by Stan Mason
‘I don’t think so,’ retorted Margaret Winslow. ‘The mood of the constituents is extremely intransigent. They will resist the idea most strongly.’
However another Councillor took up the baton at this point. ‘That’s a great idea,’ he forwarded. ‘We could knock down a hundred-and-five houses running east to west. That would be sufficient in numbers for a division to be made. At the same time we could builld a hundred-and-fifty houses for the people in the south on the eighty spare acres of land. The new houses would be fitted with all modern conveniences to satisfy the new owners.’
Margaret Winslow bristled at the idea. ‘Are you mad?’ she snapped curtly. ‘Where do you think the money will come from for such a scheme? We’d get no assistance from the Government. They’d refuse point-blank!’
‘There is a way,’ uttered the Chief Councillor, causing all the heads to turn towards him. ‘Why don’t we divide the town into three constituencies?’
‘How can me do that?’ asked the Member of Parliament. ‘There’s not enough people.’
‘But the division would then be easier,’ came the reply. The Chief Councillor went to the large maps of the town hanging from one of the walls and pointed his finger at them. ‘Look,’ he ventured, drawing an imaginary line up the main road and moving it down to the left. ‘That could be one of them. The second goes up to the main road until it comes to the motorway. The third would be the mass of houses in the north.’
‘As I said,’ repeated the Member of Parliament, ‘there’s not enough population to create three separate constituencies.’
‘Not even if we twisted the truth a little,’ suggested the Chief Councillor, knowing the reaction he would receive.
‘You mean lie!’ uttered Margaret Winslow in disbelief. ‘You seriously want us to lie! Don’t you know there’s the census and the voting list. Anyone could check up and catch us out. How dare you make a suggestion of that kind! How dare you!’
The idea caused all the Councillors to start talking at the same time causing the meeting to end in disarray.
Inside the hall, the protesters continued to discuss the matter after the Councillors had left.
‘We could hold them to ransom until they changed their minds,’ suggested one rebel. ‘I’ve got a revolver if it’s needed.’
This idea was greeted by a round of rejection from all those present.
‘We could abduct the Chief Councillor,’ submitted another rebel quickly.
‘For what purpose?’ asked another man in disbelief.
‘To prove how serious we are,’ came the reply.
‘We might be desperate,’ commented a woman in the centre, ‘but we can’t be seen to do anything illegal. That would play directly into their hands.’
It was then that Joshua Swan, who owned the best-known estate agency in the town, got to his feet and raised his hand to obtain silence.
‘You do realise the implications of such a plan which is to knock down many houses in the town in order to allow the Liberal Party to gain another seat in the House of Commons. Well let me explain it to you in plain terms.’ He paused with every single eye in the room staring at his face. ‘The moment the first hammer falls on one of the properties in the attempt to divide the town, the value of everyone’s home, whether mortgaged or not, will fall by at least twenty per cent.’
A hush came over the crowd as they absorbed the information. Not one of them had thought about prices and values of their houses. Now it came like a thunderclap.
‘Of course,’ continued Swan casually, ‘everyone would be given a home but the cost of building them in the south would be astronomical. We’re talking of a total of a hundred-and-fifty houses. This would be good for builders... bad for homeowners. In addition, there’s the time lag. The Liberals want to split the town in time for the next election. It will take longer than that to build the new houses.
‘This is monstrous!’ snapped a woman in the middle of the hall. ‘Absolutely monstrous!’
Joshua Swan, having said his piece, resumed him seat and fell silent again.
It was then that Henry McCallum came to the fore. He was a newcomer to the town but had appraised himself of all the information about it intending it to become his permanent residence for the rest of his life. He got to his feet and produced a map which he unfolded and held out in front of him.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he began in a high-pitched voice. ‘I have the perfect solution for everyone.’
The audience gave him their full attention expecting to hear something to everyone’s advantage.
‘Here is a map of the town,’ continued McCallum positively. ‘As you will see, there’s a large area of land to the south which, at present, comprises a series of fields which no one uses. It is waste ground and there are acres of it. My suggestion, which I think is sound, is to allow the Council to build houses on it but... in the centre... establish a full-sized football or rugby pitch with an athletics track, with stands to accommodate twenty thousand people.’
His idea stunned those in attendance into silence for a short while.
‘There could be a hundred-and-fifty new houses built around it complete with new kitchen appliances and central heating. It would accommodate all those who lost their homes in, what I suggest, would be an east-west division of the town.’
‘What about the timing?’ demanded a man at the rear.
‘If they started now,’ went on McCallum, ‘they could produce the houses in nine months. The football-rugby-athletic stadium could come later. Do you realise what a boon that stadium would be to Great Molton. It would put us on the map like Wembley or Twickenham for sporting events, especially for those people in the South West.’
The audience mulled over the idea for a short while talking to each other in murmurs before they decided strongly against it.
Mark Bowley decided that it was time for him to speak and he stood up waiting for everyone to simmer down.
‘I think you’re all wrong,’ he accused bluntly. ‘Why don’t we let the Council go ahead with their proposal to split the town into two constituencies.’
A road went up from the crowd in protest but he held up his hands to silence them.
‘No... you’ve got it wrong,’ he repeated. ‘First of all they’ve got to get permission from Parliament to divide the town. Secondly, they would have to knock down about eighty houses if they split it from east to west. Thirdly, they would have to build houses and give them to those whose homes were knocked down. Fourthly, the time element is strongly against them. They’re never going to get all those things into line in the time-span afforded to them. It’s all pie in the sky and I don’t think anyone here needs to get het up about it.
‘That may be all very well for you to take chances of that kind,’ declared one of the women in the hall, ‘but I like it where I am. I don’t feel like moving to the south, I have my home where I’ve lived for over twenty-five years and I’m not going to shift... not for anyone!’
The same cry ran through the hall as people firmed up on their opinions.
‘Well it’s no use appealing to the Member of Parliament. He’s made up his mind,’ exclaimed another woman on one side.
‘It’s his Party that’s behind all this. He won’t go against them,’ rattled a man sitting on the side.
‘That might not be correct,’ declared a man at the front, standing to face the crowd. ‘I’ll put it to you in another way. What will he do if we tell him that no one in Great Molton will vote for him at the next election. He’ll lose his seat. That’ll cause him to change his mind.’
‘Now that’s a great idea,’ cut in a woman in the back of the hall. ‘It doesn’t give him a lot of choice, does it? I vote we do that. Let’s see a show of hands!’
At first only two hands were raised. Then three more, after which everyon
e in the hall proved to be in favour.
‘It’s unanimous,’ cut in a man in the middle. ‘I recommend that two people should visit Fulton to put our case to him.’ ‘How about John Makin and Peter Smythe?’ recommended a woman in the middle.
This motion was approved unanimously and both men raised their hands in gratitude for the task.
‘I don’t think he’ll bow to threats,’ uttered an old man on one side of the hall.
‘If you don’t try, you don’t get,’ replied Makin bluntly. ‘We’ll convince him won’t we Peter?’
Smythe gave him a weak smile and nodded although he was quite uncertain of the final outcome.
Two days later, after discussing their strategy and tactics, John Makin and Peter Smythe visited the office of Michael Fulton, where he held his weekly surgeries.
They sat opposite their adversary...Makin in his usual blunt self willing to throw caution to the wind; Smythe twitching nervously on his chair wishing that someone else had been chosen in his place. The Member of Parliament immediately showed his displeasure at their presence but he sat quietly, willing to listen to their argument.
‘I’ll be frank with you,’ began Makin earnestly. ‘If you don’t change your mind about this plan you’ll lose your seat at the next election. No one will vote for you if you split the town into two.’
Fulton stared at the butcher disconsolately. ‘You can’t threaten me with an argument of that kind because you don’t know what the voters will do,’ he countered. ‘You’ve only a few hundred people on your side whereby I had a very large majority at the last election. Great Molton has grown rapidly. It deserves two Members of Parliament to represent it.’
‘You can say what you like,’ cut in Peter Smythe adamantly, ‘but we’ll be able to influence a very large number of people to vote for one or the other electoral parties. If I were you, I’d be shaking in my shoes.’ He placed a newspaper on the desk in front of him showing a photograph of the demonstrators outside the Council offices. ‘We could go public on the issue not only with the Press but also with the television networks. I’m certain the media will love the story of the people of a town fighting for their independence... people who refuse to be moved by political gobbledegook.’
‘That’s right,’ added Makin, pressing home the point. ‘They’d love to get their grubby hands on a story where man is fighting for the right to secure the safety of his town from politicians and bureaucrats. What do you say to that?’
Fulton stared at them without speaking for a short while thinking about the situation carefully. ‘I admire your willingness to fight but surely this town can’t mean that much to you.’
‘Well it does!’ snorted Makin flatly. ‘It certainly does. Not only that, it’s the principle.’
The face of the Member of Parliament broke into a wry smile. ‘Ah, the principle,’ he muttered philosophically. ‘The world is filled with causes which depend on principle.’ He dwelt on the matter for a short while as the discussion continued and then explained his position. ‘I’m sure that you realise I’m satisfied with the current situation, however the final decision is not up to me. However, on a personal basis I’m not fazed by your threats. I’ll be frank with you. I will not be intimidated. Nonetheless, now that we’ve discussed the matter, I shall submit a report to my Party’s Headquarters relaying your comments and your opposition. Maybe they’ll change their minds... maybe not. You’ll have to be patient and find out in due course.’
Makin and Smythe came away from the surgery with mixed feelings, very uncertain as to whether to proceed with their threat by going to the media and influencing the public not to vote for the Liberal Party at the next election. They spent some time in a local inn talking through the matter. Makin tried to press home that it was important for them not to delay. He was all for taking action. Smythe on the other hand was extremely weak and suggested that they took no action all , advising his colleague to allow some time to pass by before they pressed ahead. In the end, it proved to be a wise measure for Fulton failed to contact them again and nothing more was heard about the division of the town.
As a result of the disaffection by practically all the people who lived in Great Molton, the plan was never submitted to Parliament for approval and eventually it faded away into obscurity. At the following General Election, the Liberals won the seat, after five recounts, by the slender margin of only fifty-one votes. When the celebrations were over, a major accountant in the town examined all the votes as a matter of interest. Oddly enough, his findings proved to be most shocking. If Great Molton had been divided into two constituencies as planned, the Conservatives would have won West Great Molton while the Labour Party would have captured East Great Molton. As the town was a single unit, the Liberals managed to scrape home by fifty-one votes. In the end it proved to be a case of ‘letting sleeping dogs lie’.
A week after polling day, the caretaker was closing the doors of the Council Chamber at the end of the day. Anyone close at hand could hear him singing the last lines of the song from the classic film ‘Casablanca’. “It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die... no matter what the future brings as time goes by”. With regard to Great Molton, that just about summed it all up!
Project Mars
Mars, the red planet, circled by its two moons, Phobos and Deimos, is the fourth one from the sun in the galaxy. It is four thousand two hundred miles in diameter at its equator and one hundred and forty two miles from the sun. It rotates each twenty-four hours thirty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds and orbits the sun once every six hundred and eighty-seven days. The atmosphere on the planet is ninety-five per cent carbon dioxide and it remains extremely thin. The dry reddish dust-covered surface is heavily cratered in the southern hemisphere while northern regions show signs of earlier volcanic activity. Space probes have identified several immense volcanoes and extensive lava planes while huge canyons and smaller valleys occur in equatorial regions with evidence, in the past, of running water. Olympic Mons, the Martian volcano, is the highest known elevation in the solar system at ninety thousand feet, while Valles Marineris comprises a series of gorges that stretches for over three thousand miles. At its peak, the temperature reaches twenty-two degrees centigrade, falling to about minus eighty-seven degrees centigrade at its lowest point.
Professor Septimus Horatius Goring, one of the leading space scientists, had worked on a variety of projects at NASA in the United States. His expertise was recognised world-wide and his reputation ran very high in space circles. After working hard for many years on numerous space programmes, he decided to return to his home in England and relax for a while in preparation of his retirement. After all, he was almost sixty years old and considered that he had earned a decent rest, albeit he knew he could never give up research into space. His peculiar beliefs, for which he had often been ridiculed, included, in particular, the assumption that aliens had actually landed on Earth and had integrated themselves with the human race. He held firmly to this ideal but, despite a great deal of research, including a visit to Area fifty-one in Arizona, he had only found one way to determine their identity and, even he had to admit, it wasn’t absolutely conclusive.
After breakfast one morning, he telephoned for a taxi to take him to one of the main institutes in London for a meeting with a number of other scientists on the topic of space travel. However, as he stepped outside by the arm.
‘This way, Professor Goring,’ he ordered firmly, forcing him towards the back seat. ‘Please get in... and no fuss!’
‘What’s happening? Who are you?’ demanded the scientist.
‘Have no fear, Professor. You’re in no danger,’ returned the man calmly. ‘Your presence is urgently required, that’s all.’
He opened a window and placed a siren on the roof which wailed like a lonesome banshee as the car sped along.
‘What’
s going on?’ demanded Goring angrily, squirming in his seat as the car raced through the streets of London.
‘I obey orders,’ replied the driver. ‘I’m like the three wise monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’
The scientist sat back silently awaiting his fate, expecting that he had been abducted by a terrorist group for a reason he was unable to fathom. However, to his surprise the journey was quite short and the vehicle pulled into the car park of the House of Commons in Westminster. The driver invited him to step out of the car and led him inside the building eventually stopping at a door along one of the corridors. He knocked gently and opened it to look inside before nodding to the scientist to enter. Goring obeyed and found himself staring at five people seated around a large polished table. A tall thin man dressed in a starched white shirt, a black jacket and pin-striped trousers got quickly to his feet.
‘Good morning, Professor Goring,’ he greeted amiably. ‘Sorry about having to bring you here in this fashion. I’m Peter Marshall, the Personal Assistant to the Prime Minister. I’d like to introduce you to Miss Linda Walker, Adviser on U.K. Space Affairs, Colonel Oliver Petrano, Chief of U.S. Space Developments, Sir Martin Colchester, Head of U.K. Space Projects, and Paul Fader, from State Security. Please sit down.’ Marshall then turned on his heel and left the room swiftly by means of a side door.
Goring stared at the faces with a high degree of suspicion. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Why have I been abducted to this place?’
‘Come now, Professor,’ chided Sir Martin Colchester, finding the remark amusing. ‘It’s not an abduction in the true sense of the word. We’re inviting you to an important meeting. There’s an element of emergency involved, that’s all.’
‘No, he’s right,’ admitted Miss Walker compassionately. ‘We need to apologise for our indiscretion. Please sit down, Professor, and listen to what we have to say.’
‘Three space people, one state security man and the Prime Minister’s assistant,’ analysed the scientist. ‘What’s it all about? It must be important to have to abduct me here?’