Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  ‘I do have a case.’

  ‘The truth of the matter, Mr Barratt, is this, isn’t it: you’re nothing more than a trespasser who goes on to other people’s land now and then, just to annoy them because he doesn’t like them?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I have nothing further, my Lord. Thank you, Mr Barratt.’

  Next, again with Ruth’s agreement, Robert reads five witness statements: from the vicar, Mr Jacobs; Dennis from the Black Bull; Tina from Miller’s grocery store; and from the Barratt boys, Bernie and Mickey. Both parties are going to decide whether they want to cross-examine any of these witnesses after we’ve had the view, and I am politely invited to indicate whether there are any questions I would like to ask any of them. It’s a fair question, because none of them takes matters very much further, as far as I can see. Bernie and Mickey, needless to say, support their father’s evidence in every detail, including several from periods pre-dating their own births.

  Mr Jacobs, Dennis and Tina agree on three things. They agree that Mr and Mrs Pearce were a real pain in the neck – self-important, condescending newcomers who thought nothing of parachuting into a village inhabited by the same families for centuries, ordering people around and disrupting their way of life as if they owned the place. They agree that Archie Barratt, and his father before him, used the Middle Plot from time to time to grow vegetables. But they also agree that they couldn’t possibly say when or how often this happened, or for how long it had been going on. Not one of them describes the Middle Plot as common land.

  ‘My Lord,’ Anand announces as I’m about to rise for the day, ‘arrangements have been made for the view tomorrow. Our car will leave from the George’s car park at nine thirty, and the parties will be waiting for us at the property at ten o’clock.’

  Everybody agrees that this will be satisfactory.

  ‘No further word from Judge Jenkins?’ I ask Molly as we walk together from court to chambers. It’s not the easiest walk of its kind involving, as it does, two flights of stairs and two doors you can only open with a fob. How a judge would ever escape if a mob of violent protesters gained access to this court, I really don’t know: apparently it’s an eventuality that escaped the notice of whoever designed the security system here in calm, peaceful Huntingdon.

  ‘Not a word,’ Molly replies. ‘Is she all right, Judge? She sounded ever so upset.’

  ‘She would have called if there was a problem, I’m sure,’ I reply soothingly.

  ‘But according to the news, there’s been a real riot at your court,’ Molly continues blandly. ‘Do you get a lot of that at Bermondsey?’

  ‘No. It’s quite unusual, really,’ I reply.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to do Crown Court again if I thought that kind of thing was going to happen,’ she observes.

  ‘I’m sure you’re safe here in Huntingdon,’ I assure her.

  ‘Nothing much has changed, Charlie,’ Marjorie tells me. ‘The police have given them several warnings to disperse, but they haven’t tried to make them yet.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, why not?’ I ask. ‘They’ve had all afternoon. What are they waiting for?’

  ‘They were waiting for the riot police to arrive. But they’re in position now, so we’re hoping it won’t be too long. It’s just all so worrying for everyone. Simon and Samantha even got their teacher to call from school to see if I’m all right. Someone had seen it on the news. Legless and Hubert are fuming.’

  ‘Has someone been in touch with the Protection Unit?’

  ‘Yes. DI Derbyshire will come to meet Legless as soon as the street has been cleared and we can open the building again. I’m sure it won’t be –’

  But before she can complete the sentence, I hear a bang in the background – a loud bang.

  ‘Marjorie? Marjorie? What’s going on? Are you all right?’

  But the line has gone dead.

  * * *

  Monday evening

  I leave the court building and run across the street to the George, straight into the bar, where Darla greets me cheerfully, mercifully without calling me ‘Judge’, and pulls me a much-needed pint of Abbot. As I had hoped, the TV in the bar is on. Some kind of quiz show is in progress, but fortunately no one is taking any notice of it and at my request Darla switches to the BBC news channel. As I’d expected, they are covering the scene outside Bermondsey Crown Court, where a regular pitched battle is taking place. There seems to be some damage to the glass in the court’s front doors, and there is some smoke around, but I’m not seeing anything worse than that; and as the coverage unfolds, it becomes clear that the riot police are quickly gaining ascendancy over Chummy’s mates, many of whom are already legging it while they can, and others are being detained without much resistance.

  I call Marjorie’s number, and she answers at the third time of asking.

  ‘Marjorie, are you all right? I heard this almighty bang and then I lost you.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, Charlie. There was some kind of explosion outside. The police are saying it was probably a home-made device of some kind, but it can’t have been anything too serious – we haven’t had any reports of casualties.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. I’m watching the BBC news in my hotel, and from what I can see the police are making good progress.’

  ‘Yes, I’m still in the foyer with Stella and it’s looking good from here too. I expect we will be all clear in a few minutes. Why don’t you call me back in an hour or so, and I’ll update you then?’

  ‘All right, but I’m going to keep watching, and you can call me any time if you need me.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie, but it’s all under control now.’ It’s said confidently, and my worries are subsiding to some extent. She will have to make sure that Legless cooperates with DI Derbyshire, and she will probably have to close the court for repairs for a day or two. It’s going to be a nightmare for Stella too, with trials to re-schedule. But there have been no casualties, and everything else is negotiable.

  I call the Reverend Mrs Walden, just to make sure that no stray protesters have appeared in the vicinity of the vicarage. She assures me that all is well.

  ‘I hope you don’t have anything like that going on in Huntingdon,’ she says.

  ‘No. It’s all very quiet,’ I reply. ‘It’s different from the big city.’

  ‘Do you think you’re starting to prefer the country to town?’ she asks.

  ‘Not as a way of life,’ I reply. ‘But I must say, I’m coming around to it, at least on an occasional basis.’

  * * *

  Tuesday morning

  I haven’t had as much sleep as I wanted. I was on the phone with Marjorie until late as she kept me up to date with what was going on. The BBC lost interest in Bermondsey Crown Court as a developing news story once the riot police had finally routed the protesters at about seven o’clock, and their coverage of events at the court from that time onwards was spasmodic. So Marjorie stayed on the line and supplied the news in real time, while I dined on Abbot and Darla’s goujons of plaice with chips and mushy peas. At about seven thirty, the police gave the all clear for those inside the building to make their way home. The court staff, without exception, gallantly remained at court to lend a hand until the jurors, defendants on bail, counsel and solicitors, and members of the public were clear of the building.

  DI Derbyshire, with some difficulty, eventually talked Legless into accepting a police driver and a panic alarm at his house for the duration of his case. Hubert called a taxi to take him to the Garrick, where he no doubt regaled his fellow members with any number of interesting stories of the day’s excitement.

  Once the building was largely empty, with only Marjorie, Stella, Bob and an enhanced night security team left, our cluster manager, Meredith, arrived with a building inspection team from Grey Smoothie Central. Marjorie followed them for mor
e than an hour as they combed every inch of the building before concluding that the court would have to remain closed for repairs until at least Thursday – something Marjorie thought should have been pretty obvious from a quick inspection of the front doors and surrounding areas, which were in fact the only areas ever to have been threatened. The police recovered the remains of a small home-made explosive device, not very efficient or powerful, but sufficiently so to do some damage to the front doors, and render some repairs and a thorough security check essential.

  By now it was somewhere between nine thirty and ten o’clock. Stella said that she would have to email the solicitors in each of the cases to tell them they were adjourned at least until Thursday, so that they could stand down defendants and witnesses. She would also have to email the staff, to confirm that it was business as usual and that they should all be back at work bright and early this morning. Marjorie and Meredith insisted on staying as late as necessary to help her, and as they settled themselves in Stella’s office, Marjorie confided in me that Stella had just produced a bottle of Jameson’s and three glasses. Well, fair enough: if ever three women had earned a drink, it was these three.

  At ten forty-five, Guy’s Hospital called Stella to say that the defendant’s condition was less serious than first believed. He had woken up, and his injuries were not thought to be in any way life-threatening. He would be moved out of intensive care some time this morning. In view of the afternoon’s events, the hospital’s publicity department was giving this development as much exposure as possible.

  At about eleven fifteen Marjorie was alone with the security staff and ready to make her way home. By now, everything outside on the street was quiet. Two uniformed officers were stationed outside the doors of the court in case of further trouble, but there was no sign that they would be called into action. Nonetheless, I insisted that Marjorie call a taxi to take her home. She didn’t argue the point. While she waited for the taxi, I told her with absolute sincerity how sorry I was that I hadn’t been there, and how beautifully she’d handled everything the day had thrown at her, and how very proud I was of her. Then I realised how patronising that sounded, and apologised. It was then that I realised how much guilt I was feeling about being away and leaving Marjorie to deal with this mess: not that there was any way I could have anticipated it, but as RJ you do tend to think it’s all somehow down to you, and it becomes very personal when anything goes wrong at your court. Marjorie told me that she hadn’t found anything I’d said patronising; she was grateful for the compliment. She asked me again if I needed any help with my case.

  When I finally got to bed after midnight, I lay awake and stared at the ceiling into the small hours.

  The drive from Huntingdon to Lower Wattage takes about half an hour. By nine thirty the rush hour traffic has subsided, and we soon find ourselves meandering at a leisurely pace, in the light of a grey, cloudy morning, along flat fen country roads past fields of rough, clumpy grass and black soil, bordered by an occasional line of tall, thin trees – ash, perhaps willow? I don’t know: the Reverend Mrs Walden would identify them immediately, but trees have never been my strong point. I am in a comfortable limousine, with Robert and Ruth, Anand and Molly.

  The atmosphere is relaxed. Robert and Ruth tell me about their chambers in Cambridge. Both are graduates of the University who have always loved the Cambridge area. Ruth did her pupillage in Cambridge and stayed on to become a member of chambers. Robert started out in practice in London but felt irresistibly drawn to the countryside. Although the range of work may be more limited in Cambridge, they both like the more forgiving pace of provincial practice, and the more trusting, collegiate relationship that exists between members of a small local bar. They express concern about yesterday’s events at Bermondsey – Ruth knows Marjorie slightly from events at Lincoln’s Inn, of which they are both members, and is not at all surprised by her brilliant handling of the crisis. But there’s a definite subtext: that in their eyes the violence only serves to confirm the wisdom of their choice in opting for Cambridge. Anand is well thought of at all the local courts, and has a promising career ahead of him in the court service. But his true passion is cricket. He captains a local town team, and despite two unsuccessful trials still harbours ambitions of playing at the county level. Molly is happy enough in her job, but is waiting for her prince to ride up to her door on his white charger and whisk her off to warmer foreign climes.

  We park in front of the Middle Plot. The parties and their respective solicitors are waiting for us, as arranged, standing separately and apparently nervously in their own gardens. No one knows quite what to do, and I have to take charge. Fortunately, without twelve inquisitive jurors wandering everywhere and trying to see and hear things they shouldn’t, this is one view that’s unlikely to cause problems. But I decide to keep the parties separate, asking Anand and Molly to walk with me, placing the Pearce party to my left, and the Barratt party to my right; and in that formation we begin our tour of the street.

  We walk in silence around the grounds of the Post House to its rear garden, then around the Middle Plot, and finally around the periphery to the garden of the Old Rectory, with its vegetable patches and its greenhouse. There is no sign of current horticultural activity on the Middle Plot at all, though a few fruit trees survive towards the back of the plot, and there are numerous indications of past plantings. I find myself surprised to see that the Post House garden is a disaster area, with cracked paving stones overgrown by weeds, and a ruinous wooden shed near collapse, with broken window panes. Ruth is obviously tempted to giggle, while Robert shakes his head sadly. There is no Best Village Competition to be won here, especially if the judges take a peek behind the scenes. Gwendolyn Pearce might have been anxious to turn the Middle Plot into a local attraction, but evidently her ambition doesn’t extend to her own garden, which looks as though no one has taken much interest in it since Mr Lampeter left in such a hurry in 1651.

  For some reason, we then walk the length of The Ramblings in both directions. I’m leading the view, so I probably ought to know why we’re doing this, but I don’t. The walk seems to start spontaneously, and I see no advantage in stopping it. Perhaps I’m trying to get a feel for this place, so remote from everything I’m used to. Perhaps I’m expecting the local families to be looking out on me doubtfully, perhaps pulling aside their lace curtains to offer me some subtle, mystic indication of where the truth in this odd little case lies. But the whole place looks deserted, and for a moment it feels as if we’ve travelled back six hundred years in time to find that there’s been an outbreak of the Plague and the surviving inhabitants have fled for their lives. But there are lights burning in the Black Bull, and a customer or two to be seen in Miller’s grocery, and once in a while a disinterested pedestrian or cyclist passes us with no overt sign of curiosity. I decide that it’s time to return to the scene of the dispute. We walk to the middle of the Middle Plot and gather around in a circle.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Barratt,’ I ask, ‘how much of the plot did you and your father use when you were growing vegetables and so on? Can you point to the parts you were planting?’

  He looks around several times.

  ‘It was mostly up at the top end there, by the fruit trees, sir,’ he replies. ‘We tried to keep all the plants in the same area, and then we used the rest for playing cricket sometimes, and for parties in the good weather.’

  ‘You would plant closer to the water supply from the house or the back garden?’

  ‘Exactly, sir, yes. But during the war we used almost the whole plot. We had a lot more people to feed then, you see, and my father being in charge of the Home Guard for the village…’

  He stops abruptly and looks around again, almost as if something is puzzling him.

  ‘Yes, Mr Barratt,’ I say after we have waited for some time. ‘Did you want to add anything?’

  ‘No,’ he replies quietly, just before his knees begin to give w
ay. Ruth and his solicitor are there in a flash to support him, and a moment or two later, Robert joins them. They sit Archie down on the ground.

  ‘Quick, fetch him some water,’ Andrew Pearce says to his wife.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Gwendolyn replies, rushing without actually running towards her front door. Molly, uninvited, goes with her.

  ‘There’s a bench up there by the fruit trees,’ Anand points out. ‘Let’s get him over there.’

  Between them, they stand Archie up again, and walk him slowly over to the bench, where he can sit in greater comfort. Anand squats by his side. Gwendolyn appears with a large glass of water, which she insists on presenting to Archie herself.

  ‘Take small sips,’ she advises, holding the glass for him. ‘Drink as much as you need, but take your time.’

  He takes several sips, and nods. Perhaps for the first time ever, their eyes meet. ‘Thank you,’ he says. She puts the glass in his hands and stands nearby.

  ‘Mr Barratt, is there any medicine you need?’ Anand asks. ‘If you tell me where it is and give me your key, I’ll get it for you.’

  Archie shakes his head. ‘No. I don’t need anything. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can call a doctor if you like, or we can run you over to Cambridge, to the A & E at Addenbrookes.’

  ‘No. I don’t need a doctor.’ He looks at me strangely. ‘The thing is, sir, I’ve just remembered something. It’s just come back to me, and it’s come as a bit of a shock. But I think I’d better tell you about it, all the same.’

  ‘Is it something to do with the case?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s about the use we made of the Plot here.’

  ‘In that case,’ I suggest, ‘perhaps you might like to talk to Miss Bannerman and your solicitor first, in case they want to give you any advice. The rest of us will move over to the Post House, out of earshot, while you talk.’