A December to Remember (95)
“This is all very interesting, madam, but it doesn’t affect me. I own the lease on the building, and I can sell it, with planning permission, to whosoever I choose.”
“I’m terribly sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Gilbert, but that’s simply not true.”
Saskia looked back and smiled as Parminder Myers, librarian, came to stand beside her.
“Patience North was a savvy businesswoman,” Parminder began. “Women weren’t entitled to own land in their own right in those days, but her tenacity garnered support from a team of London solicitors sympathetic to her plight, and certain loopholes were exploited to her advantage. Upon purchasing the estate and the property freeholds, she had covenants written into the deeds, so tightly knotted that they could not be undone by even the most cunning legal mind. This was her way of securing the future for North women down the centuries.”
Sonja Moorhen had come to stand by Parminder and took up the story. “Though she remained unwed, she had three daughters. Her influence and high regard in the village as a good and fair landlord offered her protection against those who would have destroyed her for being an unmarried businesswoman.”
Gilbert put his hands up to stop Sonja. “I’m sorry, ladies, I realize you’re on some sort of ‘women’s lib’ trip here, but can you get to the point?”
Sonja looked about ready to poke Gilbert’s eyes out with the laminated corner of the folder, but Parminder rested a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Mr. Gilbert,” Parminder said with a smile, “by law, as per the covenants placed on this land by Patience North, no North woman may be evicted from any property which bears the name North in the freehold.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open, though not as wide as Gilbert’s.
“Nah!” He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re having me on. There’s no such thing.”
“Oh, but there is,” said Saskia, stepping forward to wave a copy of the original freehold agreement and the leasehold agreement signed by Reginald Gilbert—Gareth’s father—in 1955. Gilbert reached forward and snatched them out of Saskia’s hand. She merely smiled serenely and watched with an amused smirk on her lips as he scanned the two documents.
He ran one hand through his thinning hair, greasy at the roots and beginning to clump. “I take it this isn’t the only copy,” he said with a kind of faint hope in his voice, as though he could rip these papers up and make it all go away.
“Really, Mr. Gilbert, what do you take us for?” asked Saskia sweetly. “There are copies held with the North family’s solicitors, also in the library archives, the public village records, the historical society, and just as an extra precaution, in the Rowan Thorp Women’s Institute’s own files. We like to stay informed. You will also find the covenants clearly marked out in the land registry and title deeds.”
Gilbert’s expression morphed from annoyed to perplexed as he scanned the documents. “Why would my dad agree to something like that?” he asked his associates, who simply shrugged their shoulders at him in response.
“There were no North women living in the property at the time he purchased it,” said Parminder. “Presumably he didn’t envisage that changing over the years. People often ignore the small print if it doesn’t directly affect them at the time of signing.”
“The bottom line, Mr. Gilbert, is that Maggie North is going nowhere.” Betty had moved to the front of the crowd, arms crossed so that her ample bosoms rested on her forearms like two sandbags wrapped in polyester.
“I’ve shelved out serious money on this project!” Gilbert’s face was turning dangerously red; a vein protruded above his left ear. “I’ve got planning permission. I’ve got a team of builders ready to come in and gut the place. I’ve got planning permission!”
Anita raised her hand. “If I may interject?” she asked.
“By all means, Anita,” said Betty.
Anita smiled hesitantly and adjusted her glasses. “Thank you, Betty,” she said. She spoke slowly and softly as though addressing a small child. “The planning permission—so-called—of which you speak, Mr. Gilbert, would seem to have bypassed the regular channels. That is to say, it didn’t come past me. And all planning requests pass through me. Further inspection of this oversight has led to my discovering that you used a proxy company name when submitting your paperwork and that you submitted your paperwork via a third party, through the village council of nearby Warehorne. Somewhere between being redirected and arriving here, it was signed off, presumably by persons unknown, and filed without ever passing through my hands. In short, Mr. Gilbert, your planning permission has more holes in it than a builder’s vest!”
The women grinned with a knowing smugness; Anita might look unassuming, but she was a firecracker when it came to procedure.
With a violent flick of his wrist, Gilbert threw the papers at them. The women quietly picked them up and handed them back to Saskia, who shuffled them into order and placed them back in the folder.
“You’re making a mistake,” Gilbert growled. “I’ll sell the lease.” He pointed at Maggie. “I’ll sell it to one of the big building firms. See how your small-town politics stands up against a multimillion-pound company. They’ll squash you like a bug.”