Terry Jones - Trouble on the Heath

“Is that all?” asked Malcolm.

“Well, of course. That’s the only reason anyone objects,” said Mr Kendrick.

“But it’s not enough just to say you don’t want it.” Malcolm was trying to be patient.

“But I don’t!” said Mr Kendrick, and there were murmurs of agreement around the room.

“None of us wants it,” said Mrs Furlong.

Malcolm tried to keep calm. “We have to present the Council with a proper argument. We have to convince them that it’s a bad idea to allow this development to go forward.”

“I also live opposite the site. It’ll spoil the view from my front room.” This was Mr Kahn, who ran some sort of business from his home. No one was quite sure what his business was.

“Well, you can put that view to the Council. But I’m not sure it’ll be considered grounds for an objection,” said Malcolm.

“How about the ‘damage to the environment’?” said Mr Kahn. “That’s how I was going to put it.”

“That’s more like it!” said Malcolm. He turned to the rest of the room: “This is precisely why this meeting is important. We need to work out our grounds for objecting to the development. It’s no good coming up with objections that the Council can ignore – because they are desperate to find ways of ignoring them.”

“And there are plenty of proper grounds for objection,” Malcolm went on. “The proposed development is not in keeping with the other houses in the road, which is in a Conservation Area. It is twice the size of the existing two houses put together. It will mean felling no less than forty trees and it’s in a Tree Conservation Area. But there are even worse problems. Patrick, you’ve got some facts on the groundwater, I believe?”

Patrick Simpson, the lawyer, stood up. He was a strong supporter of the Residents’ Association. “Yes, we’ve had a hydrological study done…”

“A what?” put in Mr Kendrick, the vet.

“A study of the ground-water and streams in the area,” said Patrick.

“Well why didn’t you say?”

“I did,” Patrick replied.

“I still think we should have our tea and biscuits now,” Mr Kendrick said.

“I’ll get Molly to put the kettle on,” said Lady Chesney. She was worrying that more people might leave. She charged £1.50 for the tea and biscuits, and was counting on making enough money to buy another bottle of vodka.

“Please allow Patrick to continue!” Malcolm’s voice had a whine in it now.

“Well. This second basement they’re proposing…” said Patrick.

“The one with the swimming pool?” asked Mrs Furlong.

“Exactly!”

“Will they let us use it?” asked someone.

“I don’t think so,” replied Malcolm.

“I wouldn’t mind a swimming pool,” said Mrs Furlong.

“Yes! I can’t see how we can object to that !” said Mr Kendrick.

“Well listen!” shouted Malcolm. “Listen to what Patrick’s going to tell you!”

“This second basement,” continued Patrick, “will be built right across one of the underground streams in the area. The weight of the building and the way it will divert the water will flood the wild-life sanctuary on the corner. Plus we have no idea how the development might affect the ponds. It could drain them by altering the water courses and the level of the water table.”

“These are strong grounds for objection to the development!” exclaimed Malcolm triumphantly.

“The Council can’t ignore things like that, not in a Conservation Area,” added Patrick.

“And what about the lorries?” Mr Clarkson was on his feet again.

“And the mess,” said Barbara, the Secretary of the Residents’ Association.

“Exactly!” said Malcolm. “With the amount of building work they are proposing, we calculate that there will be something like forty lorry movements per day for something like four years! The road is only three metres wide. There’s just about room for a car, but a lorry will take up the entire road. There’d be nowhere for people on foot to get out of the way. So there is a serious risk of accidents.”

“And where are the lorries going to turn?”

“And think about the noise!”

“And the damage to the road surface. It’s a private road. We pay for its upkeep.”

By the time the tea and biscuits arrived, Malcolm was quite happy with the level of outrage in the room. Lady Chesney was equally happy that she would be able to afford another bottle of vodka. The tea and biscuits triggered a buzz of conversation. Malcolm banged his teaspoon against his cup.

“OK, everybody,” he said loudly. “If you’ve all got your teas can we carry on, please!”

“What! There’s more?” asked Mr Kendrick, the vet.

“Yes, of course there’s more!” Malcolm felt himself getting irritated by Mr Kendrick. There was something about the vet’s moustache that annoyed him. It was so clearly based on Adolf Hitler’s moustache. Had Mr Kendrick grown it on purpose as a tribute to the Great Dictator? If he hadn’t, shouldn’t someone have a quiet word with him?

Malcolm pulled his mind away from Mr Kendrick’s moustache and forced himself to speak calmly.

“We still haven’t decided what action to take,” he said.

“I thought we were going to write to the Council?” said Mrs Furlong.

“Shall we each do that or will the Residents’ Association write on all our behalves?” asked Lady Chesney. She did not normally join in the discussions. She felt it was beneath her dignity, but the thought of actually having to make the effort of writing a letter moved her to speak.

“Well, it would be good to do both,” replied Malcolm.

“Oh!” Lady Chesney’s face fell.

“But there are all sorts of other things we need to discuss, like publicity, whether we should demonstrate, who else we can get to join the protest. All that sort of thing,” Malcolm looked around the faces of the members of the Residents’ Association. Most of them looked dismayed.

Trevor Williams sat at his desk and buried his face in his hands. It was all too much.

“They’re planning yet another protest demonstration. This time it’s outside numbers 26 and 27 Highgrove Park,” he murmured.

“How do they have time for it?” asked Cynthia, who looked after the filing. “Don’t they have jobs?”

“Not proper ones,” groaned Trevor. “They’re all writers and academics and bankers. I suppose they’ve got nothing better to do.”

“It’s shocking,” said Cynthia. “Here we are trying to do the best for people, and all they do is moan. Moan, moan, moan.”

“It’s the way they hate us that gets me down,” said Trevor. “It’s the constant hostility, the way they look at you when they know you’re from the Council. That little glint that jumps into their eyes when you say what your job is, and they reply: ‘Oh! The Planning Department, eh?’

“What does ‘eh?’ mean? I’ll tell you what ‘eh?’ means, Cynthia. ‘Eh?’ means: ‘We’re going to make your life a misery!’ ‘Eh?’ means: ‘We have complete freedom to be nasty to you.’ ‘Eh?’ means: ‘Society has given us permission to be rude to your face.’ ‘Eh?’ means: ‘Society empowers us to swear at you, to yell at you, to bad-mouth you and generally torment you and make your lives not worth living! Because we pay your wages! You are our servants! Our slaves! To do what we tell you!’ That’s what ‘Eh?’ means, Cynthia!”

Then Trevor Williams put his head in his hands again and started to sob. Cynthia put her arm around him and whispered something into his ear. Pretty soon, Trevor Williams put his arm around Cynthia, and pretty soon they were kissing. A little bit later they were hard at work.