not getting one,’ snarled Councillor Bedford. He turned to the wider audience: ‘You have five weeks from today to come up with a viable business plan for this place. After that, the council’s negotiations with Café Au Lait enter the formal stages of agreement. Good day to you all and good luck.’
‘’ang on a minute, Councillor.’ Piran moved to bar his way. ‘What will you and Café Au Lait be agreeing on? There are rules to follow about this sort of thing – planning applications, consultation with local businesses and residents, public hearings … Seems to me like Café Au Lait are being given a fast track through the back door.’
Councillor Bedford looked Piran up and down with contempt and spoke at a level only the two of them could hear. ‘Oh dear,’ he hissed. ‘She’s got our eminent local historian involved now, has she? You’ll find, Ambrose, that there are no flies on me. Oppose our plans and things could get tricky the next time you want the council to do something for you. Without easy access to archaeological sites and public records, you might find it that much harder to do your job. So think twice before you try making my job harder.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ growled Ambrose, moving in closer, fists clenched. ‘Mess with me and I’ll soon sort you out.’
‘First slander and now threats,’ trumpeted Bedford. ‘What a charmless bunch of no brainers this “Save the Pavilions” brigade is turning out to be.’
‘I’m warning you, Bedford – any funny business over this Café Au Lait deal and I’ll be on to you so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.’
Councillor Bedford leered up into Piran’s face.
‘Watch. This. Space. Yokel.’
The punch was so swift it took everyone by surprise.
As Councillor Bedford sprawled on the moth-eaten tarmac, Piran, rubbing his knuckles, turned to address the wide-eyed bystanders.
‘Sorry about that. Just tidying up a bit of unwanted rubbish. I’ll do some research on the old place and see if it is worth saving.’ He turned to the Trevay Times reporter. ‘Wayne, can we count on you to dig around and find out what this little shit’ – he pointed at a winded Councillor Bedford, who had picked himself up and was now tentatively checking his nose for damage – ‘and his cronies are up to.’
Wayne grinned and gave him the thumbs up. ‘You can count on me, Piran. Nothing like a bit of local dirt to boost circulation!’
But as soon as Bedford saw the reporter making a beeline for him, he did a sharp about turn and began trotting in the direction of his car. Wayne was immediately waylaid by Audrey Tipton, who launched into a lengthy diatribe about multinational conglomerates riding rough-shod over small communities. By the time he’d managed to extricate himself, the crowd had dispersed and there was no one left to interview. As things stood, the best he could hope for was a couple of paragraphs on page seven – or so he thought, until his photographer excitedly beckoned him over.
‘Hey, Wayne, look at this!’
Wayne leaned over his colleague’s shoulder and peered at the LCD display on the back of the camera. It showed a perfect shot of Piran’s fist connecting with Councillor Bedford’s nose. Wayne’s face lit up.
‘Looks like we got our front page!’
Helen hurried through the front door and made straight for the telephone, not even stopping to take off her coat. As she hit speed-dial and waited impatiently for an answer, her eyes fell to the bag of shopping dumped at her feet with that week’s edition of the Trevay Times resting on top.
‘Hi, Pen. It’s me,’ she announced in a shaky voice, staring miserably at the photo of Piran on the front page.
Penny groaned down the receiver. ‘I thought it might be. I’ve got your bruiser of a bloke here right now. Simon’s pouring the sherry. Want to come over?’
The wind was picking up as she set out across the village green, and Helen felt a nip in the air that told her autumn wasn’t far away. The sun, so warm earlier, had dipped low in the sky, and the temperature was dipping with it. She could smell woodsmoke on the air, and there were plumes of smoke coming from three or four chimneys dotted around the green, one of which belonged to the vicarage.
‘Come in – he’s in there,’ said Penny, pointing to the sitting room.
Helen went through and found Piran sprawled in an armchair, fire-gazing.
Simon had taken his glasses off and was polishing them on his handkerchief, a sure sign that he was feeling anxious.
‘Whatever were you thinking, Piran?’ he asked, shaking his head in dismay before putting his glasses back on.
‘I just saw red, that’s all. The way he was goading me, so cocksure – like he was up to something and there was nothing anyone could do about it. I’ve a feeling in my water the council are trying to pull a fast one. There is no way Café Au Lait should have got this far with their application before anyone knew about it. It’s not that I care about the bloody theatre – I don’t. But I don’t like being had. Something—’ Catching sight of Helen, he broke off, his mouth forming a tight line. Barely acknowledging her, he returned his gaze to the fire.
Helen ignored him and went to give Simon a kiss, then took a seat on the sofa and accepted the large glass of red wine that Penny had poured for her.
‘Thanks, Pen.’ She lifted her glass and took a deep swallow before announcing, ‘I’ve been thinking …’
Piran looked across at Simon and raised his eyebrows. ‘God ’elp us.’
Simon frowned at Piran and turned to Helen. ‘And …?’
‘We’ve got to move on from looking like hysterical idiots’ – she stared fixedly at Piran who stared equally fixedly into his glass – ‘who talk only with their fists.’
‘Hear hear,’ concurred Penny.
‘We need to start looking like credible opposition to Café Au Lait instead of making the headlines thanks to your loutish behaviour!’
‘Exactly,’ said Penny.
‘We have only four weeks to prove ourselves to be serious about saving a building that many locals feel passionate about.’
‘Ppff’ or some such sound escaped from between Piran’s teeth.
‘Piran,’ she reminded him sternly, ‘you have said you’ll see whether there’s a case to be made for saving the Pavilions on the grounds that it’s historically important. Agreed?’
Piran rubbed his sunburned hand over his chin. ‘Aye. But that’s all I’m going—’
She cut across him. ‘And that journalist …’
‘Wayne. Good lad, he is,’ mumbled Piran.
‘… Wayne is going to root about for any underhand dealings between the council and Café Au Lait. Yes?’
