A December to Remember (96)
“My family name will still be on the freehold,” said Maggie. She glanced back toward Sonja, who nodded reassuringly. “The law is the law, no matter how big the bully.”
At that moment, Vanessa rushed in, cheeks flushed and bobble hat bobbing.
“Sorry, ladies!” she chimed as she weaved to the front. “The football club had an away game and it ran over. I had to put this all together on my phone in between cheering and then dash into the office to print it off. Talk about short notice, Maggie. It would have been a lot easier if you’d told me about the eviction when you first got it.”
Maggie gave a half shrug and muttered a bewildered, “Sorry?” She was feeling decidedly discombobulated. If last night’s revelations had been devasting, then today’s were confounding.
“No matter,” trilled Vanessa. “Phew! It’s hot in here. Where are we up to? Am I too late?”
“You are just in time.” Her mum, Saskia, smiled. “We’ve challenged the legitimacy of the planning permission and provided evidence of Maggie’s claim to remain on the property. Which team won?”
“We did. The boys have gone home with Tim to make celebration pizza for lunch,” Vanessa replied, unwinding her scarf and pulling a William Morris binder out of her tote bag. “Good. Okay then, Mr. Gilbert. I have a proposal for you. Something that I think would be in all of our interests.”
“Do you seriously think, after the attack of the menopause brigade here, that you could present me with anything I’d be interested in?” Gilbert was incredulous, but Vanessa ignored him, blowing her fringe out of her eyes and opening the binder.
“Now, there’s room for a bit of back-and-forth, but the gist of it is this: taking into account Patience North’s covenants and the fact that we have a North descendant in residence, the village of Rowan Thorp is willing to subsidize a mortgage in the form of a long-term loan in Marguerite North’s name to purchase the leasehold from your good self, Mr. Gilbert.” She turned to Maggie. “Should you want it, of course, Maggie.”
Maggie had no words. She seemed only able to communicate by blinking, which she was sure she was doing more than the recommended daily allowance. Satisfied that Maggie’s blinks were positive, Vanessa continued.
“Our coffers are not bottomless, you will understand, but I have compiled what I believe to be a fair offer for the leasehold.” With a flourish, she pulled a printed sheet from her folder and handed it to Gilbert.
He looked it over and laughed unpleasantly, leaning back in his bench seat.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that. You seem to have missed off a couple of zeros.”
Vanessa was unperturbed. She pulled another piece of paper from the folder and smiled sweetly as she laid it in front of Gilbert and bent over so that her hands were flat on the table. Gilbert’s stooges moved their pint glasses out of her way. Vanessa pointed to various lines on the page as she spoke.
“Ah, well, you see, I’ve actually done you a favor, sort of cut out the middleman, if you will. Let me explain. I calculated how much you will have to pay in court charges, fines, legal fees, compensations, and reparations when my clients—that is to say Ms. North and the village of Rowan Thorp—sue you for wrongful eviction, emotional distress, misconduct, and unlawfully gaining planning permission via willful deception and/or bribery.” She took a deep breath; it was a long sentence. “As you can see, that is going to cost you a lot of money, and that is before we apply for a compulsory purchase order to buy the leasehold from you at a reduction of the market price in view of your misdemeanors. This figure represents the value were we not to press charges.”
The stooge to the left whistled through his teeth. “I hate to say it, gov, but I think you’ve been snookered.”
Gilbert’s lip twisted up into a snarl. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
“Ooh! Somebody’s tired!” came the singsong voice of Mrs. Philomena Russell—famous for her gooseberry jam—who had turned ninety just last week and given away all her shits twenty years before that.
Gilbert threw his arms up into the air. He looked every ounce a man who had been beaten. “Fine! Do you know what? You win. Let’s do it. This project ain’t worth the hassle. I hope you’ll be very happy,” he spat in Maggie’s direction. “You lot deserve each other, bunch of fucking village witches. I hope you burn!”
“Oh, our foremothers in the seventeenth century did that already, dear, under James the First’s reign,” piped up Miss Eliza Radley—mistress of the WI Christmas quiz. “Nowadays we do the burning. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And metaphorically, I would say we burned you good and proper.”
Gilbert shoved hard at the henchmen to his right, and the men began to shuffle along the bench seat to get out. It was hard to make a dramatic gesture of storming out when you first had to shimmy your bottom along a velour banquette. Finally, he stood, shrugged on his longline houndstooth coat, and flicked his collar up aggressively as though poison darts might shoot out of his lapel. None did. Then, with chest puffed and chin jutted, he pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, slammed it on the bar, and left the pub, his hired muscle lolloping along behind him.
At the sound of engines roaring outside, the women began to laugh and high-five one another.