Diana gave her a strange look. ‘Nice? It’ll be dead in a few years if we’re not careful.’ She shook her head. ‘Forget I spoke. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Just tired, I expect.’ She collected herself, almost as if she was aware she’d said too much, and then got on her bicycle. ‘Bye, Tess,’ she called, leaving Tess in the middle of the driveway, holding her bag of books. She watched her go, bemused, and then set off back to Easter Cottage.
Tess told Francesca about this conversation, as Francesca mashed up the ingredients for mojitos in a large mixing bowl. ‘Well, she’s right, I don’t think all that tourism is good for the town in the long run. But who knows what the future holds,’ Francesca said, licking mint and sugar off her fingers. ‘But I’m telling you, when my six months is up, I’m not going back to work in the City, that’s for sure. Not that there’ll be any jobs there anyway.’
‘No?’ Tess handed her a glass, watching her curiously from the doorway of the kitchen.
‘No way,’ said Francesca. ‘Mmm. That’s nice. I’m staying right here. Trouble is, there’s nothing to do round here if you’re not a tourist or someone who wants to study stupid things like History of Art or Roman Civilization…’ She smiled. ‘I’m joking. But there is nothing else to do. So actually, I did something about it today.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep.’ Francesca’s eyes sparkled. ‘I’m helping Ron and Andrea with the campaign, volunteering. You know I actually trained as a lawyer.’ Tess nodded. ‘Long before I got sucked into the evil world of finance. I’m looking at the legality of what they’re proposing to do, because I’m sure there’s something fishy going on.’
‘Wow.’ Tess clapped. ‘That’s brilliant. Er—have you told Adam?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Don’t know why,’ said Tess. ‘It’s just—he’s so weird about the campaign. Have you noticed?’ She felt as if she were betraying something as she said this, but it was true.
‘He’s weird about it because he’s behaving like an adolescent,’ Francesca sounded firm. She poured a large slug of rum into the bowl. ‘You know, I love Adam.’ She paused. ‘I don’t mean like that. I—’ She smiled, mistily. ‘I really like him. But he’s got to grow up. Fine to stay here all your life, but not fine to use it as a stick to beat other people with when they dare to disagree with you about anything connected with Langford.’
Francesca had a way of saying things which summed up what Tess wanted to say so perfectly but couldn’t articulate without using five times as many words. Tess laughed. ‘I’d love to hear you say that to him.’
‘I have,’ said Francesca, and she smiled her cat-like smile. ‘He knows I’m right, he just doesn’t see it yet. But he will.’ She nodded and for some reason Tess shivered, as if a goose had walked over her grave. ‘I’ve got him where I want him. He just doesn’t realize it yet.’
‘Oh, Francesca—’ said Tess, not sure what to say next, because she knew Adam well, so well, knew how stubborn he was, how little he liked being told what to do, manipulated, which was why she thought he was such a bloody-minded idiot, still living in his mother’s house, still working shifts at the pub and the museum. ‘Please don’t get your hopes up with him. He’s…’ She said frankly, ‘He’s never going to change. He’s so stubborn.’
Something flickered across Francesca’s lovely face, but she said nothing. Tess got up. ‘What are we having tonight?’
Francesca looked blank. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, as well as the mojitos,’ Tess said. ‘Not that they won’t be lovely…’ She trailed off.
‘Dunno,’ said Francesca. ‘I haven’t cooked, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve made cocktails and it took bloody ages. You could have a bit of appreciation for what I’ve done, thank you very much.’
Tess ran over to her and hugged her, feeling her bony arms, her hand on her back. She was fragile, she thought, she’d be so easy to crush. ‘I do have appreciation for what you’re doing. I just assumed—completely insanely, obviously, that you’d made supper as well.’
‘No,’ Francesca said. ‘My plan was, we get trashed and then do karaoke with these cool new karaoke DVDs that I ordered from Amazon.’
‘Great idea,’ said Tess. ‘And we can have the rest of that shepherd’s pie I made yesterday. I’ve got some peas in the freezer.’
Francesca rolled her eyes, opened her mouth as if she would say something, then shut it. She smiled at Tess. ‘Bless ye, old lady. Come on. Give me your glass.’
Jan Allingham was in a flap. She was usually a rational woman, with an unshakeable faith in humanity, but when an event occurred to test this faith, she was conversely distressed out of all proportion.
She hated being late, even if it was only by a couple of minutes, and she was going to be late. If someone said ten o’clock, they meant ten, not five past ten. It was one of the things that drove her absolutely mad about her dear husband Jeremy, though time—thirty-five years of marriage—and wisdom—fifty-five years on God’s green earth—had taught her to accept with as good a grace as possible things like Jeremy’s breaking of his solemn vow that he would pick her up from the garden centre outside Thornham at twelve thirty. No, she had learned simply to smile and say, ‘Don’t worry, dear, thank you for coming.’ Conversely, of course, he was always absolutely furious if she was over a minute late to pick him up from anything—with the righteous indignation of the truly guilty.
It was thanks to Jeremy that she was going to be late for the committee meeting of the Save the Water Meadows Campaign. Bloody Jeremy, who had said she shouldn’t get involved, that it was asking for trouble, that it was putting other people’s backs up. Accept the inevitable, he’d said, looking at her over his copy of The Times that morning.
‘It’s going to happen,’ he said, his ruddy face creasing into lines as he munched his toast. ‘It’s inevitable, I’m afraid, dear. Market forces.’
Jan didn’t care about market forces. She whisked some cling film over the remains of the Galia melon pieces she’d had for her breakfast. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she demanded, pushing the fridge door shut.
‘It’s got to do with the council and the Mortmains and a whopping great company that’s used to having its own way, that’s what they’re used to.’
‘Leonora Mortmain’s an evil old woman,’ said Jan, pettishly.
‘That’s the trouble with you lot,’ said Jeremy, putting down his paper. The phrase you lot infuriated his wife. ‘You think because she’s old and grim-looking and eccentric that she has no real power. She’s one of the most important landowners around here, she wields enormous influence. Just because she’s a woman and she hasn’t invited you all round for tea and cakes doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s an impressive woman, I’ll give her that. Intelligent, too.’
Jan paused in her wiping down of the draining board. ‘How do you know that?’ she said, curiously.
‘Met her a few months ago when I had to value a couple of the cottages down towards the water meadows,’ said Jeremy. ‘Had a bit of a chat, actually. I told you.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Jan said, exasperatedly. ‘You had a bit of a chat? With Leonora Mortmain? Typical you, Jeremy, that you don’t even think to mention it.’
‘Well, I did, and she was rather