I Remember You. Harriet Evans

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       CHAPTER ELEVEN

      A couple of days after the council had approved the application, the changes it would bring were already being felt. Tess noticed it as she walked to the college and saw people standing outside their front doors talking to neighbours, or little knots forming on street corners. The posters up in Jen’s Deli and the cheese shop, the sign outside the pub, they were still there: but they each had a thick black line through them. In the window of the Feathers that directly faced onto Leonora Mortmain’s house there was a sign: ‘HAPPY NOW?’

      Andrea Marsh crept around with a face as long as a broom handle and Ronald Thaxton was a broken man. Langford was small enough that all of the main players were well-known, and Tess was in the deli one day with Francesca, sitting at one of the tiny tables squeezed into the shop, when a man came up to them.

      ‘Is there really nothing you can do?’ he said to Francesca. ‘I heard you were a lawyer, is the application all in order?’

      He was about forty, rather sturdy and traditional-looking, wearing a battered old Barbour, and a neat, short blue tie.

      ‘Here’s your coffee, Tess,’ said someone, putting a tray down.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Tess absent-mindedly, not looking up but watching Francesca for her response. Francesca smiled, her most scary smile.

      ‘I’m afraid it is,’ she said. ‘The council is being extremely difficult about it, but it is all in order. I’m still—’

      He interrupted her, putting his hand on the wobbly painted metal table. It lurched alarmingly to one side. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But has anyone been in touch with English Heritage, or someone similar? Those water meadows are without equal in this part of the country. They can’t just drain them and concrete them over, there must be a law against it.’

      ‘You’d think,’ said Francesca, nodding up at him. ‘But I’m afraid not. Morely and Thornham have rich reserves of flora and fauna too, and since Langford’s the town, their reasoning is that it’s the one that can best support expansion.’

      Tess, aware that someone was watching them, looked over and realized the person who’d given her the coffee was Liz. She was standing next to Claire, who was also in her class at school, a girl around the same age as her and Liz.

      ‘Hi!’ Liz said, waving. She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Do you need anything else?’

      ‘No, thanks.’ Tess shook her head, almost impatiently, turning back to the stranger.

      ‘But that’s absolutely ridiculous!’ the man snorted. ‘I’m sorry, but—’

      Francesca frowned at him. ‘It’s not my fault!’ she said, not unreasonably. ‘I’m on your side, remember! But that’s what they’ve said. We’re appealing, of course we are—’

      He stood up straight. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, looking at her with an expression of remorse. ‘That’s incredibly rude of me.’ He held out his hand. ‘Guy Phelps. I own George Farm, just the other side of town.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Francesca said, as if she was well aware of George Farm and all its doings. She took his hand. ‘Francesca Jackson,’ she said. ‘And this is Tess Tennant,’ she added, indicating Tess next to her.

      ‘Nice to meet you.’ Guy Phelps shook Tess’s hand enthusiastically too, but returned his gaze almost immediately to Francesca and Tess went back to eating her carrot cake. ‘Well,’ he continued, as Francesca smiled politely up at him, ‘I’d better be off—thanks again,’ he finished, though he hadn’t thanked her before.

      ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Francesca.

      ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?’ he said.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Francesca. She looked at Tess. ‘I’m sure there will be at some point. See you soon.’

      ‘She youw shoon,’ Tess added, her mouth full of cake.

      As Guy Phelps departed, touching a finger to an imaginary cap, much to both girls’ delight, Francesca turned to Tess and said, exasperatedly, ‘Tess!’