Page 38 of Rough Around the Hedges

9

ROSE

When The Gardeners Go Marching In

Istepped up on top of the chair at the front of the village hall and put my notes on the stack of pallets that had been set up as some kind of podium.

I’d been in many precarious positions, but this one felt like it was taking the cake.

Was this really all we had the budget for? Or were the committee trying to kill me off?

I cleared my throat and tapped the mic with my pointer finger. It crackled, as expected, and I flinched at the loud noise. “Sorry about—” My voice boomed out through the room, and I jumped, almost falling off my chair. “Jesus, Alan! Turn it down!” I said, holding the mic as far away from my mouth as I possibly could.

“Bloody ’ell, Rose, are you trying to break my ’earing aid?”

“Blame Alan!” I shouted to old Bernie at the back. “He’s in charge of volume!”

Alan gave me a thumbs up, and I hesitantly pulled the mic back to test it.

“Testing,” I whispered into the mic. “Oh, good. Sorry about your eardrums, everyone. Alan will wait by the door for your complaints when we’re done.”

Everyone laughed.

“Get on wi’ it, Rose!” Bernie shouted. “I’m missing my show for this!”

“Bloody hell, Bernie, nobody is making you be here,” I replied. “Go back in time for Emmerdale if you must!”

“Paula told me I had to be here, or she’d steal my raspberries.”

“Then take it up with Paula.” Good God—this was why we didn’t have these big meetings often. I hadn’t even started yet, and Bernie was already sending us off the rails. “Right, I’d like to get straight to the point. I’m sure many of you have heard the rumours that the new Duke of Hanbury is selling some packets of the estate’s land. Unfortunately, the allotment site is one of those.”

Grumbles of discontent sounded throughout the room, and a few questions were shouted towards me.

“Guys, please,” I said, holding up my free hand. “I know you have questions, but please let me tell you what I know, and I’ll answer what I can after.”

I gave everyone a quick rundown of what had happened so far, including the delivery of the new closure notice, and what we were expected to do now.

“Have you contacted the association?” Someone shouted.

I nodded. “I’m waiting to hear back from them. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for much assistance, from what I’ve heard.”

“Then what do we do?” Marjorie Willis asked, raising a shaky hand. “I’ve been tending my plot longer than the new duke has been alive, and I don’t have a garden anymore. How can he do this to us?”

“Because he doesn’t care about any of our feelings,” I replied. “And before anyone tells me not to be extreme, he said those exact words to me several days ago.”

“Rupert is rollin’ in ’is grave,” Bernie shouted from the back with an enthusiastic wave of his fist.

“Good, then he can go haunt his bloody grandson,” I said.

“What are we going to do about it? Like Mrs Willis, a lot of us don’t have the space to grow at home,” Abby, one of my mum’s friends, asked. “Will he really relocate us?”

“I’m going to be honest: no. I don’t foresee that happening at all.” I pushed my hair from my face. “But we aren’t going to go down without a fight. We’re going to the media to see if we can get an article put out, and we plan to harness the power of social media.”

“Can we fundraise to buy the land ourselves?” another person suggested.

“We’ve already looked into it. The planning permission granted for the developments over the years has substantially raised the value, so unless we can stump up funds into the six-figure range, there’s no chance. But that’s not to say we can’t fundraise for legal means,” I said. “We have a lawyer, but our insurance won’t cover a drawn-out battle.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Yet another voice joined the fray.

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