Agnes, Bel and Jed joined the planning inquiry group by the gate.
‘The man’s a lunatic,’ Agnes overheard one woman say. ‘He nearly killed one of us driving that thing. He could be charged.’
The inspector now conferred with Arcadian Villages’ architect, who looked mortified. Indeed, the only person present who appeared happy was the press photographer from the local paper who clicked away with a grin on his face that said front page.
Andrew had orchestrated his demonstration with some sophistication, and chosen his position with care. The tractor was parked so that the doomed oaks and the fields beyond were in the line of vision of the photographers. He cupped his hands and bellowed, ‘Are you going to join me, Jim?’
‘Sure,’ answered Jim, who had driven up from Exbury. He pushed his way through the spectators into the field. ‘I’m with you, boy’
At this point, the press officer for Arcadian Villages took the inspector aside and talked furiously at him. Agnes tapped Jed on the arm. Jed’s camera swung around – an eye that accosted the inspector when he looked up. He adjusted his ill-chosen glasses and moved away.
Another man joined Andrew and Jim and took up position, arms folded, by the tractor wheels. Agnes sketched a frame in the air. ‘Go in tight, Jed.’ Then, ‘Jed, I’m going to be sick!’ and she fled towards the oaks where she retched up her breakfast. The bout over, she leaned on a trunk for support. A dozen or so pairs of eyes observed her with interest, as she fumbled for a tissue and levered herself upright.
Jed hightailed over. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure. It’s the smoke. Where’s Bel?’ Agnes pressed a hand to her stomach.
‘She’s talking to the photographer. Apparently most of Exbury is on its way over. I think your friend did some telephoning before he set about burning the county.’
‘I expect he did.’ Hoping she did not smell too awful, Agnes scraped her hair back from her forehead. ‘We ought to be out there with him.’
The bonfire nearest to the inspector collapsed, sending up an additional plume of smoke. The solid rank of spectators sprouted gaps and the inspector ordered the architect to summon the fire brigade.
Penny, who had been rung by Jim and had got herself over to the farm fast, leaving a furious Bob, arrived as the crew from the local television station also pitched up with their van, together with a hard-core group of anti- Arcadian Villages protestors carrying placards.
Agnes,’ Jed grabbed her arm. ‘Take a look at the old chap.’
‘Oh…’ Dressed in a tweed jacket and tie, with his trousers hauled up high, a major-general figure stood to attention and saluted the protestors.
The bonfires had been expertly constructed and burned for another good half-hour while television crews, the local press, protestors and the planning-inquiry team got in each other’s way. Yet in the end even Andrew’s skill could not prevent their metamorphosis into carbon and hot ash. He descended from the tractor and Jim and he set about extinguishing the remnants with the water he had ferried up during the night.
Bile. Ash. Anger.
Agnes abandoned Jed and picked her way over to Andrew. Obviously exhausted and somewhat wary, he watched her approach.
Sweat beaded Agnes’s upper lip. ‘They don’t like it one bit.’
‘Did you get it on film?’
She nodded. ‘We did.’
The field emptied untidily. Protestors dismantled their banners. The television crew packed up their equipment. The inspector was decanted into his car and driven away. Arcadian’s press officer sat in his parked car talking into his mobile phone.
Soon it was empty. A meadow gouged with round, black scars.
‘I’m glad you showed up.’ Andrew’s obvious depression wrenched at Agnes’s heart. ‘I was hoping you would. I wasn’t sure if my little demonstration would embarrass you.’
‘Why should it?’
‘Because it’s not going to achieve anything, except a bit of publicity’
‘Driving your spade into the earth?’
‘Something like that.’
She thought for a second or two. ‘I hope the programme will do that.’
He said swiftly, ‘You can’t rely on it. You never know, do you?’ She must have looked a little taken aback and he backtracked: ‘Actually, my activities last night were the result of a rush of blood to the head.’
They had returned to the farmhouse where Andrew insisted on assembling a scratch meal. They sat at the table eating cheese with stale bread. Jed and Bel had left for London and the editing room. Agnes planned to join them later, via Flagge House, where she would check up on Bea.
‘Were you up all night?’ Craving something solid, she tackled the tough bread. ‘Weren’t you worried the fire might get out of control?’
Andrew sawed off a lump of cheese. The question amused him. ‘I have a pretty good idea of the land and the weather. The ground’s still wet and I may have looked demonic but I was keeping a close eye on everything. Anyway, the boys at the fire station would have been up in a trice if I had given them the word. It
She wanted to seize a brush and paint out the circles under his eyes but she confined herself to leaning over and wiping a lick of grime from his cheek. ‘Any chance of you getting some sleep?’
Under the light, dispassionate gesture, he stilled. ‘Not yet.’ He slumped back in the chair, not exactly beaten but clearly at the edge. ‘That barrister knew all the right words. He knew that if he chose the right ones, that would be that and the case is wrapped. If you pay enough for the best manipulator, you get your way. That’s justice.’
She continued to chew the bread, praying that it stayed put in her stomach. Andrew stared out of the window. Eventually, she hazarded, ‘Work is a good remedy when things go wrong. At least, I found it to be so.’
‘You’re not giving in?’ he asked. ‘Not backing off over the film?’ His brows snapped together.
‘No. For what it’s worth, I was offering you the Campion patent for getting through.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He dug his fingers into his sticky, grimy hair. He watched Agnes chew the last of her bread. ‘We used to have tea, you know. Every day. High tea. With scones and cream. Cake. Sometimes one of Penny’s hams. She was good at all that. Penny had a picture of what life should be on the farm, which meant a lot to her. She made it work,’
He appeared to lose interest in the subject. ‘Do you think it’s too early for a whisky?’ He fetched the bottle and two glasses. Agnes took a sip and realized it was a mistake, but Andrew sucked down several mouth-fuls.
He stumbled through a confession and retraced the night’s events. The loading of the trailer, the drive in the dark, the stacking of the bales. Sweating and cursing. The wait. ‘I had gone to war. With my own land.’ He pushed his glass aside. ‘I ought to check on the fires before I get down to everything else. Do you want to come?’
Leaving the door wide open, they exchanged the muddle and incipient loss threatening the farmhouse kitchen for the heat of a summer’s day. The smell of burning was still almost sickening and the van was powdered with ash. Yet the day was quiet and clear, and the sun strong. Up on the moor, the heat and light had played tricks: bleaching out the colours and pushing them back into the far distance.
They retraced the path to the north field. Thickened by spiky growth, the hedgerow was wreathed in pale pink dog rose and honeysuckle. Andrew unsheathed his knife and cut off a length of the latter. ‘Here.’ He twined it into a rough crown. ‘Come here, Agnes.’
Drawn by the heat, the wild, fresh smells, the sound of skylarks, she moved obediently towards him.
‘Here.’ He placed the crown on her head, pressing it down over her forehead until she felt the sticky sap spread over her skin.
He assessed his handiwork.
She smiled up into the blue eyes and it must have been an invitation for he bent over and kissed her on the mouth. And she thought,
‘You taste of summer.’ He kissed the hollow of her neck.
The crown of honeysuckle seemed faintly ridiculous and she took it off. ‘You’re very unusual, Andrew.’ She
