The present Thatchford Council offices, still regarded by many as new, had been erected in the previous decade. They were a legacy from the last period when the Labour Party had held a majority on the Council and had elected then to invest ratepayers’ money in what Labour’s political opponents had regarded as unnecessary new accommodations. This decision was still used as convenient evidence of Labour Party profligacy (the building had cost much more than was first estimated), though few councillors of any political persuasion would have chosen to go back to the old Victorian town hall. This last was in any case an academic consideration since the other building had been knocked down.

  Besides the seats for the Mayor and councillors, there were tables and chairs in the central well of the Council chamber for Council executives and secretaries, and tip-up seats for the press and public in raked rows behind the councillors and facing the Mayor. Although there were committee rooms in addition to the Council chamber, the full Planning Committee had met here since Councillor Motwell had been made its Chairman. Motwell was some years off becoming Mayor (an office allotted through seniority not merit), but he enjoyed behaving as if he had risen to that status already.

  ‘Order, please,’ he repeated, not so much because the previous injunction had failed to provide quite enough of it, but because he enjoyed exercising his authority. He loosened the knot of his tie a fraction under his several chins, while aiming a look of still tolerant admonition at a few individuals among the sixteen ususually fractious male and female councillors seated before him. They were arranged in party groups—Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democrat—clumped irregularly along both rows of seats like surviving teeth in a cankered jaw.

  ‘Order yourself, Chairman. It’s you who’s out of order, not us,’ Madelaine Task protested to calls of ‘hear, hear’ from those around her. She was seated directly opposite the Chairman on the upper row, and her words were easily distinguishable above the continuing hubbub. Short and plump, Mrs Task, thirty-three, a Labour councillor, a bohemian dresser and a schoolteacher, was well used to getting herself heard over the clamourings of the unruly. She brushed her long and lacklustre hair away from her quite pretty face, and straightened the heavily framed spectacles which also did nothing to enhance her appearance. ‘Vested interests have to be declared,’ she shouted in a high-pitched but unbreathy, strained soprano, leaning forward in her seat, and stabbing a pointed index finger at Motwell. ‘You’ve not declared any interest yet. You and your like are a disgrace.’ She looked about her for support, and got it in good measure.

  ‘I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Councillor Task,’ Motwell responded, unruffled. He prided himself on coolheadedness in the Chair, especially when it came to controlling looney Trots. ‘Time’s getting on. We’ve nearly covered a long agenda. Some of us could do with liquid refreshment. That applies to members of all parties, I’m sure, not forgetting the press,’ he continued amiably, bestowing a smile first at a right of centre Labour crony who looked mildly discomforted at being singled out as potentially both a traitor and a drunk, and then at George Pike, the chief reporter from the Thatchford Advertiser. Pike had no qualms about nodding back his agreement since he was thirsty and worked for an acknowledged Tory paper. ‘So can we press on without people dragging in irrelevances, and wasting the time of overworked officials.’ Motwell beamed at Harold Jepton, Chief Executive of the Council, seated at the centre table just below him, and currently also filling the office of Director of Planning on a temporary basis.

  The Thatchford Council had several vacancies on its permanent staff at management grade: Director of Planning was one of them. The previous incumbent had left recently to take up a better paid post with a property company which had funded several lucrative projects in the area in recent years. It had been an appointment that for obvious reasons had caused a lot of local gossip as well as criticism.

  ‘What Councillor Task said wasn’t irrelevant, Mr Chairman,’ offered Councillor Barry Winkler in a considered and painfully slow delivery. He had been standing to speak when the noise had subsided. Much older than Motwell, who was fifty-seven, he had been a councillor for longer than anyone else present. A gaunt, retired widower, he was a Liberal Democrat, the minority party that held the balance of power on the full Council which had been hung at the last election. ‘It needs to be disclosed … if councillors have shares … in this proposed golf club,’ he added soberly, drawing in long breaths between phrases. ‘That’s what she meant,’ he added, paused undecidedly, then sat down again.

  ‘Councillor Bender?’ the Chairman called immediately, nodding at a lanky, effete-looking young man sitting with the Conservatives and who, like a number of others, had signalled an urgent desire to speak next.

  ‘But that’s the whole point, Mr Chairman,’ said Bender, beaming triumphantly as he stood, leaning forward from the waist, elbows bent, fists holding back his open jacket and resting behind his hip bone. This was the pose his mother said made him look very like a tall Winston Churchill, although the resemblance had never struck anyone else. ‘That’s the whole point,’ he repeated. ‘Nobody has shares in any golf club because there isn’t any golf club. Not yet. There can’t be unless and until this Committee gives planning permission for it. But I believe we should do that without delay. It’ll bring jobs and trade to the town. Tourists and sportsmen—and sportswomen of course,’ he added quickly. ‘To see one of the finest Elizabethan houses in the country and to play what’ll be two of the greatest golf courses in Europe.’

  ‘Will Councillor Bender categorically deny rumours that he’s been given shares in the golf club? Like other Tory Councillors?’ interrupted Mrs Task from her seat, and fixing the Chairman with an accusing stare.

  ‘We’re not here to bandy rumours, Mr Chairman,’ Bender responded, still on his feet and waving one hand dismissively before returning it carefully to a position behind his waistcoat.

  ‘Or deny them either?’ questioned a male voice from near Mrs Task.

  Bender ignored the comment. ‘Outline planning permission for the golf courses and necessary supporting buildings in Vormer park has been applied for by General the Viscount Delgard,’ he continued. ‘Lord Delgard is a local hero, dignatory and benefactor whom we all respect.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ called the same male interloper.

  ‘Irrelevant,’ called Mrs Task at the same time.

  ‘Whom all responsible and patriotic members respect,’ Bender corrected in a crushing tone. ‘The plans have been approved in sub-committee. If we approve them tonight, they can be passed in full Council next week. Then Lord Delgard can sell the land to Henfold Developments. The money he gets will be given with the house and the rest of the park to the Tudor Heritage Trust. They’ll maintain both for the benefit of the whole nation, but the people who live in this area will gain much more than anyone else.’

  ‘Especially the ones with free shares in the golf club?’ called the persistent Mrs Task.

  ‘Order,’ cautioned the Chairman banging his gavel so hard that the reverberation hurt his shoulder. ‘Councillor Bender still has the floor.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Chairman. Henfold have announced it’ll form a separate company to build and manage the development—’

  ‘Handing out shares to Tories who’re in on the deal,’ Mrs Task protested again loudly from her seat.

  ‘Offering a chance to anyone in the area to participate by buying shares,’ Bender continued, obliquely responding to the interruption. ‘There’s nothing secret about any of this. The press has been given total disclosure of all the plans and the thinking behind them. We all have the same chance to support the creation of a fine local amenity.’

  ‘Local eyesore,’ shouted another male voice from the Labour group. ‘Local elitist amenity for the bloody rich,’ it continued, warming to the subject as Bender took his seat again.

  ‘Councillor Mrs Task?’ said the Chairman, submitting to the inevitable, and looking at the time.

  ‘If Delgard is giving his house and two-thirds of his park to a trust, he’s doing it to escape tax,’ Mrs Task affirmed in her sharp interventionist tone even though she now had the floor officially. ‘So the least he can do is give the rest of the park to this community, not close it off for ever as a golfing playground for the rich. And another thing.’ She jerked her head up as if it had been tugged from behind. ‘What’s been called the necessary supporting buildings for the golf courses includes a huge hotel. The hotel isn’t needed.’ She punched the air with her hand. ‘And it isn’t supporting anything but the greed of its owners.’ She punched the air again. ‘This so-called complete disclosure is a load of codswallop. Let Delgard start again, we say. Let him give his house to this Council—’

  ‘Point of information, Mr Chairman,’ exclaimed Bender, rising to his feet and continuing after a nod from Motwell. ‘We’re not a charity. If Lord Delgard gave us Vormer we’d have to pay inheritance tax on it when he and his wife are dead. And on everything in it.’

  ‘The tax could be paid by trading some of the pictures to the Revenue in lieu. There’s plenty of precedence,’ countered Mrs Task—a claim that evinced groans of disapproval from the Tory group. ‘Then Vormer House could become a local cultural centre, and the park a local recreation area.’ This produced more groans. ‘Of course, the Tories resent the idea. That’s totally in character for them. They did damn-all to improve cultural amenities in the district for the twelve years they were in control of this Council. Well, this year’s election changed that. They can’t block benefits for the people any more. Or feather their own nests, or their friends’ nests, approving every fancy development rich speculators put up to a biased planning department.’ There was a loud irruption of support from her own party members at this, and outraged noises from the people she was smearing with the blatant reference to the recently departed Director of Planning. ‘From now on,’ she continued, ‘the Tories won’t be getting away with anything. Not now there’s a strong majority in the other combined parties to stop them.’ She nodded pointedly in the direction of the Liberal Democrats, although her words had implied a degree of cooperation between them and her own party which had yet to be demonstrated on any important issue. ‘They won’t be getting away with anything,’ she repeated. ‘Especially not something that reduces leisure amenities. That’s why, Mr Chairman, I move for the rejection of this planning application.’

  Only the Labour members seemed to respond favourably to this, and not all of them, nor was there an immediate seconder for the proposal.

  ‘Councillor Winkler,’ called the Chairman, anxious to give a hearing to the Liberal Democrats, though he was less sure than he had been at the start whose side Winkler would take. Certainly the Liberal Democrats had voted with the Tories on the matter when it had been before the planning sub-committee the week before.

  Winkler rose unsteadily. ‘Mr Chairman, I believe it’s impossible to regard this issue as a straight planning proposal any more.’ There were calls of ‘hear, hear,’ from his own party members as well as Mrs Task’s. ‘We’re supposed to judge all planning applications on the same criteria. That’s broadly on whether it’s beneficial or detrimental to our environment.’ He paused, sucking in breath, pressing the backs of his legs against his seat and lightly touching the desktop in front of him with his long, skinny fingertips. His worn, wrinkled face was grave, his frail shoulders stooped as he went on. ‘But it seems to me, Mr Chairman, this application goes a lot deeper than that. You could say it goes back into history.’ The speaker this time made a sighing noise, in witness that he could nearly claim to do the same. ‘We’re discussing the future, perhaps the ultimate survival of a truly stately home … the place that’s been the centre of affairs in this community for more than four hundred years. For most of that time its aristocratic owners have determined the … the destiny of generations of ordinary local folk.’

  There were cries from Labour of ‘shame’ at this last comment though Winkler affected not to hear them.

  ‘Until very recent times, the Delgard family had more influence in this area than the elected representatives who sit in this building.’ He scanned the chamber slowly and without appearing to enjoy the experience, or perhaps the concomitant need to exercise an evidently arthritic neck. ‘This building,’ he repeated, ‘and before that, the much nicer Town Hall that was here before the modern excrescence we’re in replaced it,’ he added gratuitously.

  The additional shouts of ‘shame’ from Labour which had punctuated the reference to the Delgards were balanced by the same call from the Tories confirming his view of the building.

  ‘Whether you find the Delgard family’s past influence shaming or not doesn’t really matter,’ the speaker went on. ‘It was there, and its effect mapped the historic and social development of the area as nothing else did. For centuries. That’s why I find it inappropriate, to say the least, the very least, that Vormer House, the enduring symbol of that influence and that development should have its fate, perhaps … perhaps its very survival, decided once and for all by the … the incidental acceptance or rejection of a mere planning consent by … by this Committee.’

  Winkler looked about him again, this time, it seemed, to assess the calibre of his fellow councillors rather than the æsthetic shortcomings of the room. Then, frowning, he continued breathily, ‘The whole community should be directly involved in so … so far-reaching a decision, not just a few elected and inimical Councillors.’ He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, not loudly, but slowly, before adding: ‘Unlike Councillor Task, I don’t believe the Council should want to own Vormer even if it was offered to us. The maintenance costs would be too great. But I admit it’s a point of view … one that should be put to the people. To the community. And there are other points of view too.’ He began a lengthy pause, either to gather plenty of breath, or because he’d lost his own drift, or because he was finished, it wasn’t clear whether he knew which himself. He remained standing, though that could have meant he had forgotten to sit down.

  Jeremy Bender rose to break the silence. ‘On a point of information, Mr Chairman, can we know whether Councillor Winkler is suggesting we ask the Ministry of the Environment to set up an official public inquiry on this matter, because if he is—’

  ‘That’s not what you’ve got in mind is it, Barry?’ asked Motwell in a tone that managed to be all at once friendly, threatening and cajoling.

  ‘Not yet, Mr Chairman,’ Winkler replied, still standing and coming back to life suddenly. ‘I’m formally proposing that a single public meeting should be called to air the issue … with everyone represented who should be. And that further consideration of this planning application be postponed till after that meeting has taken place.’

  ‘Seconded, Mr Chairman. And I withdraw my own motion,’ cried Mrs Task quickly from her seat, partly because her motion had been greeted with something less than enthusiasm, but more because she was confident that Winkler’s proposal would achieve the same result if by a more circuitous route.

  There were affirming shouts from enough Labour and Liberal Democrats to make the outcome of the ensuing vote a foregone conclusion.

  Chapter Four

  ‘So what’s this meeting tonight supposed to resolve?’ asked Molly Treasure as the Rolls-Royce sped northwards. Her husband was at the wheel.

  ‘To absolve and resolve,’ he said.

  ‘People’s consciences you mean?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  It was four-thirty on Friday, November 9th, and three weeks since the Thatchford Council Planning Committee meeting. The public meeting agreed on then was due to take place in the Thatchford Community Centre at seven. Julius Kuril had coaxed the Treasures into attending, to add, he said, credibility and glamour to the Henfold case. His plea had been gilded with an invitation to the couple to spend the weekend at his country home, Stigham Manor, with a pheasant shoot on Saturday morning as an added attraction. They had been able to accept because both the plays Molly was in at the National Theatre were out of the repertory for ten days. Treasure had also welcomed the visit as a chance to talk through problems that had arisen on the Henfold Czechoslovakian project.

  ‘I still don’t understand why there’s such a fuss about building a golf course in a corner of a huge home park,’ said Molly. ‘There’s plenty of room up here for everything, for heaven’s sake. Much more than they need for the sheep and cows. Unlike Surrey.’ She peered to left and right at the rolling, unspoiled East Anglian countryside that flanked the Great North Road as far she could see in the gathering dusk. And there wasn’t a sheep or a cow in sight, which seemed to confirm her premise.

  Treasure frowned. ‘Two golf courses. And there’s more to it than that. Local sentiment.’

  ‘But if the whole deal means Vormer House is protected for ever, local sentiment ought to be in favour.’

  ‘I should have said local political opinion. That’s hotly divided. On ideological grounds. And there’s opposition from environmentalists but not as vocal as it was. From their viewpoint the plan’s really quite civilized.’

  ‘Because it’s mostly about keeping the land green, not building over it?’

  ‘Yes. What’s left of the green protest seems to have been reduced to a left-wing front. Some Labour members on the Council are opposed on principle, claiming the plan’s elitist.’

  Molly shrugged her shoulders, at the same time rearranging the line of her seat-belt across the jacket of the cashmere suit she had on. ‘National politics should never have been allowed into local government. Daddy used to say it meant the end of objective decision-making on local issues.’

 

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