Fish didn’t write angry letters about the block of flats being built outside their sitting-room window. Fish didn’t accuse you of being racist because there was no letter-box outside their front door and they had to walk two hundred yards down the road to post a letter. Fish didn’t harass you by ringing you every hour – on the hour – to demand to know why you hadn’t replaced the trees that had been cut down by accident two years before.
And sometimes you caught fish.
That never happened with members of the public. They always caught you.
If you granted a planning application to build a really nice house with lots of rooms and a swimming pool, objectors would line up chanting in the road. They’d have their photos taken by the local newspaper, and spread rumours about the damage to the environment the house would cause. They’d claim it would upset the water table and destroy the local wild life. They’d storm the Council offices and spray green paint all over the computers. It had happened once.
On the other hand, if you refused an application to build a really nice house with lots of rooms and a swimming pool, the applicants would threaten to take you to court. They’d bring in high-powered lawyers. They would say that you weren’t up to your job and that you were acting illegally. They’d phone you up and say they were going to take this matter “higher” and suggest that your job might be at risk.
There was no pleasing the General Public.
Look at that case with that supermarket a few years ago! The Council refused permission to build yet another supermarket which nobody needed. So the supermarket took the Council to court. The Council won. Then the supermarket took them to court again, and the Council won again. This went on for several years. Eventually the Council ran out of money, so they gave permission to build the supermarket.
Instead of being grateful, the supermarket then sued the Council for loss of earnings. They won, and the Council had been nearly bankrupted.
The Council, and particularly the Planning Department, just could not win.
The daily harassment, routine abuse and endless round of complaints and objections and protests would grind anybody down.
Trevor climbed the stairs to the Planning Department with a sinking heart. He opened the door and there were all the staff looking at him. Cynthia, who did the filing, was holding a cake.
“Happy Birthday, Trevor!” they all shouted.
Chapter Three
Lady Chesney was a tolerant soul. She tolerated the lowly people who jammed her sitting room at these meetings. She tolerated the off-the-peg clothes they wore. She tolerated their accents and the way they had to work for a living. She was even willing to shake hands with one or two of them, if they seemed important enough. Were any of them as grateful as they should have been? She doubted it.
That awkward young man, Malcolm Thomas, was trying to call the meeting to order. She still found it perfectly shocking that he was supposed to be a professor of something or other at the University of London. He certainly didn’t look to her like a professor, and her opinion was worth something one would think! What was the world coming to, when a young man in a cheap suit, with a Liverpool accent, could be a professor?
Lady Chesney sighed. The country was going to the dogs. She already knew that, of course, but it was painful to see the evidence in one’s own home.
Eventually the rabble became quiet, and Malcolm looked around the room.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said. “Fellow members of the Highgrove Park Residents’ Association. Welcome to this emergency meeting to deal with the threat to demolish two houses in the…”
“What about the Minutes?” shouted a voice from the back.
“And the Treasurer’s Report?” added another.
“This is an emergency meeting,” said Malcolm. “Can’t we just get on with the business we’ve come to discuss?”
Mr Clarkson stood up. Before he’d retired, Mr Clarkson had been head manager of a minicab company, but he’d always fancied himself as a lawyer.
“I think they have a point. If we don’t have the Minutes of the last meeting and the Treasurer’s Report, this meeting could be considered in breach of the Association’s rules. So, any action we decide on might be seen as invalid.”
“I don’t think that is the case…” began Patrick Simpson, who actually was a lawyer.
“I agree!” piped up Mrs Furlong. She had upset Lady Chesney by wearing a rather vulgar pair of high-heeled shoes. “I’d like to hear the Treasurer’s Report.”
“And the Minutes!” said somebody else.
“But the Treasurer hasn’t prepared a report for this meeting,” Malcolm started to explain, “because it’s an emergency…”
“Oh yes I have!” exclaimed the Treasurer, jumping to his feet. “I could read it out now if you like!”
“Yes! Let’s have the Treasurer’s Report!” said Mrs Furlong, fluttering her eyelashes at the Treasurer.
“And the Minutes!” said the same somebody else.
Malcolm sat down again with a sinking heart. He’d been chairing these meetings for the last two years and he knew what would happen next.
An hour later, they were still arguing about whether the Residents’ Summer Party should be held on a Saturday or a Sunday. Finally Malcolm jumped up and waved his hands in the air.
“Please! Please!” he said. “This meeting was called to talk about the demolition of numbers 26 and 27 Highgrove Park. They want to replace them with an eyesore with fourteen bedrooms and two basements. One of these basements will contain an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Can we please just focus on that, before we run out of time?”
Lady Chesney looked at her watch and smiled. She didn’t mind at all if the meeting went on longer than planned. That was because she charged the Residents’ Association for the use of her room by the hour.
“I’ve got to go anyway,” announced Major Riddington. “She Who Must Be Obeyed told me to be back by 8.00 in time for supper.”
“I’ve just remembered we’ve got a dinner party!” said Paul Edgar, leaping to his feet. “My wife’ll kill me!” and he dashed for the door.
Major Riddington followed him, and so did somebody else. “I only came for the Minutes,” he whispered as he squeezed past Lady Chesney.
Malcolm watched them disappear, astonished. “Why do they bother to come?” he murmured.
“It’s the tea and biscuits,” said Barbara, the Secretary of the Residents’ Association.
“But they haven’t had them yet,” said Malcolm.
“Then it’s not the tea and biscuits,” replied Barbara, who was always prepared to agree with anyone.
Malcolm clapped his hands for silence, as a buzz of voices had naturally followed the departure of so many members.
“The planning application in front of you explains what is proposed. The new building will be huge. Quite out of keeping with the other houses in the road… ”
Someone had raised his hand. Malcolm paused: “Yes?”
“Shouldn’t we have our tea and biscuits now, before anyone else has to leave?” It was Mr Kendrick, the vet, who lived at number 25.
“Let’s just talk about the threat to our environment first,” pleaded Malcolm.
“But I’ll have to go in fifteen minutes,” said Mr Kendrick.
“But you live opposite the planned development! You’re going to be the one most affected by it!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Isn’t it worth a few minutes of your time to talk about it?”
“I’ve already written to the Council to object,” replied Mr Kendrick.
“On what grounds?”
“Well… on the grounds that I don’t want it.”