various planning enquiries,’ Allardyce explained. ‘I remember you represented that little parish council – Amwell, wasn’t it? – when our Development Corporation took over the gravel pits.’
‘And won a famous victory …’ It had not been that for Kemp, nor for the villagers of Amwell. They had had this pretty spot with a flowing brook and a deep, translucent pool. Kemp remembered there had been words carved on the little bridge, and he murmured them now: ‘Sweet Amwell, Blessed Be Thy Stream …’
All gone now of course under the desert of the diggings.
‘Progress, Lennox … Can’t be stopped, you know.’
‘Someone said progress would be wonderful if only it would stop,’ Kemp remarked, with a smile. ‘I notice the Corporation’s gravel workings have fallen on lean times of late.’
‘Recession. Hits everybody …’ Zack Allardyce waved at a tray of wine which was passing, and had their glasses replenished. ‘I liked your style, Lennox, you put up a good fight for the place, but my Corporation looks to the future, you know …’
Kemp didn’t like being patronized, nor the inference that he had somehow been relegated to the past. Although Zack was at least ten years older than his sister, he was still a young man and it might be that he yet had much to learn about his adopted country.
As if picking up her husband’s thought, Mary turned the conversation by asking how long Zachary had been in England.
Some considerable time, it seemed. He had come as a student, taken his degree here – he did not specify at which university – and, after a stint in local government, he had been, in his own words, snapped up by the Newtown Development Corporation some three years ago.
‘Planning’s my forte,’ he told them, ‘so I stick to working in the new towns. Gives me scope for my ideas …’
‘You’ll not be wanting to go back to Australia, then,’ said Mary, innocently. ‘There can’t be much need for planning there with all that empty space to fill and no historic ruins to knock down …’
‘I don’t intend going back. That’s why I advised my sister to come over and do her law here. We’re both staying in your tight little island, you can bet on that … Ah, here’s Anita … I expect you’ve already met Lennox Kemp. This is his wife.’
Anita Allardyce was also fair-complexioned but in no other way did she resemble her formidable brother. She was a small girl, chunky rather than slim, with intelligent blue eyes set wide apart. She had the bouncy look of one in perfect health, and attractive because of it.
‘I didn’t recognize you at first,’ said Mary, ‘but I’ve seen you jogging in the local park. You wear a bandana thing round your hair …’
‘But not tonight.’ Anita laughed, and shook out her red-gold mane which was waved and frizzed in the present dishevelled fashion of the young.
‘Why, you’re a right little lion cub!’ exclaimed Mary, who sometimes said exactly what she thought.
The two ladies went off together, Zack abandoned Kemp and moved away through the crowd like a tall ship in a fishing fleet.
‘I see our friend Stoddart’s here.’ Mike Cantley had come up and was whispering in Kemp’s ear. ‘How’s he connected to the Allardyces?’
‘Well, Roberts get most of the Corporation’s legal work when we are on the opposite side – which happens quite often these days.’
‘Letting Nick loose on planning must be like sending a bull into a china shop,’ Cantley muttered. ‘Look out, he’s heading this way. I’m off … I don’t want my evening’s enjoyment spoiled.’
‘Hullo, Lennox, Gillorns in full force tonight, eh? Nothing like presenting a solid front …’ It was obvious that Stoddart had already imbibed more than his share of the wine.
‘It’s Tony’s engagement party, Nick,’ said Kemp, smoothly, ‘so naturally the firm is here to help him celebrate.’
‘The Allardyce kid? She’ll eat him alive, that one … Great chap, her brother Zack … Did you know he’s now a highflier with the old Corp? And nearly was a corpse that esh-establishment till he took over …’
‘Its work was done,’ said Kemp, shortly, ‘the town’s built. All they’re doing now is scrub round the edges.’
‘Which don’t suit you conservash … conservationists …’ Nick had trouble with the word, so he changed the subject, at the same time modifying his voice and mien – a good barrister’s trick if done swiftly enough to disarm an opponent. Unhappily for Stoddart, alcohol had slowed him down and the effect was merely clownish. ‘You need friends, Lennox, at a time like this …’ He went on nodding solemnly like a drinking duck. ‘Of course, we in the profession know all about your bad time, but no shouting it from the rooftops, eh?’
Usually Kemp could be amused by Stoddart’s antics but tonight he was not in a forgiving mood. He was saved from throwing something bitter in Nick’s face – vermouth by choice but probably only words – by the appearance of Mary at his side. She must have heard at least some of the conversation.
‘They are serving supper, Lennox,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘in the conservatory … As near as the Australians can get to the great outdoors, I suppose, but it will be chilly …’
‘So, this is the little lady …’ Stoddart bent his huge head down towards her, and his loosely held wine glass spilled out a few drops on the shoulder of her dress.
‘Not so little, and certainly no lady.’ Mary fixed him with a direct look. ‘Nor are you so great as a man that you can’t carry your liquor either inside or out …’
As she gently towed Kemp away she continued in a clear, carrying voice: ‘And it’s better manners than that I’ve had from the drunks on Skid Row …’
It was the kind of party where by suppertime those who had indulged themselves too freely were loose of tongue whilst those who had remained sober were grown embarrassed and lacked conviviality. That there had to be the two camps arose naturally from the presence of so many lawyers who knew the extent of police surveillance on the roads home. The various couples split fairly amicably along the line between drinking and driving but the resulting disunity hardly helped the party spirit. Fortunately no expense had been spared, so the food was some consolation.
The members of Gillorns drifted together in an unconscious gesture of solidarity with Tony Lambert. Zack Allardyce dominated the other end of the long table set out under a glass roof among a jungle of potted plants in various stages of greenness and demonstrating verdant health in some, despondent wilt in others.
Sally couldn’t take her eyes off Zack. ‘He looks like a TV ad for Fosters … You can almost see the wide open spaces between his ears …’
Young Franklyn had been at the wine. He gave a loud guffaw – brought on as much by surprise than anything else; he was rather in awe of Miss Stacey as he was finding revenue law beyond his powers. Besides, she didn’t often make jokes.
Nick Stoddart looked up from where he was sitting mid-table next to Anita. ‘I recognize Gillorns’s virgin tax expert,’ he muttered, ‘and I think she of all people should keep her lip buttoned … Who’s the whipper-snapper who thinks she’s funny?’
‘Franklyn Davey … He’s their articled clerk,’ Anita told him. ‘Since your time, I expect. Didn’t you used to work at Gillorns?’
‘Long time ago …’ Nick’s voice was blurred … ‘Before I went on to better things … Just like you’re doing, honey …’
Anita went rather pink. ‘Oh, it’s not fixed yet …’ she began, but found her companion wasn’t listening. He had found something more interesting going on further up the table. Zachary had tackled Lennox Kemp on the subject of the item in the local paper.
‘Hi,