Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Yes, all right,’ I say by way of resignation.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She takes a break from cutting up the ingredients for our noodles and spicy chicken – an experimental dinner she’s been planning for some time – and brings her glass of sherry around the table to be with me.

  ‘Look on the bright side, Charlie. You don’t have to worry about being RJ for a week. You can try something different. Who knows, you might even find that you enjoy doing the odd civil case now and then.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘And it might be fun to be out in the country. Don’t you remember what Shakespeare had to say about it?’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘“The Isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.”’

  ‘We shall see,’ I reply dourly.

  * * *

  Monday morning

  ‘May it please your Lordship, my name is Robert Mason, and I appear for the claimants, Andrew and Gwendolyn Pearce, in this matter. My learned friend Miss Ruth Bannerman appears for the defendant, Archie Barratt.’

  It sounds strange to hear myself referred to as ‘your Lordship’. I have to resist the temptation to look around the courtroom, in case there’s a High Court judge with us I somehow haven’t noticed. It’s quite flattering in a way, I suppose; but it’s not something I’ve ever aspired to, and it seems rather weird. It’s not the only thing that seems weird. Sitting without robes is something I’ve only done once or twice for a short time and for special reasons; but that’s what most civil judges do all the time and I will have to get used to conducting an entire trial wearing a suit and tie. But the weirdest thing of all is not having a jury. The courtroom has a jury box, but it’s empty. I’m used to having twelve people in the box, and I keep seeing a jury there in my mind’s eye. I only just caught myself in time, about to give them my usual pre-trial directions, before Robert Mason began his opening speech. Thank God I did: the last thing I need is counsel worrying that they’ve got a judge who talks to imaginary juries.

  Actually, it’s not just the start of the trial: my whole experience since arriving at the Huntingdon Combined Court Centre at about nine o’clock this morning has been weird. I couldn’t help noticing that there was an eerie silence about the place. The only other human being in evidence when I arrived was the security guard, Ernie, who wasn’t expecting me and at first refused to believe that I was a judge – partly because he’d never seen me before and partly because no one had told him that any cases were scheduled for hearing in the building today. It was only when I produced my judicial identity card that he reluctantly allowed me to pass through the security apparatus into the court’s foyer.

  ‘It’s bloody typical, isn’t it?’ he volunteers once my briefcase and I have both successfully negotiated the scanner. ‘They never tell me anything, do they? I’m always the last to know. What kind of case is it?’

  ‘It’s a civil case,’ I reply, ‘High Court.’

  He shakes his head. ‘They’re supposed to do all those kinds of cases at Peterborough, aren’t they?’ he insists. ‘Unless they’ve changed it all again. They change it every other bloody day. I can’t keep track of it all. It’s hopeless.’

  Mercifully, just when all is beginning to seem lost, help is at hand. My court clerk is here, having come all the way from Peterborough, where they’re supposed to do the civil cases, recording equipment in tow. He greets me cheerfully as he lugs the equipment through the revolving main door and deposits it on the desk for Ernie’s inspection. Ernie insists that it must pass through the scanner.

  ‘I’m Anand Gupta, Judge,’ he says cheerfully. ‘I’m your court clerk for Pearce and Barratt. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I reply as we shake hands. ‘Actually, I’m not sure what we’re waiting for, if anything. Ernie here doesn’t think there are any cases scheduled for today.’

  ‘They probably haven’t sent him the list,’ Anand explains. ‘They should, of course, but they forget as often as not, don’t they, Ernie? Nothing much happens here, you see. But we’re booked in for court four, Judge; of that I can assure you.’

  When we arrive at my assigned chambers we meet our usher for the day, Molly, a thin, forty-something with hair straight out of the 1960s, who tells me that she’s a permanent fixture at this court at which nothing much happens.

  ‘I was trained for the Magistrates’ Court,’ she confides to me apologetically. ‘That’s all I’ve done, really. I did do Crown Court once, but I lost a jury.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly, lost a jury?’ I ask.

  ‘I let them go to lunch, didn’t I, when they weren’t supposed to leave the building,’ she replies regretfully. ‘Apparently they were meant to stay together. They wouldn’t let me do Crown Court again after that. I’ve never done civil.’

  ‘Well, that makes two of us,’ I reassure her. ‘We’ll have to learn together, won’t we? And you won’t have to worry about losing the jury because we won’t have one.’

  When Molly leaves to prepare the courtroom, I ask Anand why nothing much happens at Huntingdon.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Judge,’ he replies. ‘This is a nice enough building, and it’s only ten or so years old. I don’t know how much it cost to build, but it couldn’t have been cheap, could it? As a combined court centre, it’s designed to accommodate all the courts: Crown Court, Magistrates’ Court, and County Court. But the Crown Court has given up on it because they don’t have the staff; the County Court has always sat at Peterborough and doesn’t want to move; and the Huntingdon magistrates may be merging with another bench elsewhere in the county. We had the employment tribunals for a while, but they moved to Watford. The coroner sits here now and then – and that’s about it, really. They’ll probably sell it to a developer to build more flats eventually, but meanwhile they’re spending a lot of public funds keeping it up. There’s no knowing what they’ll get up to next, is there?’

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ I agree. ‘Just as a point of interest: do you know why we’re sitting here for this case instead of at Peterborough?’

  ‘The defendant, Mr Barratt, is over eighty, Judge, and he didn’t want to travel as far as Peterborough. So they agreed to let us use Huntingdon. They do that once in a while, you see, so that no one can say that the building isn’t being used.’

  ‘So that everyone can see the taxpayer is getting value for money?’

  He nods knowingly. ‘It’s the same down in London then, is it, Judge?’

  ‘Exactly the same.’ I change the subject. ‘Do you know counsel?’

  ‘Yes. Both very good, Judge, both members of chambers in Cambridge. They’ll do a good job for you.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Robert Mason continues, ‘this is a case about a relatively small plot of land, about three-quarters of an acre in total, in the village of Lower Wattage, about ten miles into the fen country from Huntingdon. My learned friend and I have prepared agreed copies of all the documents your Lordship is likely to need. If I might ask the usher to assist…’

  Molly happily collects four large file folders, and helpfully arranges them in front of me on the bench. They feel quite heavy, and it takes her two trips to bring all four, but having done so she retreats with a smile, as if to say, ‘There’s nothing to this civil stuff really, Judge, is there, once you get the hang of it?’ I successfully suppress an urge to inquire about copies for my imaginary jury.

  ‘My Lord, the land in dispute is in a street called The Ramblings, and it lies between two houses in that street: the Post House, which is owned by my clients, Andrew and Gwendolyn Pearce; and the Old Rectory, which is owned by the defendant, Archie Barratt. The Ramblings is a wide street, which runs the length of the village and is in effect its high street.

  ‘If your Lordship would open the yellow folder… you will see that it begin
s with an agreed plan of the area. We have marked the disputed plot. It’s always been known as the Middle Plot – probably because it is more or less the midpoint between the two ends of The Ramblings. Your Lordship will see that there are a number of houses up and down the street on both sides, and several streets leading off The Ramblings to newer residential developments. Lower Wattage isn’t a big place – the total population is less than five thousand people. Looking up and down the street, your Lordship will see various buildings of interest, some of which we’ve marked specifically – Miller’s grocery, St Mary’s Church and the adjoining vicarage, the Post Office, and the Black Bull public house.’

  ‘And the Freeman’s Hall,’ Ruth Bannerman adds, ‘next to the Post Office. That’s also an important local landmark, originally a masonic building but now something of a civic centre.’

  ‘I’m obliged. My learned friend is quite right,’ Robert agrees. ‘My Lord, the dispute between the parties boils down to this: Mr and Mrs Pearce bought the Post House about three years ago. They bought it from an elderly gentleman called Pitt, who had lived there for a very long time. His family had lived there for over a hundred years. That’s not uncommon in fen villages such as Lower Wattage. Indeed, the same is true of Mr Barratt, whose family has owned the Old Rectory for some one hundred and fifty years.’

  ‘Two hundred, more like,’ I hear from the row behind Ruth. It comes from the defendant, who is sitting with folded arms and an air of concentration on his wrinkled face. He certainly looks his age, although he doesn’t seem at all frail. I would put money on his making it as far as Peterborough without undue difficulty if he had to. In contrast to the claimants, who are neat and tidy in business attire, he’s dressed in rough working clothes and looks as though he has every intention of putting in a shift taking care of the livestock as soon as court rises for the day.

  Robert smiles. ‘A long time, anyway. My Lord, my clients have an unbroken title to the Middle Plot going back through their predecessors to the year 1651, at the end of the Civil War, when their predecessor in title John Hammond purchased it from a Mr Lampeter, who apparently left the area in some haste in consequence of having backed the wrong side during the war. It remained in Mr Hammond’s family until 1894 when it was acquired by an ancestor of Mr Pitt. From 1894 there is an unbroken paper chain – or parchment chain, I should probably say – up to the present day. My clients took title when they bought from Mr Pitt. Simply stated, all the deeds clearly show the Middle Plot as part of the Post House. The two plots are treated as a single property.

  ‘Your Lordship will be able to see the original deeds if he wishes, of course, but because some of them are quite fragile at this point in their long history, my learned friend and I have agreed to use certified copies for the purposes of the case. Your Lordship will find them in the blue folder.’

  ‘That seems eminently sensible,’ I say, flicking through the blue folder. I don’t want to have to look after a collection of historic documents and be blamed if anything happens to them. I’m not the best custodian of original documents: I have form for misplacing such things in chambers, as my colleagues and the court staff at Bermondsey will attest.

  ‘My Lord, there’s no dispute about the claimants’ paper title,’ Ruth adds. ‘It’s clear that they own the Middle Plot as far as the deeds go.’

  ‘Why don’t I defer to my learned friend to explain that?’ Robert suggests.

  I can’t help smiling. If counsel said that in a criminal trial at Bermondsey, it would be said in a sarcastic vein, meaning, ‘Please do shut up; I’m trying to make my opening speech and I don’t need you interrupting me’, and I would have to issue a ruling on the subject. But in Cambridgeshire, in a civil case and with no jury to impress, that’s clearly not what’s going on. It’s not about grandstanding. They are working together to help me to understand the case: the trial is a cooperative effort. They’ve agreed on the documents I need to see, and they’re not going to allow formality to stand in the way of explaining the case to me in the most efficient way. If making a joint opening speech is the best way of explaining the case, that’s what they will do. Moreover, they both have calm and thoroughly professional attitudes. So far I’m pleasantly impressed with Cambridgeshire.

  ‘Your Lordship will find the pleadings in the green folder,’ Ruth says. ‘The issue your Lordship has to try is this: yes, the claimants have a paper title to the disputed land; but their title is unregistered – apparently they have chosen to rely on the deeds alone as proof of title – and so Mr Barratt is legally entitled to assert title by adverse possession.’

  ‘You mean, possessing the land without Mr and Mrs Pearce’s permission?’ I ask.

  ‘Using the land, my Lord, yes, without their permission and without the permission of Mr Pitt before them, because a continuous period of adverse use of twelve years is required. If Mr Barratt can show that he has continuously used the land without permission, but peacefully and undisturbed, for that period, he will have acquired title to the Middle Plot by adverse possession. Mr Barratt will say that he has regularly used the Middle Plot for various purposes over the years, mainly to grow fruit and vegetables for his family, and that his father did so for many years before him. Your Lordship will find the witness statements in the red folder.’

  Marjorie has prepared me for this. In civil cases there is an exchange of witness statements, which then take the place of live evidence-in-chief. The witness is allowed to clarify what he has said in this statement, but otherwise the only live evidence is his cross-examination. Well, it saves time I suppose, and I’m sure it works well enough for cases in which there’s no jury, but it’s not something I’d want to introduce in the Crown Court. Every minute a witness spends in the box is an opportunity to evaluate his evidence, and I don’t like being deprived of seeing how he tells his story – especially as I’m the one who has to decide who to believe. As a compromise, I’ve asked counsel to read the witness statements aloud, so that I can at least see the faces of the witnesses as the story unfolds.

  By agreement, we begin with Mrs Gwendolyn Pearce, who, it appears, was the moving force behind the purchase of the Post House and so has become in a sense the lead claimant – or as the defendant might prefer it, the ringleader. She’s wearing a smart light grey suit with a blue neck scarf, and she’s sitting rigidly upright, staring somewhere past me into space.

  My name is Gwendolyn Pearce. I am 62 years of age, and one of the claimants in this action. I am the wife of the other complainant, Andrew Pearce. We have been married for about 35 years. For most of our married life we lived in London, where my husband was a stockbroker in the City and I served on the boards of a number of charitable organisations. But about five years ago my husband decided to retire, and we agreed that we had had enough of London. We decided to find a place in the country in which to spend our remaining years. We both had happy memories of our undergraduate years at Cambridge, where we met, and we felt that we would like to return to the area.

  We instructed one or two firms of estate agents in Cambridge and spent some time looking for property in a number of towns and villages. We have no children and our house in Hampstead, where we had lived for many years, had appreciated in value, so we were prepared to buy a property and restore it if necessary. Eventually one of the agents alerted us to the Post House in The Ramblings, Lower Wattage, and we went to see it. It was everything we had dreamed about. It is a grade two listed building with an amazing history – apparently, the owner during the Civil War used to hide Royalist fugitives there – and although it needed some restoration, we were sure we could afford it. We made a generous offer, which Mr Pitt accepted immediately. We moved in a month or two after completing. From that point onwards, what we intended as our dream has turned into a nightmare. This is because of the defendant, our neighbour, Archie Barratt.

  The title to the Post House includes title to a plot of vacant ground known locally as th
e Middle Plot. This is clearly shown on all the deeds. The Middle Plot is a plot of about three-quarters of an acre midway along The Ramblings, and midway between our house and Mr Barratt’s house, the Old Rectory. After we had moved in and settled down a bit, we gradually started our work of restoration. I also decided that the village needed tidying up a bit. There are a number of old buildings in Lower Wattage which could look really amazing with some effort, but the place has been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair. A lot of it is just a matter of a coat of paint, though some of the buildings, such as the Freeman’s Hall, are in need of some serious repairs. Also, The Ramblings itself needs brightening up. So I embarked on a campaign to make this happen. I spoke to Dennis, the landlord of the Black Bull, and got the names of the people who owned the various buildings. I approached them and suggested that they take action. I even suggested that once The Ramblings looked brighter, we could enter Lower Wattage in the Cambridgeshire Best Kept Village Competition.

  As my contribution, I decide to plant several young trees and a wide variety of plants in the Middle Plot. I started up several flowerbeds. I did some of this work myself, but two local boys, Harry and Matthew, agreed to do some of the digging in return for some pocket money. During this process, I encountered what appeared to be some abandoned vegetable plantings. I assumed that these dated back to Mr Pitt’s time, so I simply removed them. But when I woke up one morning a few days later, I saw that someone had devastated the Middle Plot. My trees and plants had been dug up and cast aside, and the flowerbeds had been ploughed under. This must have been done overnight, otherwise I would have noticed.

  I immediately suspected Archie Barratt. Mr Barratt is a widower. He is always scruffily dressed, and is surly and uncivil. He has hardly spoken a word to us since we moved in, and when we have reached out to him, for example by taking him a flask of hot soup one cold evening, he has been unwelcoming and, in fact, brusque to the point of rudeness. His two sons, Bernie and Mickey, are just as rude and they present as threatening. When I confided my suspicions in Dennis, he told me that my plans to brighten up the village had not gone down well with some of the older established families, including the Barratt family, and that they particularly resented my suggestion of entering Lower Wattage in the Best Kept Village Competition.