Anything For a Quiet Life

by Michael Gilbert

  “Probably stolen,” said Mrs Grandfield.

  Charles Grandfield who had come into the room at that moment, said, “What’s that, Nora? Stolen? What’s been stolen?”

  “I was remarking that the car those two gypsy oafs were dismantling had probably been stolen.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They’re all thieves and liars. A feckless, shiftless crew, they’ve got no right to be here.”

  “It’s common land, my dear.”

  “How do they know that? Mr Porter once told me that any unfenced land beside the highway belongs to the corporation. Since you’re chairman of the council, doesn’t that mean it belongs to you?”

  “I’m not quite clear about that,” said Mr Grandfield. “But since it seems to worry you I’m going to find out. I’m seeing Porter this morning, and I’m going to have a word with the Chief Superintendent. There may be some local by-law they’re infringing.”

  “I’m sure that Whaley will be helpful if he can. They’re like rats. Once you let them in they’re all over the place. Two of the older boys spend all their time on the beach handing out deckchairs to old ladies, who are probably afraid not to tip them. And the old creature who seems to run the gang has a booth on the front and pretends to tell fortunes.”

  “The Queen of the Gypsies,” said Mr Grandfield with a slight smile. “Yes, I have heard about her.”

  “In the old days she’d have been tried as a witch and burnt at the stake.”

  “We can’t quite do that sort of thing now. But don’t worry, you may find that the law has a card or two up its sleeve.”

  When he reached the police station he found that Chief Superintendent Whaley was away on leave, and he had to deal with Detective Superintendent Queen whom he found to be less immediately co-operative. He sympathised with Mr Grandfield’s feelings, but pointed out that until the gypsies broke the law they were hardly a police problem.

  “Actually,” he said, “they seem to be quiet sort of folk. We haven’t had any complaints from people in the town.”

  “What about those two boys, who wander about on the beach extracting money from people for handing out deckchairs – which are corporation property, anyway?”

  “Oh – you mean Ben and Billy,” said Queen. “Do you know, when my wife took the kids down to the beach the other day she was so pleased with the new arrangement that she gave – Billy, I think it was; you can hardly tell them apart – five pence over and above the hire fee.”

  “For what?”

  “For fetching her deckchair from the store and setting it up where she wanted. And, I rather suspect, for smiling whilst he did it. The old arrangement was that you had to fetch it yourself from that old storekeeper, who looked as if every day was a wet Monday.”

  “I reckon those two boys are potential dangers.”

  “Well, we’ll keep an eye on them,” said Queen. “If they step out of line you can be sure we’ll clamp down. But in my view the gypsies are a lot less objectionable than that terrible funfair which turns up in August with a merry-go-round and steam whistles and makes the whole place almost unliveable in for a whole month. If you could use your influence on the council to get them refused a licence you really would be doing us a good turn. Some of the stallholders who come with them are very doubtful citizens.”

  This was a skilful, and successful, effort to divert Mr Grandfield from his immediate grievance. He said, “I know what you mean, but it’s not an easy problem. The council’s split on it. Agreed the fair’s a nuisance, but it brings in a lot of trade, and that makes the commercial lobby on the council support it. However, I’ll think about it.”

  A steam whistle a mile away was a lot less objectionable to Mr Grandfield than gypsy caravans a hundred yards from his dining room window.

  Having reached an age when most solicitors would have been considering retirement Jonas Pickett liked to take things easily. His practice in Shackleton had grown considerably during the twelve months he had been there, but he found that he could usually deal with his mail by mid-morning. He then devoted half an hour to coffee and gossip with whichever members of his staff had time to spare. That morning it was his secretary, who seemed to be suffering from a suppressed joke.

  She said, “You’ll never believe it, but Sam’s had his fortune told.”

  Jonas said, “You mean Sam actually paid a visit to the Gypsy Queen?”

  “Paid it, and paid for it. He’s a complete convert.”

  “What did she tell him?”

  “She read his past and his future in a milky glass globe. She said that she saw him, in his youth, performing prodigious feats of strength on different fairgrounds.”

  “Since she has herself been following the same circuit for many years she’d be likely to know about that.”

  “You mustn’t start to sow doubts in Sam’s mind. If you do, he won’t have faith in her predictions for his future.”

  “Which were?”

  “She said that he is going to be lucky in love.”

  Jonas guffawed. “What an admirable prediction. It could mean anything. Good technique, though. Let’s persuade Sabrina to visit the gypsy’s lair.”

  The fact that he referred to his partner by her first name was an indication that their conversation was informal. In the same way, Claire called Mr Pickett ‘Jonas’ when they were alone, but ‘Mr Pickett’ when third parties were present. By such conventions the decencies were preserved.

  “If you think she’s a fraud,” said Claire, “you ought to visit her yourself. Then you could expose her.”

  “There are several excellent reasons for my not doing so.”

  Jonas ticked off the reasons on his fingers as though Claire was an opponent in court who had put forward a weak argument. “First, I don’t think she’s a fraud. I think she’s a very astute performer. Secondly, if you attempted to assert that the sort of vague predictions she makes rendered her subject to the law you’d have to prosecute all the so-called astrological experts who daily fill the less reputable organs of the press with their nonsense. Thirdly, and finally, I could not, myself, consider taking any action against her since she is my client.”

  “If she’s your client, why don’t I know about it?” said Claire indignantly.

  “Because it all happened when you were up in London at the end of May. She came to see me, because she wanted to be quite sure, before they moved their caravans on to this particular piece of ground, that they couldn’t be turned off it. I wish all my clients were as prudent. Most of them consult me after they’ve done something stupid.”

  “And they can’t be?”

  “Not as long as they behave themselves. Old Priory Lodge belonged to Colonel Croxton. It had been in his family for generations. Grandfield was his nephew, or some such relation. He got it because both Croxton’s sons were killed in the war. Just before he died the Colonel dedicated this little patch of land by the road to the corporation on condition that they made it available to travellers. I got a copy of the deed from the town clerk. It was drawn up by Croxton’s London solicitor, Marcus Apperly. Very competent man. Must be retired or dead by now.”

  “Then I suppose he was just a bit older than you,” said Claire. This was unkind, but she was still ruffled by their earlier exchanges.

  “A lot older,” said Jonas firmly. “He stipulated in the deed that the council should draw up regulations for the use of the site, which he would approve. Provided that campers and other people who used it obeyed the regulations they couldn’t be turned away. As a matter of fact, since the corporation set up that campsite near the sea, with piped water, electricity and all modern conveniences, I gather the Priory Lodge site has been very little used. Mostly by scouts and occasional hikers.”

  Claire said, “I’ve never seen it mentioned in any of the publicity handouts. Is there a notice board or something drawing people’s attention to it?”

  “I don’t think there is.”

  “Then how did
the Gypsy Queen know about it?”

  “I expect she saw it in her magic globe,” said Jonas.

  At about this time, Mr Grandfield was getting much the same advice from Mr Porter. Porter and Merriman were the oldest and most respected firm of lawyers in Shackleton and Cedric Porter, son of old Ambrose Porter, was now senior partner. He spoke with a massive authority which belied his comparative youth.

  He said, “I have studied the terms and conditions laid down by Colonel Croxton in his deed of dedication. I will not conceal my view that he was ill-advised to leave these conditions as imprecise as they are. To take one point, they impose no actual time limit on the travellers camping there.”

  “Good God,” said Mr Grandfield, “do you mean that those gyppos can put up there permanently?”

  “I would suppose that after a period – a considerable period – it would be possible to commence an action to eject them on the grounds that the deed refers to ‘travellers’ and this would not be an apt description of people who had used the encampment for, say, six months.”

  “Six months,” said Mr Grandfield, “for Christ’s sake. My wife will be a raving lunatic long before that. Is there nothing we can do?”

  “If they break the regulations, or make themselves objectionable in some way, an order for their removal could be made.”

  “But suppose they behave themselves. That old witch who calls herself the Queen. She’s seen a copy of the rules. She got them from Pickett.”

  “From Jonas Pickett? Indeed.”

  The way in which Mr Porter said this indicated his opinion of the latest addition to the legal firms in Shackleton.

  “The others seem to regard her as their leader. If she tells them they’ve got to keep the rules, they’ll keep them.”

  “There is another possibility. I do not imagine that these people are particularly wealthy. The offer of a suitable sum of money might induce them to move off somewhere else.”

  “And come back again a month later and look for another payment.”

  “Bribery is essentially deplorable and rarely successful,” agreed Mr Porter, “but I can think of no other solution at the moment.”

  Mr Grandfield refrained from comment on this pronouncement. A further possibility had occurred to him, but it was not one he could discuss with his solicitor.

  As he left the office he remembered that he had promised to buy his wife a dozen eggs, and he made his way along the crowded main street to the big supermarket which had recently opened up on the corner site. Since Mr Grandfield had only the one purchase to make he ignored the trolleys and made his way straight to the grocery counter, where he picked up two cardboard cartons, each containing, according to the label, six eggs, new laid, large size. One of the cartons seemed to be coming apart so he placed it very carefully on top of the other and turned to make his way back to the entrance.

  As he did so two trolleys whizzed past him abreast of each other, one of them nearly running over his foot. He recognised the youths who were propelling them. One was Ben and the other was Billy. Both were grinning.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he growled.

  “Sorry, guvnor,” said Ben. “But it’s those outsize feet of yours.”

  “If we’d known you was here,” said Billy, “we’d have had the floor cleared.”

  An assistant walked up to see what was going on.

  “I advise you,” said Mr Grandfield loudly, “to keep a close eye on this couple, and to check their purchases very carefully.”

  Claire, who was shopping on the other side of the counter said, equally loudly, “And I should advise you to take no notice of such a slanderous and uncalled-for statement. As a senior councillor I should have thought you’d have known better.”

  Mr Grandfield had been turning gradually redder. Now he lost his temper entirely. He said, the words frothing as they came out, “I suppose you’re angling for work. Well let me tell you that if you or your shyster employer choose to start proceedings against me for slander you may find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”

  He turned on his heel and made for the door, forgetting, in his fury, that he had to pay for the eggs. The young lady on the pay desk shouted after him, “Excuse me.”

  Mr Grandfield swung round, slipped on the polished floor and came down with a crash. The fragile egg box disintegrated.

  “It was a splendid sight,” said Claire. “Eggs everywhere and people rushing up, some to help, but mostly to stare. It was like a bun fight in a Salvation Army hostel.”

  On her return to the office she had found Jonas and Sabrina arguing about a Bill of Sale. They suspended the argument and listened with interest.

  “He’s a silly little man,” said Mrs Mountjoy.

  “He’s more than silly,” said Claire. “He’s vicious. Do you realise he actually accused Mr Pickett of being a shyster?”

  “Did he, though?”

  “In front of a dozen witnesses.”

  “You could found an open and shut action for slander on that, Jonas.”

  “No,” said Jonas firmly. “I’ve spent thirty-five years keeping my clients out of court. I don’t intend walking in there myself.”

  “Billy and Ben weren’t helping matters. They both joined the scrum round the fallen hero, and managed to break the other box of eggs.”

  “That wasn’t wise,” said Jonas. “And I hope the Queen tells them so. She’s a remarkable woman. You ought to go and see her, Sabrina.”

  “I have,” said Mrs Mountjoy. “I was so impressed by Sam’s account that I went down first thing this morning. You have to get in early these days to get a session. There’s usually a queue.”

  Claire said, “Most of them just come to look at the blackboard.”

  “Blackboard?” said Jonas.

  “She’s got one outside the booth. Every morning she chalks up a Message from the Stars for Today. Sometimes it’s just general stuff. Politics or the stock exchange or what the weather’s going to do. But she had a real scoop when she gave them the winner of the Derby. Everyone’s been following her tips since then.”

  “She did that?”

  “Well, more or less. Her message was: ‘You’ll need dark glasses to look at the Derby winner’. Which, you remember, turned out to be Sunshine. Good odds. Third favourite. Twelve to one.”

  “I seem to remember,” said Jonas, “that the favourite was Searchlight and the second favourite was Arc Light.”

  “You mustn’t be cynical about her,” said Mrs Mountjoy. “Some of these old women have got a real gift. Insight or foresight, I don’t know which. You ought to consult her yourself.”

  “You haven’t told us yet what she predicted for you.”

  “She didn’t actually predict anything, but we had a very interesting talk. She really is a remarkable person. In any classification of humanity I’d put her several classes ahead of Mrs Grandfield.”

  “You mean she’s a lady?”

  “That’s an old-fashioned description. But, yes, I think so. She’s got all the gypsy patter and slang, but occasionally, when she forgot to act, I thought there were signs of a good education somewhere in the background. Do you remember Matthew Arnold’s poem – the one about the scholar gypsy?”

  “Vaguely,” said Jonas. “Was that the one about the student who got fed up with Oxford and decided to spend the rest of his life studying gypsy lore and living with them?”

  “Right – and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that isn’t what this old girl did. If she’s in her fifties now and really has been with them for twenty or thirty years she must have been quite young when she—I don’t know quite how to describe it—”

  “Dropped out.”

  “No. Dropouts are negative characters. She struck me as a thoroughly positive person. She told me about the other members of her little tribe. Three complete families. An older pair, with no children. A father and mother with a lot of kids, and a widow with the two boys, Ben and Billy.”

  �
�Is the old girl related to them?”

  “She was a bit uncommunicative about that. But there’s no doubt she’s the boss.”

  “The Queen.”

  “In view of certain recent developments,” said Mrs Mountjoy drily, “it might be more appropriate to describe her as the Prime Minister.”

  The plan, which had been at the back of Mr Grandfield’s mind when he left Mr Porter’s office, was simple if old-fashioned. When you can’t buy someone off, scare them off. The humiliating scene in the supermarket had stiffened his purpose. And he had the right person for the job. Clegg, in the course of a varied career, had been, so far as anyone knew, a soldier in the Commandos and a chucker-out in a nightclub. He had also, quite possibly, had a number of less reputable jobs. Mr Grandfield had never enquired. Old Priory Lodge was an isolated property, and it suited him to have a man who could look after it and be responsible for its security. He and his wife liked to go to bed early. Clegg had a room on the ground floor at the back of the house and attended to the locking up.

  When he got home Mr Grandfield explained to Clegg what he wanted.

  “Throw a scare into them?” said Clegg. “Yes, I guess I could do that. They’re none of them much more than a shilling in the pound. I’ll walk down now.”

  The only person visible in the gypsy encampment when Clegg got there was Billy. He was sitting on one step of the caravan he shared with Ben, reading a copy of the local newspaper. He looked up as Clegg approached, grinned, and said, “I see the price of eggs is going up.”

  Clegg moved up until he was within easy reach of Ben, and said, “I’ve got a message for you and the rest of your crowd.”

  “I’ll pass it on,” said Ben.

  “It’s very simple: get out before you get into real trouble.”