“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.
“Drinks, Troy!” shouted Betty. “Fast as you can, please. We’ve got a winter solstice festival to conquer next.”
“Coming right up,” came Troy’s answering call. “Orders, please, ladies. These are on the house!”
A cheer went up, followed by a stampede toward the bar. Maggie was dumbfounded. Vanessa gave her a smile. “You look thunderstruck.”
“I am. Did what I think just happened, actually happen?”
Vanessa laughed. “Yes, it did.”
“But how did you . . . ?”
“Well, I won’t lie, it was a bit of a rush. Betty activated the phone tree as soon as she left Simone and Star in the shop.”
“The phone tree?”
“Yeah, you know; we each have a list with everyone’s phone numbers on it. In case of emergencies, the person at the top of the list calls the next person and they call the next and so on, until everyone on the list has been informed.”
“I feel like I need to join the Women’s Institute.”
“You really do. So anyway, Miss Radley set up an emergency Zoom, and we all jumped on and, well, you know the rest.”
“I had no idea about the covenant.”
“I’d assumed Augustus would have told you all, otherwise I would have mentioned it. It didn’t help that I wasn’t aware of your eviction notice.”
“In fairness to me, it’s not the sort of thing you want publicized. I have my pride.”
“Lot of good it did you. And anyway, it’s not public, it’s us, your friends, the people you and your kids have grown up with.”
“I had no idea the Rowan Thorp women were so well connected.”
“They’re like gangsters, but with cake and fundraisers instead of organized crime.”
Evette came over holding three sherry glasses. “To congratulate you and warm your cockles ahead of the solstice. It’s freezing out there.”
“Drinking before lunch?” Maggie raised an eyebrow.
“It’s a special day.” Evette shrugged.
“Were you in on this?” Maggie asked her sister-in-law.
“No, I simply did as I was told and got you here.”
“Where are my sisters? They’ve missed all the fun.”
“They’re getting everything ready for tonight. I think they wanted to take some of the pressure off you.”
Maggie felt a twinge of guilt. “I need to get over there. I’ve wallowed enough for one day.”
She swallowed her sadness about Joe and stored it in the way that all good women trying to balance a million things had done for centuries: repress now, take antacids later. There was much to be thankful for. She could keep her home, she could keep her business going, more than that, she was on her way to owning her home, something she would never have imagined possible. Of the many emotions vying for her attention in that moment, it was gratitude for the women of Rowan Thorp that bolstered and empowered her to forge ahead with the day.