Another Sphere of Existence
Oh shit, surely not this one? Please don’t let it be this one.
The late sun was bleeding into a false horizon of cloud, an old tractor coughing and retching across a field somewhere.
Jane standing in Virgingate Lane, radiating dismay.
She’d looked up Councillor Pierce in the phone book. The address was given as Avalon, which had been kind of promising: anyone who’d named his house after the legendary land of apples in the west, where King Arthur had been laid to rest, must have some kind of a soul.
Yeah, well…
There obviously had been apple trees here, in the days when Ledwardine was almost entirely surrounded by productive orchards. In fact, you could see a few of their sad stumps in the shaven piece of former field through which a tarmac drive cut like a motorway intersection, all the way to the triple garage.
Half a dozen cars were parked along the drive, which was actually wider than Virgingate Lane itself, where all the cottages were old and bent and comfortably sunk into the verges.
The extensive dwelling at the top of the tarmac drive was built of naked, glistening bricks, the colour of a Barbie’s bum. It had a conservatory, a sun-lounge, three fake gaslamps.
Jane could hear music and faint laughter from the house.
Great.
The plan had been to maybe encounter Councillor Pierce in his garden, casually ask him about the Coleman’s Meadow project and then perhaps educate him a little on the subject of leys and natural harmonies. He couldn’t turn her away, could he? He was a politician. She’d be able to vote for him next time. Or not.
It was clear from all the cars, however, that Councillor Pierce was hosting a dinner party or something. Bollocks.
Stupid idea, anyway. Jane felt deeply self-conscious now, standing there in her white hoodie like some shameless stalker. Unlikely that she’d gone unobserved from inside.
As if in confirmation of this, security spotlamps came blasting on below the broad pink patio which surrounded the house like a display plinth. Jane saw the hulk of a plundered cider-press with a
slate plaque attached to the stone wheel. The plaque said – inevitably – AVALON.
Maybe it was irony. Sod it, anyway. She turned away from the horror. Maybe she’d just write a letter of protest to the planning department, with a copy to the Hereford Times who wouldn’t print it. Sod them all.
‘Excuse me!’ A man behind her. ‘Excuse me… you looking for anyone in particular?’
Jane turned. Two guys in middle-aged leisureware – polo shirts, chinos, golfing shoes kind of kit – were strolling down the drive towards the nearest car, a gold Lexus. One of the guys beeped open the car doors and balanced a beer can on the roof.
Jane was starting to shake her head, walk away, when one of the pinkening clouds over Avalon reminded her, somehow, of the bird-of-prey profile of Lucy Devenish. She sighed.
‘You’re not… Councillor Pierce?’
The guy with the car keys grinned, opening one of the rear doors.
‘How far would it get me if I said I was?’
‘Excuse my friend, he’s an oaf,’ the second guy said. ‘Did you want to see Lyndon?’
‘Erm… Well, you know, not if he’s like, you know, busy.’
Both of them laughed. The guy with the keys pulled a black leather briefcase from the Lexus.
‘You think Lyndon will be too busy to see this lovely young thing, Jeff?’
‘Lyndon is a man always mindful of his civic duties,’ the other guy said. ‘Follow us, if you like.’
‘No, really,’ Jane said, ‘it’s not urgent or anything. I can-’
‘No, no, you can at least come and have a drink. You’ll be quite safe. My colleague’s in Social Services.’
They laughed. The cloud formation that had looked for a moment like Lucy Devenish had broken up.
It wasn’t exactly a pool party or a barbecue. That is, there was a pool and a barbecue behind the house, but neither was in use. However, one of those extraterrestrial-looking patio heaters was working, and seven people – four men, three women – were spread over a couple of hardwood tables, with drinks. Papers on the table seemed to be architect’s plans.
‘So what would you expect of a new community centre, Jane?’ Lyndon Pierce said.
He handed her a glass of white wine. He didn’t seem to recognize her, which was probably a good thing. He’d asked her name, and she’d just said Jane and left it at that.
New community centre?
‘So, like, what’s wrong with the old community centre?’
‘That’s precisely what’s wrong with it.’ Lyndon grinned. ‘It’s old.’
Lyndon was quite a lot less old than she’d imagined. Maybe thirty. Gelled black hair and a plump mouth. Tracksuit bottoms and a Hawaiian shirt open over a red T-shirt. Not too gross yet, but he probably would be in a couple of years.
‘Chance of a National Lottery grant, you see, Jane,’ one of the chino guys said. ‘We’ll be holding a public meeting to let the people of Ledwardine have their say. We’re drawing up a list of options for them.’
‘What if the people of Ledwardine don’t want a new community centre?’ Jane said.
Lyndon Pierce looked at her like he didn’t understand the question. Beyond the swimming pool, the view was across a couple of darkening fields towards Ledwardine square. Lights were coming on in the Black Swan, the church steeple fading back into the evening sky like another sphere of existence.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lyndon said. ‘Cross purposes, I think. We were just all having an informal chat about the new community centre, look, but you wanted to talk about…?’
‘Coleman’s Meadow,’ Jane said.
‘Oh. Right. Actually, Jeff’s in Planning, he might be able to help you on that one.’
Jeff said doubtfully, ‘Well, I’m afraid they’ll probably be fairly pricey, if you’re…’
Jane could tell he was trying to work out if she was old enough to be getting married or setting up home with someone. It was almost flattering. She took a sip of wine, thinking hard. She’d just stumbled, unprepared, into what seemed to be an out-of-hours gathering of top council people. When would she get another chance like this? Probably never.
OK.
‘I think you’ve… got this wrong…’ Trying to keep her voice steady. ‘ I wouldn’t live in Coleman’s Meadow, if the alternative was, like, a cardboard box in Jim Prosser’s shop doorway.’
Eyebrows went up. A thin woman of about Mum’s age gave Jane a hard look.
‘Because, like, Coleman’s Meadow is a very important ancient site which should be protected,’ Jane said. ‘I’d have thought somebody might’ve noticed that.’
Nobody was smiling much now.
‘I’m sorry, Jane,’ Jeff said. ‘This particular development would be what we would call acceptable infill. We’re very pleased that site’s become available. So I don’t think any of us quite understands what you’re getting at there.’
‘Right.’ Jane swallowed more wine. ‘I can draw you a proper plan if you want but, basically, Coleman’s Meadow is the key point on an ancient alignment from the top of Cole Hill, through a burial mound and Ledwardine Church and then on to, like, a couple of other sites. Coleman’s Meadow is really important because the field gates are perfectly sited on the alignment and because the old straight track actually exists there… like, you can see it, and…’
She was going to say feel it. Decided to leave that aspect alone at this stage.
Lyndon Pierce blinked. Jeff and another guy looked at each other.
‘So… so, what I’m saying, if you have new houses – totally unnecessary new houses – built on Coleman’s Meadow it would completely obliterate the most perfect, like one of the clearest examples of… of a…’
‘Ley line?’
An older guy, wearing a cream sports jacket, half-glasses and a half smile.
‘ Ley,’ Jane said.
The older guy nodded. ‘I wondered if that was what you were talking about.’ He looked relieved.
‘So…’ Lyndon Pierce lowered the wine bottle to the flags at his feet ‘… you know what she’s on about, Cliff?’
‘I’m sure you must’ve heard of ley lines, Lyndon.’
‘I’ve heard of them, yeah-’
‘Periodically, someone revives the idea that prehistoric stones and burial sites were arranged, for some mystical purpose, in straight lines, along which old churches were also built. If you ask the County Archaeologist, he’ll tell you it’s a lot of nonsense. But, like many ideas discredited by the archaeological establishment, it’s become a cult belief among… well, usually old hippies or New Age cranks.’
‘So it’s like, flying saucers and that sort of stuff?’ Lyndon Pierce asked.
‘Exactly,’ the older guy said.
‘So nothing to…?’
‘No, no.’ The older guy shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘Not at all.’
Jane thought of Alfred Watkins, reserved, bearded, magisterial, a pillar of the Hereford community but with an open, questing mind. Everything she’d been taught suggested that society in the early part of the twentieth century had been nowhere near as liberal and adventurous as today’s.
Yeah? Well, no wonder there was no statue of Alfred Watkins in High Town, with bastards like this running the county.
‘How can you…’ She couldn’t get her breath for a moment. ‘How can you talk like that? How can you, like, just rubbish something that throws a whole new light on the countryside… that makes it all light up? Especially in Herefordshire, where Alfred Watkins was, like, the first person in the world to… to…’
‘Ah… Watkins, yes.’ Cliff smiled at her, cool with this now. ‘Charming old chap, by all accounts. Typically English eccentric, very entertaining, totally misguided.’
‘That’s a typical Establishment viewpoint!’
‘Oh dear,’ Cliff said. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I rather suppose that’s what we are.’
‘So, thank you for coming, Jane,’ Lyndon Pierce said. ‘But I’m afraid a fantasy conjured up by some old, dead eccentric guy is really not going to cut much ice today. I was elected, as I’m sure your parents will tell you, on an expansionist ticket. Nowadays, rural communities grow or die, and I want to see Ledwardine getting more shops, restaurants, leisure facilities… and far more housing. We could have a thriving little town here.’
‘But it’s not a t-’
Jane stared at Pierce, who seemed to be bloating before her eyes into something obscene.
‘Jane…’
It was the woman who’d given her the hard look. Short curly hair, dark suit. Possibly seen her somewhere before, but not here.
‘Jane, is this just a personal issue for you?’ the woman said.
‘Well, I’m also doing a project for school. On the interpretation of landscape mysteries?’
‘ Ah. How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
Somebody started to laugh.
‘And which school do you go to?’ the woman asked.
‘Moorfield High?’
‘Robert Morrell,’ the woman murmured to Cliff. ‘Jane, does Mr Morrell know you’re here?’
‘Look… sorry… what’s it got to do with him?’
‘Quite a lot, I should have thought, as he’s the head of Moorfield High.’
‘Well, he doesn’t live here, does he?’ Jane felt herself going red. ‘Like, I care about this place. I don’t want to see it ruined. I don’t want to see the ancient pattern all smashed for the sake of a bunch of crap, bourgeois piles of pink brick like… like this. I mean, sod your new community centre, you should be having a public meeting about the annihilation of Coleman’s Meadow, don’t you think?’
‘I really don’t think we should be arguing about a plan that’s not yet come before the council,’ the woman said. ‘Certainly not with a schoolgirl.’
‘But if nobody says anything, it’ll just get quietly pushed through, won’t it, by people who don’t give a-’
‘I should be very careful what you say, if I were you,’ the woman said coldly.
‘Particularly to the vice-chair of the Education Committee,’ Cliff said.
A rock landed in Jane’s gut. This was, of course, the woman who’d been sitting next to Morrell on stage at the prizegiving ceremony.
Jane looked down at her wineglass; it was empty.
‘Well, I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with you guys. I think I need to get home to…’
She backed away to the nearest corner of the house called Avalon and then looked at each of them in turn.
‘… Work out how best to shaft you,’ Jane said.
And turned and ran through the summer-scented dusk, past the crooked, sunken, black and white cottages of Virgingate Lane.