Anything For a Quiet Life (8 page)

“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.”

“What sort of trouble might you have in mind?” said Ben.

“These caravans of yours. They’d make a nice bonfire, wouldn’t they? Suppose someone happened to be careless one night, with a tin of petrol and a match?”

“I’ve heard of that sort of thing happening,” said Ben. “Nasty dangerous stuff, petrol.”

“Next point,” said Clegg, moving in even closer. “I’ve got friends round here. Fishermen, some of them. Rough types. You know. They might feel that you lot needed a lesson.”

“A lesson in what? Manners?”

“This sort of lesson,” said Clegg. He swung with his right. It was a quick vicious blow, but it met only the air.

Ben had slipped off the steps on the far side. Now he moved out into the open. “Talk about lessons,” he said. “Someone ought to give you a lesson in boxing, Granpa. When you’re going to hit someone you don’t want to send them a postcard telling them you’re going to do it.”

Clegg lumbered out after him. He recognised that Ben was much lighter on his feet than he was, but he hadn’t half his weight or muscle. All he needed to do was to get his hands on him. The best tactics would be to provoke him. He said, “All right, my boy. Stop running away, let’s see if you can hit.”

Ben came dancing towards him. Clegg took a step back to give himself distance. It was a mistake. Billy had come up quietly behind him and was crouched on the ground. Clegg fell over him and landed flat on his back.

Before he could get up Billy had grabbed his hair, pulling his head back and Ben had landed on his stomach with a thump that drove all the breath out of him. He now had a knife in his right hand, and the point of it was resting on Clegg’s exposed throat.

“Well,” said Billy. “When does the lesson start?”

Clegg said nothing.

“Come along,” said Ben. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Let him up,” said the Queen.

Billy let go of Clegg’s hair and Ben removed himself. Clegg scrambled to his feet. He said, “It’s lucky you turned up, lady. If that boy had touched me with his knife he’d have been in bad trouble; as it is I could have him for assault.”

“Stop talking nonsense,” said the Queen. The tone of command was so compelling that Clegg, who had opened his mouth to speak, shut it again.

“You made a threat. I heard it. A threat of arson. That’s an indictable offence. I expect your master sent you to do it. Now get back to him and give him this message. If he wants trouble, he can have it. But we shan’t start it. You understand? All right. Off you go.”

Clegg felt that he must assert himself, but could think of nothing to do or say. He turned on his heel and stalked off.

Ben and Billy looked serious. Ben said, “What do you think he’s going to do now?”

“What a silly question,” said the Queen. “We can’t possibly tell what he’s going to do. On the other hand, we can make our own plans. I’ve had an idea.”

As she explained her idea Ben and Billy stopped looking serious and started to grin.

Billy said, “That’ll tickle him up.”

“Something has got to be done about it,” said Mr Grandfield. “I won’t tolerate it. I’m being made a public laughing stock.”

“I don’t quite understand,” said Mr Porter cautiously. “What blackboard are you talking about?”

“If you don’t know about it” – Mr Grandfield was starting to get cross – “you must be the only person in Shackleton who doesn’t. This person – this person, who calls herself the Gypsy Queen has got a blackboard outside her booth on the front. She chalks up some nonsense every day. The Voice of the Stars.”

“A lot of newspapers—” began Mr Porter.

“I know, I know. To start with it was harmless nonsense. It was an advertising stunt. It attracted customers. Now it’s not harmless at all. She’s using it to pillory
me
.”