by D J O'Leary
His wife was also a picture of elegance. In her youth a beauty, now possibly even more alluring, life’s experiences having left sympathetic tracks of the passage of time, rather than ravages. Elspeth was of aristocratic bearing, an aquiline nose set perfectly between deep blue eyes above and full lips below. Her figure was as good now as it had been when she and de Groot had first met, when she was in her late twenties and he in his late forties. ‘A good journey down?’
‘Excellent, Hubert. I love this last bit on the steam train.’
‘Yes everyone loves it. It runs through some picturesque countryside and also through some varied farmland.’
‘Yes, and it’s lovely to see that hops have made a comeback after what happened at the end of the last century.’
Elspeth cut in, ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ the men replied in unison, and de Groot, indicating the other wingback chair opposite his, said, ‘Take a seat. There’s a lot to discuss and the meeting I’d like you to attend as my representative starts at seven o’clock, so I think an explanation for my summoning you here is called for.’
Tolstoy sat, leaned back and focused on his godfather.
‘I’d like to begin with a brief history of Stottenden Manor and village, so please bear with me,’ he began. Tolstoy nodded.
De Groot began by explaining how Stottenden Manor House had come to be in the Dutch family’s hands for close on half a millennium. Originally Flemish weavers, or, more accurately, clothiers, which was the wealthy end of the industry, the de Groots had settled in this part of Kent in the fourteenth century, as had so many of their fellow countrymen, thanks to an invitation by Edward III. The family had soon diversified and expanded their business. In addition to exporting Kentish cloth to the Continent, they began importing luxuries from overseas; initially their shipping business was based in Rye, where it boomed. As a result, over the next few centuries the de Groots became excessively wealthy, thanks to the burgeoning tea and spice trades, among other things. When sufficiently well-off they had had Stottenden Manor House constructed, having decided that they wanted to live somewhere that was a little removed geographically from their business activities, and the, then remote, clearing high in the Weald of Kent that was Stottenden seemed ideal. Work began on building Stottenden Manor House in the middle of the last decade of the late sixteenth century. The de Groots purchased a sizeable area of the woodland, siting their manor house on one edge, while creating a large garden and a field on the rest of the land. It was this field which eventually, some 150 years later, became the cricket field, a path leading directly onto it from the garden of the Manor House. At the time of the manor’s construction Stottenden had been a hamlet, a clearing on a hill in the Weald of Kent, which served as grazing ground for cattle and pigs belonging to a handful of locals. But the de Groots decided that they wanted to ensure that Stottenden would grow into something grander, and in order to get that particular ball rolling, they had donated a breathtaking (for those times) sum of money to have a church, St Martin’s, built in the village.
Not too long after that the odd cottage sprang up here and there, and eventually and inevitably the first alehouse appeared, after an enterprising, would-be publican saw the potential of the place. Sadly, within a few decades the alehouse had burned down, to be replaced, in the early eighteenth century, by the present building, which sported possibly the most macabre and grisly name for a hostelry in the whole of the county – the Snitcher’s Head. Local legend had it that in those days, when smuggling was rife on the Kent and Sussex coast, that one righteous villager had tipped off the authorities about the suspicious activities and nocturnal comings and goings of a neighbour. A posse of revenue men had lain in wait and had caught the man, and a number of others, all of whom were members of a notorious gang of smugglers in that area, as they returned from the coast transporting a few cartloads of baccy, claret, lace, tea and other such luxuries. The episode did not end so well for the tipster, because, unfortunately for the “grass”, one of the Customs and Excise men was in the pay of the gang of smugglers, and, on being informed of what had happened, a kangaroo court was held in the bar of the village inn; the man was found guilty by the gang members and he was sentenced to death by beheading. His head was duly separated from his body, then paraded around the area before being suspended from a tree that grew just outside the pub. Ever after the King’s Arms, as it had once been called, came to be known as the Snitcher’s Head.
The local history lesson over, Hubert got down to the business of the day. ‘I asked you down here because there are a couple of things you need to know. Some good news and some not so good news. Firstly, after much thought and discussion with Elspeth and my solicitor, I have decided to leave you the house and grounds, including the cricket field, in my will.’
Tolstoy’s jaw dropped and he stared at his godfather in shock. But before he could utter a sound Hubert continued, ‘The reason is that Elspeth and I, having been unable to have a family of our own, have always regarded you as a surrogate son, even though we have not seen quite so much of you since you left university and began to pursue your career.
‘Now if, as expected, Elspeth survives me, I should want you to let her carry on living here,’ with a wave of his right arm he indicated his home, ‘but I think you will need to pop down here a little more often over the next few months in order for me to show you the ropes, because you need to know how things are run around here.’
As his godfather paused for breath, Tolstoy leapt in. ‘Hubert? Are you sure? I mean, it’s… it’s… it’s too much. Surely you have someone else you can leave it to? Someone in the family? A niece? A nephew? A cousin?’ His voice trailed off as he saw his godfather shake his head.
‘Disappointingly, no. But, as I have said, as far as we are concerned, you’re as good as family, and anyway, you’re the only person to whom I could entrust all of this. For one thing, perhaps the most important thing, you love your cricket, in fact you are as passionate about it, especially at this level, as I am. Therefore I’m confident that you will safeguard its traditions and its very existence. I know you’ll take good care of the house and its history. And Elspeth and I hope that, in time, you will meet someone and marry them and I hope you will be more fortunate than Elspeth and I have been, and that you will be blessed with children in whom you will be able to instil the sense of history and traditions of Stottenden, and to whom you can, in your turn, bequeath everything that I am leaving you.’
Tolstoy sat back, dazed at the news. Excited as well, yet profoundly saddened too. ‘Why have you decided on this now, Hubert? And why tell me now?’
‘Why now? Well, that’s the not so good news that I mentioned. It would appear that I have inoperable cancer. I shan’t go into details, but there is quite a poor prognosis, not helped by my age. That’s why I’m absolutely certain that Elspeth will survive me, apart from the fact that she is my junior by quite a few years, and is therefore commensurately fitter than I am.’
‘Hubert, I’m so sorry. Isn’t there anything the doctors can do?’
‘Not a thing, I’m afraid. Not to worry though, I’ve had a good innings, and there is still time to enjoy a few months more of life and all that it has to offer. Not least this impending battle over the Buttercup Field.’ The old man’s face lit up momentarily at the prospect of the forthcoming fight. ‘Could you explain it all to me, please?’ asked Tolstoy.
‘Gladly,’ said Hubert.
‘The parish council, under what I might say is the heavy hand of Jack Bentley – despite the fact that he has, quite properly, declared an interest and has absented himself from the parish council debate each time the matter has been raised – has opposed the majority of the locals and has recommended that the application be approved by the borough council. Indeed, the borough council had decided that there was a certain merit to the plan, because housing is in short supply in the area. Now, the thing is, Bentl
ey has a business partner, a local builder and property developer, and this partner has promised that one third of the houses would be affordable starter homes to allow young locals a chance to remain in the village, where they had jobs. The borough council is determined not to rush into a decision, but the “carrot” of the starter homes certainly holds great appeal. So, after weeks of protests, including a sit-in in the council chamber, a lengthy petition and eventually some legal threats, the councillors have debated the matter at great length, and the issue is now delicately poised. They are on the brink of a decision. Of course the pessimistic Stottenden villagers expect the plans to be passed. Even the local press has been speculating that the borough council would give the plans the thumbs-up. In that eventuality the villagers have a number of objections they intend introducing. One of these is to claim that the Buttercup Field is, to all intents and purposes, a village green. There is certainly no other grassy area in Stottenden that remotely resembles such a facility.
‘Everyone knows that were they to fail in their attempts then the matter would almost certainly go to central government and an inevitable public inquiry; were that to be the case then there would be no guarantee that a Home Office planning inspector would find for them. Indeed, the villagers were determined to avoid that step if at all possible.
‘So it is up to everyone to put forward a convincing enough case to demonstrate that the Buttercup Field has been used for more than twenty years, in fact a lot more than twenty years, as a village green.’
Tolstoy was familiar with the Buttercup Field and its recent history. While not a resident himself, he had been a regular enough visitor to the village over the years, indeed since childhood, to be well acquainted with the Buttercup Field and its history.
Its barely three skinny acres – he happened to know just how big it was – had long since been adopted by the whole community as a sort of village green, or common land. It had staged parties, barbecues, car boot sales, and had acted as an overflow car park for cricket matches. It was also the only direct access to the cricket field from the road, and countless thousands of feet over some two hundred plus years had worn a path across it; a footpath which had then been straddled by the tyre tracks of innumerable vehicles, as generations of the village’s cricketers and their opponents had headed to the picturesque sporting arena on the other side of the far hedge. It was also somewhere that the locals traditionally liked to stroll of a summer’s evening, to take in the air and perhaps sit for a while in the long grass of summer and admire the spectacular view across the Weald. Hubert had paused briefly, then, leaning forward with a deep frown on his forehead, he added, ‘There is something that is a little bothersome, not to say disturbing. It would appear that no one knows who owns the Buttercup Field. There don’t seem to be any title deeds anywhere, therefore no one could challenge anyone else’s claim to ownership of it. Naturally, this whole thing has caused an uproar. The village, indeed the whole of the surrounding area, is outraged. The council claims that it has been responsible for the upkeep of the Buttercup Field, mowing the grass verge running along the roadside of it, and trimming the hedgerows on a regular basis, and therefore has something they termed loosely as “husbandry rights”, which means after a certain amount of time they can stake a claim to ownership of it. This is arrant nonsense and patently untrue. It has always fallen to the lot of the locals, farmers in the main, to trim the hedges, clear the roadside ditch, and occasionally to mow the field itself.
‘Furthermore this claim of ownership has been challenged by a couple of legal people who live locally. One of them is a barrister, Angela Smeaton, who actually lives in the village. She says that the PC can have no legal claim to it, and that furthermore, no court in the land would uphold the council’s case, because of the Buttercup Field’s role over the years to the community here.’
Tolstoy interrupted the flow. ‘But hang on, Hubert, the Buttercup Field adjoins the cricket field, which belongs to Stottenden Manor, and therefore to you. Surely that means the Buttercup Field belongs to you.’
His godfather gave a resigned little shrug. ‘Sadly, my dear chap, that’s not the case. As I’ve said we, that’s to say my solicitor and his team, have scoured every scrap of paper, every document that has anything to do with Stottenden Manor, in the hope that at some later date one of my ancestors purchased the land then gave it to the village, or even the church. It had always been the general belief throughout my childhood, that a great-great-great whatever grandfather, in gratitude for all that the villagers had done, had made a gift of the field to the village. But it seems no one else, neither the church, nor the council, no one, has any record of any such thing having taken place. Now, thanks to Jack Bentley, the council, wrongly in my view, is claiming ownership of the land, oh of course, “on behalf of” the villagers. This whole thing smells, of money. I am urging our legal chaps to look into the establishment of common land, or something similar, but so far, nothing.’
‘Has the proposal gone through all the planning processes?’ asked Tolstoy.
‘Not quite. But rumours are rife that the borough council, while it will happily prevaricate for a while and go through the motions of examining the various claims and counter-claims, will ultimately almost certainly come down on the side of Jack Bentley and his parish council.’
Tolstoy cocked his head on one side. ‘Seems to be a lot of waiting around. Are there any grounds for not developing the site?’
‘Well, if it were declared a site of special scientific interest, if there were proof of rare, indigenous species, be they insects, birds, reptiles, mammals or plants. Or, of course, if it is deemed to be a village green.’
‘Surely that is precisely what it is,’ said Tolstoy. ‘It has staged fetes, the cricket club frequently uses it as an overspill car park, plus it provides the only public access to the cricket ground. And doesn’t the church “borrow” it as a car park for christenings, weddings, funerals and the like?’
‘Yes, it does. But the thing is,’ de Groot raised himself a little and leaned forward in his chair, ‘the cricket ground, being privately owned, cannot be entered into the equation. The council would argue that if access is needed to it, then the public should use the one here, at the Manor, since the cricket field is within the curtilage of Stottenden Manor, except that not many people would be prepared to park along the road and then walk, possibly up to a quarter of a mile, in order to gain access to a field to watch a cricket match.
‘Oh, and another thing the borough council is also trying to claim is that because the Buttercup Field is enclosed on all four sides, that as enclosed land it cannot be deemed to be a village green. It’s a legal minefield, with claim, counter-claim and very little documented proof of anything. Thankfully the village now has an action committee, with a fair amount of professional expertise it can call on, including legal.’
He paused for a moment then added, ‘So, because of your pending ownership of Stottenden, I felt it necessary for you at least to attend the meeting about the Buttercup Field. It does look desperate, but there is the odd glimmer of hope. I don’t expect you to take an active part, simply because you live in London and you have your job, but I do think you need to be in at the start of things. As I say, all is not as bleak as it might appear.’
So Tolstoy had duly been co-opted onto the committee that had been set up to try to find ways of forestalling and eventually thwarting the proposed development, although Tolstoy made it very clear to everyone that he could offer very little in terms of practical help to the cause, given that he lived in London and worked odd hours, including weekends. But, it was suggested, he might come up with ideas that could be adopted and adapted. He had felt heartened by this reaction, and more comfortable sitting around a table with them.
Two
Now, three months later, in the cool of the bar in the Snitcher’s Head, Tolstoy knew matters were coming to a head. He felt defeated. During his cont
emplation of the village’s troubles, Tolstoy found that he had drained his pint of beer. He debated briefly buying another, but decided against it.
Right, time to go. He rose, picked up his holdall, grabbed the glass and set it on the bar on his way out, said a farewell to Jo, then to Ned, who appeared to be dozing on his bar stool, although the old man half turned, smiled and raised a hand before returning to his previous state and Tolstoy hauled open the heavy door to be hit by the wall of heat outside.
He looked at his watch and sighed. He had hoped to arrive much earlier than this, but train problems meant the cancellation of the one he had intended to catch, and as a consequence he had missed his connection at Paddock Wood, and by the time the next local train arrived he was more than two hours behind schedule. Any frustration that he had felt about the delays, however, had been swiftly dispelled by the train journey into deepest West Kent. The line had originally been one of those closed more than half a century earlier, and not so long ago there had been no railway line, or no station at Stottenden, at least, not a working one. The old building had been used as an outhouse and storage facility for the previous sixty-plus years after Dr Richard Beeching’s axe had fallen on the “Hopping Line” as it had been known.
But ten years ago a government initiative, which had attracted private investment, had deemed that the “Hopping Line” should be restored in a move to help ease congestion on the roads and improve rural communities’ links with towns in the area. It was a necessarily complex process, involving the re-purchase or re-leasing of land that had once belonged to British Rail or the former railway company. But local businesses had seen the sense in taking freight off the snarled-up roads and had chipped in generously; staggeringly, local law firms carried out the legal side of the transfer of title to the newly set-up Hopping Line Branch Railway Company in near record time, with unthinkably generous discounts to help expedite affairs; and an impressively large army of volunteers, as ever where such projects are concerned, ensured that nine years almost to the day that the restoration had commenced, it was duly completed. Now villagers along the route had ready access to Paddock Wood, Tonbridge and all stations north and south on the main line, as well as a host of old and new halt-whistles. (These were unscheduled stops, usually on branch lines, where the guard’s whistle would let the engine driver know he had to stop at what was generally just a short platform with no buildings or railway staff.) The one at the bottom of the hill below Stottenden had proved to be a great community asset. It had been running now for several years, and Tolstoy had never tired of travelling down to Kent on it, which he did as frequently as his godfather invited him.