James Long - Sixth Column

She nodded calmly as if he hadn’t said anything new. ‘Put like that, I take the point. So what’s the answer?’

‘Keep the fat hot and have the herbs ready.’

In the village hall, the master of ceremonies was trying to kindle some enthusiasm amongst the audience.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said in a reedy voice with only the faintest of Yorkshire accents, ‘thank you all for coming tonight. As you know, the CPRE has called this meeting to discuss the exclusion from the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty of the Ramsgill Stray base and the subsequent submission of major expansion plans for the base. I’d like to introduce our first platform member.’

He turned to the side of the stage with a stiff one-armed flourish that looked like someone trying to ease the cramp in their shoulder. The organizers had clearly thought it a good idea that he should bring on the speakers one at a time in an attempt to drum up a sense of expectation. As an idea it might have passed muster but in execution it was destined to failure. His voice rose to a painful falsetto.

‘First of all, I would like you to welcome Mrs Jean Havergale, our local representative of the Council for the Protection of Rural England.’

There was a sporadic scatter of clapping as a large woman dressed in brown upholstery material clumped on to the stage, sat down in the wrong chair and had to be moved with maximum confusion to the one next to it.

‘From the Planning Department, I ask you to put your hands together for Mr Tony Ramsay.’

A furtive man, tall and stooped, joined her, putting down a pile of papers which promptly spilled off the desk.

‘From the Chamber of Commerce and also representing the views of a large section of the community, our very own Councillor Derek Percival.’

To Johnny’s slight discomfiture there was a scatter of catcalls and whistles from the women around him as a short man strode confidently on to the platform. His projecting stomach was barely restrained by a valiant waistcoat and from there upwards his profile receded all the way past a massive chin to a small swept-back forehead.

‘And finally, we’re very pleased indeed to welcome a well-respected member of our local community for some years, with quite a few things to say on this issue.’ It seemed suddenly that he’d forgotten the last name. Either that or it was another ham attempt at building up the suspense because he stood there with his mouth open as a tall dignified man in a tweed suit, leonine mane of white hair waving above a fine and sensitive face, strode on the stage to a great burst of applause.

Jo nudged Johnny without looking round at him. ‘Great bloke,’ she said, ‘he’s been a real help to us.’

Johnny said nothing. In that moment he knew he shouldn’t have come, knew that this barred part of Yorkshire should have stayed that way. Pure panic welled up in him at the presence of the Devil incarnate as the chairman belatedly found his words.

‘Our former ambassador, Sir Michael Parry.’

Johnny stared in appalled fascination at his father.

Don’t ever be fooled, his mother had said as soon as he was old enough to be aware of his father’s background presence on the television, the radio, in newspaper quotes. He’s the most dangerous sort, Johnny. He can sound so reasonable and he gets people on his side but it can suck the backbone out of you. He can persuade you that black is white but his sort lack any kind of vision, Johnny. They just boil everyone’s opinion down into a disgusting soggy mess of agreement.

He could remember her so well, bending over his bed. He was twelve years old and he’d fallen asleep with the radio on, listening to some comedy show. She’d come in. God knows why, she didn’t usually. She was drawn perhaps by the faint sound of that hated voice. The jokes were over. Something serious had followed it and he was one of the speakers.

It hadn’t been enough for her just to switch it off. Anger had wiped out logic in her brain. She’d had to wake him up to make sure he hadn’t been listening to it, confusing him as the swirls of fresh sleep fled. Shouting at him, then calming down into mere lecturing. You mustn’t listen to him, ever. Never let that voice into your ears because it will stop you believing in things, she’d said. You’ll never be certain of anything again and then you will achieve nothing . If this country takes his route it will never be great again. It will dissipate its strength. It doesn’t help anyone to hobble your achievers, to drag down the doers. Better that the rest realize they’ve just got to damn well get up and get going. He talks about liberty, she’d said, but he doesn’t mean my liberty or your liberty. We’re the people who’ve shown we deserve it. He’d hand over our liberty to a bunch of spongers and freeloaders.

For as long as he could remember, Johnny had dutifully switched off the radio, turned off the TV, averted his eyes from the newspaper articles. Sir Michael Parry, the doyen of international diplomacy, had been someone he merely glimpsed, a subliminal, threatening idea, the Lorelei waiting to lure him to his doom in a swirling pool of compromise.

Now, sitting in plain view, not thirty feet away, he could not avoid the reality. He could not even get up and leave without attracting attention. There was no choice but to sit there, looking and listening.

The woman from the CPRE went first. She lauded the beauties of Kex Gill and Blubberhouses Moor. She said the domes of Ramsgill Stray were already an eyesore and should not have been put there. She had a map projected on to a screen, inevitably back to front to start with, then crooked, then out of focus. In the end they could see the bent outlines of the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty where it hiccupped to accommodate the American base.

It was bad enough, she explained, having it there at all, but at least it was in a hollow. Now, she said, they planned to put in some real monster dishes, covered by domes which would poke over the skyline and spoil the view for many miles to the north and west.

She sat down to a little polite applause.

Ramsay the furtive planner came next, hesitant in his wording but deploring any suggestion in Mrs Havergale’s speech that proper procedures had not been followed and wishing to underline that at no time had the outline of the AONB been modified with any criteria in mind except the proper ones set down by statute. There was no reason for anyone not directly related to him to applaud his effort and no one did.

Councillor Derek Percival, waistcoat bulging, was third and the women around Johnny stirred restlessly when he stood up.

‘What does a bump in a line matter,’ he said and his speech was pure Yorkshire, ‘what does a little bump in a line matter against our national security and the wealth of our community?’ There was a burst of clapping then from seats at the back and Johnny realized the Councillor had a powerful group of supporters with him.

‘We’ve done well out of the base,’ he said, ‘and speaking for the Chamber of Commerce I have no hesitation in welcoming the proposed expansion because it will bring more trade to our community. We’re pleased to see our American comrades in our shops, in our pubs, in our restaurants.’

‘And in our telephones,’ called Margo. Heads turned to look at her, mostly with frosty expressions on them.

‘They’re doing a service for all of us,’ the Councillor went on, ignoring her. ‘Protecting our freedom with their ceaseless vigil, scanning the skies over our heads for any threats that may face us.’

‘Spare us,’ said Jo in a loud whisper, ‘he thinks it’s a bloody radar station.’