by Peter Murphy
In view of the threatening demeanour of Mr Barratt and his two sons, I decided not to approach him myself. Instead I asked my solicitor to write him a letter, in which I demanded compensation for the trees and plants he had destroyed, as well as the cost of paying Harry and Matthew. I also threatened to sue him if he trespassed on our property again. My solicitor told me that he did not receive any reply to his letter. But about a week later, I found a hand-written note that had been pushed through my letterbox. It read: “Why don’t you fuck off back to Londun [sic] and leave us in peace? We’re doing very well without the likes of you. And while you’re at it, tell your fancy solliciter [sic] he can fuck himself as well.’ I produce this note as Exhibit GP 1.
‘Your Lordship will find that note in the yellow folder, page twenty-two,’ Robert interrupts helpfully.
‘Yes, I’m much obliged,’ I reply. In her witness statement Mrs Pearce offers no actual proof of authorship, but there is no protest from the defendant or his counsel; and with my admittedly urban prejudices, the handwriting and spelling certainly don’t seem inconsistent with a rustic hand, shall we say. I glance sadly at the jury box again. Twelve citizens of Huntingdon and environs would have a much better feel for this, I reflect, and they would really enjoy the story that’s unfolding. This case was made for a jury.
Following this incident, Mr Barratt and his sons entered on to the Middle Plot frequently and started to plant vegetables and other plants. At first they did this during the night, but later they were at it quite brazenly during the daytime. They had been poisoning people in the village against us, saying that we were ‘foreigners’ and ‘interlopers’ from London. The atmosphere in the Black Bull and Miller’s store became unfriendly, and even the vicar said something to the effect that we should be careful not to cause offence to people. We received several anonymous phone threats, saying that they would burn our house down or run us out of town.
We actually considered moving for some time, but eventually we decided that we were not going to be driven from our home by people like the Barratts. I instructed my solicitor to write to Mr Barratt again, pointing out that he and his sons were trespassing on the Middle Plot, and that if we caught them at it again we would sue to enforce our title. Despite this letter, Mr Barratt and his sons have continued to trespass on our land at will, quite blatantly, at all hours of the day and night. We are now seeking a declaration that my husband and I are the exclusive owners of the Middle Plot, and an injunction restraining Mr Barratt from entering on to the Middle Plot or using it in any way.
I believe that the facts stated in this witness statement are true.
Robert asks Gwendolyn Pearce to come into the witness box. She takes the oath, confirms that what we have just heard is true and he passes her to Ruth for cross-examination.
‘Mrs Pearce, you and your husband have lived in the Post House in Lower Wattage for a little more than two years: is that right?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And until you travelled to Lower Wattage from London to see the Post House before purchasing it, you had never visited the village, is that also right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, would it be fair to say that you have no way of knowing whether Mr Barratt and members of his family may have made use of parts of the Middle Plot, prior to your arrival?’
‘That’s true.’
‘For all you know, they may have made use of it during the many years when Mr Pitt owned the Post House before you?’
‘Perhaps Mr Pitt didn’t object.’
‘But you don’t know that, one way or the other, do you?’
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘No. But your evidence was that, when you first arrived to take up residence at the Post House, there was evidence that someone had been growing vegetables on the Middle Plot?’
‘Yes.’
‘You assumed that it was Mr Pitt?’
‘Yes, I did, since he was the owner of the Middle Plot before us.’
‘But, for all you know, it could have been Mr Barratt, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘After all, Mr Barratt showed every sign of wanting to grow vegetables on the Middle Plot after you moved in, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Which you construed as an act of trespass?’
‘Yes, I certainly did.’
‘But didn’t Mr Barratt explain to you that he and his family had been using the land to grow vegetables, and even fruit and other plants, at different times?’
‘He did make that claim, yes.’
‘How did you react to that?’
‘I told him in no uncertain terms that the fact that he had trespassed on our land in the past did not entitle him to continue to trespass now that we were in possession.’
‘When you spoke to local people, in the Black Bull or Miller’s for example, did you tell them what Mr Barratt was doing?’
‘I did eventually. After a while, everyone found out about it, because he was spreading the word that we were foreigners and interlopers. People took sides. So, yes, I did speak to certain people.’
‘Did those people include Dennis, the landlord of the Black Bull, and the vicar, the Reverend Mr Jacobs?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did they tell you?’
This is another thing Marjorie, thankfully, prepared me for. In a criminal case at Bermondsey Robert Mason would be on his feet objecting, screaming that the question calls for blatant hearsay, which it clearly does. But in fact, he is sitting in his seat perfectly calmly, awaiting the answer. In civil cases, where they rarely have to worry about juries, the Rule against Hearsay apparently disappeared years ago. It’s now up to judges such as myself to decide how much weight to give to it. Actually, in this case, even at Bermondsey I might have allowed it. It is necessary to establish Gwendolyn’s state of mind and how much she knew, and I’ve noticed that Dennis and Mr Jacobs, together with a number of other prominent residents of Lower Wattage, have made witness statements and may give evidence later in the trial. If so, no harm can come from it. Even so, I find myself tempted to ask my imaginary jury to retire for a while so that I can check the position with counsel.
‘It all depended on who you asked. Dennis said that Mr Barratt was always taking liberties, and he wouldn’t care whether we objected to what he was doing or not. He always treated the Middle Plot as his own, and never worried about what Mr Pitt or anyone else thought.’
Ruth smiles, for a reason that escapes me for the moment, though I have the sense that a significant moment may have come and gone. This is confirmed by Robert, who is suddenly trying very hard to look unconcerned – generally a sign that he thinks something has gone wrong with his case.
‘Mr Jacobs said that as far as he knew, Mr Barratt’s family had grown food for the village on the Middle Plot during the war, but they hadn’t used it since, certainly not regularly,’ Gwendolyn continues uninvited. ‘Mr Jacobs said he only started it again because he didn’t like Andrew and me.’
‘Really?’ Ruth asks, doing her best to feign surprise. ‘Why would that be, do you think?’
Gwendolyn sniffs dismissively. ‘Mr Barratt couldn’t stand the fact that we wanted to let people see Lower Wattage in all its glory, that we wanted to put a few coats of paint on some of the buildings, tidy the street up, take away the debris and the dead branches, plant a few flowers, brighten the place up a bit. It’s such a pretty village, but Mr Barratt and the others had let it go to rack and ruin. The Ramblings looked like a tip. They couldn’t stand that we were showing them up, and doing what they should have done years ago.’
‘And entering Lower Wattage in the Best Kept Village Competition?’ Ruth asks.
‘Yes. Why not? It’s as pretty as any other village in Cambridgeshire.’
‘And you really have no idea
how anyone could possibly dislike you and your husband for that, do you?’
‘No. I don’t. We were doing them all a favour.’
Ruth nods and pauses. ‘Mrs Pearce, there’s nothing on the deeds to suggest that Mr Pitt, or any of your predecessors in title, ever granted Mr Barratt or anyone in his family an easement or licence to use the Middle Plot, is there?’
‘You mean, that anyone gave the Barratts permission to use the land?’
‘Exactly.’
‘No. The deeds just say that our title to the Post House includes title to the Middle Plot. Our solicitor checked the title before we completed.’
‘And there were no easements or licences, were there?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Pitt – Mr George Pitt, the gentleman you bought from: did you ever ask him whether he had given Mr Barratt permission to use the Middle Plot?’
She shakes her head. ‘We only met him once, at the completion, for a few minutes. The solicitors were dealing with it. So, no. We had no idea it had been going on.’
‘Quite so,’ Ruth says. ‘And sadly, I understand that Mr Pitt passed away not long after completion, didn’t he?’
‘So I’m told. I heard he’d gone to live with a son in Dawlish, but then someone – I think it was Mr Jacobs – told me that he had died.’
‘So we can’t ask him now, can we?’
‘No.’
Ruth turns around briefly to confer with her instructing solicitor and Mr Barratt, both of whom nod.
‘Thank you, Mrs Pearce. I have nothing further, my Lord,’ she says, resuming her seat.
‘Mrs Pearce,’ Robert asks, ‘you have told his Lordship that your efforts to improve the village of Lower Wattage led to certain of its inhabitants resenting you: would that be a fair way of putting it?’
‘That would be something of an understatement.’
‘Yes, no doubt. But for whatever reason, your plans to improve the village’s appearance proved controversial and turned some people against you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your opinion that this animosity on Mr Barratt’s part had anything to do with the matters his Lordship has to consider in this case?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘In what way?’
‘Mr Barratt is claiming an interest in our land simply to get back at us for showing him and the others up by trying to take better care of the village. It’s sheer vindictiveness, as simple as that. Anyone can make up a story about using land continuously for a number of years when we weren’t around to see it. But if he had, I’m sure Mr Pitt, or his solicitor, or the agent would have told us when we bought the Post House. Otherwise, it would have been – what do you call it a…?’
‘A misrepresentation?’
‘A misrepresentation, yes. It would have been a misrepresentation otherwise, wouldn’t it? He’s just made up this story to punish us for trying to make the village look better.’
‘Unless your Lordship has any questions?’
I don’t, at least for now. I will have to hear what Archie Barratt has to say about all this before I know what questions I need to ask anyone, and it’s as if Robert and Ruth have read my mind. They have agreed that we should take Andrew Pearce next, which will take us to lunchtime, but then we will indeed hear from Archie Barratt. I can’t help smiling. In a criminal case we would have to hear from all the prosecution witnesses before anyone gave evidence for the defence. But in the flexible world of civil litigation, without a jury to worry about, we can vary the order of witnesses as much as we like, and counsel have suggested that I should hear from Mr Barratt first thing after lunch. I couldn’t agree more. After that, there are further witnesses on both sides, order to be determined… and, as I’m about to learn, something else that I hadn’t expected.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Robert says, ‘we propose to go on a view, to let your Lordship see the land in question for himself, and indeed to see the village as a whole. As your Lordship has heard, Lower Wattage is only about ten miles out of town. I’ve spoken to your Lordship’s clerk, and he will make arrangements for travel for your Lordship, my learned friend, myself, the usher and himself. The parties and their solicitors will meet us at the property.’
I glance at Anand. He turns around to me.
‘No problem, Judge. The parties will pay for the transportation, but I will make the arrangements. And I’ll arrange for some refreshments from the Black Bull, so that we can use their facilities in case of need.’
I nod. ‘Yes, very well. Mr Mason, in a criminal case the rule would be that no one should speak during a view unless it’s strictly necessary,’ I say. It’s true, and it makes the whole experience not only very uncomfortable, but a recipe for potential disaster. Try keeping a defendant and twelve jurors quiet for an hour or two at the scene of an alleged crime some time. It confounds human nature, ‘But, as we have no jury, I suppose…’
He smiles. ‘My Lord, as long as anything said is said in the presence of everyone, we wouldn’t see a problem.’
‘I agree, my Lord,’ Ruth adds.
I really am quite getting to like civil cases.
Andrew Pearce doesn’t take long. He has nothing of substance to add to what his wife has already told us. She, it turns out to no one’s surprise, was the moving force behind the move from London to the country, the choice of Lower Wattage and the Post House, and the ill-starred campaign to win the Best Kept Village Competition. He played along happily, and naturally supports her entirely in relation to the depredations committed by Archie Barratt, but he wasn’t the prime mover. Ruth asks him one or two pro forma questions, just so that he doesn’t feel ignored, and that takes us neatly to one o’clock. And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.
Except that today, of course, the oasis is a far cry from the judicial mess at Bermondsey. Molly has kindly offered to go out and bring me a sandwich if I want to eat in chambers, but I thank her and say I’ll fend for myself. I’m surprised at how relaxed I feel. I’ve asked Marjorie to be on standby in case I need an urgent consultation, and I’ve had visions of calling her in panic as soon as I could escape the bench for lunch, with God only knows how many questions. But not at all: thanks to my cooperative counsel and the adaptable nature of the civil case, I’m actually feeling in control. I think briefly about calling her just to tell her that, but she’s probably got enough to do acting as RJ in my absence, and instead I embark on my half-minute reverse commute across George Street to the George Hotel.
I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived late yesterday afternoon. My room is comfortable enough and the hotel is a delight, featuring an original Jacobean courtyard, where, Darla tells me, a local theatre group puts on an outdoor Shakespeare production every summer. Darla is the manager of the hotel and couldn’t be more helpful, although there is one slight qualification to that. I had tried to make it clear that I wanted to keep a low profile – you never know, with local feeling running high about the case – and she seemed to understand. But an hour so later in the bar, after I’d enjoyed a dinner of bangers and mash, she suddenly bellowed, ‘Another pint, Judge?’ which had the effect of focusing every eye in the place on me. She did look suitably contrite when I grimaced, and I’m sure it won’t happen again.
She’s more than made up for it today by saving me a corner table, and serving me herself to make sure lunch doesn’t take too long. I cast my eye over The Times while savouring a delicious smoked salmon and horseradish sandwich. I must admit, the George gives Jeanie and Elsie more than a run for their money, and it knocks spots off the judicial mess. Altogether, a very agreeable interlude: so far, the noises, sounds and sweet airs are indeed giving delight and hurting not. But you know what they say: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. And sure enough, when I arrive back in my chambers after lunch -
‘There was a call for you from Judge Jenk
ins at Bermondsey,’ Molly says. ‘It sounded urgent. I wrote the number down for you.’
‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’ll call her now.’
Molly clearly feels that she hasn’t yet quite captured the urgency of the matter. ‘She seemed really upset, Judge,’ she adds. She is not wrong.
‘“Calm and peaceful”, Charlie?’ Marjorie shrieks down the phone, without any pleasantries at all. ‘“Calm and peaceful”? Wasn’t that what you said, it would all be “calm and peaceful” this week?’
I hold my phone away from my ear for a few seconds.
‘Well, as far as I know it should be. What on earth has happened?’
There is a silence, during which I sense her making an effort to control herself. I’m worried now. Of the four judges at Bermondsey, Marjorie is undoubtedly the most composed, which is exactly why she is my automatic choice for deputy RJ whenever I’m away. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her really lose her cool. If Marjorie’s in this kind of state something must really be wrong. It occurs to me briefly that the catastrophe I have long dreaded has finally visited itself on us: the dish of the day has caused an outbreak of mass poisoning. Judges, lawyers, jurors, and members of the public are lying, helpless and groaning, in the corridors as their toxic lunch begins its deadly work. I’ve always thought it was only a matter of time. We came close once with a terrifying paella, the perpetrator of which, a Spanish assistant cook, fled the jurisdiction shortly afterwards. On that occasion the damage was limited; perhaps now our luck has finally run out. But, on the other hand, it’s only just after lunch: surely, there hasn’t really been time for the effects of a mass poisoning to become apparent? I can hear her breathing heavily on the other end of the phone.
‘We’ve got gangs of violent protesters laying siege to the court, Charlie,’ she replies. ‘That’s what’s happened. I’ve had to close the bloody building and call the police. If that’s your idea of “calm and peaceful”…’