Pebbleton-On-Edge

By D A Gregory

The Parish Council of a pretty seaside village are struggling to keep their little corner of England thriving and autonomous. Wrapped up in the mundane and often hilarious business of organizing village life, Sue Cheam and her colleagues at the Council are shocked out of their complacency when horrifying secrets are uncovered beneath the respectable surface.

James Goswell begins to wonder if Pebbleton is the best place to be Parish Clerk, if you want to live a long and healthy life. And he has already taken drastic steps to guarantee that……

As the police begin to investigate, the self-interest of powerful men two centuries ago brings consequences that make a mockery of the Council's finest hour. But someone in this century knows the facts, and means to keep them hidden at all costs. Amid the chaos and suspicion, is it possible for romance to blossom? And will Sue ever finish the filing before the chocolate biscuits run out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D A Gregory
• Release date: Aug 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465873026

D A Gregory

Born at an early age, discovered chocolate - enjoying life! Fiction, in my view, should not have to stick to one genre - life is full of drama, mysteries to be solved, romance and fun, so a story can have all that too. Literary heroine: Agatha Christie. Many more Pebbleton books in the pipeline, the village is the star.

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PEBBLETON-ON-EDGE

by

D. A. Gregory

SMASHWORDS EDITION

***

PUBLISHED BY:

D. A. Gregory on Smashwords

Pebbleton-on-Edge

Copyright 2011 D. A. Gregory

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Grateful thanks to all those who encouraged the writing of this book and helped with details of authenticity, including my former colleagues at LTC, Les and Colin from the ship, school friends Sue and Angela, and Hannah for proofreading and advice. Special thanks to my dear husband Keith for his patience throughout.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events, characters, organisations and businesses are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1 – Meetings

Reluctant to let this final interview end on a bitter note, the man with the quiet voice told the sullen individual who stood before his desk his usual anecdote for such occasions:

When my little girl started school, she came home and asked what I do at work. Before I could think how to explain, my wife cut in with ‘Daddy tries to stop naughty men doing naughty things.’ Good description, I’d say, wouldn’t you?

Show no emotion, no reaction. The ambiguous reply came: For a child, yes, sir.

Embarrassed, the quiet-voiced man hesitated, the smile fading from his tired face. He stood and leaned forward, offering a hand to shake. This was accepted politely, and they both headed for the door of the office. Well, goodbye, Simon....er, sorry, um……and all the best in your new life. We will, of course, keep a little eye on your.....welfare.

‘Simon’ bit back the retort ‘That would be a first’. He passed through the door and down the corridor, checked at the lift by a security officer, the first of three he had to get past before finally emerging onto a street near the embankment. It was a cold November afternoon, the approach of winter sending the young London business generation in smart suits leaping from taxis and scuttling into the warmth of buildings, scorning coats and scarves. ‘Simon’, a little older and wiser, pulled a thick coat over his suit. It still seemed odd to be wearing a suit, after getting used to.....no, no more thinking about the past. He breathed deeply of the damp air, eager to start on his plans. However vaguely formed in detail, these plans had a general purpose, an upward trend toward which pure human instinct led him. Already the groundwork was prepared, the necessary documents in a thin folder hidden under his mattress, thanks to the few useful contacts he had made in the building behind him. Every single document, carefully prepared and suitably aged where applicable, bore the name by which he would now be known. The thought gladdened his heart, and detaching himself from the crowd on the street he practically danced down the long flight of steps to the tube station. Now to pick up his few possessions from that horrible little bedsit, and then….!

Watching his departure from the office window several floors above, the man with the quiet voice breathed deeply and released the air in a discontented gust. The office door opened and his secretary joined him at the window, murmuring, Gone, has he?

"Hmmm. Definitely have to put him down as a failure, that one..…Damn it, I couldn’t even get his name right. ‘Stop naughty men’....more like ‘take screwed-up men and make them ten times worse’.....what have we just let loose on society?"

Chocolate digestives are not the right choice for the up-and-coming local government employee. Sue had already got crumbs in her keyboard, and now she was wiping a smear of chocolate off a letter that was waiting to be signed by the Parish Clerk. Still, it would be worthwhile if the Clerk in question would overcome his inhibitions (whatever they might be) and take a certain lady out on a proper date. Sue had let the chocolate melt in her fingers while gazing out of the window, watching the object of these musings walking away from the building with Paula Rivers, the youngest of the Parish Councillors, and the easiest on the eye by a long stretch.

Jealousy played no part in Sue’s mental wanderings, for she preferred men who were open and direct, and preferably a little younger than James Goswell. No, Paula was the girl for him, she cared about local issues and could talk intelligently about current affairs. Miss Sue Cheam, on the other hand, left her desk at five sharp and emptied her mind of the day’s work. Life, in her opinion, was to be lived, which meant zumba classes, helping run charity events, and catching up with her friends to plan the next holiday or weekend trip. Anything to make sure that earning money was a means to an end, not the end itself.

The two people on Sue’s mind were by this time walking in a grove of pine trees, out of the blinding sunlight of a mid-June day. The dry needles whispered beneath their feet as they walked on in cool shadows, until they reached the wire fence that prevented further progress. Past the wire, a blazing sunlit panorama lay shimmering in heat haze –the cliff edge, the sea rocking gently, and down to the left a tiny beach baking below a stony path. The bleached sand gave way to grey shingle, and then another cliff rose sharply out of the shallow waters, topped by a large flat area of grassy meadow. No sound disturbed them but the cries of seagulls, and the muted crush and sigh of the waves. Finally the woman spoke. I don’t think it’s a good idea.

Why? Spoken with surprise but devoid of anger, though he had so much riding on it.

"I – I can’t tell you exactly. I just have the oddest feeling – oh, I know it’s good for Pebbleton, and everything, but – well, there’s something so wrong about spoiling all this!" She flung her hand round at the view, passionate in her distress.

He pretended to jump out of the way of her flailing arm, and she laughed. He was taken aback at the unexpected strength of her feelings. Slim and brunette, her long hair twisted up into a clip, her face animated by emotion, she looked beautiful to him. He resisted the urge to touch her as he quietly replied, I didn’t know you were so crazy about the view – or Pebbleton, for that matter.

She turned to him, amazed. "I love this place, James – I came here for holidays when we were kids. There can’t be a square inch of that cliff-top we didn’t picnic on!"

Oh, I see, he smiled. Sentimentality, I understand. But kids today can’t be let out to explore alone. Even the picnics are regulated now – we hire them out a barbecue stand, and shoo them away at dusk. And woe betide them if they leave any litter behind!

Very funny. Yes, I know it’s not the same now, and we have to move on and all that – but there is something nagging away in my mind. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I just feel uneasy about this whole thing. Honestly, it’s not just sentiment, I have serious misgivings about the Development.

James knew better than to get involved in the politics of the Development project. She was a Councillor, albeit a young and attractive one. All the Councillors had their own agenda, their own interests, not to mention satisfying the pressures put on them by their political parties.

Oh well, he shrugged and sighed, It won’t be up to me, anyway. He added with a smile: Fortunately. I love being the Parish Clerk – I can always blame you Councillors if the decisions you make turn out to be rubbish! She took a friendly swipe at him, and they turned and strolled back through the trees to the main path. As they reached the beginning of the tarmac road, she got out her car keys.

See you tonight, then, she said, keeping her voice casual.

Yep, don’t be late, he teased.

Me? Late? As if! she laughed, and climbed into her little hatchback. Willing himself not to look back, James casually walked on towards the white pillared entrance of the square mansion that stood bathed in sunshine at the curve of the road. She watched him in her rear-view mirror, waiting until he disappeared before she began a careful three-point turn. Why did his opinion, even of her driving, have to matter so much? It wasn’t just his looks - James was, admittedly, tall, lean and had a long, handsome profile, his short hair just beginning to grey. She remembered him at a recent Council function, wearing a bow tie and tuxedo, looking far too classy for the modest Parish Council of a seaside village. He wouldn’t look out of place at a Royal garden party, she had thought at the time - he had beautiful manners, and such a warm, confident way of greeting everyone, making them feel genuinely welcome. There was an air of poise about him, which had impressed the Council members who had interviewed him just a few months ago. She was glad she had not been among them – she would have accused herself of being unduly influenced by his high, intelligent forehead, twinkling brown eyes and disarming smile. She had often thought that a Parish Clerk shouldn’t look like James – or maybe James should be something other than a Parish Clerk? However, Paula Rivers considered herself a sensible woman, and by now his looks alone would have lost their effect, had his personality not pleased her.

James Goswell strode into the reception lobby, unaware of her eyes upon him. Inside the building two more interested pairs of eyes monitored his progress. Hi, sweetie, he threw at the receptionist as he shot past her desk towards the stairs. It was always ‘sweetie’ if he couldn’t be bothered to think of names. Very unprofessional, but he had other things on his mind. The Development project would be the main agenda item tonight and if it didn’t go through Council – no, it was unthinkable, it had to be passed.

Imogen, the flawlessly groomed receptionist, had been watching him on CCTV from the moment he stepped out of the shadow of the pines with Councillor Rivers. Her smile was that of an indulgent nanny, despite the fact that she was twenty-five to his forty. She would have dearly loved to nudge him into some such daring venture as taking Paula Rivers out to dinner – not on Council time to discuss business, but a real dinner date. She was convinced that she could read the body language going on between them. However there was no way would she dare suggest anything to James – the gossip among the girls in the Parish Council offices was that James Goswell was impossible to catch. Many lovely women had tried, it was said, and quite a few hideous ones as well. The result was just the same – a big fat nothing. James probably started the legend by joking that at least the ladies knew where they were with him – nowhere!

Imogen turned her lovely blonde head away from the CCTV display, away from the sight of Mr. Goswell’s trim backside racing up the stairs two at a time, and away from the exciting possibilities of romance in the workplace. Shaking her head sadly, she returned to the riveting task of typing up the Minutes of the last Amenities meeting, her long nails attacking the keyboard like a flock of baby woodpeckers.

The final pair of eyes waited for him on the first floor. He didn’t make it into his own office before Miss Fiona Carvell shot out of hers, forcing him to stop dead to avoid an accident. Miss Carvell, spinster of the Parish, was composed of thin bones and sinews, a pale lanky skeleton covered in purple floral cotton. At five foot ten, she was almost as tall as James, making her elbows at a dangerous height in relation to James’s ribcage. Her ‘threatened collision’ manoeuvre was frequently used, yet no-one had found a strategy to counter its deadly force. If Miss Carvell was set on waylaying someone, they stood no chance. He did not address her as ‘sweetie’. Ever.

She had been fretting since he had announced at coffee time that he would be having his lunch out, and her suspicions of his motives were aroused. Fiona took pride in knowing everything about the incumbent Parish Clerk; his tastes, his work, his diary and especially his whereabouts. James was proving the most difficult Clerk she had ever studied. He did not conform to any pattern known to her from the previous Clerks, yet he was easy enough to work for. Nothing upset her more than his sudden unscheduled absences. No matter that he planned to go into the village to have his hair cut, grab a quick sandwich from Lacey’s Café, and then stroll the back way round to the pine grove for an off-the-record chat with Councillor Rivers – Fiona would feel as much hurt by the lack of communication about the haircut as she did about the unspecified activity among the pines. After an initial question that he pretended not to hear, she said no more, but loped about fretfully until he departed. Once he had gone, she sat hunched at her desk, strategically positioned with a view of the stairs and the windows, resembling an unhappy vulture. No-one ever saw her eat, and cruel rumour had it that to avoid wasting time on such a frivolous indulgence her wiry frame was sustained by energy pills as supplied on space missions, the packaging providing the only padding in her ill-fitting bra. Sue Cheam maintained that she wasn’t even human and had stolen the food supply from a doomed astronaut who had the misfortune to land on her planet, wherever that was.

James had learned soon after his arrival six months ago to humour Fiona, knowing that he needed her. She had been Secretary to five successive Parish Clerks, and knew more about the running of Pebbleton-on-Edge Parish Council than anyone. It was irritating that he could think of no way to replace her, but he was philosophical about life and accepted that she was a fixture. A little flattery now and then seemed to be all she needed, and he reassured her at appropriate intervals of the value of her support. ‘Indispensible’ was how she viewed herself, so that was his stock phrase when a pat on the back was due. When she got too overbearing he kept her in her place by an impromptu departure from the building, casually unexplained. Dodging Fiona had become a game, and he had developed quite a few strategies to outwit her. She should have been angry with him, but she seemed to see him as a troublesome child whose bad behaviour had to be endured. He played along, truancy his only rebellion.

Ah, James, I’m glad you’re back, she announced, as if there had been a chance he would have absented himself for the whole afternoon and gone sun-bathing. I need you to check the final agenda for the Tourism meeting – we only have three days and it really must be sent out to the Councillors this afternoon. And - as he opened his mouth to reply - I was rather at a loss to tell Councillor Denby where you were – he turned up at one o’clock – oh, don’t worry, I didn’t say where you were – but he was rather put out as he expected to discuss the Development with you.

She fixed her eye on him, hoping for an explanation. Councillor Denby? The poor old guy is losing it – I told him two o’clock. Well, back to the grindstone, eh? Let’s have that Agenda and I’ll get busy. He held out his hand, forcing her to back into her office to pick up the document.

Fiona’s great tragedy was that due to her knowing every detail about the running of a Parish Council, she had missed seeing the big picture. Her obsession with schedules, minutes and records left her a mine of information about the past and present running of the Council, but lacking any instinct about her colleagues, or awareness of approaching problems. She had no idea of her boss’s fear of commitment, for example, otherwise she would have felt as sorry for Paula Rivers as Imogen did. Worse still, despite her proximity to the main players in the dramas unfolding around her, she had no sense of impending disaster. But then, no-one did on that warm summer day.

It was cooler by six-fifteen, to the relief of the Council members who were heading towards Southcliff Hall. They were to meet in the recently redecorated Clandecy Room, the focal point and pride of the beautiful building. Built in the ‘William and Mary’ style, Southcliff Hall enjoyed the status of a listed building. It sat alone, halfway along a turning from the main village street, like a white oblong temple, with a neo-classical portico added at the centre of the front elevation, supported by four columns. Neatly planted gardens were laid out in front, either side of a concrete slope designed for wheelchair access. There were no other buildings in the road apart from the converted Hall stables housing the Tourism department, which lay across a courtyard car park adjacent to the main edifice, and beyond that a backdrop of pine trees obscured the view of the cliff edge beyond. After work hours it was an oasis of calm, and even in the week it was visited only by staff, Councillors and those villagers who had dealings with the few departments in the building.

By six James had grabbed a sandwich and cup of tea up in the staff room, and had come alone to the Clandecy room, needing a quiet moment before this most crucial hour. He walked quietly downstairs, passing through Reception to the wide corridor which led to the huge double doors of the Clandecy Room. Even this passageway was a peaceful prelude, from the silent rich carpet under his feet to the commemorative plaques on the walls. He reflected on past Council members and officials, now long dead, who had walked along this way to thrash out decisions, not momentous on a national scale, but important to the lives of generations of residents in the area. He quietly opened and hooked back the two-leaved doors to the Council’s meeting room, and walked to the wide oak table with its set of sturdy leather-seated chairs. Beneath the high ceiling white fans rotated lazily. The walls had recently been repainted in a soft grey-green, with white above the picture rail and in the numerous panels. Huge portraits of the Clandecy family, the original owners of Southcliff Hall, were set into the panels, and the eyes of lost generations gazed down on the proceedings.

His favourite portrait was of Lady Elizabeth Clandecy, original source of the family fortune. She had been the sole heiress of a wealthy Earl back in the seventeenth century; a headstrong girl of twenty-one when the young, handsome Major Edward Clandecy had danced with her at a ball (thanks to a bit of skilful social engineering by his ambitious father).

Realising that he had made a conquest, and not one to pass up such an opportunity, the dashing Major Edward had married above himself. So far above, in fact, that he had trouble adjusting to the dizzy heights of the society into which he now found himself accepted. He was ill-equipped for the responsibilities which fell on him, knowing little of managing lands, property and fortune. Happily his shrewd father, with Elizabeth’s connivance, had kept the money safely growing, and though Edward died quite young of alcohol-related causes (as it would be described today), his heirs were well provided for. Southcliff Hall had duly been built in the Palladian style, so popular at the time, and the Clandecy heirs were educated in the art of making money grow. All went well until a later generation lost a good deal in American investments during the Great Depression, but still the Clandecys were the family in the area. Memories of past glories kept Clandecy heads high in the Parish. James contemplated Lady Elizabeth’s determined chin and the ironic tilt of her eyebrows, and wondered what she would think of events about to unfold.

First to arrive, disturbing James’s reverie, was Councillor Denby. Sorry I missed you earlier, he said, I just popped in on the off-chance. Fiona said you were out on some important business, obviously she couldn’t tell me what. So I thought I’d come in early and have a quick chat. That OK?

James suppressed a smile, knowing that Fiona had refused to admit ignorance and turned it into discretion. He turned round one of the heavy chairs to face another, gestured to the older man to take a seat, and sat down facing Gordon Denby. Fire away.

I’ve heard that one or two of the others are getting cold feet about letting the land go to developers. Do you think there’s a chance we’ll lose this? I mean, after all the hard work you chaps have done, it would be simply criminal. What can I say tonight to make this happen?

Gordon, you know I’m not supposed to influence anything. Anyway, most of the work was already done when I got here. This began before my time, remember. Chewter was in office when the developers approached the Council. Everything just went on from there, feasibility studies, that sort of thing. Most people know all the pros and cons, we’ve had plenty of consultation meetings - it will have to be voted on of course, but I’d have thought - in principle - it would be a foregone conclusion.

Bad job for you if it fails, eh?

Bad isn’t in it. You know as well as I do this place is falling apart – without new investment, in short without the Development – we’ll decline to the point where we’ll have to be absorbed into the District Council. As it is we do so little here we can barely justify the upkeep of this place. But that’s just us as a Council. For the village – well, with the Development, we’ll get tons of infrastructure to go with it. Not to mention cash for the sale of the land. New jobs, new homes, they’ll have to build a clinic too – then there’s shops, bus routes, a new primary school – we either go up in the world and put ourselves back on the map, or we sink without a trace.

James stopped, hearing himself voicing his own fears. He’d finally found a lovely niche for himself, a comfortable job in a pleasant place. He was afraid that it would all disappear, and he’d have to start all over again – at his age it wasn’t so easy to find a well-paid job. His were odd qualifications, his CV read as a motley collection of short careers in several different directions. Depending on which way you viewed it, he was a man of wide and varied experience, or a man who didn’t know what he wanted to do and seemed to be always on the move. He knew he’d been incredibly lucky to get this job, and was doing all he could to hang on to it.

Gordon seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts too, and a silence developed. Finally, Gordon heaved a sigh, and came out with an unusually perceptive comment. You’d make an excellent politician.

What? Why?

I asked you a question, and you talked on in fine style. You didn’t give me an answer and you told me nothing I didn’t already know. Yes, my son, you have the makings all right!

James grinned. He liked Gordon best of all the Councillors, and put up with his ramblings with more patience than others showed. He knew the old man was probably getting a touch senile, certainly he was forgetful and could get confused. His heart was in the right place, however, and he earnestly wanted the best for the little community he loved. He’d been a teacher, and after spending a lifetime successfully encouraging youngsters to make the most of humble beginnings, he often despaired of the failure of the schools and other youth services to do the same now. He insisted on seeing the potential for good in young people, and no amount of graffiti or vandalism around Pebbleton would change his outlook.

A thumping along the corridor announced the arrival of Councillor Alfred Wentley, closely followed by Councillors Paula Rivers and Sheila Cooper. Wentley screwed up his nose in disgust at the sight of the fresh paintwork, muttering about wasted money.

The cheerful Mrs Cooper looked about her and exclaimed Oh, it’s lovely! I do like the colour. I might use this for my bathroom! She, at least, had her feet on the ground, thought James. Her little council house was adorned with so many colours that a peacock would have felt underdressed, but it was immaculate and very welcoming. Wouldn’t it be nice, thought James, if all Councillors were humble folk like Sheila. Maybe realistic decisions would be made, and less self-interest would creep in.

At this point, as if cued by James’s train of thought, in marched Councillors Clandecy and Massington. Clandecy, of course, treated the others as if they were unwelcome guests he had to tolerate in his ancestral home. Southcliff Hall had been sold to the Council in the 1930’s, long before