In their different ways, both of these women led lonely lives. Vanda’s isolation was nothing like as desperate as Jane’s, but she realized now how empty life had felt over the last year or two. How empty she had let it become, perhaps. Once they had what they wanted out of this situation, she would make the rest of her life altogether richer.
The two exchanged details of their lives outside Martin Beaumont, of their very different childhoods, of their preferences in books and art. And in television, that perpetual resort of the lonely. As she drove away from the thatched cottage on the edge of the village, Jane Beaumont was much more animated than she had been when she arrived.
Vanda North stood in the doorway of her ancient home until the car was quite out of sight. She went thoughtfully back into the house and sat down to revolve her thoughts on this new commitment. It was only when the clock chimed in the hall that she realized the visit she had so feared in prospect had lasted for three hours.
TEN
Martin Beaumont was no fool. Even those who hated him knew that. It was what made opposition difficult. And those women who had more personal reasons to resent him, such as Jane Beaumont and Vanda North and Sarah Vaughan, realized when they thought coolly about it that he was a man who would not easily be defeated.
Beaumont was a shrewd and highly experienced operator. He sensed that there was going to be a challenge to his domination of the empire he had created at Abbey Vineyards. Not perhaps to his leadership, but to his position as the autocrat who determined every aspect of policy. He knew all about Vanda North’s desire to end her powerless partnership and withdraw her funds, of course, but he was confident that his lawyers had tied that up for him years ago. Nevertheless, if she became more than a lone voice of opposition, things might get difficult.
Beaumont sensed rather than knew that Jason Knight was considering how to strengthen his position. Knight was an ambitious and well-informed man as well as a highly proficient chef. Martin was keeping an eye upon him as the restaurant prospered and the chef’s position within the firm strengthened. Knight had taken care that his sounding of Gerry Davies was unobserved by the owner, but Beaumont was well used to divining what was going on around him from the minimum of information.
Fiona Cooper was just the sort of personal assistant he needed. She was both discreet and intelligent: she gave away nothing, but vacuumed up the gossip around the place and passed it to her employer. And Beaumont himself noted the odd phrase which signified a change of attitude in Gerry Davies, a man too honest for his own good, too unused to the ways of dissimulation to adopt them when he needed them. Davies took care to say nothing about either his meetings with Jason Knight or his knowledge of what had passed between Beaumont and Sarah Vaughan. Nevertheless, Beaumont noted subtle changes in his speech and his bearing which suggested that his unthinking loyalty and admiration for the owner had been affected.
It was always Martin Beaumont’s inclination to tackle opposition head on. If he was in a position of strength, he believed in exploiting it as quickly as possible, lest the situation changed. And he felt himself to be very much in a position of strength with Tom Ogden, that obstinate strawberry-grower whose land obtruded so inappropriately into his. When he sensed that he held all the cards, Martin liked to bully the opposition.
He acknowledged that openly to himself. He knew that he enjoyed a little bullying when he felt he could not lose — it was a release from the more subtle and patient manoeuvres which were so often necessary in the rest of his dealings.
On the morning of Tuesday, May the eleventh, Beaumont chose to bully Tom Ogden.
PICK YOUR OWN STRAWBERRIES.
Ensure that you have the freshest fruit of all. Bring the family and enjoy a day out.
Tom Ogden was inspecting the signs which had been newly prepared for this season’s picking. There was a road junction near to the entrance to his fields which meant that traffic often had to stop. That gave drivers and passengers a chance to read more than if they had been passing at thirty or forty miles an hour. Last year’s signs had been perfectly serviceable, but Tom had decided upon complete refurbishment.
The psychological effect of pristine paint was to assure the public that a new and exciting opportunity was now available; Tom’s son assured him of this. And Tom, like many people of his age and background, affected to despise such nonsense, but felt secretly that there might just be something in it. No one ever went bankrupt by underestimating the intelligence of the public. Some rich American showman had said that, and Tom’s experience bore it out.
Take all those idiots who poured into Abbey Vineyards next door, for instance. The supermarkets and the specialist wine stores were full of decent wines at decent prices. Yet people who should know better not only flocked in to eat in the expensive restaurant. They also bought the dubious English wines grown on the long lines of vines which had surrounded Tom’s defiant fields over the last twenty years.
Tom Ogden did not pretend to be objective: he saw no need to sample the product before delivering his trenchant verdict.
When he turned from the new signs to find Martin Beaumont also inspecting them, Ogden’s day took an immediate turn for the worse. He said harshly, ‘You’re not welcome here. You should know that by now.’
Beaumont gave him a leisured, mocking smile. ‘Going to horsewhip me out of town, are you, Thomas?’
‘Don’t think I wouldn’t, if I thought I could get away with it!’
‘Ever the friendly neighbour, aren’t you?’
‘There’s nothing for you here. How many times do you need telling?’
‘I’m a persistent soul, Tom. Anyone who has had dealings with me will tell you that. I get my own way in the end. Always, and usually on my own terms. At the moment you’re lucky, Tom. Very lucky, because I’m being patient. But don’t rely on your luck lasting forever. Those same people who would tell you how persistent I am could also tell you that I am not noted for my patience.’
It was like a confrontation in the western films Tom Ogden had so relished as a young man. The small landowner was being threatened by the wealth and power of the land baron who wanted to consolidate his holding. At least there were no guns here, as yet. ‘We’ve nothing to say to each other, Beaumont.’
‘Not quite correct, that, Thomas. You don’t have much to say to me, but in spite of your churlish attitude I am still prepared to talk to you. To say things which would be sweet music in your ears, if you weren’t such a stubborn old mule.’
‘My family’s farmed this land for years, Beaumont. I don’t intend to change that now to suit some johnny-come-lately like you.’ It was an old argument that he had delivered before, but Ogden enjoyed repeating it, enjoyed the contempt he could put into his epithet for this unwelcome presence.
‘Times change, Thomas, times change. Bigger people than you have ended up in the bankruptcy courts through failing to recognize that.’
‘Get lost, Beaumont! Look at the evidence before your eyes!’ He waved a wide arm towards the fields behind the man and his Jaguar, to where Spot Wheeler and his workers were assiduously tending the rows of his crop. ‘We’re going to have a bumper crop and a bumper year. We’ll still be here when your bloody vines have been and gone!’
Beaumont’s face darkened, as it always did when anyone directly insulted his enterprise. ‘I hope you’re right about your crop, Thomas. It would be a shame if anything happened to affect this bumper year.’
This was more than ever like a western. Tom Ogden felt he should have his gun belt slung low on his hips, with his hand hovering above the holster. ‘If you’re threatening me, Beaumont, you’d better watch out. That’s a game two people can play.’