He mutters something.
“The playground will be right beside my garden. I’d like you to draw attention to this in your journal, and I wondered if you know any journalists who could publicise the problem. I’d be grateful for any help.”
He promises to make some phone calls and says he’ll ring me back in the afternoon. I then phone Joseph, tell him what’s going on and ask him what I asked Roger. The young woman looks on with a frown. Joseph has less fighting spirit than Roger and fewer connections, but he knows my research well and will do his utmost. When I phone Garth’s home number, I don’t get an answer, so I phone him at work. His secretary doesn’t wish to put me through, until I say that if she doesn’t, I’ll see that she gets the sack. He also promises to do his best.
“Miss Howard?” A lean man wearing a light-blue suit with slightly flared trousers comes towards us, his hand held out. “I’m Peter Waters. Come this way, please.”
We follow him upstairs.
In his office—white walls, wooden table, brown curtains, a tall shelving unit filled with ring binders—I show him the newspaper and point to where I live. “My books have been sold worldwide, in the tens of thousands. Perhaps a hundred thousand copies by now. My first book will soon have its thirtieth reprint. If that holiday park goes ahead, it will mean the end of my research.”
“A wonderful book,” Mr Waters says. “I’d like to mention that immediately. My wife read it first, then I followed. Our neighbours had recommended it; they thought it was fantastic too. And my mother also enjoyed reading it. I have so much respect for your work, Miss Howard. Perhaps you could give me your autograph? For my wife? I know she’d really appreciate that. We must get round to ordering your second book. I wanted to give it to my wife for our tenth anniversary, but it wasn’t in the shops then.”
I look at him, expectantly.
“I’m sorry, I’m forgetting why you’re here. Holiday park. Yes. I’ve just checked and all the permissions are in order. The best solution would be to talk things over with the construction firm, perhaps they could leave a strip of land free from development. Or something. I’m afraid there’s very little we can do: the land was lawfully acquired and the owner is free to do as he wishes.”
“Can I lodge an appeal against the permissions?”
“That’s possible. But you won’t have much of a chance. It’s all perfectly legal.” He breaks off his sentence when he sees the expression on my face. “I’ll fetch the papers.”
When he’s out of the room, I look at Theo.
“You should play on his feelings,” Theo says. “Give him the autograph he wants, ask him to help you. Play the woman with him.”
“Play the woman.” I sigh.
Mr Waters enters the room, bearing the forms.
“Mr Waters. I’ll happily give you my autograph, and I’m so pleased that you and your wife enjoyed the book. And I’d love to present you with a copy of Living with Birds, if you are still unable to order it. But it would be so marvellous if I could continue my research. I’m awfully afraid that all the birds will leave if they start building there.” I give him a sorrowful look. “Then it will all have been for nothing.”
“That must not happen,” says Mr Waters. He draws his shoulders back a little and takes a deep breath. “We’ll have to nip it in the bud. At any rate, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that your objections reach the right people.”
He helps me fill the form in and adds a note at the bottom of the last page saying that my research is of national importance. He gives me the telephone number of the person who will deal with the case. “This should work.” He rubs his hands together.
“Well done,” Theo says once we’re outside. “I had no idea that such a charming lady was concealed inside you.” I give him a dig in the ribs.
At the offices of Thompson and Co. in Burgess Hill we have less success. The secretary makes us wait on a hard purple couch for two hours, then tells us that Mr Thompson won’t be free until Friday. I am too tired to quarrel and, as pleasantly as possible, make an appointment for that day.
I am at Theo’s place for the rest of the day, making as many posters as I can: “Help Ditchling’s Birds—Say No to Thompson’s Holiday Park!” Mary offers to help distribute them.
At home I sit down, in the chair by the window overlooking the garden. My feet are sore. I pull off my shoes and massage my toes. Two Great Tits fly to the hedge. My eyesight is too bad now to tell who they are at this distance. Perhaps I’ve done enough. Perhaps I should finally give in.
Drummer flies to the window, taps his beak twice against the wood of the windowsill and flies swiftly off. I burst out laughing, and then tears fill my eyes. The holiday park can’t go ahead, it mustn’t. I would have to find another spot and I don’t want to leave. I belong here. And anyway, I must protect the birds.
After a number of articles in the local papers, the news is picked up by the Daily Mail. The Guardian follows with a long interview and photographs of the birds. This leads to me being invited for an interview on the radio. Meanwhile, Garth and some of his colleagues have sent a letter to the Minister, describing my work as unique and emphasising that the disturbance caused by the construction noise would mean the end of many years of work. In the meantime Roger is busy composing an article about Thompson and Co.’s shady practices, and has discovered that they’ve also met resistance in other locations. He’s convinced that their building methods damage the environment.
On Friday Theo comes with me to the appointment with Thompson. We wait on the same purple couch. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, no choice but to wait. After half an hour the secretary brings us to a room that smells of cabbage. Thompson is at his desk, a squat little man with a thin moustache and hands like coal shovels. His shirt collar comes up to his chin. He hardly has a neck at all.
“Miss Howard.” He simply nods, does not shake hands. “I understand that you’ve started a smear campaign against us. I shall therefore be brief. The park will go ahead, and if you create any problems for us, we shall prosecute.”
“A smear campaign? I’m simply trying to protect the birds.” I cough, attempting to lower the high notes in my voice; deeper voices are always taken more seriously and carry more weight. Take a deep breath.
“We never hurt a fly.” He laughs. “Not a fly, not a bird, not a soul. You haven’t a leg to stand on. Poor soul.”
“Then I’ll take it to court.” I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see my fury.
“I wish you every success.”
He sits down, writes something in his notebook. Theo stands and opens the door. “Come on,” he says softly. “We’re going.”
“Do you really think we’ll have to take it to court?” I ask as we walk across the square. Pigeons fly up, then land a few feet away.
“I’d wait and see, if I were you. But if we must, we must.”
At the shop a familiar figure is waiting. “I just wanted to tell you in person that they’re taking your objections very seriously.” Mr Waters gives me a smile.
“Would you like to come in?” Theo opens the door.
He looks nervously around him. “Better not. That Thompson is, how should I put it, rather influential.”
Theo nods.
“They’re going to look again at the permissions. I don’t want to create false hopes, it doesn’t mean they’ll be rescinded. However, they’re certainly looking at it.” His eyebrows shoot up.
Then he shakes my hand and is off before I can even thank him. “He was acting rather strangely,” I say to Theo.