Page 15 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

Hal

I don’t remember Les Etoile, so it must have opened after we left. It’s a nice little boutique hotel in the village. Inside, a very professional receptionist books me into a 2nd-floor room with its own small sitting area and fast internet router. The laundry service takes my muddy clothes and delivers them back early the next morning dry and ironed.

I’ve just had a perfect hot shower, got dressed and feel ready for this meeting. I use the Nespresso machine and take my coffee to the window. It faces towards the sea, not the village. The coastline is surprisingly beautiful from this angle; it takes me back twenty-five years to the time we’d run and played and swam in most of those tiny coves. Money didn’t matter then, or perhaps I’d been too young to notice the increasing financial problems.

The island always attracted people in summer, but it usually emptied out in winter and any cafés and pubs tended to close down. So, it’s a surprise that I have a choice of three cafés for my breakfast. Everywhere I look, there are signs of prosperity. More restaurants, more shops, more people. A cart grinds on the cobbles; shopkeepers shout good morning to one another as the butcher lays out handmade strings of sausages, and the greengrocer piles up a selection of winter squashes.

Now that I look with a professional eye, I can see the rustic backwards island is in fact right on trend. Organic locally produced food is one of the biggest movements of the 21st century and this place has it all. During my university years, the green enterprise was just getting into its stride, it fired my own imagination and pushed me to specialise in sustainable architecture. But after graduation all those shining ideas had to be put aside when I realised my degree wasn’t going to guarantee me a job, not one that paid much anyway. Which is how I ended up working for a property development agency. My own role – as a construction feasibility officer – means I look over building proposals to make sure they meet regulation standards so the developers can make the big money. I’m good at my job, but secretly, I never lost my passion for green business. This morning, looking at the village square with all its local produce, my soul strains to get back to my younger ideals. Unfortunately, unless I can sell our house for a decent price, I’ll need to stay at my soulless high paying job for many more years.

It all depends what happens at this meeting later this morning and if I’m to negotiate, I’d better not do so on an empty stomach.

Choosing a café right on the square, I decide on the full La Canette breakfast. A basket of pastries followed by locally produced eggs and grilled apple & pork sausages. I’m just ordering when a suited man calls from the next table.

“Can we have a fresh pot?” He says.

“I’ll just be a minute,” the waitress saysturning away. Is it my imagination or did her manner stiffen when talking to him.

The man complains until she brings him his tea. He’s sitting with another man, tall with thinning wispy fair hair; he looks like a dandelion seed-head with most of its threads blown away. The other is shorter with a stripy suit and a red and orange paisley tie; both have briefcases open on the chairs between them.

“So, we’re gonna try for all four houses.” The first man pats the wispy light hair behind his ear.

“I still want Blue-Sage Bay.” His friend tucks a napkin into his shirt collar to protect his paisley tie from egg yolk drips. “An excellent investment,” he says. “I mean we’d get the entire headland. Apartment blocks, swimming pools, a nightclub. It could have been a mini Ibiza.”

“Forget it, that bitch will never sell. Last time I tried to make her an offer she threatened to have me banned from her café, like I’m gonna cry without her herbal tea.”

Their conversation isn't loud in the nearly empty café. Even so a couple of heads turn. Dandelion-hair looks around then makes a shushing motion to his friend.

They look like estate agents or property developers. Despite everything, I find myself listening for clues to what I can expect.

“It’s bloody Du Montfort and his protectionism. Otherwise, we could have bought any empty land, look around you, lots of green fields and forests.” Paisley is getting very wound up. “We could have filled them with apartment blocks, and holiday resorts. Had this been Jersey or Guernsey, we could have a bigger—”

“We wouldn’t have got a look in.” Dandelion-hair speaks in a quieter voice just as someone at another table drags a chair on the floor making a loud grating noise, and I miss a lot of what he says.

“…Jersey we’d have had to pay big money for the cottages. It’s only because Du Montfort won’t let outsiders buy property here that sale prices are so ridiculously low.”

They are right about one thing. Property prices here are ridiculously low.

It’s why our own house won’t sell for much. A five-bedroom, four reception house with huge gardens and sea-view, on any other island would sell for millions. Here, I’d be lucky to get £15,000.

“Yeah, they don’t want the locals priced out of their own island. I’m guessing the locals on Catcher Lane aren’t going to love it if we buy all four houses for a song then make a killing later.” They both laugh.

My ears prick up.Catcher Lane?He saidCatcher Lane.

My mind is racing. They said four houses, didn’t they? Which means they want to rebuild the entire lane; this is good news from my perspective.

The waitress comes to place my breakfast in front of me and asks if I need more toast. More tea, Ketchup, brown sauce, butter, jam. It takes me several politenothing, thank you,andNo that’s all,before she leaves me alone.

“…even if we start with one. My vote would be Blue Catch or Low Catch, they’ve both been empty for years. And Low Catch is the old Hemingway house. No one is going to want that. No one is going to complain if we knock it down.”

“They’re big houses, especially the last two.” He shuffles some papers. “They could be rebuilt as small apartment blocks, couldn’t they?”

“Only Low Catch and Labri Catch because they’re the biggest and close enough together. We can have two small apartment blocks connected by a passage or a terrace.”

I pretend to push my food around as quietly as possible. Low Catch is our house; selling might turn out to be a much quicker process than I dared hope. And might get a better price, now that I know what they want.

“Five floors each?” one of them asks.

“Five floors is the maximum height we’re allowed. So, I’m thinking two apartments per floor. That’s ten in total.”

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