Under the Tump

by Oliver Balch

  I ask him to elucidate. He’d rather not. ‘Let’s just say, they brought city ways round here that were not normal.’ I think back to the recent royal lecture and the drunken reception for the US Ambassador. I’m sure it was just the tip of a rather debauched iceberg. Mr Golesworthy, meanwhile, is pressing his long fingers together in an act of apparent contemplation. ‘In the cities, maybe,’ he snaps, the skin around his fingernails glowing a bloodless white. ‘But not for a small market town in Wales.’

  Changing the topic, I mention that I’m new to the area, a point that is self-evident to us both but which helps me tee up my next question. The arrival of incomers, how does he feel it affects the town?

  He crosses his feet over. I watch them pass in front of my nose.

  The hike in house prices, he says. That’s the most immediate impact. ‘The chances of a young couple buying a house in town these days is virtually zero.’ Richard Booth started it, snapping up properties all over the place. ‘It is perceived as cheap for them.’ Now, it’s ‘Lady Elizabeth’ doing the same.

  He waves a finger towards the window, the gesture intentionally vague. The new American owner of Booth’s Bookshop has several other retail outlets and houses around town, he informs me. The golf course belongs to her, for example, now converted into her private residence. She is involved in the renovation of the castle too.

  Her investment in the town is undoubtedly helping to spruce things up, but some find the size and speed of her buying spree unsettling. His tenor is terse. The chairman is not alone in noticing. Even The Times has picked up on news of Hay’s new benefactor, dedicating an entire feature to her. ‘The new Queen of Hay,’ the literary editor wrote, ennobling her even further. Up in Cusop Dingle, I imagine the king’s blood must have boiled.

  Newcomers are leaving their imprint on the town’s culture as well, the chairman adds. When he was growing up, Hay was a local market-based town. ‘Quite insular in some ways,’ he admits. Over the years, it’s become more cosmopolitan. ‘How would you call it?’ He clicks his fingers, looking for the right word. ‘A mixing-bowl.’ The image evidently pleases him and he turns it over in his mind. A long breath whistles through his teeth. ‘Sometimes it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t.’

  The supermarket affair looms large in the background. I skirt around it for a moment, keen to learn more about the examples of success. ‘Who are the incomers that integrate well?’

  All sorts, he insists. Anyone can integrate. Local people are friendly here – a truth to which I can fully attest. ‘We’re accommodating.’ The trick is to find your niche. He doesn’t quite know how to explain it, but some people ‘just fit’. He was out with an incomer just this morning, for example. The two were clearing up some rubbish that a farmer had dumped.

  It’s true that quite a few of the incomers are a ‘bit weird’, he observes. But he doesn’t have a problem with that. Many of the locals are weird too. So the two groups mesh well. He interlocks his hands to demonstrate this mutual affinity. And it cuts both ways. On the one hand, incomers are ‘diluting’ the local pool of people. That much is undeniable, he asserts. But on the other, they positively enhance the town, bringing money, energy, ideas, vitality. Take the book festival, he says. It’s economically vital for Hay. All in all, it’s a ‘double-edged sort of thing’, he thinks.

  ‘And when it doesn’t work, why’s that?’ I ask.

  He grins. Well, it’s more of a smirk than a grin, really.

  There is little doubt in his mind. The biggest mistake incomers make is coming in and trying to boss everyone around. ‘They say, “We’re going to take over this, we’re going to deal with that.”’ The local population don’t like that. Being told what to do by ‘someone who’s been here five seconds’. How can he put it? It doesn’t go down well. ‘In fact, they resent it.’

  I’d heard the same from our local MP a few months beforehand. I’d gone to speak to him about another matter, but had asked as I was leaving what his advice would be for people moving into the area. Throw yourself into lots of interest groups, he said. The choir, the gardening club, a sports team, whatever. ‘But don’t, under any circumstances, become chair of a committee for at least two years.’

  To be fair to Rodney, he has more than served his term. He first came to Hay in the 1970s, and has been living here permanently for six years. He helps run the local chapter of the University of the Third Age, an education movement for retirees. He volunteers as a steward at the festival. He was active for a while in a local theatre group. As with Andrew and Louise at Eighteen Rabbit, he could rightly be described as an active citizen. The core membership of Plan B, some thirty or forty people, are all cut from a similar cloth.

  ‘So the whole anti-supermarket affair …’ I pause, looking for the right way of phrasing the question. Mr Golesworthy raises an enquiring eyebrow. I become suddenly nervous. ‘Urm, how do you read that, then? I mean, was it incomers trying to push their weight around?’

  Behind my question is a shared acknowledgement that the anti-supermarket lobby was largely financed and supported by those ‘from off’. Personally, however, I don’t see it as a power-play. I read it as a protective measure, an attempt by those who revel in Hay’s particularities to prevent the town’s homogenisation. Safeguarding, basically.

  First things first, he says: he was one of those most in favour of the development. To his mind, the deal was almost all upside. Hay would land a £30-million investment, a state-of-the-art school and a new community centre. Some local businesses might be hit, he accepts, but the overall effect on trade would be positive. ‘Instead, what have we got?’ he continues, sloping the back of his hand into the palm of the other. ‘The community centre is shut, closed, gone. The school hasn’t been built. Powys keeps producing plans, but I’ve not seen a planning application yet.’ Until he does, he refuses to believe anything.

  His lower lip is trembling. He has grown visibly angry.

  As for Plan B, yes, he thinks they represent a ‘minority pressure group’. They went directly against the wishes of the local population, he contends. ‘It’s all right for people coming in from off who have plenty of money. What they don’t realise is that jobs aren’t well paid around here.’ Local people don’t have disposable cash. One in six children qualify for free school meals. At the moment, there’s only the Co-op and Spar to choose from, both of which are overpriced in his view.

  The Plan B lobby are hypocrites to boot. He names two prominent anti-supermarket campaigners, who, according to his sources, both receive regular deliveries from Tesco’s, the devil incarnate if Plan B’s own rhetoric is to be believed. ‘Where were they shopping locally? They weren’t.’ There’s one rule for them, and one rule for the Untermenschen. I look confused. ‘German,’ he clarifies. ‘The subhumans.’

  We are not going to see eye-to-eye, I realise. At the same time, I can understand his frustration. He wants what he thinks is best for the town. To his mind, that means a little more choice. Many locals agree. And both he and they believe that an unelected group of wealthy incomers is preventing that from happening.

  His mobile phone goes off, the ringtone the same monotone bleep-bleep of the alarm function.

  ‘Hello Alan … I’ve done all that … I’ve got a meeting at eleven … Yup … Yup … I’ll be an hour … yeah, so twelve o’clock should be okay …’

  As he continues his phone conversation, it dawns on me that the leaders of the Town Council and Hay Together are really not so different after all. Both claim to have the town’s interests at heart. Both recognise that a rural town such as Hay cannot stand still. Both accept the need for a clear path forward. It’s only when they look to the future that the chasm between them reveals itself. Their views on what direction the town should take and who should get to decide are starkly opposed. Nor does it look like an accord will be found. Because of the bad blood over the supermarket, the two men are not on speaking terms.

  ‘… Right, well, if they all need replacin
g, then replace the lot … Okay … okay matey, bye.’

  He hangs up, then asks if I have any more questions. ‘Or are we done?’ The inference is that we are. In case I’m in doubt, he at last removes his feet from the table.

  Thanking him for his time, I begin to gather up my things. As I’m putting my notebook in my bag, I sneak in one last question. About the Community Plan, could he tell me what timescale the Town Council has in mind? He doesn’t know, he says. The National Park is pushing them to involve Hay Together and as a consequence he has removed himself from the whole process. ‘Because of my personal prejudices.’

  ‘But will it be a five-year plan, say? Or a ten-year plan?’

  We’ve moving towards the door by this stage. ‘I don’t talk about that,’ he says, his tone blunt. ‘That’s communism.’

  *

  Andrew from Eighteen Rabbit calls the Chamber of Commerce meeting to order.

  It is now midsummer and the air in the back room of the tapas bar is stifling. Two tables are laid out at right angles. Rays of bright evening light shine through the open window behind the chairman’s seat. Accompanying them is the feeblest of breezes, barely a whisper. Andrew enquires if everyone has a copy of the agenda. One of the eight attendees signals that he doesn’t, and the owner of Hay’s fair-trade store hands him a sheet from the pile in front of him.

  All of the attendees are shopkeepers in the town. Most are relative newbies. The only one who’s been in business any real length of time is Marina, who runs a furniture and antiques store at the top end of the high street. An old-school retailer, she refuses to set up a website and swears against ever using email. In all the years she has had the shop, a ‘sale’ sign has never once hung in the window. But everything is meticulously chosen and artfully displayed, and over the years she has built up a loyal clientele. The fact that she’s outlasted almost every other antiques dealer in town indicates her business nous.

  With curly, voluminous grey hair and a wardrobe full of loose-flowing, robe-like garments, Marina is recognised as one of the town’s ‘characters’. She is also something of a mystery. One of those rare incomers who somehow feel part of the fabric. No one can quite remember when she arrived or where she came from. And although everyone knows her and she seems to know everyone, she is not one for joining in. In fact, she actively stands apart, positively keeping herself to herself. A woman without ties.

  She is not a member of the Chamber of Commerce and never has been. In fact, this is the first time she has ever attended one of its meetings. She has something to say.

  Before that, the Chamber has its formal business to work through. Andrew states his ambition to be done in under an hour. He hurries the group on to the first bullet point on the list. A pending meeting with the organisers of the literary festival. Discussion centres on the shuttle bus service between the car park and the main site. Last year, it didn’t stop in town. The traders would like to see that changed. Andrew is tasked with the negotiations.

  Next comes an update on a voucher scheme that the Chamber proposes to introduce. The idea is that people will be able to gift a five-or ten-pound coupon to friends or guests, redeemable in shops around town. It fits neatly with the Totally Locally campaign that Andrew is pushing. Proofs of the voucher still haven’t come back from the designer. Again, the chairman is charged with following up. Tabled next is a discussion about a recruitment drive, but the Membership Secretary hasn’t turned up so it’s pushed back until the next meeting.

  Under Andrew’s professional direction, the group see off the remaining topics relatively rapidly: the proposal to start a closed Facebook group (approved by majority), arrangements for the Christmas lights, provisions for a replacement Sunday bus service, a change of signatories to the Chamber’s bank account.

  That leaves ten minutes for any other business. It’s looking good. Andrew kicks off, saying he thinks the Chamber should formally institute a revolving chairmanship, ‘so no one gets dumped with the job indefinitely’. Everyone agrees. Mention is made of the Chamber’s invitation to join a delegation from South Korea, which is visiting the king of Hay to learn more about the booktown model. Finally, the owner of the craft beer shop asks if the Chamber can write a formal letter expressing its concern about the possible closure of the high school. The request goes to a vote. Seven hands go up.

  ‘Right, then, anyone for any more?’ asks Andrew.

  No one says anything. He turns to Marina, who has sat in virtual silence throughout wearing a look of detached interest at the evening’s proceedings. ‘Marina, is there anything you’d like to add at this juncture?’

  Andrew is no psychic. It’s fairly obvious that she is not there to discuss bus routes and coupon schemes. More to the point, he’s had a tip-off. Word is that Marina has come along with the intention of ‘kicking up a fuss’. Hay’s shopkeeping community is like that. Secrets are impossible. Cash tills have ears.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I would,’ she says, and leans forward over the table.

  Everyone’s gaze turns in her direction. A few eyes roll.

  She dives straight in, her mind set and her manner assured. The reason she is here, she explains, is because of serious concerns about the proposed renovation of the castle. ‘The plans, the absence of consultation, the lack of fore-thought about what exactly will happen to the town.’ She fears that the restoration project will lead to the creation of a ‘National Trust tourist trap’, replete with dishcloths and tearooms.

  ‘Yeah, okay Marina, if I could just …’

  The antiques dealer continues, acknowledging Andrew’s attempt to interject but politely ignoring it. She hasn’t finished.

  Architecturally, Hay has one unique attribute at the moment, its own romantic ruin. Look at any postcard or publicity for the town, and the castle is always featured front and centre. The rooks’ nests, the sprawling ivy, the spacious lawn. That’s all going to go, she warns. The town’s primary asset is about to be stripped. Instead, we’ll have what everybody else has got. A blank tourist destination.

  She’d like to share a quick anecdote, if she may. Andrew nods, a fixed smile on his face. His one-hour goal is now irretrievably lost. A few weekends ago, she was walking up through town. A tourist in front of her stopped and turned to his companion. ‘And I heard him say, “This is like Bourton-on-the-Water in the crap Cotswolds.”’

  Now she knows the Cotswolds from old. She has seen how it’s gradually turned into a twee tourist Mecca, every new holiday home and fresh coachload of visitors sucking that bit more life out of the place. ‘I’ve been warning for a long time that the same thing will happen here.’ She’s just really concerned, she says. ‘Really, really concerned.’

  ‘Oo-kaaay,’ says Andrew, who, in one simple word, manages to convey both doubt and disagreement.

  Marina is not deaf to the chairman’s scepticism, nor blind to the passive expressions on the faces around the table. She hasn’t come to rant, she assures them. Her main purpose is to make a request. Would the Chamber of Commerce arrange some kind of public meeting? People are asking the castle committee questions, but they are being ‘fobbed off’. She feels if the business community were to mobilise as one, then they could begin to get some straight answers.

  It’s the same fight as Rodney’s repeated. A sense that the town is on a precipice. A feeling that change is afoot, that conformity is coming. And a bubbling anger. Anger that those affected aren’t having a say, that the wishes of a minority are being pushed through without contest.

  As with the Castle Trust, Andrew sees things differently. Decaying romance is all well and good, but it doesn’t shift product. In his view, the more people the town can attract, the better. Unlike Marina, he doesn’t own his shop. And, with the change of premises, his monthly rental bill has just skyrocketed. It won’t pay itself. Most of the small business owners around the table are of a similar mind.

  In his position as chairman, however, he adopts a more conciliatory tone. His role is to see
that all the views of local businesses are given an equal airing, he explains. One thing he would say, however, is that the plans for the castle are only provisional at this point. That’s what he understands, anyway.

  Marina shakes her head. That might be what they’re saying in public. She’s convinced that the die is already cast. Before we know it, there will busloads of grannies and Japanese tourists flocking into town.

  One of the shopkeepers cuts in. ‘And what’s wrong with that, exactly?’ They will scare everyone else away, Marina responds. The owner of the stationery shop comes to her defence. ‘It’s well known that coach trips spend one pound on a cup of tea and that’s it.’ It’s going to become a wedding venue, someone else has heard. A cookery school is the rumour another person picked up. Another suggests it’s to be turned into a museum dedicated to Richard Booth.

  Andrew cautions everyone about getting ahead of themselves. He has a ‘good dialogue’ going with the London-based architects appointed for the job. He suggests speaking with them. Marina raises her eyebrows. She knows someone who tried already. ‘They got a nasty rebuttal.’ Plus, has anyone seen the other projects they’ve done? she asks. They did the refit of the Ashmolean in Oxford, didn’t they? Andrew replies. They did, Marina confirms. And has anyone seen it? ‘I went,’ she says, and snorts indignantly. ‘It’s all about increasing footfall. It’s nothing to do with the museum itself.’ No one responds.

  Anxious to draw a line under the subject and bring the meeting to a close, Andrew comes back to Marina’s request. Supposing that the Chamber can arrange a meeting with the castle committee, what questions would she like to ask?

  Before she answers, she feels a need to clarify her position. She’s not about maintaining the castle in aspic. Everyone accepts that. As a minimum, the building needs stabilising. And the town needs to attract visitors. This much she accepts; she is ‘no fool’. But Hay is the Town of Books, she emphasises. If you take that away, you’re left with a place that looks much like every other place. ‘Because if the booktown stops, what is it then? The Town of What?’