kill to put money into, something that benefits children and locals alike.’
Mike stood up. ‘Food for thought. And talking of food, time to eat.’
As the sun finally dipped behind the trees at the far end of Charlotte’s garden, Kate felt more content than she had for weeks. All projects have their challenges and Summerfield, perhaps, would have more than most, but good things would come out of it too. And she had her family, and her friends. What was there to complain about?
Chapter Ten
Frank Griffiths’ living room was packed – which wasn’t difficult, because it was quite small. Nevertheless, there were – Ibsen did a swift head count – eighteen people crammed into the space. Five on the sofa (three on the seat and one on each well-padded arm), three on each of the matching chairs (one on the seat and one on each arm), one on a footstool, one on a piano stool and five standing.
There wasn’t a single face he recognised, except Frank himself.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ Frank boomed above the hubbub.
A hush fell.
‘It’s great that you’ve all turned out tonight. Thank you. It shows, I think, how strongly we all feel about this.’
There was a mutter of approval and nods all round. A wiry-looking woman with a frizz of grey hair and a hard mouth, called, ‘Right on.’
Ibsen shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Feel free to bring Wellington,’ Frank had said when he’d invited him to the meeting, but he was glad now that he’d left the dog with Tam. Wellington liked space.
‘Right, first of all, I have to make it clear that I’m not acting tonight as Chair of the Community Council. The Council has not yet defined its official position but you all know I’m personally opposed. Clear?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Sure.’
‘Good. So let’s assess where we’re at. AeGen have put in a planning application for a Met mast on Summerfield Law. We’ve been told they’re planning to build twelve wind turbines on top of this wild beauty spot. My first question is, what do people think? Are you for or against?’
There wasn’t a single person here from Summerfield, Ibsen noted. Perhaps later, when they understood the impact more fully, the council estate would rally – or perhaps, like Mary Tolen at the meeting, they’d be seduced by AeGen’s promise of hard cash.
But money could never make up for the ugliness of the turbines.
‘Outrageous—’
‘Spoil everything—’
‘We don’t want turbines here—’
‘It’d never be the same again—’
This crowd, at least, was firmly opposed to the plans. Ibsen scanned their faces. Well-heeled, middle class to a man and woman, people his father would call ‘Nimbys’ – the Not In My Back Yard brigade. Is that what I am? But his objections weren’t because the wind farm was near him, they were about protecting an area of outstanding natural beauty.
Ibsen shivered, though the room was warm to the point of stifling. One day, five years ago, he’d climbed Summerfield Law with Lynn and her family, with his own parents, and with Cassie and Ian. The small lead canister in his arms weighed as heavy as the world and his legs had dragged unwillingly to a place he normally loved. It would have been fitting if the weather had been stormy, or icy, but there’d been no synchronicity – it had been a flawless day.
They scattered Violet’s ashes on the heather with a poem and a prayer. He’d put his arm round Lynn as they watched a playful breeze waft all that was left of their baby up to the heavens.
And now they wanted to plant a crop of turbines there, dig vast holes in the earth and pour in concrete, desecrate the loveliness of place with ugly machines.
‘Our task is to do all we possibly can to prevent them. Agreed?’
Ibsen tried to concentrate. The people at this meeting, at least, were behind Frank Griffiths.
‘What do we have to do, Frank?’ someone said above the chatter.
‘Okay, let’s talk about that. I suppose the first
Mike stood up. ‘Food for thought. And talking of food, time to eat.’
As the sun finally dipped behind the trees at the far end of Charlotte’s garden, Kate felt more content than she had for weeks. All projects have their challenges and Summerfield, perhaps, would have more than most, but good things would come out of it too. And she had her family, and her friends. What was there to complain about?
Chapter Ten
Frank Griffiths’ living room was packed – which wasn’t difficult, because it was quite small. Nevertheless, there were – Ibsen did a swift head count – eighteen people crammed into the space. Five on the sofa (three on the seat and one on each well-padded arm), three on each of the matching chairs (one on the seat and one on each arm), one on a footstool, one on a piano stool and five standing.
There wasn’t a single face he recognised, except Frank himself.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ Frank boomed above the hubbub.
A hush fell.
‘It’s great that you’ve all turned out tonight. Thank you. It shows, I think, how strongly we all feel about this.’
There was a mutter of approval and nods all round. A wiry-looking woman with a frizz of grey hair and a hard mouth, called, ‘Right on.’
Ibsen shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Feel free to bring Wellington,’ Frank had said when he’d invited him to the meeting, but he was glad now that he’d left the dog with Tam. Wellington liked space.
‘Right, first of all, I have to make it clear that I’m not acting tonight as Chair of the Community Council. The Council has not yet defined its official position but you all know I’m personally opposed. Clear?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Sure.’
‘Good. So let’s assess where we’re at. AeGen have put in a planning application for a Met mast on Summerfield Law. We’ve been told they’re planning to build twelve wind turbines on top of this wild beauty spot. My first question is, what do people think? Are you for or against?’
There wasn’t a single person here from Summerfield, Ibsen noted. Perhaps later, when they understood the impact more fully, the council estate would rally – or perhaps, like Mary Tolen at the meeting, they’d be seduced by AeGen’s promise of hard cash.
But money could never make up for the ugliness of the turbines.
‘Outrageous—’
‘Spoil everything—’
‘We don’t want turbines here—’
‘It’d never be the same again—’
This crowd, at least, was firmly opposed to the plans. Ibsen scanned their faces. Well-heeled, middle class to a man and woman, people his father would call ‘Nimbys’ – the Not In My Back Yard brigade. Is that what I am? But his objections weren’t because the wind farm was near him, they were about protecting an area of outstanding natural beauty.
Ibsen shivered, though the room was warm to the point of stifling. One day, five years ago, he’d climbed Summerfield Law with Lynn and her family, with his own parents, and with Cassie and Ian. The small lead canister in his arms weighed as heavy as the world and his legs had dragged unwillingly to a place he normally loved. It would have been fitting if the weather had been stormy, or icy, but there’d been no synchronicity – it had been a flawless day.
They scattered Violet’s ashes on the heather with a poem and a prayer. He’d put his arm round Lynn as they watched a playful breeze waft all that was left of their baby up to the heavens.
And now they wanted to plant a crop of turbines there, dig vast holes in the earth and pour in concrete, desecrate the loveliness of place with ugly machines.
‘Our task is to do all we possibly can to prevent them. Agreed?’
Ibsen tried to concentrate. The people at this meeting, at least, were behind Frank Griffiths.
‘What do we have to do, Frank?’ someone said above the chatter.
‘Okay, let’s talk about that. I suppose the first
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