by D J O'Leary
‘Do you go for a “full English”, or do you just go with bacon and egg?’
‘I suppose it’s a sort of “full English”, although I’m not too fond of black pudding, and I don’t like tomatoes with eggs, I don’t like what happens to the yolk. But I love bacon, good sausages, hash browns and mushrooms, and I prefer poached eggs to any other way of cooking them.’
‘I’m rather conservative,’ said Kate. ‘I am quite happy with fried eggs, although I have a soft spot for scrambled eggs, as long as they are not boiled and turned into rubbery little balls. A friend’s husband, who is a fantastic cook, adds a little grated parmesan to the mix and that adds a real “wow” to the eggs. I love bacon, but I’m not that crazy about sausages. Fried mushrooms are OK, though, and maybe the odd hash brown. What is the best breakfast you have ever eaten, or maybe I should ask, where was the best breakfast you have ever eaten?’
‘That’s easy. A place in Ireland, called Castlebar. I stumbled on a wonderful café early one morning and had the greatest bacon I’ve ever eaten anywhere. It was thick-cut, unsmoked, but the fat was crispy and the flavour was out of this world. On the menu of course it was called “The Full Irish”, and it had everything, including black and white pudding. I ate the lot.’
‘What were you doing in Ireland?’
‘It was just after finishing at uni. A friend and I decided to walk from the east coast of Ireland over to the west coast. We ended up in County Mayo, in Newport. Wonderful. Dramatic coastal scenery, there. Loads of little islands as well. We didn’t stay anywhere near long enough.’
‘I’ve never been to Ireland. I’ve often thought of going, but couldn’t decide where. Dublin is an obvious place, but I like the countryside as well. I’ve toyed with the idea of taking the car from Donegal, right the way down the west coast and finishing up in Cork, or Waterford. But I’d have to have company. I’d be hopeless on my own in the car in a different country.’
‘Maybe we should do that trip together,’ Tolstoy blurted, instantly regretting opening his mouth. He gave her a sidelong glance to see if he had gone too far. But quite clearly he hadn’t, because Kate’s reaction, while unexpected, was a welcome one.
‘That might be something to think about in the future. I think it’s quite a good idea, but…’ there just had to be a “but”, thought Tolstoy, ‘we’d have to wait until you’ve passed your test, because we’d have to share the driving.’
Tolstoy could not prevent a soppy grin from creasing his face. He failed to think of a single thing to say for a moment or two, therefore letting Kate continue, ‘By the way, how are the lessons going?’
‘Not bad. The first couple were a little hair-raising. I hadn’t appreciated just how much is going on at the same time when you’re driving. And I kept forgetting that I was in charge of it all, and allegedly had control, although that is a moot point based on those two lessons.’
Thereafter conversation skipped from one inconsequentiality to another until Kate found a parking place a short walk from the Pantiles. They were soon sitting at a table in a pleasant café in the historic quarter of Tunbridge Wells.
Breakfast was easy. ‘Bacon, fried egg and toast for me,’ said Kate, when a waitress arrived at their table, ‘and a pot of tea.’
‘The full Kentish for me, with a couple of rounds of toast, and coffee,’ was Tolstoy’s order.
‘I think you’ll like Wayne,’ said Kate. ‘He’s a very down to earth sort of person, and very focused on his work. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he has examined and tested the documents in his free time, to give himself something to do.’ The tea and coffee arrived to provide a break in the conversation, Kate then picking up where she had left off. ‘I used to feel sorry for his girlfriend, until he told me that she worked odd hours in a hospital path lab. They’ve been together for at least ten years that I know of, so they must be doing something right.’
‘How old is he?’
‘A tricky one. To look at he’s late forties, maybe. Possibly early fifties. But to hear him talk, he can’t be more than mid- to late thirties. He does have a gentle sense of humour, though. And he can laugh at himself, which I find an endearing trait in anyone.’
There was a pause as Kate took a sip of her tea. Tolstoy followed suit with his coffee, before throwing in a question that had clearly been bothering him.
‘Have you any idea how much Wayne is going to charge?’
‘No. Why? Are you worried about cost?’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that. I only hope I have enough cash on me, that’s all, otherwise I might have to slip up to a bank to use the cash machine.’
‘I can probably lend you some money, from the shop’s till, if you’re desperate.’
‘There’s no need to do that. I’m OK for cash, it’s just that I might need a bank. Is there one close by?’
‘Not really. But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’
The waitress then brought them their food, and for a short while the pair of them concentrated on eating. Kate then opened a new topic, speculating on how the council meeting would go.
Between forkfuls they imagined likely and unlikely scenarios, Tolstoy punctuating their chat with amusing comments about Jack Bentley, before they grew serious again.
‘Supposing Jack really has a case,’ mused Kate, ‘how will we handle that?’
‘I’m certain that Angela will cope brilliantly. She’s a QC, after all. And from what I have gathered from Andrew and others in the village who know about these things, she is quite a renowned barrister.’ He stopped suddenly, looking quizzical.
‘Tolstoy, are you all right?’ asked Kate, a thread of anxiety running through the six syllables.
‘Well, I was just wondering, it’s just me I’m afraid, I have odd thoughts from time to time, usually concerning words, and in this case I’ve just thought of something that has never occurred to me before.’
He paused long enough for Kate to ask, ‘What have you just thought of?’
‘Whether there is a female form of “barrister”, just as you have an editor, and an editrix – the male and female forms, or a victor and a victrix.’
‘So you are suggesting that it should be a “barristrix”? queried an incredulous Kate. ‘You must be joking. Tell me you’re joking, please. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.’
‘Well,’ said Tolstoy, ‘it was just a thought, that’s all. Just a harmless thought,’ and he smiled at her.
They had finished eating and Tolstoy indicated he’d like the bill. He paid it, left a tip, helped Kate on with her coat and they headed off for the station. They had plenty of time, but it was a pleasant day and they felt no desire to hurry. Rather they opted for a gentle amble up the High Street.
Wayne’s train did not keep them waiting too long. A chubby, greying man, with pale blue eyes and generous smile greeted Kate like the old friend she had clearly become. He shook hands with Tolstoy and handed over the documents to him.
‘Yours, I believe. And very interesting too. You should have them preserved under glass cabinets for posterity, so that present and future generations can enjoy a serious piece of village history.’
Tolstoy was quite taken aback. ‘What a good idea. Once this is all over I shall do just that. It will be something that the parish council might like to organise. Perhaps we could have an exhibition.’
‘Or maybe they could be put somewhere prominent in the pavilion, since the Buttercup Field began its life as part of the cricket club,’ Kate suggested.
‘Another good suggestion,’ said Tolstoy. He turned to Wayne. ‘I’m sure you have no real interest in this discussion. What do I owe you for all this hard work?’
Wayne told him. A relieved Tolstoy was able to hand over the cash there and then, and while he did so Wayne explained, ‘You have a certificate of authenticity, which my company is happy to
issue. Should this go to court you’ll find that the certificate will be accepted as a legal document. I would also be happy to appear as an “expert” witness. But I doubt it will come to that. I have included a full report on my findings and how I reached my various conclusions. I hope it does the trick for you.’
‘I certainly hope so too, and thank you, Wayne, for all the trouble you’ve gone to, not just the work on the documents but coming down here each time to collect and deliver. I really appreciate it. You must come down with your wife, or partner, as my guest at the Manor. If you enjoy cricket, then we should make the date to coincide with a village home match. And then the four of us,’ a sweeping arm brought Kate into the reckoning, ‘could go out for a meal locally.’
‘That sounds great,’ said Wayne. ‘I like cricket, and village cricket especially. I’ve even been known to wield a bat and sling a ball in my time.’
‘Then perhaps we could squeeze you into the side,’ said Tolstoy.
‘No, I’d be happy just watching. Now look, I really have to go. More work waiting at the lab, and there’s a London train leaving in ten minutes, so I’ll head back, if that’s OK. Look after those documents, won’t you?’
Tolstoy assured him he would and they said their goodbyes.
‘Right,’ said Kate, ‘time to get you back to Stottenden. Come on. We have a bit of a walk back to the car now. And I have to tell you, it’s been an interesting, even a great, second date. Thank you for my breakfast, although I don’t think I shall ever forget “barristrix”; it sounds more like a French cartoon character. Really! I must tell Angela.’ And they headed off, Tolstoy holding the folder containing the documents firmly, but carefully, in one hand, petrified of dropping and damaging them. Kate meanwhile linked arms with his other one as they made their way back to the car.
Twelve
The village hall was a hubbub of voices. Everyone talking at once, it seemed. Word had gone around Stottenden that something big was afoot on this foggy November evening. The Snitcher’s Head had emptied at six-fifteen. The landlord, Nick Marten, ever a practical man, had shut up shop temporarily and had joined the throng as it made its way to the parish council meeting. The whole complement of the action committee was there; the Reverend Davis with his wife Suzanne, Jo, Harry, all the local farm workers. In fact, thought Tolstoy, looking around at the packed hall, I doubt if there is anyone left at home this evening. There was a real tingle to the atmosphere. Kate, standing, pressed against Tolstoy, felt it and glanced up at his flushed face. She smiled.
It really was a bit cramped. He spotted Bert, together with Old Ned, standing close to the “top” table, which in fact was three trestle tables arranged to accommodate the councillors on the small stage at one end of the hall. Actually, to call it a stage was to exaggerate. It was no higher than nine inches, running the width of the hall and perhaps occupying a total of ten feet. It scarcely elevated the councillors above the plebiscite. Jack Bentley was at the head of the table, with councillors ranged down the two long sides, three on one side, two on the other, with the final place being at the opposite end to the chairman. There was also a well-dressed man, in suit and collar and tie, sitting alongside, but slightly behind, Bentley. He was clutching a briefcase and managed to look self-important. Must be the solicitor, thought Tolstoy. And at the back of the raised area Tolstoy spotted the two farmhands who worked for Bentley.
At that moment Bentley called the meeting to order. He glanced at the agenda and they were off. The minutes of the previous meeting were approved without demur. No matters arising from said minutes, they moved to item one, and, as it turned out, the only item on the agenda. ‘I should perhaps, at this point, declare an interest,’ Bentley addressed the floor. ‘However, since everyone here also has an interest in item one, the discovery of historic documents concerning the Buttercup Field and the holder of title to the plot, if it is all the same to everyone, I shall remain in the chair and introduce the matter. There will be an opportunity for questions and comments later, these to put through me. Thank you.’
He cleared his throat, took a sip of water from a plastic bottle that had been placed on the table in front of him, looked down at a sheaf of papers in his hands, then began.
‘Approximately two weeks ago my attention was drawn by two of my farm labourers, that one of the gateposts of the roadside entrance to the Buttercup Field had developed a wobble. Not wanting anything untoward to happen to anyone using the gate to access the Buttercup Field,’ he paused, and it quickly became evident that he had done so in order to emphasise the next statement, ‘I instructed my men to repair the gate. I decided not to refer this job to the council, but rather I made the decision to pay for the costs of the job out of my own pocket.’ Another pause, greeted with dead silence in the hall.
Bentley grunted, then continued, ‘I now call Clem Pewsey, one of my most senior labourers, to step forward and relate to this meeting what happened when he and his colleague, Scott Ritching, began digging. Clem!’ he called and the elder of the two men shuffled self-consciously to the table.
‘OK, Clem, take your time, and tell this meeting what happened.’
There was a great deal of throat-clearing by Bentley’s employee, who was wheezing terribly, but eventually, after a couple of false starts, and a table of “ums and ers” he finally managed to get out the details. ‘We’d taken the gate off its ’inges, and we was digging around the base of the ’inge post when the spade ’it summat. We couldn’t budge it with the spade, so thinking ’twere a rock or a large stone at least, we decided to use the crowbar. ’Twas Scott who drove the bar straight down. That’s when we realised ’tweren’t no stone, cos we ’eard the sound of wood splintering.’ There was a chuckle from Scott backstage, as it were, and an accompanying couple of sniggers from the floor. Clem waited a few seconds then carried on with his report. ‘Once we cleared the dirt away we found we was looking at an old box.’
At this point Bentley just could not contain himself. ‘And what was in the box?’
‘Well, sir, earth, you know, dirt from where the spade ’ad made a ’ole in the lid, like.’ There were louder, more widespread chuckles throughout the hall.
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ snapped Bentley, irritated to have been made to look a little foolish, ‘but what else was in the box?’
‘Well, sir, papers. Old papers, with writing on them.’
‘And what did you do when you found these papers?’
‘Well, sir, we brought them to you.’
‘Thank you, Clem. That’s all we need from you.’ He turned portentously to the villagers, paused melodramatically, then said in as solemn a voice as he could manage, ‘These papers, which I have here, in front of me, are proof that the Buttercup Field was given to my grandfather Edwin Bentley by Hubert de Groot’s grandfather, Cornelis, in 1895. And here is the proof.’
Triumphantly Bentley selected some sheets of paper, then waved them above his head. This prompted mutterings, that became louder when Bentley continued, ‘This is proof that the land belonged to my family. I am therefore legally empowered,’ he turned to the smartly-dressed man sitting alongside him, as if for confirmation, ‘to donate the land to the council, which can now go ahead and develop the Buttercup Field.’
At this, the mutterings became an angry growl. Fists were being shaken in the direction of the stage. And words such as crook, cheat, and land-grabber were directed in Bentley’s direction.
It was a question, shouted from the front of the simmering throng, and shouted forcibly, before being repeated a number of times, which gradually caught the attention of everyone in the hall.
It was Old Ned, speaking more loudly than anyone could remember. ‘Clem? Can you tell me what you was doing back in Feb’ry, when I ’eard you wheezing away, while you was digging at that very gate where you “discovered” this box of documents? It was just after midnight. I was ’avin’ my usual sit-down under t
hat old oak tree in the Buttercup Field an’ I ’eard you and another person, who I reckon ’ad to be young Scott there, whispering to each other, then the sound of digging. And I ’ave to say Clem, there is no chance it was anyone else, because not even my old car wheezes as loud as you do.’ That got a laugh from the audience, who had been hanging on to Ned’s every word.
‘’Tweren’t I,’ spluttered Clem. ‘Last February? I can’t remember what I was doing last week or last night. But I do know I weren’t digging.’
‘Oh yes you was,’ Ned countered. ‘I went back the following morning and blow me down if the ’inge post didn’t ’ave fresh dirt packed around it. And another thing, I was leaning on that very gate on the morning you say you found it wobbling, and it was solid as the day it was sunk into the soil by my old dad. Wobble, my arse. The only thing wobbling was you, after too much beer. I never ’eard such nonsense. You put that box in the dirt back in Feb’ry, no doubt under instruction from Mr Jack Bentley, and it was then left until the time seemed right to produce it like a rabbit out of a ’at.’
Old Ned paused dramatically, and for a few seconds his last words seemed to hang over everyone.
Pandemonium followed. There was uproar in the hall. Clem was applying his inhaler, while a very red-faced Jack Bentley was trying to regain control of events. Eventually Angela Smeaton, who had been standing alongside Old Ned, stepped up onto the stage. All it took from her was a raised hand and within seconds silence returned.
‘Jack,’ she began in a voice of reason, ‘I’m sure there is an explanation for all of this, because these are serious allegations. May we see these documents?’
‘Yes, of course, but handle them carefully.’
‘Oh I most certainly will.’ With that she pulled on cotton gloves.
‘Why are you putting on gloves? Afraid of getting your hands dirty?’
‘No, Jack, not at all. I just don’t want to add my fingerprints to those that are already on these documents, which will include yours, of course, your solicitor’s, Clem’s, not to mention those of Cornelis and your grandfather. I am sure you understand that the action committee cannot just accept these documents at face value. We must have them checked forensically, and have them authenticated.’
