in the valleys and not be allowed to encroach on our farms.”

“So can I take it that this new neighbor of yours wants to make Craig Side into some kind of holiday accommodation?” Tom asked.

Before Chrissie could answer, the food arrived, breaking up the conversation.

“So, what exactly is it that you want of me?” Tom asked abruptly.

Chrissie put down her knife and fork with a clatter. “I want to find a way to stop him.”

“Unfortunately, we can't refuse planning permission just because someone doesn't like it,” he told her. “You need to have valid objections as to why you feel it shouldn't be given.”

“Like what?”

Tom finished his beer and shrugged, placing his glass down on the table with deliberation. “Like if it's not in keeping with the surroundings, or if there's a safety factor. All in all, we are advised to promote tourism, but the rules are fairly strict so as not to spoil the character of the area. I can't really say much, anyway, until I've seen the plans. You need to start a petition and have valid objections, then you can put it all to the committee when the plans come up for approval. Everything will be taken into account before a decision is made.”

“And does the planning committee meet regularly?”

Tom finished the last bite of steak pie and placed his knife and fork neatly in the middle of his plate. “Once a month, usually—I'm off there now, as a matter of fact. I'll pay at the bar on my way out, and please give me a call if you have any more queries.” He stood. “Lambing going okay?”

Taken aback by his sudden change of subject, Chrissie took her final sip of wine before replying. “Yes...thanks. The weather has been good this year—makes all the difference.”

Tom nodded. “Well, as you know I've taken rather a backseat on the farm since Sam took over. It's nice to have less to do, but I still help out quite a bit. Unfortunately, we've had a lot of twins this year... Makes life harder.”

“They need that extra time and attention, don't they,” Chrissie agreed, “before you can let them go back onto the fell. Single lambs are so much stronger.”

“Anyway,” said Tom, holding out his hand. “I hope I've been of some help.”

Chrissie took it with a smile. “You have, thanks. And I expect to see you winning some sheepdog trials this year, remember.”

“I'm not sure about that, but we will be competing and we'll do our best. Perhaps I could bring Tilly up to High Bracken after lambing is over, to have a refresher.”

“Good idea,” said Chrissie. “Give me a call. I'll probably be in touch with you again, anyway, over this planning. The guy who has bought Craig Side has no idea about farming, is the trouble. He's a retired lawyer.”

Tom raised his bushy white eyebrows. “So he's an older fellow, then?”

“Oh, no,” Chrissie said. “He's only in his thirties, I think.”

“You'll have to try and appeal to his better nature, then.” Tom laughed. “Be persuasive...you could do with a man in your life, Chrissie.”

“Definitely not
that
man.”

He was still laughing as he raised his hand in farewell and headed out the door.

Chrissie sat for a little while longer, reflecting on what Tom had said. She couldn't deny that she was drawn to Will, but she couldn't understand why. He wasn't her kind of person at all. She would never have believed she could be attracted to a lawyer, but she'd seen another side of Will that rainy night with the sheep, a softer side. Disregarding the weather and way out of his comfort zone, he had thrown himself into the tasks she'd asked of him. Then he'd talked, opening up about his reasons for quitting his city life, and she'd been moved by his strength. Many lawyers—many people, for that matter—would have probably just thought of the money and acclaim, convincing themselves that it was simply a job that had to be done. And he was trying to fit in here, she could see that, despite his determination to go ahead with the holiday rentals.

She let out a heavy sigh. As far as she was concerned, now that she'd gotten some advice on how to fight them, his plans were a non-starter. Hopefully there was a good chance that they would be refused.

Her fingers went to her lips as she remembered the warmth of his mouth on hers, the softness. The kiss had confused her, tested her resolve. Her pulse thrummed in her throat; it had been so hard to pull away from him. She couldn't afford to let that happen again. She had to stay focused on objecting to his plans.

Standing up, she walked determinedly out of the pub and into the street, where normal people were going about their normal lives, just as they did day after day after day. She had better things to do than think about Will Devlin. He had no part in her life. The sheep needed checking, Floss had to be worked today and there were all the other animals to see to, too...oh, yes, and she had a petition to start on.

One thing was for sure: if there was any way to stop him from getting planning permission, then she was determined to find it.