Trouble on the Heath Read online

  Trouble on the Heath

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2011

  ISBN 9781907726200

  Copyright © Terry Jones 2011

  The right of Terry Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

  The Quick Reads project in Wales is a joint venture between the Welsh Assembly Government and the Welsh Books Council. Titles are funded as part of the National Basic Skills Strategy for Wales.

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Cover design by www.unreal-uk.com

  Trouble on

  the Heath

  A comedy of Russian gangsters, town planners and a dog called Nigel

  Terry Jones

  ACCENT PRESS LTD

  Chapter One

  It was Nigel’s favourite tree. He liked to pee on it.

  Malcolm would have to wait until Nigel had finished, but he didn’t mind because when you stood by this tree you got a great view of Hampstead Heath. Malcolm could imagine he was deep in the countryside, rather than in the middle of London.

  There were two houses set back from the lane and, in between them, you could see one of the Highgate Ponds. Then, rising above the trees was a green hill. At the top of the hill was a circle of trees around a hump that was known locally as an old burial mound.

  Malcolm knew it wasn’t actually an old burial mound because he knew about burial mounds. Malcolm, you see, was Professor of History at the University of London.

  But today, there was something different about Nigel’s favourite tree. Malcolm frowned. There was a notice pinned to it, and notices pinned to trees are mostly bad news. They often mean that someone has lost their cat or that a loved one has died on that spot.

  Malcolm peered at it more closely. It was one of those Council notices headed: “How does this affect you?” The size of the print was very small, on purpose in the hope that no one would bother to read it. Sadly for the Council, today Nigel was doing a lot of sniffing, and Malcolm had plenty of time to read it.

  “Proposed demolition of two three-storey dwellings (Class C3) …”

  Malcolm looked up at the two houses. Why on earth would anyone want to knock them down? They were nice houses. OK, one of them was empty, but the other was lived in, and they were good-sized houses, too. They were probably worth a small fortune.

  Still, Malcolm thought, if they were to go, there would be an even better view of Hampstead Heath from Nigel’s favourite peeing tree. He – for one – would not object to that.

  Malcolm couldn’t tell you why he had named his dog “Nigel”. But he had.

  It was at that moment that Nigel vanished through the fence. This bit of road was a quiet dead-end, so it was usual for Malcolm to take Nigel off lead as soon as they got to it. It was always a relief not to have Nigel tugging at the lead, but there was always the chance that he might disappear through the fence. As he just had.

  “Nigel! Nigel! Here, boy!” Malcolm called without any real hope of Nigel coming back. His lack of hope was fulfilled beyond his wildest dreams. Nigel was gone for a good twenty minutes.

  After all, Nigel was chasing squirrels and such a serious task couldn’t be halted simply because your master wanted it to. As any responsible Jack Russell owner knows, normal rules don’t apply during a squirrel chase.

  Nigel had trained Malcolm well in such matters, so Malcolm now looked around for something to do until the squirrel chase was over. He began by reading the Council Planning Notice again. Next he admired the view again. Then he started looking through the fence in the hope of seeing Nigel – the hero of the squirrel chase.

  It was then that Malcolm spotted it. It was almost hidden behind a clump of weeds, down near the bottom of the fence.

  It was a second, even more discreet, Council notice.

  “The ‘Department of Hiding Notices’ probably won an award for this one,” thought Malcolm. “I wonder if they planted the weeds after they put up the notice?”

  He moved the weeds to one side, and read: “Erection of four-storey single-family dwelling house plus two basement levels, to follow the demolition of both existing three-storey dwelling houses (Class C3).”

  Malcolm took a deep breath as he took in what it said. He tried to imagine a house with four floors and a double basement standing where the two houses now stood. Cold fury welled up in Malcolm’s heart. It would block the view of the pond and the Heath. He would lose his favourite view from Nigel’s favourite tree!

  Malcolm was trembling as he tried to find a piece of paper and a pen. Of course, that was all part of the Council’s strategy. They knew that most people would not be carrying pen and paper with them when out walking their dogs. With any luck, by the time the dog walkers got home, they would have forgotten the planning application number, or even forgotten about the whole business.

  And what was that at the bottom of the page in very small writing? “Comments must be received within twenty-one days of the date of this letter.”

  The date on the notice was 1st May! It was now the 18th May. That gave only three days to object.

  At that moment Nigel squeezed back under the fence.

  “Listen, Nigel. I want you to remember the Planning Application number: 2010/5369/CP,” said Malcolm.

  Malcolm was still searching through his pockets for anything that he could write on, or with. It was his habit to jot things on his shirt cuff, to the despair of his wife and the local laundry.

  “Why do you do it?” his wife Angela kept saying. “You know it ruins your shirts!”

  Malcolm agreed with her, but he couldn’t stop himself. Especially when he needed to remember something important, like now.

  However, this time his shirt was spared. His hand closed around his mobile phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and punched the planning application number into the phone’s address book.

  “Ha, ha! Fooled you!” he snarled at the Council with grim satisfaction.

  However, Malcolm would live to regret being so resourceful, for he was about to be sucked into a web of suspense and violence that would spiral out of his control.

  Chapter Two

  Trevor Williams woke up in a panic.

  It was a work-day, and he always woke in a panic when he had to go to work. For fifteen years he had been toiling in the Planning Department of Camden Council, and for fifteen years he had dreaded work-days.

  Trevor wondered if anyone in the outside world could even guess at the horror of working in the Planning Department.

  Suddenly he made his mind up. He would refuse to go in to work today. He would phone in sick. He got these migraines. Everybody knew about them. He had one today. He couldn’t possibly work.

  Trevor got to the bathroom and stared at his face in the bathroom mirror. He had been a young man when he’d started working in the Planning Department. Now he was old before his time. His face was lined. His eyes were dull and lifeless. Even his hair looked depressed.

  He owed it to himself not to go into work today. He would go fishing instead.

  Feeling much better, he shaved and made himself some breakfast: a little toast, a pot of coffee, even a boiled e
gg.

  Then he washed up, put on his coat, grabbed his briefcase and ran for the bus. He jumped onto it just as the doors were closing, and slumped into an empty seat. He sighed a weary sigh.

  More and more often he found that the only way to get himself out of bed was to pretend that he was going to phone in sick and go fishing instead.

  Ah! He could feel the rod in his hand, and hear the quiet wash of the river against its banks. There was the splash now and again as fish jumped into the world above for an instant, before falling back into their watery fish-world. Just as Trevor had, for a moment, leapt from the drab world of reality into the world of his day-dreams and gone fishing.

  Fish were wonderful, peaceable creatures. They minded their own business, and didn’t glare at you, or write angry letters.

  Fish didn’t ring you up and scream abuse at you. Fish didn’t threaten to take you to court or tell you that you were a Nazi working for a Nazi organisation. Nor had Trevor ever heard of fish ganging up on someone going about his normal duties, catching him outside the supermarket and pouring cold custard over his jacket. It had happened to him.

  Fish didn’t write angry letters about the block of flats being built outside their sitting-room window. Fish didn’t accuse you of being racist because there was no letter-box outside their front door and they had to walk two hundred yards down the road to post a letter. Fish didn’t harass you by ringing you every hour – on the hour – to demand to know why you hadn’t replaced the trees that had been cut down by accident two years before.

  And sometimes you caught fish.

  That never happened with members of the public. They always caught you.

  If you granted a planning application to build a really nice house with lots of rooms and a swimming pool, objectors would line up chanting in the road. They’d have their photos taken by the local newspaper, and spread rumours about the damage to the environment the house would cause. They’d claim it would upset the water table and destroy the local wild life. They’d storm the Council offices and spray green paint all over the computers. It had happened once.

  On the other hand, if you refused an application to build a really nice house with lots of rooms and a swimming pool, the applicants would threaten to take you to court. They’d bring in high-powered lawyers. They would say that you weren’t up to your job and that you were acting illegally. They’d phone you up and say they were going to take this matter “higher” and suggest that your job might be at risk.

  There was no pleasing the General Public.

  Look at that case with that supermarket a few years ago! The Council refused permission to build yet another supermarket which nobody needed. So the supermarket took the Council to court. The Council won. Then the supermarket took them to court again, and the Council won again. This went on for several years. Eventually the Council ran out of money, so they gave permission to build the supermarket.

  Instead of being grateful, the supermarket then sued the Council for loss of earnings. They won, and the Council had been nearly bankrupted.

  The Council, and particularly the Planning Department, just could not win.

  The daily harassment, routine abuse and endless round of complaints and objections and protests would grind anybody down.

  Trevor climbed the stairs to the Planning Department with a sinking heart. He opened the door and there were all the staff looking at him. Cynthia, who did the filing, was holding a cake.

  “Happy Birthday, Trevor!” they all shouted.

  Chapter Three

  Lady Chesney was a tolerant soul. She tolerated the lowly people who jammed her sitting room at these meetings. She tolerated the off-the-peg clothes they wore. She tolerated their accents and the way they had to work for a living. She was even willing to shake hands with one or two of them, if they seemed important enough. Were any of them as grateful as they should have been? She doubted it.

  That awkward young man, Malcolm Thomas, was trying to call the meeting to order. She still found it perfectly shocking that he was supposed to be a professor of something or other at the University of London. He certainly didn’t look to her like a professor, and her opinion was worth something one would think! What was the world coming to, when a young man in a cheap suit, with a Liverpool accent, could be a professor?

  Lady Chesney sighed. The country was going to the dogs. She already knew that, of course, but it was painful to see the evidence in one’s own home.

  Eventually the rabble became quiet, and Malcolm looked around the room.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said. “Fellow members of the Highgrove Park Residents’ Association. Welcome to this emergency meeting to deal with the threat to demolish two houses in the …”

  “What about the Minutes?” shouted a voice from the back.

  “And the Treasurer’s Report?” added another.

  “This is an emergency meeting,” said Malcolm. “Can’t we just get on with the business we’ve come to discuss?”

  Mr Clarkson stood up. Before he’d retired, Mr Clarkson had been head manager of a minicab company, but he’d always fancied himself as a lawyer.

  “I think they have a point. If we don’t have the Minutes of the last meeting and the Treasurer’s Report, this meeting could be considered in breach of the Association’s rules. So, any action we decide on might be seen as invalid.”

  “I don’t think that is the case…” began Patrick Simpson, who actually was a lawyer.

  “I agree!” piped up Mrs Furlong. She had upset Lady Chesney by wearing a rather vulgar pair of high-heeled shoes. “I’d like to hear the Treasurer’s Report.”

  “And the Minutes!” said somebody else.

  “But the Treasurer hasn’t prepared a report for this meeting,” Malcolm started to explain, “because it’s an emergency …”

  “Oh yes I have!” exclaimed the Treasurer, jumping to his feet. “I could read it out now if you like!”

  “Yes! Let’s have the Treasurer’s Report!” said Mrs Furlong, fluttering her eyelashes at the Treasurer.

  “And the Minutes!” said the same somebody else.

  Malcolm sat down again with a sinking heart. He’d been chairing these meetings for the last two years and he knew what would happen next.

  An hour later, they were still arguing about whether the Residents’ Summer Party should be held on a Saturday or a Sunday. Finally Malcolm jumped up and waved his hands in the air.

  “Please! Please!” he said. “This meeting was called to talk about the demolition of numbers 26 and 27 Highgrove Park. They want to replace them with an eyesore with fourteen bedrooms and two basements. One of these basements will contain an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Can we please just focus on that, before we run out of time?”

  Lady Chesney looked at her watch and smiled. She didn’t mind at all if the meeting went on longer than planned. That was because she charged the Residents’ Association for the use of her room by the hour.

  “I’ve got to go anyway,” announced Major Riddington. “She Who Must Be Obeyed told me to be back by 8.00 in time for supper.”

  “I’ve just remembered we’ve got a dinner party!” said Paul Edgar, leaping to his feet. “My wife’ll kill me!” and he dashed for the door.

  Major Riddington followed him, and so did somebody else. “I only came for the Minutes,” he whispered as he squeezed past Lady Chesney.

  Malcolm watched them disappear, astonished. “Why do they bother to come?” he murmured.

  “It’s the tea and biscuits,” said Barbara, the Secretary of the Residents’ Association.

  “But they haven’t had them yet,” said Malcolm.

  “Then it’s not the tea and biscuits,” replied Barbara, who was always prepared to agree with anyone.

  Malcolm clapped his hands for silence, as a buzz of voices had naturally followed the departure of so many members.

  “The planning application in front of you explains what is proposed. The new building will be huge. Quite o
ut of keeping with the other houses in the road … ”

  Someone had raised his hand. Malcolm paused: “Yes?”

  “Shouldn’t we have our tea and biscuits now, before anyone else has to leave?” It was Mr Kendrick, the vet, who lived at number 25.

  “Let’s just talk about the threat to our environment first,” pleaded Malcolm.

  “But I’ll have to go in fifteen minutes,” said Mr Kendrick.

  “But you live opposite the planned development! You’re going to be the one most affected by it!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Isn’t it worth a few minutes of your time to talk about it?”

  “I’ve already written to the Council to object,” replied Mr Kendrick.

  “On what grounds?”

  “Well … on the grounds that I don’t want it.”

  “Is that all?” asked Malcolm.

  “Well, of course. That’s the only reason anyone objects,” said Mr Kendrick.

  “But it’s not enough just to say you don’t want it.” Malcolm was trying to be patient.

  “But I don’t!” said Mr Kendrick, and there were murmurs of agreement around the room.

  “None of us wants it,” said Mrs Furlong.

  Malcolm tried to keep calm. “We have to present the Council with a proper argument. We have to convince them that it’s a bad idea to allow this development to go forward.”

  “I also live opposite the site. It’ll spoil the view from my front room.” This was Mr Kahn, who ran some sort of business from his home. No one was quite sure what his business was.

  “Well, you can put that view to the Council. But I’m not sure it’ll be considered grounds for an objection,” said Malcolm.

  “How about the ‘damage to the environment’?” said Mr Kahn. “That’s how I was going to put it.”

  “That’s more like it!” said Malcolm. He turned to the rest of the room: “This is precisely why this meeting is important. We need to work out our grounds for objecting to the development. It’s no good coming up with objections that the Council can ignore – because they are desperate to find ways of ignoring them.”