(3/20) Storm in the Village (21 page)

He retrieved the bread from the floor whilst his mother set about mopping up the od, scolding and railing ad the time. The baby, a smelly bundle still wrapped in its shawl, had been thrust into a sagging armchair, and now began to wad pathetically. It was more than tender-hearted Jo could bear. He picked a piece of bread from that part of the loaf which was still free from oil, stepped across his mother's swirling floor cloth and handed it to the baby. He himself was now faint with hunger and hoped, under cover of the darkness which was gathering quickly, to break himself a piece too. But his luck was out.

Whether he stood accidentally on his mother's hand, or whether she jerked her arm and overturned him, Joseph never knew; but he heard a scream of rage and found himself falling towards the chair. He hit his head with a crack, wlule behind him his mother, beside herself by this time, let fad a torrent of yelling abuse.

For Joseph, as for his poor tormented mother, this was the breaking point. Confused images of the unhappy innocent hens, of his equally innocent and helpless young brothers and sisters floated before him. Not fair, not fair! rang in his dizzy head. His mother might be cold, might be hungry, might be sad. Weren't they ad? Weren't they ad as wretched, sunk in the same deep pit? And more than that, he and the little 'uns and the hens were small, weak, and had to do as they were bid. They couldn't even answer back like the grown-ups could!

He struggled to his feet. He felt as though he were battered by his mother's shouting, the baby's wailing, the snufflings of his frightened sisters, and his own intense hunger and dizziness. He lurched unsteadily towards the door.

'Don't you go out!' warned his mother. 'There's plenty for you to do here, and you've ruined enough clothes for today!' Her voice grew shriller as she saw the child wrench the door open.

'Where you going?' she screamed.

'I'm clearing out of here!' growled Joseph, and ran out thankfully into the pitiless rain.

18. The Public Enquiry

F
AIRACRE
tongues wagged busily one Monday morning early in October. Three notices had appeared in the village. One was fastened to the wire grille in Mr Lamb's Post Office, another was displayed by the bus stop, and the third was fixed to the notice board outside the village hall.

The notice had been issued by the Caxley Rural District Council and it announced that the Ministry of Housing and Local Government had fixed a date for a public enquiry into the proposed plans for a housing estate to be built in that area, following the objections already received to the said scheme, as put forward by the County Council.

'I'll bet Mrs Bradley's got summat to do with this,' said Mr Willet sagely to me. 'There's been talk down at 'The Beetle'—and more in Caxley—about her harrying the Planning Committee with tales of Dan Crockford. And some other chap's got a bee in his bonnet about them downs.'

He knitted his brows in an effort to remember and tossed a small screwdriver thoughtfully from one horny hand to the other.

'Lor'! I'll forget me own name next!' said Mr Wider, exasperated with his own shortcomings. 'But he comes from some lot that keeps ad on worrying about beauty spots and old monuments and that. Begins with a C

I looked blankly at him.

'Not C. of E.,' he explained, throwing the screwdriver even faster, 'but that sort of thing.'

'C.P.R.E.?' I hazarded. 'Council for the Preservation of Rural England?'

'Ah! That's it!' said Mr Wider triumphantly. 'I'd bet he's there, and old Miller, of course, and someone from the Office about the schools.' He checked suddenly, and put the screwdriver in his pocket. His expression grew embarrassed.

'If this did come, God forbid,' said he more slowly, 'would you feel like staying on, Miss Read?'

I looked from the massive brass and mahogany inkstand to the wheeling rooks that I could see through the Gothic window.

'I'd feel like staying on,' I answered.

The same notice appeared next morning in
The Caxley Chronicle.
The enquiry was to be held on the Thursday of the Mowing week in the premises of the Caxley Rural District Council.

'And some very uncomfortable chairs they've got there,' said the vicar sadly to Mr Mawne, who was taking coffee with him that morning. 'And we're bound to take a long time.'

'Everything official takes a long time,' said Mr Mawne, shamelessly fishing out his lump of sugar and eating it with the greatest relish. 'Dash it ad, ad this began last spring. The R.D.C. saw the plans last June, we had our village meeting way back in July, and here we are in October, just putting the whole boiling before the Inspector from the Ministry of Whatsit! Heavens alone knows when we get the Minister's ruling!'

He helped himself to two more sugar lumps, the vicar obligingly pushing the bowl to his elbow.

'Have you any idea,' asked the vicar, 'how long we shad have to wait?'

'Might be a couple of years,' said his friend airily.

'No!' exclaimed the vicar. 'Surely not as long as that!'

'Wed—might be three months,' admitted Mr Mawne grudgingly, 'but we'd be lucky! I bet the Inspector's report will find a resting place in many a tray and pigeon-hole before any decision is made.' He paused, and peered into the sugar bowl.

'I say,' he said anxiously, 'I seem to have finished the sugar!'

'No matter, my dear fellow,' answered the vicar geniady, 'I don't believe it is rationed now.'

The chairs in the offices of Caxley Rural District Council were indeed uncomfortable, as the vicar had said, but that had not deterred a large number of local people from attending.

The room in which the enquiry was to be held had first been the principal bedroom of a hard-riding, wealthy merchant who had built this solid Georgian house in 1730.

Three long, handsome windows, looking over Caxley High Street, let in a watery sun that nickered over wide oak floor boards, highly polished in the merchant's day by a posse of mob-capped maids, but now dull and scuffed by many feet, and grudgingly swept by one overworked old man.

At one end of the room the Inspector from the Ministry of Housing and Local Government sat, with his secretary beside him, at a big table. He was a large man, with a pendulous dew-lap and heavily lidded eyes, which gave him a deceptively sleepy appearance. His manner was ponderously formal, but an astute and lively mind lay hidden behind his slow movements.

The chairs were arranged in arc-shaped rows before the table, and supported, in varying degrees of discomfort, according to the clothing and natural padding of then—occupants, about sixty people.

At one side, in the front, sat various people who would be called to put forward the case for the United Kingdom Atomic Energy Authority, and on the other side were a number of people, including old Mr Miller and his solicitor, who would be called as witnesses to support the objections which had caused this public enquiry. About a dozen Fairacre folk, including the vicar, Mr Mawne, Mr Roberts and his wife, and Mrs Bradley were also present.

There was an air of expectancy in the room. The smoke from pipes and cigarettes spiralled in the sloping rays of sunshine. People spoke urgently to each other. The months of waiting, the many heart-searchings, arguments, wild rumours and distressing suspense had now reached a climax. Here, in this once-lovely room which had witnessed so much history, so many old, unhappy, far-off things,' yet another battle would be fought. It would be fought politely, with decorous words read from innocent slips of paper held in unbloodied hands, and the account of that battle would be jotted down in neat shorthand by the Inspector's imperturbable secretary and, in the fullness of time, would reach headquarters.

But a battle it would be, as everyone present sensed, and the Minister could be likened to a General in those headquarters, who would read the communique, sum up the situation and give his decision on the issues at stake.

The Inspector opened the proceedings and invited the representatives of the Atomic Energy Authority to put forward their case.

Mr Devon-Forbes, Q.C., counsel for the authority, was a tad, cadaverous individual with sardonic dark eyebrows that rose to a sharp point in the middle, like a circumflex accent. In a deep, resonant voice that rang round the room he put forward the desirability of this site for the housing of the authority's workers. He spoke feelingly of the exhaustive survey carried out as a preliminary measure to find an area which would not only prove suitable for the scheme, but would give the absolute minimum of disturbance to the local inhabitants and their environs. The scheme, if carried through, he added, his voice taking on a note as soft and seductive as black velvet, would bring many long-sought amenities to the area involved.

Mrs Bradley, at this point, wriggled on her hard chair, and said 'Tchah!' very loudly. The Inspector cast her a look from under his heavy lids, but Mr Devon-Forbes continued quite unruffled.

His first witness, he said, would be the Planning Consultant of the authority, and he bowed politely to a short sandy-haired man who came forward thrusting a pair of horn-rimmed glasses against his face and clutching a sheaf of papers. Yes, indeed, he agreed, answering counsel's suave questions, the matter had been discussed at top-level with the greatest attention. He began to unfurl a large scale map, and dropped his papers. Several people scuttled to retrieve them.

Might he pin up the map in full view, he asked? The Inspector said, 'By ad means, by ad means,' and indicated the beaver-boarding behind him. The map was pinned up and became the centre of attention.

The Planning Consultant then pointed out the present atomic centre, the distance involved in travelling to work from the nearby towns, the need for more workers, and the impossible congestion this would cause on towns already overcrowded, and the perfect position of the site under discussion for a new, and, he emphasised,
attractive
small township which could bring added prosperity to the neighbourhood. The authority would do everything in its power to see that the countryside remained unspoilt and that the project would not industrialise or urbanise the area.

Mr Devon-Forbes nodded gravely at this pronouncement and his witness was about to sit down when the Deputy Clerk of the County Council jumped up and asked if he might cross-examine.

Had the planning consultant considered the value of the area in terms of agricultural worth?

Mr Devon-Forbes said that his next witness would answer that question if the opposing counsel would allow. The Deputy Clerk sat down, and counsel called his second witness who was as he said, 'an agriculturist in general, and a sod surveyor in particular.'

Samples of the sod had been taken and statistics of the crop-yield from this area over the last twenty years had been made available, and it had been decided, after exhaustive discussion, that, agriculturally speaking, the loss would be negligible compared with the material advantages of using the site as a housing estate for people of the highest importance to the national effort.

Mr Miller here muttered something to his solicitor, who affected not to hear, but turned a very unbecoming beetroot colour.

The enquiry wound on. A formidable number of technical men were called and stated the case for the authority in varying degrees of clarity and audibility. Mr Devon-Forbes conducted his part in the affairs with firm politeness, keeping his witnesses very much to the point, but it was, as Mr Mawne had foreseen, a lengthy business.

Fidgeting became more general as the clock on the wad passed noon, and at half past, with still two more speakers to be called by Mr Devon-Forbes, and several more who had asked to be allowed to add their comments, the Inspector rose and adjourned the enquiry until after lunch.

'Terrible ol' chairs, ennum?' growled old George Bates who had worked for Mr Miller until last Michaelmas, to his crony, as they limped down the stairs. 'My bottom's fair criss-crossed!'

'Ah!' agreed his companion. 'You coming back after dinner?'

'Got to go to the dentist. He's taking out my last three, and I shan't be sorry to see they go, I can ted 'ee! One thing, I bet his chair'll have a sight more padding, whatever he does to me t'other end!'

But most of those who had attended in the morning turned up again for the afternoon session. One or two had prudently brought a cushion or a rug from the car and sat in comparative ease as the witnesses gave their testimony.

At ten to three the last speaker for the authority came forward. She was a welfare worker in one of the neighbouring towns which at present housed a large number of the employees at the power station. She spoke of the difficulties of overcrowded clinics and schools, the lack of proper playground facilities, and the incidence of childish diseases in these places. Gangs of young children, sent out to play in the streets, were already causing the local authorities headaches, and if this new estate could be built, some of the pressure in the towns could be relieved, with the consequent benefit for ad concerned.

Mr Devon-Forbes then rose, cast a look around the room from under his distinguished eyebrows, and then made a short speech stating that the enquiry had now heard the authority's case, and that its evidence was now completed.

The Inspector adjourned the enquiry until the next day, and the assembly emerged into the grey October drizzle, with tea in mind.

The vicar drove Mr Mawne home to Fairacre in his rattling Ford. The drizzle became a downpour as they edged out of Caxley on to the road to Fairacre and beat in upon the vicar's clerical grey as he drove.

'Ready I should have seen to this window, too,' said the vicar to his companion, 'but I so often need it open for signalling. What a good thing yours is staying up!'

He looked with pride at Mr Mawne's side of the car. A large knobbly flint, weighing two or three pounds, dangled from the end of a stout string. This was attached to the bottom handle of the window and exerted enough force to hold up the rattling pane against the weather.

'I thought of it myself/ said the vicar modestly.