The Plant-Hire Code
Jane thought, there are still women like this?
‘My husband’s out,’ she’d said. ‘You should really come back when my husband’s in.’
It was a detached bungalow on an estate on the wrong side of Hereford – not that there was a right side any more, with all the roadworks connected with the building of new superstores that nobody wanted except Lyndon Pierce and his power-crazed mates. Taken Jane and Gomer most of an hour just to get here, and Jane wasn’t planning on moving without some answers.
‘Mrs Kingsley, it’s you I wanted to talk to. If that’s all right.’
Mrs Kingsley was a tired-eyed woman in an apron, sixtyish, with a resigned sort of look. She didn’t seem like a Guardian reader.
‘But I don’t really understand what you want,’ she said. ‘As I say, my husband deals with our finances.’
OK, wrong approach. Stupid to say it was about her inheritance. Stupid to try and sound mature and official. Shouldn’t have nipped home to change out of the school uniform. Start again.
‘My name’s Jane Watkins. And I’m doing a project. For… for school. I’m a… you know… a schoolgirl?’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Kingsley looked happier. ‘Which school is that?’
‘Erm… Moorfield? It’s near-’
‘Yes, I know it. I had a nephew there.’
‘Well, I probably-’
‘He’s a bank manager now, in Leominster. Now, what did you want to know again?’
‘Well, it’s this project on… on my great-grandfather? Alfred Watkins? You know who I mean? He was a county councillor and a magistrate, back in the 1920s and…’
‘Mr Watkins?’ Mrs Kingsley smiled at last and nodded and came down from her front doorstep. ‘Yes, I know about Mr Watkins. And his photography, and his ley lines. And he was…’ She looked suddenly uncertain. ‘Your great-grandfather?’
Oh no. ‘Sorry…’ Jane did some rapid arithmetic. ‘I always get this wrong. Great -great-grandfather. It takes me ages to trace it back through the generations. We’re all over the place now, you know, the Watkinses.’
Jane glanced back at Gomer, sitting at the roadside in the old US Army jeep he was driving now. He’d said he probably wouldn’t be much use, not knowing Mrs Kingsley, only her late aunt.
‘Of course, it was my grandmother knew Mr Watkins, not me,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘I’m not that old. My grandmother, you see, was very well connected, that was what I was always told, although I was quite small when she died. I imagine she could’ve told you some marvellous stories about Mr Alfred Watkins.’
‘Really…? Well, that… that’s what I heard,’ Jane said. ‘You see, we live in Ledwardine-’
‘Yes, that’s where my aunt-’
‘And all the main people in Ledwardine told me the person I could’ve spoken to, if I wanted to know about Alfred’s connections with the village, was Mrs… Pole.’
‘Do you know Mr Bull-Davies?’
‘James Bull-Davies! Absolutely. James said Mrs Pole was, erm… he said she was a real lady.’
‘Oh, she was. I’m so glad Mr Bull-Davies remembers her.’
‘They all do, Mrs Kingsley. Ted Clowes, the senior churchwarden? Ted said, Jane, you want to be sure and get Mrs Pole into your project. And her family. Which, erm, could eventually be published, of course, by the Ledwardine Local History Society.’
‘So that was what you meant when you mentioned my inheritance,’ Mrs Kingsley said.
‘Well, it…’
‘You meant Coleman’s Meadow,’ Mrs Kingsley said.
‘I think that was what it was called.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I didn’t inherit the land, dear. That was my cousin. He’s the farmer.’
‘Well, yes, but-’
‘As you’d probably have known if you’d seen the local television news tonight,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘Where he was interviewed.’
‘Oh.’
Shit.
‘The reporter did say they’d tried to find the instigator of the protest, but you were keeping a low profile. Although they did have quite a good photograph of you, from one of the newspapers.’
Just when you thought you were being so smart.
‘It was strange, though,’ Mrs Kingsley said, ‘that they didn’t mention you were the great-great-granddaughter of Alfred Watkins.’
‘Well, it’s not something I…’
‘Talk about,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘No. I don’t suppose you do, you silly little girl.’
Which was when Gomer came over.
He wasn’t even smoking, and he’d buttoned his tweed jacket.
‘Gomer Parry Plant Hire.’ Handing one of his cards up to Mrs Kingsley. ‘Once put in a new soakaway for your auntie, but I don’t suppose her’d’ve talked about it much at family gatherings.’
For a man of seventy-odd he moved fast. Must have seen Jane’s face folding up, and he’d been there before she reached the bottom of the steps.
Mrs Kingsley stood on the top step, holding the card. The ambering sunlight flashed from windows all over the estate and boiled in Gomer’s bottle glasses.
‘Brung Janie over on account o’ the importance o’ this, see. Good girl, means well, but her gets a bit… emotional. Takes things to heart.’ Gomer took off his cap. ‘Got herself in a real state over this argy-bargy, missus, as you can likely see.’
Mrs Kingsley looked at the card, said faintly, ‘Plant hire?’
Gomer looked solemn. It was touching, really. The words plant hire, for Gomer, represented some old and honourable tradition of saving the countryside from flood and famine, bringing mighty machinery to the aid of the needy. A plant-hire code of decency was implied and it shone out of Gomer’s glasses.
‘You see much of your cousin Gerry?’ Gomer said. ‘Gerry Murray, Lyonshall?’
‘No.’
‘Ar,’ Gomer said. ‘What I’d yeard.’
Jane looked at him, curious. He’d had very little to say in the jeep on the way here. But Gomer knew about the local network, its grudges and its feuds, and what he didn’t know he’d find out.
‘ You know him?’ Mrs Kingsley said.
‘No. But I knows of him. If you see what I mean.’
Standing there with his hands behind his back, not pushing it. Little and lean, the cords in his neck like plaited bailer twine.
‘Gerry… knows what he wants and makes sure he gets it,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘One way or another.’
‘Yeard that, too. And your Auntie Maggie… seems to me her was a bit like Janie, yere – worried too much about what was right and what was wrong, kind o’ thing.’
Mrs Kingsley looked down, brushing her apron. It was beige, with black cats on it.
‘My aunt did talk about you once or twice, Mr Parry,’ she said. ‘You’re making this very difficult for me.’
‘Ar?’
‘I have some letters… and photographs.’
‘What Mrs Pole left you.’
‘You obviously know about them.’
‘Mabbe.’
‘I was going to offer them to the Hereford Museum. Or perhaps the Woolhope Club.’
Gomer looked blank.
‘The naturalist and local history club that Alfred Watkins belonged to,’ Jane said. ‘It still exists.’
‘Mr Watkins was a member, yes. Among other important people. The photographs belonged to my grandmother, Hazel Probert. I think it’s what she would have wanted, after all this time.’
Mrs Kingsley looked out over the housing estate. You could hear lawn-mowers and strimmers and a few children shouting. Across the estate and another estate, on higher ground, you could see the top of Dinedor, Hereford’s own holy hill.
Jane found she was holding her breath.
‘After the TV item, I brought them down,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘On television, it didn’t look like the same place – all that fencing and the signs.’
‘That’s nothing to what it’ll look like when it’s covered with executive homes,’ Jane said.
‘Well,’ Mrs Kingsley said, ‘I can’t let you take the photographs. But I can let you see them. I suppose they explain why my grandmother might not have wanted someone like Gerry Murray to have the meadow.’