Bogdan shrugs. “Diggers.”
“I’ll give you diggers, son. What are they doing?” says Ron, quickly adding, “Don’t say digging.”
More residents have reached the gate now, and they begin to crowd around Ron, all waiting for an answer.
“Well, son? What are they for?” asks Ron.
Bogdan sighs. “You said to not say digging. I don’t have other answer.” He looks at his watch.
“Son, you just opened this gate, and this gate only leads one place.” Ron sees he has a crowd, and this is an opportunity he is not going to waste. He turns toward the gathering and spies his gang among them. Ibrahim has hisswimming stuff under one arm; Joyce has just arrived with a flask and is looking for someone. Bernard, no doubt. Elizabeth is at the back, and there’s a rare sighting of Stephen by her side. He’s in a dressing gown, but he’s not the only one. Ron feels a pang of guilt as he sees Penny’s husband, John, in his suit, as ever, stopped on his way over to Willows. Ron hasn’t visited Penny in a long time, and he knows he must put that right before the chance is gone. It frightens him, though.
Ron clambers onto the first bar of the gate to address his crowd. He then almost loses his balance, thinks the better of it, and returns to solid ground. No matter, he’s in business here.
“Well, this is nice. Just us, a couple of Polish lads, and some diggers. All enjoying the morning air. Ventham’s little gang. Crawling in at six thirty in the morning to dig up our nuns. No warning, no consultation. Coming into our village and digging up our nuns.” He turns to Bogdan. “That’s your game, is it, son?”
“Yes, that’s our game,” concedes Bogdan.
Ian’s Range Rover pulls up alongside the low-loader and he steps out. He looks at the crowd and then at Bogdan, who shrugs. Karen Playfair steps out too, smiling at the scene before her.
“And here’s the man himself,” says Ron as he spots Ian walking over.
“Mr. Ritchie,” says Ian.
“Sorry to disturb your morning, Mr. Ventham,” says Ron.
“Not at all. Carry on, make a speech,” replies Ian. “Pretend it’s the fifties, or whenever you were around. But when you’re done I’m going to need to access that path to do some digging.”
“Not today, old son. Afraid not,” says Ron, turning back to the crowd. “We’re all weak, Mr. Ventham—you can see that, right? Look at us—give us a nudge and we’d topple over. That’s the last you’d see of us. We’re feeble, the lot of us; we’re a pushover. A pushover, eh? Should be easy. But you know, there’s a few people here who’ve done a few things in their life. Am I right?”
Cheers.
“There’s a few people here who’ve seen off, and no disrespect, better men than you.” Ron pauses and looks around at his audience. “We got soldiers here, one or two. We got teachers, we got doctors, we got people who could take you apart, and people who could put you back together again. We got people who crawled through deserts, people who built rockets, people who locked up killers.”
“And insurance underwriters!” shouts Colin Clemence from Ruskin, to happy applause.
“In short, Mr. Ventham,” says Ron, his arm sweeping, “we got fighters. And you, with your diggers at seven thirty in the morning, have picked a fight.”
Ian waits to make certain Ron has finished, that the bolt has been shot, then steps forward to talk to the same crowd.
“Thanks, Ron. All rubbish, but thank you. There’s no fight here. You’ve had your consultation, you’ve made your objections, they were all overturned. You’ve got lawyers here, right? Alongside the people you’re telling me have crawled through deserts? You’ve got barristers? Solicitors? Jesus, you’ve got judges here! That was your fight. In court. It was a fair fight, and you lost it. So if I want to drive onto land that I own at eight a.m. and carry out work that I’ve planned, and that I’m paying for, and that, also no disrespect, will keep your service charge at the reasonable level it currently is, then I will. I will, and I am.”
The termservice chargehas a noticeable effect on the softer element in the crowd. They might well have four hours to kill until lunch and be looking forward to a show, but this fella does have a point.
Joyce and Bernard, who had slipped away together during Ron’s grandstanding, are now returning with garden chairs under their arms. They walk through the crowd and open them out on the path.
It is Joyce’s turn to address the crowd. “Radio Kent says it’s going to be lovely all morning, if some of you would like to join us? We could make a day of it if anyone’s got a picnic table they’re not using?”
Ron turns to the crowd. “Who’s up for a nice sit-down and a cup of tea?”
The crowd gets down to business, chairs and tables to be collected, kettle on, see what’s in the cupboard—too early for a drink, but let’s see if we can string it out. If nothing else, this should be fun. Though, again, he does make a very good point about the service charge.
Ibrahim stands by the cab of the low-loader, talking to the driver. He had estimated, by eye, that it was forty-four feet in length and is gratified to learn that it is forty-three. Not bad, Ibrahim; still got it.
Elizabeth leads Stephen home unscathed. Make him a coffee and she can head back out.
46.
The call from Ian Ventham comes through to the Fairhaven police station at around seven thirty a.m. Donna is drinking a liter carton of cranberry juice as she overhears the wordsCoopers Chase. She volunteers her services and sends Chris Hudson a text. He’s off this morning, but he won’t want to miss this.
