The Planning Officers

By David Waine

Lift the roof off the Town Hall and take a wry look at what goes on inside. Anna Maria Aitcheson and Dirc Starkey are so absorbed in their careers and each other that they cannot take time to consider the mere mortals they are employed to serve. Noel Gosling may be their boss, but his real job is to see that the many complaints about them get no further, and he is terrified of his wife into the bargain. Follow their lives through one stormy day, which begins with glory beckoning as long as they can bundle one small, insignificant citizen out of the way first. But she fights back...

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Waine
• Release date: Nov 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386151548

David Waine

David Waine was born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, in 1949. He is the youngest of three brothers, all of whom went on to become teachers like their father. It was during his teaching career that he developed an interest in writing, initially plays, and his adaptation of Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' was performed at the Cockpit Theatre in London (the forerunner of Shakespeare's Globe) as part of the Globe Theatre restoration in 1991. He took up novel writing after leaving the profession, and his first published work, The Planning Officers appeared in 2011. He lives with his wife in the foothills of the Pennines. www.davidwaineauthor.com

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THE PLANNING OFFICERS

David Waine

Turnspit Dog Publishing

Copyright © 2011 David Waine

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

STELLA AND ROSE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

HE ROSE ABOVE her, his skin warm and glossy, firm muscles rippling in his neck and shoulders as he took his weight on his elbows and lowered his mouth to hers. Moonlight drifted in through her open window, bringing the heady balm of honeysuckle from beyond the glass and haloing his hair. His supple hands kneaded her flesh as they worked their way down from her shoulders to the waistband of her tiny, lacy thong. Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps and caught in her throat as her back arched in anticipation.

A spokesman for the Postal Union announced that all post boxes would be sealed from midnight because of the industrial action.

The impact of her hurled pillow knocked her clock radio to the floor with a clatter but failed to silence the newscaster’s monotone.

Anna Maria Aitcheson’s eyes scorched open as the image of a Dirc Rampant, about to claim her body, faded into the morning mist. At least it would have done had there been any morning mist.

Her bedroom was its usual soulless self again. Instead of shafts of romantic moonlight flooding through the window, she saw only blackness and heard the splatter of rain and the shriek of wind.

She lay there, the yearning still clawing at her heart, but now replaced by overwhelming disappointment. It had not been the real thing after all.

Not yet.

Pull yourself together, girl, she scolded, swinging her feet clear of her duvet and hoisting her body into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. It was only then that she realised that her nightie had disappeared. She found it moments later, a crumpled little heap of rayon round about where her knees had been when recumbent. She could not remember removing it. She supposed it must have become detached when she launched her subconscious into her overpowering Dirc fantasy. It must have behaved as all clothing should on such occasions, and removed itself.

Thrusting her feet into her slippers, she pulled on a bathrobe. Her ears registered some boring moron droning on about the postal strike and she wished she had set her radio to a music station instead. With a final toss of her head, she flung the door open and lurched across the landing in the direction of the bathroom.

Minutes later, showered, perfumed, coiffured and pampered, she returned to her bedroom and switched the light on.

Better do it now, she thought to herself. The rumpled duvet had a sophisticated cover, but those comfortable cotton sheets and pillowcases would have to go. Ripping them off with a flourish, she cast them into a pile on the floor, making a mental note to hide them in the washing basket before leaving for work. Then she extracted several tight packages from the bottom of her wardrobe and ripped open the plastic coverings.

Black satin. Two sheets and four pillowcases. She had purchased them from the borough’s biggest department store the week before for the express purpose of being deployed this night. There might not be time to change them before the great consummation obliterated all else.

A quick flurry of flapping activity and they were in place. God, they looked gorgeous!

Unable to resist the temptation, she cast her bathrobe from her body and spread-eagled herself on their sublime luxury.

Jesus, this is fantastic! she cried. Why do I have to go to crummy work first?

The time is now a quarter to eight, time for Philip Parsons with the Sport.

Quarter to eight! Sodding, bloody, effing hell! Flinging herself from the bed, she yanked open the top drawer of her dressing table and tore through the neat stacks of sensible knickers and bras. Again, time was critical. She did not know when she would be able to get him back here, and retiring to slip into something more comfortable was such a cliché. Better put them on now for maximum effect later. Where the bloody hell were they? Ah! Finally, she pulled out a matching pair that was neither sensible nor — viewed with any logic — knickers and a bra. The upper item consisted, by and large, of air, surrounded by wisps of lace. These disguised strong wires that were designed to lift her breasts to an altitude to which they were unaccustomed and press them together. This would make their presence all the more obvious when accompanied by a suitable blouse. The lower item was almost entirely air, save for a tiny sliver of lace to cover her modesty. There was also what appeared to be a length of floppy wire to fit into her bum crack. It would be like sitting on a cheese cutter. Even so, the reward would outweigh the discomfort, and all would be forgotten in tonight’s immolation.

Giggling with anticipation, she donned both items. The bra felt odd, as if parts of her were supported by miniature, lightweight girders. As for the thong — God, it was tight!

◆◆◆

DIRC STARKEY WAS already in his shower, stripped to his skin, lathered from head to toe and his head held beneath the rose. Today of all days, he had to be perfect. Dare he believe that tonight everything might change? Would he launch himself into new realms of intimacy, wrapped in the arms (and legs) of the delectable Anna Maria? Even if it didn’t (and he couldn’t quite bring himself to face that) he still had Plan B: a few hours in the Kaiserkeller. There, he could be butch with Charlie and Norman while a veritable flood of female flesh was anything but butch all around. One way or the other, this was going to be a night to remember.

Wrenching his head from the jet of warm water, he admired his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He struck a pose and turned while twisting his hips in the opposite direction.

Yes, he nodded, that will be perfect. The right level of muscle tone to set her knees quivering. Charlie and Norman would make a tolerable substitute, if necessary, but his prime focus had to be Anna Maria’s tantalising crotch. Best not overdo the body lotion. He wanted her nose close when he took possession. Not too heavy on the aftershave either. Keep it subtle. Less is more, he told himself, apart from there, of course — and he could feel the interest stirring in that department already.

So preoccupied was he that he failed to hear the tapping on the bathroom door until it became more of a rap.

Dirc, your breakfast’s ready! came a reedy female voice from without.

Yes, Mum, he called back, jerked from his reverie. I’ll be right down.

◆◆◆

THE HAMMERING ON the toilet door was becoming insistent.

Noel! this was a voice not accustomed to being ignored. Noel, are you sure you’re all right?

Noel Gosling was far from all right. He was convinced that he had despatched his entire intestinal tract to the borough’s sewerage system. His colon would be washed up on some foreign beach a week hence. He could see his cadaverous reflection in the mirror on the back of the door opposite the white pot refuge on which he currently sat. Why had the spoilt witch put a mirror there? Who on earth wanted to admire themselves sitting on the bog? The reflection that stared back at him looked years — decades — older than it should be. He felt more fitted to meet the Grim Reaper than two dapper Japanese businessmen with inexhaustible energy and enthusiasm.

I’m fine, Stella, I’m fine, he gasped, the effort causing what was left of his gut to twist and gurgle yet again. Got to finish getting ready for work.

Well, you won’t do that in there, will you, she replied with her unique tartness. He could imagine her prune face twisting itself ever uglier as the evidence of his malady eked its insidious way past the door and up her nostril. You’ll need to leave earlier than usual as well because the weather is appalling. The street has turned into a river overnight.

◆◆◆

THE FIRST DROPS had fallen long before dawn and the opening gusts rattled loose tiles very soon after. Ere the first yawns had been yawned and the first stretches stretched, it had developed into a stream of driving rain and howling wind. By the time that urban sinks and dishwashers were stocked with used cereal bowls and empty coffee mugs, it was hammering down. Torrents ran in every street. The daily snarl-up had not reached full snarl by the time it grew into a lashing tempest. It tore into the town and its neighbouring city with a ferocity that would mark it down in history as the most fearsome storm of the century.

An impermeable ceiling of black clouds, blasted by savage winds, filled the entire sky. It hurled a thrashing deluge as Hazel Tweddle parked her old Vauxhall Astra by the local comprehensive school. Dawn had occurred more than an hour before, but there was little evidence of it that she could see. Switching off the engine without cancelling the wipers, she bade goodbye to her two sons as they shouldered weighty school bags. Honestly! Ferrying hulking great teenagers to and from school like five-year-olds. It was humiliating and would not have been necessary had the Powers That Be in the Town Hall allowed a bus service between their home and the school.

One son did not deign to respond while the other grunted. They slouched off for another six hours of doing things they didn't want to do for teachers that they didn't want to know in a building where they didn't want to be.

They merged with the crowd. Boys defied the elements with open collars and hands thrust into trouser pockets. Girls used one hand to keep their wayward umbrellas up and the other to hold their flapping skirts down. Ignoring this, she pulled out into the stream of traffic with great care. Driving against the flow, with each of her front wheels throwing a miniature bow wave, her mind turned to the overriding business of the day.

She had not slept well all night. She had gone over her arguments in her head until she was no longer sure which response flattened what question. Still, the killer riposte eluded her. At least Donald should have done the feeding by the time she arrived. That would give them some time to talk before he left for their shop and she for her appointment with Anna Maria Aitcheson.

Why on earth did the woman insist on using both of her Christian names? The letter from her had given them equal prominence. Would people who did things like that be receptive to anyone else's point of view? There again, she might prove a safer bet than the alternative, so Gerry had told her.

Gerry was Gerald Bull, a family friend with a common interest in horses. His close-cropped hair and burly physique suited his surname well. He was a haulage contractor who ran his business from a caravan on his own land on the far side of the borough. He had fought a running battle with Fencefoot's planners for years because of it.

Avoid Dirc Starkey and his pink shirt if you can, he had advised her. "If you're offered an interview with one of the others, go for it. Starkey is dog shit on your shoe. He doesn't know his job and the only thing he cares about is himself. He ordered me to remove my new wrought iron gates last month. Cost me a grand, they did! Said that they contravened regulations, so I pressed him on it, demanded to know which ones. The oily prick didn't know. I offered to take them down and stick the old, corrugated iron sheets back up, then invite the council's top brass to compare them. He made a quick phone call and finally told me I could keep them, but I had better watch my step in future. Stupid bugger left the speakerphone function on and I heard the words, At the third stroke… clear as a bell."

Hazel rolled her eyes in indignation. How could a responsible body, like the council, put such idiots in positions of authority? Could the Dirc Starkeys of this world even hold down a job in the private sector? She doubted it. That was why inadequates like him gravitated to public service and its inherent job security. A sense of unease warned her that she would spend the day banging her head against a metaphorical brick wall while those on high sniggered.

Mind what you say as well, Gerry had continued. He'll latch onto it and twist it out of all proportion to put you down. It's the only thing he’s good at. He makes up the rules as he goes along. The council keeps him on because he gets rid of people who make life awkward for them. This is Fencefoot, the Caring Council, remember. The Investor in People. Don't believe a word of it.

She left the suburbs and negotiated a howling cataract that had once masqueraded as a country lane, up the hill to their field. Her progress had more in common with white water rafting than motoring. Nevertheless, she managed to maintain forward movement whenever the vehicle wasn't travelling sideways.

Pulling in at the gate, she took a moment to admire the view, which, even in the horrendous weather, was breathtaking. There was something awe-inspiring seeing the storm clouds roll down from the moors into the valleys. Their field was on the shoulder of a hill over eight hundred feet above sea level. She could see into the deep clefts of two river valleys from where she sat. Its position, of course, rendered it prone to the worst of the weather. When the sun shone, though, and the wind was battering some other place, there was nowhere she would rather be. She felt at home in her ten acres of lush meadowland in a way that she didn't anywhere else. Even now, she could sense its calming influence stilling the sick feeling in her stomach.

The panorama of the Pennines rearing away to the south and west was a magnificent backdrop to her caravan. Her harmless, inoffensive, discreet, but politically unacceptable static caravan. The source of all the trouble.

It had been stormy in the suburbs, but a near-hurricane was unleashing itself at that height. Driving across the grass was out of the question. The car would sink to its sills, assuming it didn't blow away first. Instead, she wrapped her anorak around her slight frame and fought her way through, bent double and blinded by stinging rain. Her husband, Donald, was swathed in waterproofs by the caravan, measuring out some grain for the geese into a broad red bucket. He was losing a good third of it to the elements and turning a deaf ear to their hissing and honking. Ten years older than her, he was greying at the temples and a couple of stones heavier than he should have been.

The grass, lush and thick as a rule, was saturated and flattened. Large puddles, miniature lakes with their own micro-storms, had formed in hollows on their few patches of level land. The geese were in their element. The blast and deluge were nothing to them, and already she could see that one had stopped shovelling breakfast to go for a swim. How she envied them their simple lives. They did not have to worry about prissy enforcement officers who used both of their Christian names or twisty-minded acolytes. They didn't have to justify why a caravan could be used as a place to have a cuppa while enjoying their land and animals.

She had taken the precaution of donning waterproof leggings and rubber boots. Her proper clothes would survive, still wearable, in case there was no time to change before her appointment. Donald also had leggings but never used them because of his track record of ripping them on barbed-wired fences. Although he wore wellies and an anorak, his jeans were very wet and muddy below the knees and would need to be changed before he left for the shop.

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the van, no other form of communication being possible. Holding the door open for her, he had to strain against the pressure of the blast to get it shut again as they mounted the step to the interior. At least we won't need to bring any water from home for a while, he gasped. All the buckets are overflowing. When's your interview again?"

Ten thirty, she said. Her watch confirmed that she still had more than two hours to go, and she felt the immediate call of the kettle. I'll have a quick coffee before I go. D'you want one?

Donald shook his head. No, I'll have to get off. Need to change my jeans. Must look right for the customers. This was an ironic statement. Their little enterprise had failed to attract any customers at all for the previous two days.

She laughed. Are you mental? Are you seriously expecting anyone to turn up today?

He shrugged. A quick one then.

The interior of the caravan was quite spacious and pleasantly furnished. The experience of sitting on the padded benches was less rewarding than the anticipation, but it had a snug lounge area with a decorative gas fire. The whole van lurched with every gust, but its solid anchors defied any attempt to further test its aerodynamic properties. The goats were sheltering under its lee.

She busied herself filling the kettle from a standing water container while he fought with the knob that turned the fire on. He managed to ignite it at the fifth attempt.

I'm sure this thing's on the way out, he muttered, struggling back to a seated position on one of the benches and rubbing the soreness out of his knees.

Soon the kettle gave off its usual hiss and cloud of steam, and she fixed two coffees. Her husband used his advantage of reach to fetch the biscuit tin from a high cupboard. You got your arguments ready?

I have, she confirmed between sips, and I made doubly sure that it's the Aitcheson woman I'm going to see.

Not Starkey?

She shook her head. No. I rang Nigel McKenzie last night, and he confirmed that she had told him that it was just me and her, and we were to discuss compromise.

Nigel McKenzie was their local councillor and it was he who had arranged the meeting at her request. He had even driven up to the site a few days earlier and confirmed to her that he could see nothing wrong with the van situated as it was. It doesn't block the view, he had said, and the colour even fits in with the surrounding countryside. I don't know what they're fussing about.

What they were 'fussing about' was an anonymous phone call to Fencefoot Regulatory Services. The caller had complained that she had dared to site a caravan on green belt land. They both knew who had made the call. Harriet Shilling was a stuck-up, sour-faced harridan. She kept a nag on the farm where they used to lodge their horses before buying their smallholding. She had never spoken to them or even acknowledged their presence but bitched about them constantly to everyone else.

She had seen