The worrying part was that the main hall was nearly full. Must be close to four hundred people. Diane sat at the back, near the doors, as a sober-looking band filed onto the stage, among them Griff Daniel, discreetly followed by her brother Archer, and a wave of spirited applause from the floor.
She hadn't seen Archer in months. He'd put on a little weight, the chest-expanding, shoulder-widening kind she supposed heavyweight boxers like to acquire before a fight. Archer's hair was coiled and springy; he looked well. Would Archer chair the meeting? Couldn't, surely, be Griff Daniel; he didn't have a terrific reputation for integrity.
It was neither or them. A bulky figure in a pinstriped double-breasted suit stood up at the table, perusing his notes through half-glasses. Oh gosh, Mr Cotton, Quentin Cotton MBE, noted charitable fundraiser and the Ffitch family solicitor.
Credibility. Mega credibility.
Mr Cotton coughed for silence.
After thanking everyone for coming, he said, it saddens me that such a gathering as this should even be necessary.
One might reasonably have thought that everyone in this town would put Glastonbury first. But this, regrettably, is not the case.'
Oh well; obvious what was coming.
'An increasing number of persons in our midst – although I doubt that any at all is here tonight – appear to give higher priority to bizarre beliefs of a quasi-religious nature, which for various tar-fetched reasons, they appear to consider appropriate to our pleasant old country town… a town which, let me say at the outset, has no use for this nonsense.'
An awful cheer arose. Mr Cotton smiled grimly and nodded.
'Where once we attracted the more discerning visitor, we now draw, on one level, the lunatic fringe and, on another, what I can only describe as the dregs of the inner-cities. Those who exist on state benefits and prefer to steal from our shops rather than expend any of their hard claimed money, which they prefer to go on drink and drugs.'
Clapping, general noises of affirmation, and a dusting of bitter laughter
'But you're not here to listen to my opinions. You want facts. And behind me is a distinguished panel of experts ready and waiting to supply them. First, may I introduce a local businessman, well known to most of you – Mr Stanlow Pike, of Pike and Comer, estate agents and valuers, who will outline for you precisely how the value of the very fabric of this town has declined. By the fabric, I mean your homes. By decline, well, I think I am talking – and Mr Pike will confirm this – in the region of twenty per cent. Calamitous. Mr Pike…'
An anxiously overweight man in his fifties, Mr Pike began by saying that his business had been established in this town for three generations.
'I can see among you many of my clients, past and… and present. Among the, er, present clients are…' Stanlow Pike was pressing the tips of his fingers into the table, his body leaning back then forward like a large bird on a perch.
'… Are several who have had properties for sale for more than a year and been unable to find a satisfactory purchaser. This is, to an extent, a national problem as you all must be aware. And a problem shared by every other agent in this town. However, it is worse here. Worse than Somerton, worse than Street, worse than Castle Cary. Because this most beautiful and historic town is no longer… no longer considered such a desirable place to live. And… and we all know why.'
One after another, they arose. The chemist, who had suffered two drug-related burglaries. The local official of the National Farmers' Union, whose members had been obliged to blockade their land against the thieving, trespassing travellers.
Griff Daniel's own speech was brief and, at first, restrained. He was a local man. He remembered a time when these mystical types were just a handful of harmless cranks. When they wore suits and ties like everyone else. When they did nothing more threatening than picnic on the Tor.
Which brought him to the point of this gathering.
'It's a pretty place, the Tor, on a summer's morn,' Griff said lyrically, 'But after dark…'
He thumped the table once with his fist.
'… after dark, 'tis a threat and a menace to us all.'
Griff's face broke into a grim smile.
'But they also know the law, these scum. They know they're legal. Now don't that make you sick?'
'Disgraceful!' someone shouted.
'Indeed. But that's a public place, and if there aren't more'n six vehicles, they can do pretty much what they like there. And I know that most decent people in this town do not want these layabouts and are deeply, deeply frustrated that we cannot keep 'em out altogether. Now I'm not a lawyer and not a politician, except in the most amateur way, look… '
Diane was pretty glad at this moment that Juanita was not here.
'… so I took my problem to a man whose roots in this area go back farther than mine and probably farther than anybody else's in this room tonight. Now he's a new boy in the political game…'
'Oh really!' Diane exclaimed crossly. A woman in a hat turned and gave her a hard look.
'… but he's got his head screwed on and he knows how people in this town think and feel. Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased and honoured to have with us tonight, the Hon. Archer Ffitch, MP-elect for Mendip South.'
In the midst of the applause a lone voice was raised. 'Just a bloody minute!' Five rows in front of Diane, a man had shot to his feet. I object! If you're gonner do your arse-licking in public. Dad, at least get it right.'
Oh gosh, Sam Daniel.
Griff's eyes bulged like a frog's. He strode angrily towards the edge of the platform, as though ready to jump down and attack his son.
Archer arose easily and put a large, firm hand on Griff's' shoulder.
'Thank you, Mr Daniel. And thank you, also, to the gentleman who pointed out that understandable error. I am, of course, not quite MP-elect. The term, at this stage, is Prospective Parliamentary Candidate. Although, perhaps I – who can tell, strange things happen in Glastonbury – perhaps exposure to the atmosphere at the bottom end of High Street has bestowed upon Mr Daniel the gift of prophecy…'
This caused an immediate eruption of mirth. Diane raised her eyes to the plaster mouldings.
Sam Daniel sat down. The young woman next to him looked furious. Diane recognised her at once. Charlotte Lovidge: dark-haired, undeniably chic, a trifle haughty.
Diane saw Sam try to take Charlotte's hand, whereupon she turned pointedly away from him.
They were an item? Gosh. Charlotte, who couldn't be more than twenty-four, worked for Stanlow Pike, possibly training to become a valuer and auctioneer. It seemed an unlikely liaison for Sam. Diane supposed it came down very much to basics: Charlotte was extremely attractive.
Diane huddled into her coat, feeling fat and frumpish, as her brother Archer began to speak.
Against the greystone walls of the Assembly Rooms, they looked a fairly joyless bunch tonight, Juanita thought.
They'd shelved the quest for the Grail for the present. They were here to plan a crusade to protect their holy land from the infidels.
'My information,' Woolly was saying from the makeshift black box stage, 'is that they'll be making a start pretty soon after Christmas.'
There was a rumble from the more committedly Alternative types sitting cross-legged on the carpet below the stage.
'They've learned a few lessons from other road-protests – use the bad-weather months, don't make it easy, don't let the protest turn into a holiday camp with open-air music, stuff like that, don't attract tourists. Anyway, they'll start by clearing woodland. Chainsaw gangs.'
'Savages,' a woman yelled. Road-construction seemed to have taken over from nuclear power as the number one eco-menace.
'Do we know where?' another woman asked. A strong voice, Juanita noted. A voice with a sort of cello effect.