by John Mayer
Now I say, that in these circumstances, the Council is under a legal duty to do two things. Firstly, to give fair notice to those about to move out and secondly to dole out compensation to them for doing so. Now, if that letter - which is the latest of several - is not fair warning, then I don’t know what is. It is troublesome that Mr McLane has come along here today with some nonsensical interpretation of the long established law of eviction, but sadly, there we are. I rest again, my lord.’
Back to breathing normally again, Lord Sunnybrook nodded along with Pembroke.
‘Very well put, Mr Pembroke. Mr McLane I take it you now accept my authority to Grant these orders today?’
Springing to his feet, McLane threw open his arms: ‘I accept no such thing. If either of … if Mr Pembroke knew the law on these matters, he’d know that where any Council in Scotland - in this case Glasgow City Council - is dealing with demolition, it has discretion to decide certain things but that discretion does not - and I repeat not - extend to demolition. That discretion to demolish is subject to an exception where the area involved does not exceed one thousand square yards. In other words, small plots of land such as where a house or two has been built illegally. Plus, once decided, before demolishing anything they need a Court Order from a judge such as your lordship to ratify that their decision and its method of execution is legal. The part of the Calton mentioned in the most recent letter is to my certain knowledge much larger than one thousand square yards. So that means, only the Secretary of State for the Environment in London can make an Order for demolition of a place the size of that part of the Calton. In other words, your lordship’s jurisdiction extends to areas of less than one thousand square yards. This area being more than that size, your lordship is legally incapable of making the order sought in my learned friend’s Petition.
My lord, there is another reason in this case why an Order for Demolition cannot be made today, but I need not trouble the court with that. Now, before the Secretary of State for the Environment can make such an Oder, there must be a Public Planning Enquiry to discover if a different solution might be found to that of the decision of the particular council involved. And, before there can be a Public Planning Enquiry there must be what European Law calls ‘an equality of arms between parties’. There cannot be such equality of arms unless and until those affected have all the facts and information they require - not what the Council says they require - to make informed decisions. My lord, to that end, I have today written my own Petition for Discovery of Documents which I now present to your lordship’s Clerk of Court for placing on the Court Record. My Petition seeks discovery of all and any documents, minutes of meetings …’
‘Enough! Mr McLane in this court I decide what goes on the Court Record. We’ll see in due time if your surprise Petition holds any water. Is there anything else?’
Leaving aside the usual courtesy of addressing the judge as ‘My lord’ McLane went straight to: ‘Indeed there is. I’m confident that their lordships in Parliament House would agree with all I’ve said today because I’m certain that on both counts I have the law on my side. And with that, I rest.’
Leaving Glasgow Sheriff Court without his Order, either Parts One or Two, Pembroke dodged the claque of cameras and scurried out of Glasgow by the first available taxi. No-one saw Lord Sunnybrook leave, but some said that after dark, a van with blacked out windows pulled around the back of the court for only a minute or so before leaving at speed.
It was said around Glasgow Sheriff Court that for months afterwards, anyone who’d nodded along with McLane’s legal argument that day, found themselves roasted in humiliation and their clients thrown out of houses, into jails and otherwise so harshly treated, that several lawyers considered an appeal to Parliament House; though none actually did. But on the night of McLane’s victory, in the Calton Bar two old women were seen dancing, whooping and skirling as though they were teenagers and giving kisses away to anyone who wanted one.
~~~o~~~
End of Part Four
Part Five : The Best Laid Schemes …
Chapter 27
Miss Roylance checked her list and then checked it again one last time. After each arrangement was made, beside the name and address she’d made a tick in red; just to be sure. She’d checked ahead: the office was only manned on alternate days and didn’t have a shredder. That was a nuisance and just meant something else to keep in her head: her handwritten notes would have to be destroyed at home. Disregarding the piles of mundane forms and memos waiting for her attention, she got up and looked out of the window up to his level. They’d come to the Council almost at the same time and she thought him handsome, if austere; which she liked. At one time, slightly over twenty years ago, she was sure there was some spark of recognition, but it had never come to anything. Nevertheless, she’d continued to watch him at his window as he dictated to typists he would never meet. Solitary and strong, she wished that she could help with whatever was on his mind, but of course, he never asked.
But now! It was her name he’d chosen to be on the letters. Hers; and only hers. He’d dictated the text, of course, and after typing up the draft which would be sent to hundreds of families, during her lunchtime she’d played the recording over and over just to hear his voice. For more years than she cared to remember, she’d watched him leave every first Monday of the month and last time, as he walked across George Square, she thought he had something of a spring in his step. The next day he’d sent his personal servitor to her desk with a wax sealed envelope. When she broke the seal and looked inside, her heart leapt.
On a single sheet, firstly was a list of names and addresses. Under that was the name of a high rise block which had only very recently been refurbished called ‘Sunrise House’. What intrigued her most was, at the bottom of the page was a foreign looking name and a very long alphanumeric code which began with IBAN and ended with UBS. Not yet sure of what all this meant or how it fitted together, she felt her heart begin to race. There was only one way to find out if this was what she thought it was. Getting out of her chair, she turned the key in her office door and went to the window. Immediately her heart flew on wings as she looked up across the courtyard to see him standing at his window. For several seconds there in her own little office which had its own coat stand and a window that opened, they looked at each other. Holding the sheet in her trembling hands, Miss Roylance pressed it close to her chest and was rewarded with a single nod before he turned away.
Sitting at her desk, she was now acutely aware that this wasn’t the usual kind of Council business where mistake after mistake could be covered up with month after month of delay and obfuscation. No. When Mr Fraser had delivered that very ordinary looking envelope, the Chairman’s wax seal told her that this would be important. And important to him meant very important indeed.
From the information provided, she had to infer what he wanted; but it hadn’t been difficult. A cursory look at the street map gave the first hint. There were only six surnames on the list but eighteen addresses within three connected tenement openings. So many of them would be related. The IBAN was obviously a Swiss bank account with UBS in Geneva from which any funds she might need could be transferred to the lucky recipients. Lastly, but by no means the least important factor, was to instinctively know which side of the Glasgow religious divide the names fell on. The actual arrangements would be a matter entirely for her and he knew she would tell no-one about this special assignment. What perhaps he couldn’t imagine was how even handling the paper he’d written on made her heart fly.
Staring down into the absentee book, she thought her entry that said ‘Doctor’s Appointment: 2pm - 4.45pm: Return next day’ looked like it had been made with a steady hand. Lifting her coat and handbag, she closed the door of her office and marched at speed to the lift. It felt distinctly odd to be leaving the office at two o’clock in the afternoon; a thing she’d never done in all her twenty eight years as a Glasgow City Council employee. Round and round in h
er head, she drilled in the fact that all of the appointments had been made by phone so there would be no written record on either side. Out in the back courtyard, a black taxi cab was waiting in a bay marked ‘Visitors’.
Twenty minutes later, when the cab passed the sign saying ‘Glasgow City Council : Maryhill Housing Office’ and turned into the car park, she reached in to her handbag for the petty cash she’d drawn that morning, and paid the driver without saying a word. Instead, she waited for him to say: ‘Quarter to five is it Mrs? And straight from here to Byres Road in the West End?’
Nodding and giving the driver a half smile, she took a mental note to have him drop her quarter of a mile from home; just in case.
More of a graffiti covered cabin in a metal frame than an office, this one-man outpost in the corner of a supermarket car park, served to keep multiple electoral promises; that if elected, the local Councillors would be more in touch with the people, would listen to their concerns and report them all to the top man in Council HQ in George Square. Using the door key kept by Admin at HQ, Miss Roylance stepped in and visually inspected the place. One thin metal framed desk, one bentwood chair behind it and three more for visitors. There was a computer screen and a keyboard but although unknown to the local residents, she knew there was no tower computer out of sight somewhere. The only window had been spray-painted by vandals so seeing through the wire mesh from a distance was all but impossible. However, through gaps in the paint, she could see out. Mentally congratulating herself on her research, she thought this place was perfect.
Although all through dinner and lying in bed she’d gone through her spiel a hundred times, she got out the list and checked who was first: Mr Arthurson who lived at Number 1/1 Tobago Place. Next were his sister and her son’s family. If she could complete three addresses in less than half an hour, that would be a good start. What she hadn’t counted on was that the first one would arrive half drunk.
Burping and apologising, coughing and spluttering into his sleeve, Jack Arthurson sat down and immediately put out his hand to shake on the deal; which Miss Roylance politely refused. There were several things to be explained before the paperwork could be complete. He’d only just scrawled his signature at the bottom of the piece of paper he hadn’t read when his twenty-stone sister nearly snapped off the handle of the door. Arriving with what must have been her whole family, they packed into the cabin, loud, disrespectful and swearing with every third word out of their mouths. Almost overwhelmed by their leaning over the desk with faces stinking of alcohol and cigarette smoke, Miss Roylance decided to forget about going through the minutiae of the various terms and conditions and just turn the papers round for their signatures.
Some of the others weren’t like that. Some were interested in the terms and did offer profound thanks. But when the last one had signed and the keys were handed over, Miss Roylance felt heartily glad that she worked in HQ and didn’t have to deal with those who actually elected the Councillors.
As she stepped into the taxi, there was still some light in the sky but darkness had already fallen over the car park. Hoping that the driver wouldn’t smell drink or cigarette smoke on her clothes, she opened the window and breathed deeply as he ground through the evening commuter traffic towards the West End.
For operational security reasons, she’d decided to make the last move from home. She would call an answering machine in the office of the Council’s Department of Transport where six of the Council’s removal men were waiting to do an all-night shift on double overtime. All the gaffer had been told was that around five o’clock, a call would be made to his depot and a woman’s voice would say one word: ‘Go.’
~~~o~~
Chapter 28
Pedalling as fast as his strong twelve year old legs could push, on a pink bicycle he’d grabbed from two girls, the boy flashed through the traffic, up onto pavements and through tenement entrances he knew would be a short cut. Skidding to a stop and well aware that this could be his big start in life, he flung the bike down on the pavement. Panting and red faced, the boy flung open the doors of the Calton Bar. As he weaved through men shouting at the horse racing on TV, a bawdy crowd of law students with no more examinations to sit didn’t even give the boy a second glance. But everyone else did. Lenny flung up the bar-flap and made straight for the back of the bar. Reaching in to the front pocket of his apron, he pulled out the big iron key to the Back Bit and opened the door for Big Joe Mularkey and the boy who was panting at his back.
Bent over and pressing his hands into his knees, the boy could hardly breathe. Raising his head just a few inches, he blurted out:
‘Mr Mularkey. Tucker says you’ve to get Mr McLane on the phone. He said right away.’
Big Joe Mularkey thought he knew this boy, but wasn’t sure: ‘Ehhmm, OK. Do ye’ want to tell me your name, son.’
‘Danny McMahon. Danny McMahon’s ma grandfaither. I’m his grandson, Danny.’
‘All right, son. Take it easy. You’re doin’ well. Tell me this. Where was Tucker when he told you this?’
Panting a little less furiously, the boy stood upright: ‘About five, maybe ten minutes ago he came out o’ the Sash and Rope and saw me. He whistled and I went …’
‘Woohh. The Sash and Rope? What was Tucker doin’ in Bridgeton? Do ye’ know?’
Shaking his head, the boy added: ‘No. He said I was to tell you that the Arthursons are all in there and they’re splashin’ cash like water. Really big time. The Grahams are all in there too. They’re all singin’ and they’re flyin’ drunk. Me and my pals were thinkin’ maybe they’d fling a few quid our way, ye’ know.’
‘A few quid? The Arthursons haven’t got two half-pennies to rub together. How did ye’ get that idea?’
‘Alistair Graham came oot about half an hour ago and was kinda wavin’ for a taxi. He dropped a ten pound note intae the street and was so drunk he didn’t even bother to pick it up. Ah was first down and I got it.’
Towering over this boy, Big Joe Mularkey put up both hands and was about to ask the boy for further information when Lenny put his head around the door:
‘I’ve erm, called that emergency number you-know-who gave us and I’ve got his Chambers Clerk in Parliament House on the phone. Do you want to speak to him?’
Having met Banny a few times in his club and at the party McLane threw after his elevation, despite being a Blue Nosed Rangers man through and through, Big Joe quite liked the guy:
‘Yeah. Gimme that phone.’
After as few pleasantries as the circumstances allowed, McLane’s Clerk assured Big Joe that despite being told not to disturb his Arbitration of the Temporary Brittle Bone cases, he would ask a servitor to go down to the Tribunal Suite with a note saying he should call Joe back. He also assured Joe that if they weren’t finished down there for the day, then it wouldn’t be long.
With the important part done, Big Joe pulled over a chair and sat the boy down:
‘OK son. Danny, isn’t it? Right, Danny. Start at the beginning and go slowly. I don’t want you to leave anything out.’
As he handed over the note, the servitor’s bow seemed to McLane to be extra low; which was the old way of servitors offering personal congratulations without actually saying anything to their superiors.
Once out in Parliament Square, McLane could talk freely:
‘The Arthursons and the Grahams? … Yeah, I know them. Well, I used to … And the Connors. … OK. And Tucker actually saw them in the Sash and Rope? What was Tucker doing in the … Never mind. Go on, Joe. … All of them? … Flying drunk in the afternoon and dropping money in the street? … Hmm, I don’t know. I’m bound to say Joe, it all sounds a bit unlikely, but if Tuck actually saw them, then it must be true. … No, I’ve no idea where they got it … No big wins that I’ve heard of … Anyway, one of them having a big win wouldn’t mean they were all together and getting each other drunk. Right? And nobody else knows anything? … I agree. Weird is nowhere close to explaining it. … And the b
oy said what? Did you say Alistair Graham - who’s a workshy degenerate if ever I met one - was waving money at taxis and shouting what?’
‘The boy said he was singing more than hailing a taxi and he thought it was something like ‘Sunshine’ or ‘Take me home, Country road … to my new house.’ Something about sunshine and a new house. The boy’s not a hundred percent sure because at the time, he was scrambling about on the pavement trying to grab the tenner that Alistair Graham had dropped.’
McLane furrowed his brow and went quiet; to the point where Big Joe had to ask if he was still there: ‘Could it have been Sunrise House?’
‘Man, we just don’t know. The boy did well though, at least in my opinion.’
‘Of course, of course. I wasn’t criticising him. Give him another tenner by all means. I was just thinking aloud. What if it was Sunrise House?’
‘The new block … well, the old block that’s just been done up? It’s still empty. It was on the News just last night. The Council has a list about a mile long from people wanting to be relocated into it. They said they might hold a blind draw. But it’s in Maryhill, so there’s no way - blind draw or not - that Catholics are going to be re-housed in that. I hear it has all mod cons. Underfloor heating, they said. Imagine it!’
