Anything For a Quiet Life

by Michael Gilbert

  “Put that man down,” said Jonas, “at once.”

  “Fuck off,” said the leading porter. “He tried to pull down our shanty. We’re going to pitch him out on to his head.”

  “Better put him down,” said Sam mildly. “Or get your own head knocked off. Your choice, mate.”

  The second porter, who had appreciated Sam’s potentiality, had already let go of Delamere’s legs. His companion had no choice but to follow suit. Delamere fell on to his knees, stopped there for a few moments, then climbed slowly to his feet. He was clearly dazed and shaken. The crowd who had followed him up were standing round, not actively aggressive, but silent and hostile.

  They opened out to let a man through. Jonas felt certain that this was their leader. It would have been easier to judge his age if he had not had so much hair on his face. Two bright blue eyes stared out from a forest of beard, moustache and curling side whiskers. Despite all this foliage Jonas thought the man was not much past his middle thirties. He said, “If your name’s Lipsett and you’re in charge here, I have to warn you that if your people had harmed this man you’d have been in bad trouble. He’s nearly eighty and the rough handling he’s had might have very serious results.”

  “He brought it on his own head,” said Lipsett. “He came in uninvited and started to pull down this man’s shack.”

  “That was stupid, I agree. But he should have been restrained without violence and removed politely.”

  “Would you have been polite, if someone had started to destroy your house?” It was the voice of an academic, pitched in the upper register, intellectual, relishing controversy.

  “I should have sent for the police,” said Jonas curtly. And to Sam, “Help this man back to the car. We’ll all feel better when we’ve had something to eat.”

  When they got back Sam cooked breakfast for them. Delamere had no appetite for food, but drank several cups of sugary coffee, which seemed to revive him. After breakfast, Sabrina joined them. She had heard the news. She said, “They seem to have learnt from their experience at Portree. This time they got their fence up first.”

  “I’ve been out of touch with things for a long time,” said Delamere. “But when you asked me what action I could take, I seemed to remember – Isn’t there something called an action for nuisance?”

  Sabrina fielded this one. “You mean the noise they make at night?”

  “And by day.”

  “Yes. I expect you could found an action for nuisance. But it wouldn’t do you a lot of good. It’d be a civil action and might take a year or more to get to court. And if you won, you wouldn’t get rid of them. You’d simply get an award of damages.”

  “Oh,” said Delamere rather blankly. “Then do you mean there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Nothing you can do, no. But the council could get quick results if it set about it the right way. Normally the court will grant a speedy remedy in a case of aggravated trespass.”

  When the old man had departed, unhappy, but apparently persuaded to rely, for the moment, on council action, Sabrina said to Jonas, “The present council may do the right thing, but you’re not forgetting that we shall soon have a new one.”

  “I had forgotten,” said Jonas. “When’s the election?”

  “The first week of April.”

  “And does it worry us?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve heard some odd stories.”

  It was one morning, ten days after this conversation, that Admiral Fairlie arrived, by appointment, in Jonas’s office. He came to the point with naval promptness. He said, “We’ve got a crisis on our hands. I’ve been talking to Bob Rattray. Saul Melford has been taken to hospital with suspected thrombosis. They’ve started exploratory surgery, but however successful they are he won’t be back in action for some months.”

  “Which means that he can’t stand at the next election.” Jonas was studying a marked plan of Shackleton and its environs. “He’s West Ward, isn’t he?”

  “Correct. And that’s not all. Last time John Benson and Bob Rattray picked up the two Town Wards unopposed. Not this time. They’ve both got a fight on their hands.”

  “Their opponents being—”

  “Lipsett and Wroke.”

  Jonas took a minute to absorb this. Then he said, “Are they qualified to stand?”

  “Certainly. All they need is six residents to support their nomination. There’s been no difficulty about that. They’ve drummed up quite a following already; particularly among the young. Their pop group, The Strollers, have given two concerts. Both of them were sell-outs.”

  “Yes,” said Jonas. “I heard about that.” He was making some calculations, none of them reassuring. He said, “What are their real chances?”

  “Lipsett won’t upset Bob Rattray. Not a chance. But Wroke might oust Benson. He’s not wildly popular. And there’s more to it than that. You know Desmond Plackett?”

  “Insurance broker. Took over the Portsmouth Road Ward when Grandfield was killed in that car accident.”

  “Right. He’s not standing this time. Says he’s got too many business commitments. Actually I fancy he’s funking it. Thinks he’d be beaten.”

  Jonas was scribbling names in two columns. He said, “What about the two Branmere Wards?”

  “Greenaway and Forbes have held them for some years now. That part’s predominantly commercial. I think they’re both safe enough. The trouble is, they don’t like each other much. On any important proposal if one of them votes for it the other could easily oppose it.”

  “What about the Liberties?”

  “Florence Fitchett,” said the Admiral gloomily. Most men were gloomy when discussing Florence. She might have been described as a supporter of sex equality had it not been apparent that she considered women to be in every respect superior to men.

  “You won’t rout her out easily,” agreed Jonas. “Is that the lot?”

  “No. There’s the East Ward. In some ways it’s the most important. That’s where the ragamuffins have pitched their camp.”

  “Who’s the incumbent?”

  “Mabel Hanaway. She took it over from her husband, Air Vice-Marshal Hanaway, when he died. We don’t know yet who’s opposing her. We reckon she’s got about a fifty-fifty chance. The campers won’t be allowed to vote, of course. But they’ve been doing a lot of canvassing.”

  “Who for?”

  “Not for anyone in particular. Their line is, turn out the old lady and vote for someone younger and more with it. No doubt they’ll persuade someone to stand before the lists close on the fourteenth.”

  “It’s going to be an interesting council, isn’t it?” said Jonas. “Let’s look at the worst from your point of view. Suppose Wroke gets in, that means that three sets of wards really cancel each other out. The two Town Wards, the two Branmere Wards and, let’s say, the Liberties and the West Ward. Correct?”

  “I agree.”

  “Then the two other wards are the ones that matter. Portsmouth Road and the East Ward.”

  “Exactly,” said the Admiral. He sounded, thought Jonas, suspiciously pleased. “That’s what I’ve come to discuss. We’ve formed a Fighting Committee. Our current idea is that I should stand for the East Ward – that’s where my house is, incidentally. And you for Portsmouth Road.”

  “Hey! Steady on. I’ve told you once already. I came to Shackleton for a quiet life.”

  “When the ship’s in danger, it’s all hands to the pumps.”

  “But is it in danger?”

  “You realise that if things go wrong, we shall be landed with a council that won’t move against the campers. They may even give them a lease; then we shall have them with us for keeps. That lovely Dingle turned into a shanty town.”

  “It makes you think,” agreed Jonas. “But please don’t bank on me. It’s not my line at all.”

  Next morning he set out on foot to visit Maggs’s Farm and discuss mineral rights. It was two miles out of the town. He looked forward to the walk. He t
hought it might help him to clear his mind. The sky was still blue, but it was no longer a soft blue. There was a hard edge to it. The weather seemed to be changing.

  Maggs confirmed this. He said, “Thermometer dropped five points last night. I wasn’t sorry. If we’re going to have a frost, better now than later. Why? Because if it comes in May, you can say goodbye to your fruit.”

  When they had finished their business and Jonas was leaving, Maggs said, “Did I hear you was to be our new council member?”

  “If you know that,” said Jonas, “you know more than I do.”

  “You’ll get a lot of votes if you do stand. I can promise you that. You know who’d be against you?”

  “No. Who?”

  “Chap called Partridge. You’ve heard of him?”

  “I remember the name vaguely. Isn’t he a naturalist?”

  “Something like that. He sent us all a bit of paper. I’ve got it here, if you’d like to read it.”

  The circular was adorned with the photograph of a young man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and an expression of overwhelming seriousness.

  “When I opened it,” said Maggs, “I thought it was an advert for a patent medicine, or something like that.”

  “He does look a bit constipated,” agreed Jonas.

  “I was going to throw it away, but my wife said better read it. It may be important. I’m glad I did. Some of the things he says, well I ask you!”

  Jonas scanned Mr Partridge’s electioneering manifesto with interest. He saw that he called himself ‘The Countryside Candidate’. His message was that the land belonged to everyone. It must not be monopolised by the farming fraternity. Some of it now under cultivation must be allowed to return to its natural state as a habitation for wildlife. Footpaths must be carefully preserved and added to where necessary.

  In view of the fact that the majority of the voters in the Portsmouth Road Ward were farmers, Jonas agreed that this bold statement of young Mr Partridge’s views would be unlikely to win him many votes.

  “You realise,” he said, “that most of the things he’s proposing couldn’t be done by any district council whoever got on it. They can’t open new footpaths and they can’t change the law.”

  “No saying what people like that can do once you let ’em in,” said Maggs gloomily. “You put your name forward and we’ll all vote for you. It’ll be a walkover.”

  Jonas thought about it as he made his way home. The fact that he would probably win the seat made the idea somehow even less attractive.

  He wished he had brought a scarf and gloves – it was certainly much colder.

  When he got to the office Claire said, “You’ve got a caller. I don’t know if you want to see him, but he seems keen to see you.”

  “Has he got a name?”

  “It’s Raymond Lipsett.”

  “Oh. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Like most people who come to see you, I imagine he wants help.”

  She said this so flatly that it sounded like a rebuke. Jonas looked at her for a moment, started to say something, changed his mind and moved off into his office. Lipsett got up politely enough, but did not offer to shake hands. When they were both seated Jonas said, “What can I do for you?”

  Lipsett pushed a piece of paper across the desk. Jonas saw that it was a writ issued in the Brighton Crown Court, naming Lipsett as defendant, in a representative capacity, in an action by the council for aggravated trespass. Much what he had expected. He said, “Do I gather that you want me to represent you?”

  “That was my idea. It’s the sort of thing you do, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the sort of thing I do, yes. But I don’t see that I can act for you in this particular case.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, to start with, I happen to be acting for Delamere. He’s considering an action for assault against the people who manhandled him.”

  “So what? He’s not a party to this action.”

  “True. But you must see that it would make it awkward for me. There are other solicitors in Shackleton—”

  “Thank you. I’ve had some. When I called on Porter and Merriman I wasn’t allowed to see the senior partner; apparently he’s reserved for people who matter. I was interviewed by a young man who talked as if he’d got a mouth full of plums. He said, ‘Sorry, old boy. Rayly it’s not the sort of thing we handle, acherly.’ So I went on to see R. and L. Sykes. There I did get through to a partner.”

  “Ronald Sykes?”

  “I imagine so. He was at least honest. He said that if he took the case he’d lose half his clients. Do I take it you’re going to say the same thing?”

  “Not so. I’ve got more clients than I want. And anyway I’m three-quarters retired. I shall probably retire altogether at the end of next year.”

  “Then what are your reasons, might one ask?”

  Temperature heating up a bit, thought Jonas. Better get it over quickly. He said, “I don’t want to act in this matter. Simple as that. Anyway, you’ll find plenty of firms in Brighton who’ll be pleased to help you.”

  “Shall I really? Then let me tell you something. Most probably I shan’t need anyone at all. Because this case is one which isn’t coming off.” He picked up the copy of the writ, tore it neatly into four pieces and deposited them in Jonas’s waste-paper basket.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Your local rag has conducted a straw poll. It gives us a majority on the council. I can assure you that the first thing the new council will do is to abandon this stupid action and the second will be to grant us a long lease.”

  “Won’t you be a bit uncomfortable, particularly when the temperature’s below freezing point?”

  “Be your age. We shan’t take a lease on that place. We’ve got our eyes on a nice piece of ground behind the front. The Lammas I believe it’s called. I’ve got a number of friends who’ll join us there. Young keen people with a bit of spunk in them. Maybe they’ll kick up a shindy, but it’s what this place wants. It needs waking up, kicking into the twentieth century.” The words were tumbling out with such force that they seemed to be generating their own heat. Lipsett’s face, as much as could be seen of it behind its camouflage of hair, was scarlet and his eyes were snapping. “Maybe the old women of both sexes who have been roosting here won’t like it. Their bad luck. Let them fly away somewhere else. We shan’t miss them. The future belongs to youth.”

  As he paused for breath Jonas said, “In fact, you’re using Shackleton as a cuspidor.”

  “Come again.”

  “Something you can spit at.”

  Lipsett looked at him for a long moment. Jonas thought, now he really is going to burst. Or perhaps he’ll throw something at me. An inkpot and a calendar seemed the most likely missiles.

  In fact, Lipsett rose to his feet, said, “I can see it’s a waste of time talking to you,” swung on his heel and went out, closing the door quietly behind him. He heard his feet in the hallway. Something was said to Claire. Then the front door shut and his footsteps went off, crunching the ice on the front path.

  When Claire came in Jonas was sitting perfectly still. She said, ‘Not a very successful interview, I gather.”

  “On the contrary,” said Jonas. “Decisive. Could you get me Admiral Fairlie’s number?”

  When she came back with it he said, “He’s succeeded in making up my mind for me. I’m going to ask the Admiral to rustle me up six supporters. I’m proposing to stand for the Portsmouth Road Ward. I don’t know the first thing about it. I shall rely on you to help me.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Claire slowly, “that won’t be possible. I’ve got a lot of canvassing to do myself.”

  “For Philip Wroke?”

  “No. I’m standing for the East Ward.”

  After she had left, Jonas sat for a long time staring at the closed door.

  After thinking the matter over Jonas decided not to distribute a circular. The one sent round by his opponent must h
ave lost him more votes than it gained. He decided to confine himself to a modified form of house-to-house canvassing. Maggs had produced a list of residents, indicating the cases in which not much persuasion would be needed and those in which he might have to deploy arguments.

  That morning he was proposing to visit a corn chandler who had his shop in the tiny village of Moorhampton in the extreme north of his area and who was reputed to be something of a radical. All that week the sky had maintained its steely blue colour and it had been getting steadily colder. The thermometer on the previous evening had recorded a record seventeen degrees of frost. That morning, as he set out in the car, Jonas noticed a change.

  It was warmer. Clouds like dirty cotton wool were billowing up from the south-east. As he reached the lane which led to Moorhampton the snow began to fall. Jonas half-thought of turning back, but he was now so near his destination that he decided to push on. He found the corn chandler an agreeable enough man who seemed to grasp the advantages of voting for him. When he was leaving, the man said, “Better not waste much time, squire, if you want to get back to Shackleton.”

  “You think the snow will block the road?”

  “It’s the ground underneath, see. It’s frozen so hard the snow can’t sink in. Like as not we’ll be cut off by this evening.”

  It was a difficult drive. The snow was now coming down so thickly that he needed to keep the wipers moving at double speed to clear it and drifts were already forming and threatening to block the road. Fortunately it was downhill most of the way and he managed to keep the car moving, with two hair-raising skids where a patch of ice showed through the snow. When he got to the town the houses gave some shelter and he reached home, tucked his car away thankfully in the garage and went inside.

  He found Sabrina and Claire, who lived two or three streets away, with their coats on and their scarves over their heads, ready to depart.

  “No clients and none expected,” said Claire. “Sabrina and I are getting home whilst the going’s good.”

  “If it goes on like this,” said Jonas, “you’d better stay at home tomorrow. Sam and I can cope quite well by ourselves for a day or two.”