Simone swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in her throat. She pulled the van off the road and undid her seat belt so that she could bundle her nephew into a hug.
“Patrick Joshua North, you listen to me. You are a good person. There is nothing wrong with the feelings you are experiencing. Accepting a new person into your family is a big deal, and it is completely normal to have doubts and fears. Your mum loves you more than you can even imagine. You hurt her feelings, but she’ll get over it, because love is bigger than everything else. And as for Joe, how could he not like you, you are fucking awesome! And if he doesn’t accept your apology, then he’s an idiot and he doesn’t deserve your friendship or your mum’s love, and I’ll be the one giving him the finger, after I’ve kicked his arse!” Patrick snorted a laugh into her shoulder. She kissed the top of his head and released him. Pulling out her phone, she tried Joe’s number again. Nothing. She wouldn’t let Patrick see she was worried. “Right, let’s crack on; we’ve a ferry to catch!”
Simone pulled back out onto the road and tried to channel her youngest sister’s practice of pushing positive energy out into the universe. If she was going to make this right for Maggie, she would need to harness some of Star’s eternal optimism.
47
The front courtyard of the Rowan Tree Inn was unusually busy. There hadn’t been another snowfall since the storm, and with so much footfall on Holy Trinity Green the grass was making a reappearance. The glittering Christmas tree had been out-glitzed by an eclectic group of twenty or more women over-forty showcasing a style aesthetic that ranged from Fair Isle sweaters to leather trousers and everything in between. Some of the older women had gone gracefully with their gray hair, while others railed against it with fiery orange or Cleopatra black, and in one case a fetching flamingo pink. They looked as incongruous a group of comrades as you could hope to meet.
As Maggie looked on in a kind of trance, Evette gently steering her by the elbow, Betty emerged from the crowd looking resplendent in a cerise trouser suit with 1980s shoulder-pads-of-power and a white ruffled blouse exploding out the jacket. Her short sensible gray hair had been swept up at the front and gelled into a pompadour that would have made the most ardent New Romantic jealous. Maggie had only ever seen Betty in an apron over a floral tunic and slacks, and the sight of her now jolted her out of her daze.
“Good, you’re here. We were starting to wonder how much longer we could keep Gilbert contained. Troy offered them free coffees, but they’re making noises about leaving, so we need to move now,” Betty half shouted.
Maggie shook herself, taking in the faces, which were now turned expectantly toward her.
“I’m sorry, who is Troy supplying with free coffee?”
Betty puffed out an exasperated breath toward Evette. “You didn’t tell her?”
“I didn’t know I was meant to. You just told me to get her here; that was hard enough.”
“Not to worry, no harm done. She’s here now. Let’s get in there and bang this miscreant to rights.”
“Who?” asked Maggie again, feeling increasingly like she had woken up in a parallel universe, or another decade.
“Your landlord, dear, the dishonorable Gareth Gilbert of Gilbert and Marks letting agents.”
“Right. Why is my landlord in the pub at”—she looked at her watch—“ten forty-five in the morning and what are we going to do to him?”
“Scare the shit out of him if all goes to plan, eh, ladies!” A whoop went up behind her as the women fell in line behind Betty. “Ready?” she asked, looking expectantly at Maggie.
Maggie was lost and confused, so she nodded and stepped into the space left open by Harini.
Evette squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ve got this all under control,” she said, though Maggie noticed she had begun to bite her lip.
“Oh, I’m not worried,” she replied lazily. “At this point I really don’t think much more can go wrong. Let the chips fall where they may.”
Betty’s voice drowned them out. “Ready, ladies?” The women of Rowan Thorp’s wide and varied societies, institutes, and associations shouted and punched the air in a way that suggested they were more than ready. Maggie took a deep breath and followed Betty into the pub.
Gareth Gilbert was sitting in the far corner on one of the benches fitted against the wall, flanked by four archetypal heavies. He was so engrossed in his conversation that he didn’t notice the wall of women headed toward him until they had clustered around him and blocked out not only the light but all available exits. He was momentarily taken aback but recovered himself quickly, no doubt bolstered by the human mountains on either side of him.
“Ladies!” he said, opening his arms wide in an expression of friendly greeting. “How can I help you? Are you collecting for the church roof fund? Or is it orphans today?” His voice had a nasal quality to it, oily and smooth so that every word came out as a sneer.
Troy came over and placed five pints of ale on the table in front of the men.
“On the house,” he said and hurried back behind the bar to watch the show. The gift of free booze appeared to squash any thoughts the men may have had of imminent departure. Gilbert raised his glass to the women and took a swig.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.” He gave a yellow-toothed grin.
Betty folded her arms and some of the women in the group shook their heads in disbelief and sympathy for his misguided ways.
“I knew your father,” Betty began.
“Good for you,” Gilbert countered. “Taught me everything I know about property; god rest his soul.”
“Didn’t teach you to read, though, did he?” piped up Harini. That got some titters.
Gilbert shifted in his seat, looking slightly discomforted for the first time but smiling through it. “Ladies, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am a busy man, so if there is something I can help you with, let’s get to it, shall we?”
“Your father knew how things stood in Rowan Thorp,” said Betty. “He had respect.”
Gilbert seemed to notice Maggie for the first time, and a kind of understanding dawned on his smug face.
“This is about Ms. North’s eviction,” he began, a smile fixed in place. “It isn’t nice to lose a business in the village. I get it. I do. Small communities disappear when the hearts of the high street die. But I’m on your side. The hotel that will replace the greengrocer’s is going to bring visitors and tourists to this charming corner of the weald, put you back on the map. Everyone benefits.”
“We don’t need to hear your sales pitch, Mr. Gilbert,” Betty cut in. “We’re just here to tell you, it’s not going to happen.”
Gilbert looked momentarily confounded but recovered himself quickly. “I’m afraid it’s not up for negotiation.”
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Betty. She turned and crooked her finger, and Maggie saw Saskia Brannigan push to the front of the little crowd, holding a large manila folder to her chest.
Saskia smoothed her hair down with one hand and then opened the folder at a page marked by a yellow sticky note. “You inherited the lease of the building currently rented by Maggie North,” she began.