Dick shook his head, recognizing that argument was futile. "If you're not prepared to tell me why you're here, then I'll have to call the police. You've no right to trespass on private property."
The remark was greeted with silence.
"All right," said Dick, taking a mobile phone from his pocket, "though be warned, I will prosecute if you've caused any damage. I work hard for the environment and I'm sick to death of types like you ruining it for the rest of us."
"Are you saying it's your property, Mr. Weldon?" said the same well-spoken voice that had answered him at the beginning.
For the briefest of moments he had a sense of recognition-it was a voice he knew, but without a face he couldn't put it in context. He searched the line for the speaker. "How do you know my name?"
"We checked the electoral register." This time there was a rougher edge to the vowels, as if the speaker had noticed his sharpened interest and wanted to deflect it.
"That wouldn't help you recognize me."
"R. Weldon, Shenstead Farm. You said you were an arable farmer. How many others are there in the valley?"
"Two tenant farmers."
"P. Squires and G. Drew. Their farms are to the south. If you were one of them you'd have come the other way."
"You're too well informed to have got all that from the electoral register," said Dick, scrolling through his mobile menu for the local police station. His calls usually concerned poachers or burned-out cars in his fields-an increasing nuisance since the government had declared zero tolerance on unlicensed vehicles-which was why he had the number on file. "I recognize your voice, my friend. I can't place it at the moment-" he selected the number and punched the call button, raising the phone to his ear-"but I'm betting this lot will know who you are."
The watching people waited in silence while he spoke to the sergeant at the other end. If any of them smiled as he became increasingly irritated at the advice he was being given, the smiles remained hidden behind their scarves. He turned his back toward them and walked away, making an effort to keep his voice down, but the angry hunching of his shoulders was the best indication they could have that he didn't like what he was hearing.
Six vehicles or less were considered an acceptable size for an encampment, particularly if it was at a distance from neighbors and posed no threat to road safety. The landowner could apply for eviction, but it would take time. The best course was to negotiate the length of stay through the Traveler Liaison Officer at the local authority and avoid unnecessary confrontation with the visitors. The sergeant reminded Dick that farmers had recently been arrested in Lincolnshire and Essex for using threatening behavior against groups who had invaded their land. The police were sympathetic to landowners but their first priority was to avoid anyone getting hurt.
"Godammit!" Dick rasped, cupping his hand across his mouth to muffle the words. "Who wrote these rules? You telling me they can park wherever they fancy, do whatever they like, and if the poor sap who owns the bloody land objects, you bastards'll arrest him? Yeah… yeah… I'm sorry… no offense intended. So what rights do the poor sods who live here have?"
In return for occupying the site, travelers were asked to agree to certain conditions. These concerned appropriate disposal of household and human waste, the proper control of animals, health and safety issues, and agreements not to reoccupy the same site within a period of three months or use threatening or intimidatory behavior.
Dick's ruddy face turned apoplectic. "You call those rights?" he hissed. "We're expected to offer house-room to a bunch of crooks and all we get in exchange is a promise that they'll behave in a halfway civilized manner." He shot an angry glance toward the line. "And how do you define threatening and intimidating behavior anyway? There's a dozen of them blocking my way and they're all wearing masks over their faces… not to mention some damn dogs and the 'keep out' notice they've slung across the track. What's that if it's not intimidating?" He hunched his shoulders lower. "Yes, well, that's the problem," he muttered, "no one knows who owns it. It's an acre of woodland on the edge of the village."
He listened for a moment. "Jesus wept! Whose side are you on, for Christ's sake?… Yeah, well, it might not be an issue for you but it sodding well is for me. You wouldn't have a job if I didn't pay my taxes."
He snapped the mobile closed and shoved it into his pocket before returning to the Jeep and yanking the door open. A ripple of laughter ran along the line.
"Got a problem, have you, Mr. Weldon?" said the voice in a mocking tone. "Let me guess. The busies have told you to phone the council negotiator."
Dick ignored him and climbed behind the wheel.
"Don't forget to tell her that no one owns this land. She lives in Bridport, and she'll be mighty stroppy if she has to drive all this way on her holiday to learn it from us."
Dick started the engine and turned the Jeep broadside to the line. "Who are you?" he demanded through the open window. "How do you know so much about Shenstead?"
But the question was greeted with silence. Furiously grinding his gears, Dick made a three-point turn and returned home to discover that the negotiator was indeed a woman, did live in Bridport, and refused to give up her holiday to negotiate over a piece of unclaimed land that squatters had as much right to occupy as anyone in the village.
Mr. Weldon should never have mentioned that the land was in dispute. Without that knowledge she could have negotiated a length of stay that would have suited neither party. It would have been too short for the travelers and too long for the villagers. All land in England and Wales was owned by someone, but a failure to register left it open to opportunists.
For whatever reason, Mr. Weldon had volunteered information that suggested solicitors would become involved-"No, I'm sorry, sir, you were a fool to take advice from the squatters. This is a gray area of law…"-and there was little she could do until agreement was reached on who owned the land. Of course it was unjust. Of course it went against every norm of legal fairness. Of course she was on the side of the taxpayers.
But…
1 October 2001
Dear Captain Smith,
My solicitor informs me that if I attempt to contact you, you will sue. For that reason I should make it clear that I am writing without Mark Ankerton's knowledge and that the entire responsibility for this letter is mine. Please be assured, too, that any suit you bring will not be contested and I will pay any compensation that a court sees fit to award.
In these circumstances, I am sure you are wondering why I am writing so potentially costly a letter. Call it a gamble, Captain Smith. I am wagering the cost of damages against a one in ten-perhaps even a one in a hundred-chance that you will respond.
Mark has described you as an intelligent, well-balanced, successful, and brave young woman, who feels an absolute loyalty to her parents and has no desire to learn anything about people who are strangers to her. He tells me your family has a long history, and that your ambition is to take over your father's farm when you leave the army. In addition, he says you are a credit to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and suggests that your adoption was the best thing that could have happened to you.
Please believe there is nothing he could have said that would have given me greater pleasure. My wife and I always hoped that your future was in the hands of good people. Mark has repeated several times that you have no curiosity about your relations, to the extent that you do not wish even to know their names. Should your determination remain as strong, then throw this letter away now and do not read on.