AN ISLE FULL OF NOISES

Last Friday

I’ve never understood why judges of the Crown Court are called circuit judges. It conjures up romantic images of a bygone age, of the itinerant judge mounting his horse to administer justice in some far-flung corner of the realm, his faithful clerk, a judicial Sancho Panza, bearing his books behind him on his donkey, to be greeted by the cheering crowds of citizens who have flocked to the town square to welcome his portentous arrival. Nothing could be further from the truth. All right: perhaps it worked, just, in the old days, when the itinerant Assize judge arrived at a town, tried a murderer, sentenced him to death, reserved judgment in the one civil case before him, and moved on to the next venue. But today? Not a chance. The system would collapse under its own weight in a matter of weeks. The last thing the Grey Smoothies want today is an itinerant judge.

Just imagine the travel costs, for one thing. How could they be sure that the taxpayer is getting value for money from the privatised feed and stable for the horse – or the judge? Then there would be the nightmare of trying to keep to the itinerary in the face of the volume of work, the problems of case management, the accidents of overrunning trials, the reality of delayed sentencing hearings, and all the rest of it. No, circuit judges don’t ride the circuits today.

Quite the contrary: when you’re appointed they tell you exactly where you will be sitting and warn you in no uncertain terms not even to think about applying for a transfer to another court for the first five years. So, if you live in Leeds and they want you to sit in Swansea, you either say ‘thank you’ politely and move the family to South Wales, or you turn the job down. And even after five years, they may then suggest that Manchester wouldn’t be a bad career move for you, even though there’s a Mancunian who would love to sit there who they’re sending to Basildon. It makes their lives much easier, you see, if they can treat judges as pawns in a game of administrative chess and don’t have to worry about them as people who may also be trying to have a life. They don’t have to lie awake all night – assuming they would anyway – worrying about some poor sod they’re forcing to choose between his family and the job he’s always wanted. How to put this? Viewed from the judicial perspective, human resources issues don’t seem to loom large in the administration of the courts.

So on the rare occasions I’m called upon to sit away from my base court, Bermondsey, it comes as something of a surprise: and never more so than today. Today I am to be asked, figuratively speaking of course, to saddle up my trusty steed and make ready to ride the circuit, to become a circuit judge in the literal sense of the term. It all starts innocently enough. Every Friday, usually before court sits in the morning, Stella comes to see me in chambers to discuss the schedule for the coming week; and today is no different, except that today she has Marjorie with her.

‘I’ve got a bit of an unusual one for you next week, Judge,’ Stella begins. She sounds unusually hesitant, and I’m already suspicious.

‘Really?’ I reply, taking a hasty draught of Jeanie and Elsie’s latte. ‘Well, that will make a nice change, I’m sure.’

‘It’s all because of Judge Jenkins’s case overrunning, you see.’

I’ve been wondering what impact that would have on the list. Marjorie is doing an importation of class A drugs with four defendants that was supposed to last for two to three weeks. It’s already run for two weeks, and the prosecution hasn’t even closed its case. It’s not Marjorie’s fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. First, she had an important witness go down with some kind of virus that’s making the rounds, and then, no sooner had the witness recovered sufficiently to drag himself to court when two members of her jury complained of similar symptoms. Marjorie had no real choice: she sent everyone home until they were feeling fully fit. It’s one of those things that happen sometimes during a trial, and you just have to deal with it. But of course, in the process she lost several days of trial time.

‘It’s got another week to run yet, hasn’t it, Judge?’ Stella asks.

‘At least a week,’ Marjorie says, ‘and the thing is, Charlie, next week I’m supposed to be sitting as a deputy High Court judge out in the country.’

I remember. We were all excited when the Powers That Be added Marjorie’s name to the exclusive and – by Bermondsey standards – exotic list of deputy High Court judges: excited, but not surprised. Marjorie is the lawyer on the Bermondsey bench, and we are all hoping that she will be asked to move up to the High Court full-time in due course – she’s undoubtedly fully qualified. But she has to pay her dues sitting as a deputy first, and I know she’s been looking forward to it.

‘But obviously now, I’ve got to stay here and finish this bloody trial.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say, doing my best to reassure her. ‘They’ll understand. They’ll ask you again before too long.’

She smiles. ‘Oh, che sarà, sarà, Charlie. I’m not going to worry about it.’ I see her exchange a glance with Stella. ‘I just need to make sure they can cover the case I was going to do. The one thing they won’t thank me for is leaving them without cover.’

‘Cover?’ I ask.

‘Yes, Judge,’ Stella says. ‘After Judge Jenkins told me she would be overrunning I talked to our senior Presider, Mr Justice Gulivant, to let him know. I assumed he’d give the case to someone else on the list, but yesterday he called me and said he wants you to do it.’

I am silent for a few seconds, and then I laugh nervously.

‘What? You mean a civil case?’

‘Yes, Judge.’

‘Moi? Sit as a deputy High Court judge and try a civil case? He can’t be serious.’

‘He seemed perfectly serious, Judge.’

‘But I can’t… I mean, it would disrupt things here too much, wouldn’t it? I’m sure you have a trial planned for me this week…’

Stella shakes her head. ‘Judge Dunblane and Judge Drake both have trials starting in longish cases, so I’m not listing much other work this week. The only fixture I would have for you is a residential burglary, two to three days. I can get a recorder in to deal with that.’

I stare at her open-mouthed. A slight sense of panic is starting to set in. I appeal to Marjorie’s better nature.

‘But I don’t know anything about civil cases, Marjorie. You know that. I wouldn’t have the first idea where to begin.’

‘Oh nonsense, Charlie,’ she replies with a smile. ‘Of course you would. It’s not a complicated case. I can walk you through it.’

‘What did you tell Mr Justice Gulivant?’ I ask Stella.

‘I told him I was sure you’d be very pleased to do it,’ she replies. ‘It would be quite a feather in Bermondsey’s cap to have two judges on the list, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would,’ Marjorie agrees.

‘I rather like our cap the way it is,’ I mutter.

Stella stands to leave. ‘I’ll leave the two of you together, and make some calls about getting a recorder,’ she says cheerfully.

‘I won’t have to decide the facts of the case myself, will I?’ I whine after Stella has gone. ‘Please tell me I’ll at least have a jury to work out who’s telling the truth.’

‘I’m afraid not, Charlie: we don’t have many civil jury trials these days,’ Marjorie replies. ‘But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. You don’t have to find anything proved beyond reasonable doubt – it’s a simple balance of probabilities.’

‘It doesn’t sound simple at all. And I’ll have to write a judgment, won’t I? I’m not used to that kind of thing.’

She laughs. ‘The secret is to take good notes from day one and keep your papers organised,’ she promises me. ‘Writing the judgment is easy once you’ve made your mind up which way you’re going. Besides, you don’t have to do it there and then. You can take a couple of weeks, more if you need it – in fact, that’s what the parties will expect.’

I shake my head.

‘Don’t worry,’ she adds. ‘As I said, it’s not a difficult case. It’s a dispute between near neighbours, all to do with who owns a plot of land between their two houses in a village somewhere in rural Cambridgeshire.’

‘Cambridgeshire?’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ she replies innocently. ‘The trial’s in Huntingdon. Charming town: you’ll love it.’

We are silent for some time.

‘You’ll have to take over as RJ for the week,’ I say eventually, by way of reprisal.

‘I always do when you’re away, don’t I?’ she reminds me. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage. There’s nothing brewing, is there?’

‘Not unless the Grey Smoothies have an unexpected rush of blood to the head,’ I reply, ‘which one can never rule out. But barring that, no: it should be calm and peaceful.’

‘Just like Huntingdon,’ she says.

The Reverend Mrs Walden and I are not agoraphobic as such, but we are hard-core, card-carrying townies. I’m not saying we don’t enjoy the odd weekend as guests in a nice hotel or someone’s country retreat on the rare occasions when she can get a weekend off – especially when the hotel or country retreat happens to be in Provence or Tuscany – but in normal circumstances we both feel more at home in the smoke. So I’m sure I come across as rather despondent when I tell her over our pre-dinner glass of Lidl’s Fine Amontillado that I am duty bound to saddle up my horse and gallop towards darkest Cambridgeshire.

‘I’m sure you’ll have a very good time,’ she ventures consolingly. ‘Have they found you somewhere decent to stay?’

‘An old coaching inn called the George,’ I reply, ‘said to have been in Oliver Cromwell’s family at some point. Hopefully it’s been redecorated since then.’

‘I’m sure it will be very nice.’

‘And I won’t have my daily stroll to court to start the day with.’

‘I’m fairly sure that coffee and The Times will be available locally,’ she says. ‘What’s really troubling you, Charlie? Is it doing such a different kind of case?’

‘Clara, I know nothing about the ownership of land,’ I confide in her. ‘I remember studying land law at Cambridge. It was an absolute nightmare. There was something called the Rule against Perpetuities that could have been written by James Joyce on speed. It’s incomprehensible. God only knows how I ever passed that exam.’

‘Yes, He does,’ she smiles.

‘It’s all very well for Marjorie. She understands that kind of thing. But I’m just a criminal hack.’

‘You’re a criminal judge,’ she replies. ‘Look, Charlie, what do you always tell your recorders when they’re about to sit for the first time?’

‘Listen to counsel, take your time, and ask for help whenever you need it,’ I say.

‘Exactly. So, take your own advice. Tell the barristers it’s not the kind of case you usually do, and make sure they explain it all to you. Then trust your judicial instinct. You’ll know which way to decide.’

I pour us another glass of the Amontillado.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ I suggest.

‘What?’

‘Well, we could have a week away, see the sights, sample the local cuisine and what have you – enjoy the country air for a few days.’

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t, Charlie. This week is really busy. I’ve got the Parish Council meeting, the engaged couples counselling, the youth club, the…’

‘Yes, all right,’ I say by way of resignation.

‘I’m sorry.’

She takes a break from cutting up the ingredients for our noodles and spicy chicken – an experimental dinner she’s been planning for some time – and brings her glass of sherry around the table to be with me.

‘Look on the bright side, Charlie. You don’t have to worry about being RJ for a week. You can try something different. Who knows, you might even find that you enjoy doing the odd civil case now and then.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘And it might be fun to be out in the country. Don’t you remember what Shakespeare had to say about it?’

‘What was that?’

‘“The Isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.”’

‘We shall see,’ I reply dourly.

* * *

Monday morning

‘May it please your Lordship, my name is Robert Mason, and I appear for the claimants, Andrew and Gwendolyn Pearce, in this matter. My learned friend Miss Ruth Bannerman appears for the defendant, Archie Barratt.’

It sounds strange to hear myself referred to as ‘your Lordship’. I have to resist the temptation to look around the courtroom, in case there’s a High Court judge with us I somehow haven’t noticed. It’s quite flattering in a way, I suppose; but it’s not something I’ve ever aspired to, and it seems rather weird. It’s not the only thing that seems weird. Sitting without robes is something I’ve only done once or twice for a short time and for special reasons; but that’s what most civil judges do all the time and I will have to get used to conducting an entire trial wearing a suit and tie. But the weirdest thing of all is not having a jury. The courtroom has a jury box, but it’s empty. I’m used to having twelve people in the box, and I keep seeing a jury there in my mind’s eye. I only just caught myself in time, about to give them my usual pre-trial directions, before Robert Mason began his opening speech. Thank God I did: the last thing I need is counsel worrying that they’ve got a judge who talks to imaginary juries.

Actually, it’s not just the start of the trial: my whole experience since arriving at the Huntingdon Combined Court Centre at about nine o’clock this morning has been weird. I couldn’t help noticing that there was an eerie silence about the place. The only other human being in evidence when I arrived was the security guard, Ernie, who wasn’t expecting me and at first refused to believe that I was a judge – partly because he’d never seen me before and partly because no one had told him that any cases were scheduled for hearing in the building today. It was only when I produced my judicial identity card that he reluctantly allowed me to pass through the security apparatus into the court’s foyer.

‘It’s bloody typical, isn’t it?’ he volunteers once my briefcase and I have both successfully negotiated the scanner. ‘They never tell me anything, do they? I’m always the last to know. What kind of case is it?’

‘It’s a civil case,’ I reply, ‘High Court.’

He shakes his head. ‘They’re supposed to do all those kinds of cases at Peterborough, aren’t they?’ he insists. ‘Unless they’ve changed it all again. They change it every other bloody day. I can’t keep track of it all. It’s hopeless.’

Mercifully, just when all is beginning to seem lost, help is at hand. My court clerk is here, having come all the way from Peterborough, where they’re supposed to do the civil cases, recording equipment in tow. He greets me cheerfully as he lugs the equipment through the revolving main door and deposits it on the desk for Ernie’s inspection. Ernie insists that it must pass through the scanner.

‘I’m Anand Gupta, Judge,’ he says cheerfully. ‘I’m your court clerk for Pearce and Barratt. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘Not at all,’ I reply as we shake hands. ‘Actually, I’m not sure what we’re waiting for, if anything. Ernie here doesn’t think there are any cases scheduled for today.’

‘They probably haven’t sent him the list,’ Anand explains. ‘They should, of course, but they forget as often as not, don’t they, Ernie? Nothing much happens here, you see. But we’re booked in for court four, Judge; of that I can assure you.’

When we arrive at my assigned chambers we meet our usher for the day, Molly, a thin, forty-something with hair straight out of the 1960s, who tells me that she’s a permanent fixture at this court at which nothing much happens.

‘I was trained for the Magistrates’ Court,’ she confides to me apologetically. ‘That’s all I’ve done, really. I did do Crown Court once, but I lost a jury.’

‘What do you mean exactly, lost a jury?’ I ask.

‘I let them go to lunch, didn’t I, when they weren’t supposed to leave the building,’ she replies regretfully. ‘Apparently they were meant to stay together. They wouldn’t let me do Crown Court again after that. I’ve never done civil.’

‘Well, that makes two of us,’ I reassure her. ‘We’ll have to learn together, won’t we? And you won’t have to worry about losing the jury because we won’t have one.’

When Molly leaves to prepare the courtroom, I ask Anand why nothing much happens at Huntingdon.

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Judge,’ he replies. ‘This is a nice enough building, and it’s only ten or so years old. I don’t know how much it cost to build, but it couldn’t have been cheap, could it? As a combined court centre, it’s designed to accommodate all the courts: Crown Court, Magistrates’ Court, and County Court. But the Crown Court has given up on it because they don’t have the staff; the County Court has always sat at Peterborough and doesn’t want to move; and the Huntingdon magistrates may be merging with another bench elsewhere in the county. We had the employment tribunals for a while, but they moved to Watford. The coroner sits here now and then – and that’s about it, really. They’ll probably sell it to a developer to build more flats eventually, but meanwhile they’re spending a lot of public funds keeping it up. There’s no knowing what they’ll get up to next, is there?’

‘No, there isn’t,’ I agree. ‘Just as a point of interest: do you know why we’re sitting here for this case instead of at Peterborough?’

‘The defendant, Mr Barratt, is over eighty, Judge, and he didn’t want to travel as far as Peterborough. So they agreed to let us use Huntingdon. They do that once in a while, you see, so that no one can say that the building isn’t being used.’

‘So that everyone can see the taxpayer is getting value for money?’

He nods knowingly. ‘It’s the same down in London then, is it, Judge?’

‘Exactly the same.’ I change the subject. ‘Do you know counsel?’

‘Yes. Both very good, Judge, both members of chambers in Cambridge. They’ll do a good job for you.’

‘My Lord,’ Robert Mason continues, ‘this is a case about a relatively small plot of land, about three-quarters of an acre in total, in the village of Lower Wattage, about ten miles into the fen country from Huntingdon. My learned friend and I have prepared agreed copies of all the documents your Lordship is likely to need. If I might ask the usher to assist…’

Molly happily collects four large file folders, and helpfully arranges them in front of me on the bench. They feel quite heavy, and it takes her two trips to bring all four, but having done so she retreats with a smile, as if to say, ‘There’s nothing to this civil stuff really, Judge, is there, once you get the hang of it?’ I successfully suppress an urge to inquire about copies for my imaginary jury.

‘My Lord, the land in dispute is in a street called The Ramblings, and it lies between two houses in that street: the Post House, which is owned by my clients, Andrew and Gwendolyn Pearce; and the Old Rectory, which is owned by the defendant, Archie Barratt. The Ramblings is a wide street, which runs the length of the village and is in effect its high street.

‘If your Lordship would open the yellow folder… you will see that it begins with an agreed plan of the area. We have marked the disputed plot. It’s always been known as the Middle Plot – probably because it is more or less the midpoint between the two ends of The Ramblings. Your Lordship will see that there are a number of houses up and down the street on both sides, and several streets leading off The Ramblings to newer residential developments. Lower Wattage isn’t a big place – the total population is less than five thousand people. Looking up and down the street, your Lordship will see various buildings of interest, some of which we’ve marked specifically – Miller’s grocery, St Mary’s Church and the adjoining vicarage, the Post Office, and the Black Bull public house.’

‘And the Freeman’s Hall,’ Ruth Bannerman adds, ‘next to the Post Office. That’s also an important local landmark, originally a masonic building but now something of a civic centre.’

‘I’m obliged. My learned friend is quite right,’ Robert agrees. ‘My Lord, the dispute between the parties boils down to this: Mr and Mrs Pearce bought the Post House about three years ago. They bought it from an elderly gentleman called Pitt, who had lived there for a very long time. His family had lived there for over a hundred years. That’s not uncommon in fen villages such as Lower Wattage. Indeed, the same is true of Mr Barratt, whose family has owned the Old Rectory for some one hundred and fifty years.’

‘Two hundred, more like,’ I hear from the row behind Ruth. It comes from the defendant, who is sitting with folded arms and an air of concentration on his wrinkled face. He certainly looks his age, although he doesn’t seem at all frail. I would put money on his making it as far as Peterborough without undue difficulty if he had to. In contrast to the claimants, who are neat and tidy in business attire, he’s dressed in rough working clothes and looks as though he has every intention of putting in a shift taking care of the livestock as soon as court rises for the day.

Robert smiles. ‘A long time, anyway. My Lord, my clients have an unbroken title to the Middle Plot going back through their predecessors to the year 1651, at the end of the Civil War, when their predecessor in title John Hammond purchased it from a Mr Lampeter, who apparently left the area in some haste in consequence of having backed the wrong side during the war. It remained in Mr Hammond’s family until 1894 when it was acquired by an ancestor of Mr Pitt. From 1894 there is an unbroken paper chain – or parchment chain, I should probably say – up to the present day. My clients took title when they bought from Mr Pitt. Simply stated, all the deeds clearly show the Middle Plot as part of the Post House. The two plots are treated as a single property.

‘Your Lordship will be able to see the original deeds if he wishes, of course, but because some of them are quite fragile at this point in their long history, my learned friend and I have agreed to use certified copies for the purposes of the case. Your Lordship will find them in the blue folder.’

‘That seems eminently sensible,’ I say, flicking through the blue folder. I don’t want to have to look after a collection of historic documents and be blamed if anything happens to them. I’m not the best custodian of original documents: I have form for misplacing such things in chambers, as my colleagues and the court staff at Bermondsey will attest.

‘My Lord, there’s no dispute about the claimants’ paper title,’ Ruth adds. ‘It’s clear that they own the Middle Plot as far as the deeds go.’

‘Why don’t I defer to my learned friend to explain that?’ Robert suggests.

I can’t help smiling. If counsel said that in a criminal trial at Bermondsey, it would be said in a sarcastic vein, meaning, ‘Please do shut up; I’m trying to make my opening speech and I don’t need you interrupting me’, and I would have to issue a ruling on the subject. But in Cambridgeshire, in a civil case and with no jury to impress, that’s clearly not what’s going on. It’s not about grandstanding. They are working together to help me to understand the case: the trial is a cooperative effort. They’ve agreed on the documents I need to see, and they’re not going to allow formality to stand in the way of explaining the case to me in the most efficient way. If making a joint opening speech is the best way of explaining the case, that’s what they will do. Moreover, they both have calm and thoroughly professional attitudes. So far I’m pleasantly impressed with Cambridgeshire.

‘Your Lordship will find the pleadings in the green folder,’ Ruth says. ‘The issue your Lordship has to try is this: yes, the claimants have a paper title to the disputed land; but their title is unregistered – apparently they have chosen to rely on the deeds alone as proof of title – and so Mr Barratt is legally entitled to assert title by adverse possession.’

‘You mean, possessing the land without Mr and Mrs Pearce’s permission?’ I ask.

‘Using the land, my Lord, yes, without their permission and without the permission of Mr Pitt before them, because a continuous period of adverse use of twelve years is required. If Mr Barratt can show that he has continuously used the land without permission, but peacefully and undisturbed, for that period, he will have acquired title to the Middle Plot by adverse possession. Mr Barratt will say that he has regularly used the Middle Plot for various purposes over the years, mainly to grow fruit and vegetables for his family, and that his father did so for many years before him. Your Lordship will find the witness statements in the red folder.’

Marjorie has prepared me for this. In civil cases there is an exchange of witness statements, which then take the place of live evidence-in-chief. The witness is allowed to clarify what he has said in this statement, but otherwise the only live evidence is his cross-examination. Well, it saves time I suppose, and I’m sure it works well enough for cases in which there’s no jury, but it’s not something I’d want to introduce in the Crown Court. Every minute a witness spends in the box is an opportunity to evaluate his evidence, and I don’t like being deprived of seeing how he tells his story – especially as I’m the one who has to decide who to believe. As a compromise, I’ve asked counsel to read the witness statements aloud, so that I can at least see the faces of the witnesses as the story unfolds.

By agreement, we begin with Mrs Gwendolyn Pearce, who, it appears, was the moving force behind the purchase of the Post House and so has become in a sense the lead claimant – or as the defendant might prefer it, the ringleader. She’s wearing a smart light grey suit with a blue neck scarf, and she’s sitting rigidly upright, staring somewhere past me into space.

My name is Gwendolyn Pearce. I am 62 years of age, and one of the claimants in this action. I am the wife of the other complainant, Andrew Pearce. We have been married for about 35 years. For most of our married life we lived in London, where my husband was a stockbroker in the City and I served on the boards of a number of charitable organisations. But about five years ago my husband decided to retire, and we agreed that we had had enough of London. We decided to find a place in the country in which to spend our remaining years. We both had happy memories of our undergraduate years at Cambridge, where we met, and we felt that we would like to return to the area.

We instructed one or two firms of estate agents in Cambridge and spent some time looking for property in a number of towns and villages. We have no children and our house in Hampstead, where we had lived for many years, had appreciated in value, so we were prepared to buy a property and restore it if necessary. Eventually one of the agents alerted us to the Post House in The Ramblings, Lower Wattage, and we went to see it. It was everything we had dreamed about. It is a grade two listed building with an amazing history – apparently, the owner during the Civil War used to hide Royalist fugitives there – and although it needed some restoration, we were sure we could afford it. We made a generous offer, which Mr Pitt accepted immediately. We moved in a month or two after completing. From that point onwards, what we intended as our dream has turned into a nightmare. This is because of the defendant, our neighbour, Archie Barratt.

The title to the Post House includes title to a plot of vacant ground known locally as the Middle Plot. This is clearly shown on all the deeds. The Middle Plot is a plot of about three-quarters of an acre midway along The Ramblings, and midway between our house and Mr Barratt’s house, the Old Rectory. After we had moved in and settled down a bit, we gradually started our work of restoration. I also decided that the village needed tidying up a bit. There are a number of old buildings in Lower Wattage which could look really amazing with some effort, but the place has been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair. A lot of it is just a matter of a coat of paint, though some of the buildings, such as the Freeman’s Hall, are in need of some serious repairs. Also, The Ramblings itself needs brightening up. So I embarked on a campaign to make this happen. I spoke to Dennis, the landlord of the Black Bull, and got the names of the people who owned the various buildings. I approached them and suggested that they take action. I even suggested that once The Ramblings looked brighter, we could enter Lower Wattage in the Cambridgeshire Best Kept Village Competition.

As my contribution, I decide to plant several young trees and a wide variety of plants in the Middle Plot. I started up several flowerbeds. I did some of this work myself, but two local boys, Harry and Matthew, agreed to do some of the digging in return for some pocket money. During this process, I encountered what appeared to be some abandoned vegetable plantings. I assumed that these dated back to Mr Pitt’s time, so I simply removed them. But when I woke up one morning a few days later, I saw that someone had devastated the Middle Plot. My trees and plants had been dug up and cast aside, and the flowerbeds had been ploughed under. This must have been done overnight, otherwise I would have noticed.

I immediately suspected Archie Barratt. Mr Barratt is a widower. He is always scruffily dressed, and is surly and uncivil. He has hardly spoken a word to us since we moved in, and when we have reached out to him, for example by taking him a flask of hot soup one cold evening, he has been unwelcoming and, in fact, brusque to the point of rudeness. His two sons, Bernie and Mickey, are just as rude and they present as threatening. When I confided my suspicions in Dennis, he told me that my plans to brighten up the village had not gone down well with some of the older established families, including the Barratt family, and that they particularly resented my suggestion of entering Lower Wattage in the Best Kept Village Competition.

In view of the threatening demeanour of Mr Barratt and his two sons, I decided not to approach him myself. Instead I asked my solicitor to write him a letter, in which I demanded compensation for the trees and plants he had destroyed, as well as the cost of paying Harry and Matthew. I also threatened to sue him if he trespassed on our property again. My solicitor told me that he did not receive any reply to his letter. But about a week later, I found a hand-written note that had been pushed through my letterbox. It read: “Why don’t you fuck off back to Londun [sic] and leave us in peace? We’re doing very well without the likes of you. And while you’re at it, tell your fancy solliciter [sic] he can fuck himself as well.’ I produce this note as Exhibit GP 1.

‘Your Lordship will find that note in the yellow folder, page twenty-two,’ Robert interrupts helpfully.

‘Yes, I’m much obliged,’ I reply. In her witness statement Mrs Pearce offers no actual proof of authorship, but there is no protest from the defendant or his counsel; and with my admittedly urban prejudices, the handwriting and spelling certainly don’t seem inconsistent with a rustic hand, shall we say. I glance sadly at the jury box again. Twelve citizens of Huntingdon and environs would have a much better feel for this, I reflect, and they would really enjoy the story that’s unfolding. This case was made for a jury.

Following this incident, Mr Barratt and his sons entered on to the Middle Plot frequently and started to plant vegetables and other plants. At first they did this during the night, but later they were at it quite brazenly during the daytime. They had been poisoning people in the village against us, saying that we were ‘foreigners’ and ‘interlopers’ from London. The atmosphere in the Black Bull and Miller’s store became unfriendly, and even the vicar said something to the effect that we should be careful not to cause offence to people. We received several anonymous phone threats, saying that they would burn our house down or run us out of town.

We actually considered moving for some time, but eventually we decided that we were not going to be driven from our home by people like the Barratts. I instructed my solicitor to write to Mr Barratt again, pointing out that he and his sons were trespassing on the Middle Plot, and that if we caught them at it again we would sue to enforce our title. Despite this letter, Mr Barratt and his sons have continued to trespass on our land at will, quite blatantly, at all hours of the day and night. We are now seeking a declaration that my husband and I are the exclusive owners of the Middle Plot, and an injunction restraining Mr Barratt from entering on to the Middle Plot or using it in any way.

I believe that the facts stated in this witness statement are true.

Robert asks Gwendolyn Pearce to come into the witness box. She takes the oath, confirms that what we have just heard is true and he passes her to Ruth for cross-examination.

‘Mrs Pearce, you and your husband have lived in the Post House in Lower Wattage for a little more than two years: is that right?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘And until you travelled to Lower Wattage from London to see the Post House before purchasing it, you had never visited the village, is that also right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, would it be fair to say that you have no way of knowing whether Mr Barratt and members of his family may have made use of parts of the Middle Plot, prior to your arrival?’

‘That’s true.’

‘For all you know, they may have made use of it during the many years when Mr Pitt owned the Post House before you?’

‘Perhaps Mr Pitt didn’t object.’

‘But you don’t know that, one way or the other, do you?’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘No. But your evidence was that, when you first arrived to take up residence at the Post House, there was evidence that someone had been growing vegetables on the Middle Plot?’

‘Yes.’

‘You assumed that it was Mr Pitt?’

‘Yes, I did, since he was the owner of the Middle Plot before us.’

‘But, for all you know, it could have been Mr Barratt, couldn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘After all, Mr Barratt showed every sign of wanting to grow vegetables on the Middle Plot after you moved in, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Which you construed as an act of trespass?’

‘Yes, I certainly did.’

‘But didn’t Mr Barratt explain to you that he and his family had been using the land to grow vegetables, and even fruit and other plants, at different times?’

‘He did make that claim, yes.’

‘How did you react to that?’

‘I told him in no uncertain terms that the fact that he had trespassed on our land in the past did not entitle him to continue to trespass now that we were in possession.’

‘When you spoke to local people, in the Black Bull or Miller’s for example, did you tell them what Mr Barratt was doing?’

‘I did eventually. After a while, everyone found out about it, because he was spreading the word that we were foreigners and interlopers. People took sides. So, yes, I did speak to certain people.’

‘Did those people include Dennis, the landlord of the Black Bull, and the vicar, the Reverend Mr Jacobs?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did they tell you?’

This is another thing Marjorie, thankfully, prepared me for. In a criminal case at Bermondsey Robert Mason would be on his feet objecting, screaming that the question calls for blatant hearsay, which it clearly does. But in fact, he is sitting in his seat perfectly calmly, awaiting the answer. In civil cases, where they rarely have to worry about juries, the Rule against Hearsay apparently disappeared years ago. It’s now up to judges such as myself to decide how much weight to give to it. Actually, in this case, even at Bermondsey I might have allowed it. It is necessary to establish Gwendolyn’s state of mind and how much she knew, and I’ve noticed that Dennis and Mr Jacobs, together with a number of other prominent residents of Lower Wattage, have made witness statements and may give evidence later in the trial. If so, no harm can come from it. Even so, I find myself tempted to ask my imaginary jury to retire for a while so that I can check the position with counsel.

‘It all depended on who you asked. Dennis said that Mr Barratt was always taking liberties, and he wouldn’t care whether we objected to what he was doing or not. He always treated the Middle Plot as his own, and never worried about what Mr Pitt or anyone else thought.’

Ruth smiles, for a reason that escapes me for the moment, though I have the sense that a significant moment may have come and gone. This is confirmed by Robert, who is suddenly trying very hard to look unconcerned – generally a sign that he thinks something has gone wrong with his case.

‘Mr Jacobs said that as far as he knew, Mr Barratt’s family had grown food for the village on the Middle Plot during the war, but they hadn’t used it since, certainly not regularly,’ Gwendolyn continues uninvited. ‘Mr Jacobs said he only started it again because he didn’t like Andrew and me.’

‘Really?’ Ruth asks, doing her best to feign surprise. ‘Why would that be, do you think?’

Gwendolyn sniffs dismissively. ‘Mr Barratt couldn’t stand the fact that we wanted to let people see Lower Wattage in all its glory, that we wanted to put a few coats of paint on some of the buildings, tidy the street up, take away the debris and the dead branches, plant a few flowers, brighten the place up a bit. It’s such a pretty village, but Mr Barratt and the others had let it go to rack and ruin. The Ramblings looked like a tip. They couldn’t stand that we were showing them up, and doing what they should have done years ago.’

‘And entering Lower Wattage in the Best Kept Village Competition?’ Ruth asks.

‘Yes. Why not? It’s as pretty as any other village in Cambridgeshire.’

‘And you really have no idea how anyone could possibly dislike you and your husband for that, do you?’

‘No. I don’t. We were doing them all a favour.’

Ruth nods and pauses. ‘Mrs Pearce, there’s nothing on the deeds to suggest that Mr Pitt, or any of your predecessors in title, ever granted Mr Barratt or anyone in his family an easement or licence to use the Middle Plot, is there?’

‘You mean, that anyone gave the Barratts permission to use the land?’

‘Exactly.’

‘No. The deeds just say that our title to the Post House includes title to the Middle Plot. Our solicitor checked the title before we completed.’

‘And there were no easements or licences, were there?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Pitt – Mr George Pitt, the gentleman you bought from: did you ever ask him whether he had given Mr Barratt permission to use the Middle Plot?’

She shakes her head. ‘We only met him once, at the completion, for a few minutes. The solicitors were dealing with it. So, no. We had no idea it had been going on.’

‘Quite so,’ Ruth says. ‘And sadly, I understand that Mr Pitt passed away not long after completion, didn’t he?’

‘So I’m told. I heard he’d gone to live with a son in Dawlish, but then someone – I think it was Mr Jacobs – told me that he had died.’

‘So we can’t ask him now, can we?’

‘No.’

Ruth turns around briefly to confer with her instructing solicitor and Mr Barratt, both of whom nod.

‘Thank you, Mrs Pearce. I have nothing further, my Lord,’ she says, resuming her seat.

‘Mrs Pearce,’ Robert asks, ‘you have told his Lordship that your efforts to improve the village of Lower Wattage led to certain of its inhabitants resenting you: would that be a fair way of putting it?’

‘That would be something of an understatement.’

‘Yes, no doubt. But for whatever reason, your plans to improve the village’s appearance proved controversial and turned some people against you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it your opinion that this animosity on Mr Barratt’s part had anything to do with the matters his Lordship has to consider in this case?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘In what way?’

‘Mr Barratt is claiming an interest in our land simply to get back at us for showing him and the others up by trying to take better care of the village. It’s sheer vindictiveness, as simple as that. Anyone can make up a story about using land continuously for a number of years when we weren’t around to see it. But if he had, I’m sure Mr Pitt, or his solicitor, or the agent would have told us when we bought the Post House. Otherwise, it would have been – what do you call it a…?’

‘A misrepresentation?’

‘A misrepresentation, yes. It would have been a misrepresentation otherwise, wouldn’t it? He’s just made up this story to punish us for trying to make the village look better.’

‘Unless your Lordship has any questions?’

I don’t, at least for now. I will have to hear what Archie Barratt has to say about all this before I know what questions I need to ask anyone, and it’s as if Robert and Ruth have read my mind. They have agreed that we should take Andrew Pearce next, which will take us to lunchtime, but then we will indeed hear from Archie Barratt. I can’t help smiling. In a criminal case we would have to hear from all the prosecution witnesses before anyone gave evidence for the defence. But in the flexible world of civil litigation, without a jury to worry about, we can vary the order of witnesses as much as we like, and counsel have suggested that I should hear from Mr Barratt first thing after lunch. I couldn’t agree more. After that, there are further witnesses on both sides, order to be determined… and, as I’m about to learn, something else that I hadn’t expected.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Robert says, ‘we propose to go on a view, to let your Lordship see the land in question for himself, and indeed to see the village as a whole. As your Lordship has heard, Lower Wattage is only about ten miles out of town. I’ve spoken to your Lordship’s clerk, and he will make arrangements for travel for your Lordship, my learned friend, myself, the usher and himself. The parties and their solicitors will meet us at the property.’

I glance at Anand. He turns around to me.

‘No problem, Judge. The parties will pay for the transportation, but I will make the arrangements. And I’ll arrange for some refreshments from the Black Bull, so that we can use their facilities in case of need.’

I nod. ‘Yes, very well. Mr Mason, in a criminal case the rule would be that no one should speak during a view unless it’s strictly necessary,’ I say. It’s true, and it makes the whole experience not only very uncomfortable, but a recipe for potential disaster. Try keeping a defendant and twelve jurors quiet for an hour or two at the scene of an alleged crime some time. It confounds human nature, ‘But, as we have no jury, I suppose…’

He smiles. ‘My Lord, as long as anything said is said in the presence of everyone, we wouldn’t see a problem.’

‘I agree, my Lord,’ Ruth adds.

I really am quite getting to like civil cases.

Andrew Pearce doesn’t take long. He has nothing of substance to add to what his wife has already told us. She, it turns out to no one’s surprise, was the moving force behind the move from London to the country, the choice of Lower Wattage and the Post House, and the ill-starred campaign to win the Best Kept Village Competition. He played along happily, and naturally supports her entirely in relation to the depredations committed by Archie Barratt, but he wasn’t the prime mover. Ruth asks him one or two pro forma questions, just so that he doesn’t feel ignored, and that takes us neatly to one o’clock. And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

Except that today, of course, the oasis is a far cry from the judicial mess at Bermondsey. Molly has kindly offered to go out and bring me a sandwich if I want to eat in chambers, but I thank her and say I’ll fend for myself. I’m surprised at how relaxed I feel. I’ve asked Marjorie to be on standby in case I need an urgent consultation, and I’ve had visions of calling her in panic as soon as I could escape the bench for lunch, with God only knows how many questions. But not at all: thanks to my cooperative counsel and the adaptable nature of the civil case, I’m actually feeling in control. I think briefly about calling her just to tell her that, but she’s probably got enough to do acting as RJ in my absence, and instead I embark on my half-minute reverse commute across George Street to the George Hotel.

I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived late yesterday afternoon. My room is comfortable enough and the hotel is a delight, featuring an original Jacobean courtyard, where, Darla tells me, a local theatre group puts on an outdoor Shakespeare production every summer. Darla is the manager of the hotel and couldn’t be more helpful, although there is one slight qualification to that. I had tried to make it clear that I wanted to keep a low profile – you never know, with local feeling running high about the case – and she seemed to understand. But an hour so later in the bar, after I’d enjoyed a dinner of bangers and mash, she suddenly bellowed, ‘Another pint, Judge?’ which had the effect of focusing every eye in the place on me. She did look suitably contrite when I grimaced, and I’m sure it won’t happen again.

She’s more than made up for it today by saving me a corner table, and serving me herself to make sure lunch doesn’t take too long. I cast my eye over The Times while savouring a delicious smoked salmon and horseradish sandwich. I must admit, the George gives Jeanie and Elsie more than a run for their money, and it knocks spots off the judicial mess. Altogether, a very agreeable interlude: so far, the noises, sounds and sweet airs are indeed giving delight and hurting not. But you know what they say: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. And sure enough, when I arrive back in my chambers after lunch -

‘There was a call for you from Judge Jenkins at Bermondsey,’ Molly says. ‘It sounded urgent. I wrote the number down for you.’

‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’ll call her now.’

Molly clearly feels that she hasn’t yet quite captured the urgency of the matter. ‘She seemed really upset, Judge,’ she adds. She is not wrong.

‘“Calm and peaceful”, Charlie?’ Marjorie shrieks down the phone, without any pleasantries at all. ‘“Calm and peaceful”? Wasn’t that what you said, it would all be “calm and peaceful” this week?’

I hold my phone away from my ear for a few seconds.

‘Well, as far as I know it should be. What on earth has happened?’

There is a silence, during which I sense her making an effort to control herself. I’m worried now. Of the four judges at Bermondsey, Marjorie is undoubtedly the most composed, which is exactly why she is my automatic choice for deputy RJ whenever I’m away. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her really lose her cool. If Marjorie’s in this kind of state something must really be wrong. It occurs to me briefly that the catastrophe I have long dreaded has finally visited itself on us: the dish of the day has caused an outbreak of mass poisoning. Judges, lawyers, jurors, and members of the public are lying, helpless and groaning, in the corridors as their toxic lunch begins its deadly work. I’ve always thought it was only a matter of time. We came close once with a terrifying paella, the perpetrator of which, a Spanish assistant cook, fled the jurisdiction shortly afterwards. On that occasion the damage was limited; perhaps now our luck has finally run out. But, on the other hand, it’s only just after lunch: surely, there hasn’t really been time for the effects of a mass poisoning to become apparent? I can hear her breathing heavily on the other end of the phone.

‘We’ve got gangs of violent protesters laying siege to the court, Charlie,’ she replies. ‘That’s what’s happened. I’ve had to close the bloody building and call the police. If that’s your idea of “calm and peaceful”…’

‘What? Marjorie, what are you talking about? Protesting about what?’

I hear a deep sigh.

‘I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s not your fault; I know that. It’s just been scary, that’s all.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Are you all right? Has anyone been hurt?’

‘No – well, not so far. It’s quietened down a bit now. They did try to force their way into the building, but security managed to hold them off long enough to lock the doors. The police are outside with them now, but you know how narrow the street is outside our front door. They’re having trouble dispersing them. They’re talking about calling in riot police.’

‘For God’s sake,’ I say. ‘What’s this about? We don’t have any cases listed this week that would cause something like that. We’d have warned the police in advance if we did.’

‘The defendant in Legless’s case didn’t turn up for a pre-trial hearing on Friday afternoon,’ she explains eventually, ‘so Legless revoked his bail and issued a warrant for his arrest, as any of us would have. The police found him late yesterday afternoon. They did arrest him, but he resisted and there was a bit of a struggle. No one really knows what happened, but they had to use some force to restrain him and somehow Chummy was injured. He stopped breathing in the ambulance and he’s in Guy’s Hospital in a coma.’

‘Oh, God,’ I reply. ‘And the locals have risen up in revolt?’

‘He’s a member of some right-wing group that’s not without its adherents in South London, and most of them are now outside Bermondsey Crown Court carrying baseball bats and God only knows what else. They’ve been shouting and carrying on non-stop. I’m surprised you can’t hear them. I’m standing in the foyer now, with Stella. It’s chaos out there. Bob is liaising with the police, and we’re waiting for further instructions.’

‘So everyone’s trapped inside the building for now?’

‘We have smuggled one or two people out of the back door, including a pregnant woman who’s on Hubert’s jury. They aren’t targeting the rear of the building as yet. But the police are advising everyone to stay put until they can clear them away. I’ve called a halt to all the trials for now, and we will see what happens. Any advice?’

I think for some time.

‘If they’re targeting the court rather than the police station, maybe they’re blaming Legless for this for some reason. What’s Chummy charged with?’

‘Racially aggravated GBH. He’s a nasty piece of work, and so are his mates, by the look of them.’

‘In that case, Marjorie, call in the Judicial Protection Unit. You remember, there was a DI Derbyshire who came when those Free English Men, or whatever they called themselves, made that death threat against me. Bob will have the number. Legless should have some protection for a while – whether he thinks he needs it or not.’

‘Good thought,’ she replies. ‘You know Legless. If he had his way, he’d be out on the street at this very moment helping the police to sort them out – and Hubert would be right behind him: he wants to fire up the cannon and turn it on them.’

‘I knew there was a reason I always pick you to be deputy RJ,’ I say, and she actually laughs for a moment. ‘Look, Marjorie, you’ll be all right. You’re doing all the right things. Stay in touch, and keep me up to date. I have to go back into court, but I’ll tell the staff to get me off the bench immediately if you call again. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call once I’ve finished for the afternoon.’

‘How’s Huntingdon?’ she asks after a short silence. She sounds like Marjorie again now: the composure is back.

‘Calm and peaceful.’

‘How are you doing with your civil case?’

‘Loving it,’ I reply. ‘I really should do this more often.’

* * *

Monday afternoon

My name is Archie Barratt. I am 82 years of age and a retired farm manager. I am a widower, my wife having predeceased me in 1995, and I live alone at my family home, the Old Rectory, The Ramblings, Lower Wattage. I am the defendant in this action. I have two sons, Bernie and Mickey, who have been referred to. But they do not live with me. They both live with their own families in Dry Drayton, where they work as farm labourers. They visit me occasionally.

My family has lived in the Old Rectory for the best part of two hundred years, or so I’ve always been told. From what I understand, my ancestors took the Old Rectory over when the village built the new vicarage by the church, and that was in 1830 or thereabouts. I remember my grandparents and parents living here. I’ve never lived anywhere else, and never intend to. George Pitt’s family lived in the Post House next door for over a hundred years, too. George was the last surviving member of the Pitt family. George is dead now. But unfortunately, before he died, he sold out to the interlopers from London.

My understanding of the Middle Plot is as follows. I was always told that for several hundred years, the Middle Plot was treated as common land for all the villagers to use. Of course, in those days, there was almost nothing to Lower Wattage except The Ramblings and a few other houses here and there. It wasn’t much more than a hamlet then, nothing like what you’ve got today with the new housing estates. So it made sense that a small plot like the Middle Plot could have been used as common land. But in the chaos of the Civil War it was somehow included by mistake in the deed for the Post House, and because there is no actual evidence that it was supposed to be common land, it has been passed on from owner to owner of the Post House down the years. My grandfather and father always said that the Pitts recognised that they should not have had the title to the Middle Plot, and although they never officially consented to anyone else using it, in practice they turned a blind eye to it. Certainly they always did during my grandfather’s time and my father’s time, and I never had any comment or problem about it from George, even though he and I had a pint or two together in the Black Bull a couple of evenings each week, so he had plenty of opportunity to tell me if he objected.

Although people in Lower Wattage were aware that the Middle Plot was supposed to be common land, I don’t remember anyone using it except for my family. I think that was because, when you look at it, it does seem that it should belong to either the Post House or the Old Rectory, as it is very close to both houses. But my family has made frequent use of it throughout my lifetime. We’ve always grown vegetables and fruit on the land. When the war broke out, my dad couldn’t enlist for active service. He had one leg that didn’t work properly because of a tractor accident in his youth. But he was in the Home Guard and he organised the local ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign, and throughout the war we used the whole plot to provide food for local people, including ourselves. That wasn’t all we used it for, of course. My grandfather, my father and I used to play cricket and football there, often with my cousins from Over and Wisbech, and we had parties and picnics on the land during summer months.

When the interlopers came, I was expecting things to continue as they always had. But it wasn’t like that at all. Almost as soon as they moved into the Post House, she was on the warpath, complaining about how ‘run down’ the village was, and how everything needed to be renovated and painted. She hadn’t been in Lower Wattage five minutes, and she was giving orders to people whose families had lived in the village for centuries, and criticising them for not taking better care of the place. I agree, there are some buildings that have seen better days, but that’s true of any small town or village in the Fens, and you can’t just go barging in and demanding that people change everything overnight. I sometimes think she wanted to make us look like London. Then one morning, I saw her on the land digging, and over a weekend she tore up and destroyed all the patches I used for growing our vegetables and filled the Plot with flowers and such like. When I asked her about it, she told me she wanted to brighten the place up so that she could enter Lower Wattage in the Best Kept Village Competition – without so much as a by-your-leave to me, or any of the local inhabitants.

I admit that I took that as a declaration of war. I asked Bernie and Mickey to help me, and together we cleared all the trees and flowers away, and planted our vegetables again. But I did something else, too. I could smell trouble, so for the first time in my life I went and saw a solicitor in Cambridge and asked him what he thought I should do. I was amazed by what he said. He said because of what he called ‘adverse possession’ over many years, my family had acquired legal title to the Middle Plot, and so I was entitled to do whatever I wanted with it, and to stop Mrs Pearce from using it, if I wanted to. But I would need a court order to establish my title. I didn’t know what to do. I was happy for the land to be common land, as it always had been, as I saw it. On the other hand, it was obvious that Mrs Pearce didn’t see it that way, and was determined to keep it for her own exclusive use. When I received a threatening letter from her solicitor, that confirmed it, and from that time on I’ve used the Plot as much and as often as I can, because my solicitor said I should keep on doing it, regardless of any threats from her. As he requested, I also obtained witness statements from people in the village who know the history, including the vicar, Mr Jacobs, Dennis from the Black Bull, and Tina Miller from the store.

I am now asking the Court to declare that I now have legal title to the Middle Plot, based on adverse possession by myself and my family for many years, many more than the required legal minimum of twelve.

I believe that the facts stated in this witness statement are true.

‘Mr Barratt,’ Robert begins,’ let me start with more recent matters, if I may. After Mr and Mrs Pearce moved into the Post House, did you ever ask them whether they were willing to turn a blind eye to your use of the land, like George Pitt?’

‘Did I ask them?

‘Yes: did you ask them?’

‘No, I didn’t ask them anything. Why would I?’

‘Well, how did you know that George Pitt had explained the arrangement to Mr and Mrs Pearce – the arrangement that he turned a blind eye when you used the Middle Plot?’

‘I didn’t know whether he had or not.’

‘Well, if he hadn’t, how were they expected to find out about it?’

Archie shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘After all, as you’re fond of pointing out, they were newcomers, weren’t they?’

‘Yes, they were.’

‘And if they didn’t know, and they saw you on the Middle Plot planting vegetables, they would have every right to assume that you were trespassing on their land, wouldn’t they?’

‘I don’t know what they thought, do I?’

‘Well, it’s only common sense, isn’t it, Mr Barratt? If you saw someone on your land planting something, and you didn’t know of any arrangement, you’d assume they were trespassing, wouldn’t you?’

‘I might.’

‘Of course you would. And you couldn’t have any complaint if Mrs Pearce ripped out whatever you’d planted, and planted her own flowers, or whatever she wanted to plant. You could hardly object to that, could you, because you’d been trespassing?’

Ruth stands, quietly.

‘With all due respect, my Lord, that’s the very point your Lordship has to decide.’

I have to smile. I think someone has finally objected to something in this very polite, jointly managed civil trial. But I’m not sure exactly what the objection is. Perhaps Robert will clarify it for me – or perhaps not.

‘I’ll move on,’ he replies, with a smile towards Ruth. ‘Mr Barratt, is this right: despite your claim that the Middle Plot is common land for the whole village, you’ve never known anyone else to use it? It’s always been your family and no one else?’

‘Yes. Well, as far as I know. I don’t know who might have used it in the past, do I?’

‘But not during your lifetime? Even during the war, when everyone was “digging for victory”? No one else used it?’

‘I explained that. If you look at it…’

‘Yes, I understand. But if land is regarded as common land by an entire village, and has been for several centuries, it’s a remarkable thing, isn’t it, that no one else has ever tried to use it?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘It must have been the best-kept secret in the fen country, Mr Barratt.’

‘My learned friend is making a comment rather than asking a question, my Lord,’ Ruth observes, almost apologetically.

Finally: an objection I understand – and agree with.

‘So I am,’ Robert agrees, without my prompting. ‘Mr Barratt, the truth of the matter is this, isn’t it: that the Middle Plot has never been common land? That’s a figment of your imagination, isn’t it? At least since 1651, title to the Middle Plot has gone with title to the Post House, hasn’t it?’

‘It was the tradition that it was common land. That’s what I was always told.’

‘Do you know of anyone outside your family who is aware of that tradition?’

Silence.

‘All right, Mr Barratt, I won’t press you. Now, you told his Lordship that when you went to see your solicitor, he told you all about adverse possession: yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he explain to you that, for adverse possession, you have to be in possession of the land continuously for a period of at least twelve years?’

No response for some time. ‘I can’t remember everything he said.’

‘Fair enough. But wouldn’t you agree with me that you were never in possession of the Middle Plot continuously? You went there from time to time to play football or cricket. Presumably that was when you were a boy?’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Whereas you’re now eighty-two?’

‘Yes. But I played with Bernie and Mickey when they were lads.’

‘And how old are Bernie and Micky now?’

‘They’re in their fifties.’

‘So, is it fair to say that there’s been no cricket played on the Middle Plot for some years now?’

‘That doesn’t mean we didn’t play there.’

‘No, of course. Let me move on to the growing of vegetables. I’m sure your father did a lot of that during the war?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Yes: everyone was “digging for victory” then, weren’t they? But again, you were a young boy during the war, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘And once the war ended, if you or your father planted anything there, it would only be for your own family wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t be digging for the whole village after the war, would you?’

‘There were a couple of elderly people in Lower Wattage – Mrs Brown and Mr Ankers. They were on their own, and they were a bit frail, and my father did give them some cabbage and lettuce and tomatoes, and what have you.’

‘I’m sure he did. But it was on a much smaller scale, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I’m suggesting that you weren’t planting anything regularly: certainly not every year; just now and then. Isn’t that fair to say?’

Archie is looking a little defensive, but he does his best to hit back.

‘We always knew we could. We planted whenever we wanted to.’

‘You never lived on the Middle Plot, did you?’

‘Lived on it? No, of course not. We had our own house.’

‘Indeed you did. The Middle Plot was a place you used occasionally, wasn’t it?’

‘It was much more than “occasionally”.’

‘Mr Barratt, do you have a garden at the Old Rectory?’

‘Yes.’

‘In fact, you have a quite large garden at the rear of your house, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you use your garden for?’

‘We have some fruit trees.’

‘And some flower beds?’

‘Yes.’

‘And some areas where you grow vegetables?’

‘One or two, yes.’

‘And a quite large greenhouse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which would be a good reason not to play cricket or football in the garden, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have been very popular with your father if you were breaking panes of glass all the time, would you?’

Archie snorts. ‘He would have taken his belt to me, as I would have to Bernie and Mickey if they’d done it.’

‘Yes,’ Robert says, apparently doing his best to sound disapproving of parents taking belts to children: if so, it doesn’t seem to make any immediate impression on Archie Barratt. Robert pauses for some time, under cover of consulting his notes. ‘Mr Barratt, this case isn’t about adverse possession, is it?’

Archie lifts his head and stares at him. ‘Well, if it’s not, I’d like to know what it is about.’

‘It’s about you not liking Mr and Mrs Pearce, isn’t it?’

Archie shrugs. ‘I don’t like them. That’s true enough.’

‘They’re foreigners, aren’t they, interlopers?’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘They hadn’t been in Lower Wattage five minutes before they were berating you older inhabitants for your neglect of the village, and trying to brighten the place up, and entering it in the Best Kept Village Competition, and all the rest of it. They disrespected you and made a thorough nuisance of themselves – and it made you furious, didn’t it?’

‘I didn’t like it, it’s true.’

‘And you thought you’d teach them a lesson, didn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘You decided that you wouldn’t allow them to use their own land without interference, and then you invented this story of continuous use to persuade your solicitor that you had a case of adverse possession for more than twelve years.’

‘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 more 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 way. 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.’

Another shake of the head. ‘No. It’s something I’ve just got to say.’

Ruth looks at me doubtfully. But there’s nothing I can do. I can’t stop the man talking if he’s determined to do so. If I had a jury, perhaps, but not in this case.

‘I’ll allow both sides to ask any further questions once we’re back in court,’ I assure her. She nods.

‘Do you feel up to it?’ Gwendolyn asks.

‘Yes.’ He glances at all of us in turn. ‘I was just a little boy during the war,’ he begins, ‘so my memory of that time isn’t perfect. But I do remember my father and my grandfather digging for victory, and there were other men from the village, older men who weren’t away fighting, and the women too, of course, who helped them. I remember that very clearly. But there’s something else that went on here, too, something I’ve had dreams about all my life: and now it’s coming back to me.’ He pauses.

‘Go on,’ Ruth says encouragingly.

‘Well, like I said in my court statement, my dad wasn’t able to go to fight – he did try, you know, but they rejected him on medical grounds. So he volunteered for the Civil Defence and the Home Guard. There wasn’t very much of that going on in the smaller villages, not as much as there should have been. We relied more on Cambridge and the bigger towns like Ramsey. In Lower Wattage it was my dad and two older men, Ken Baker and Ed Woodward – both dead a long time now – and my dad was in charge, being the youngest, I suppose. This is how I remember it – he didn’t talk about it much after the war.’

We all nod. He takes a few more sips of water.

‘But one thing I remember, or think I remember, is the sticky bombs.’

‘The what?’ Ruth asks after a prolonged silence.

‘The sticky bombs. An officer in uniform from Cambridge brought them for my dad. He said he was taking them to the Home Guard in all the towns and villages, and he explained to my dad how they were supposed to use them.’

‘Archie,’ Ruth asks, ‘what…are… sticky bombs, exactly?’

‘They were, like, magnetic bombs – well more like hand grenades, really, except they were magnetic – but we always called them sticky bombs. The idea was: when the German tanks arrived, we were supposed to rush out into the street, pull the pin out, put the bomb on the tank, and run away again, so it would go off before they could remove it. How you were supposed to do that without getting yourself shot, no one ever explained; but that was the idea, apparently.’

There is silence for some time, as those present begin to digest the significance of this morsel of Home Guard history.

‘Mr Barratt,’ I say in due course, ‘history records that the German tanks didn’t make it quite as far as Lower Wattage, doesn’t it? So after the war, did an officer come from Cambridge to collect the sticky bombs and take them away again?’

‘No, sir. That’s the point. My dad didn’t feel he could keep them in the house or even out in the garden – you know, I was running around there all the time, and my cousins would come to see us, and our friends from school. It would have been too dangerous. So – and this is the part I’m a bit vague on – but it came back to me just now that, once the threat of an invasion had passed, he and Ken Baker buried them here on the Middle Plot, to keep them safe. And then the war ended, and I don’t know whether he asked Cambridge to send someone to dig them up again, or whether he just forgot about them.’

‘Oh, my God,’ Gwendolyn says. She sits down abruptly on the bench next to Archie. She looks a bit pale.

‘I don’t remember anyone digging them up. Of course, I could have been at school when it happened. But I don’t remember anyone saying anything about it.’

‘This is complete nonsense…’ Andrew Pearce protests.

But Anand already has his phone out. ‘Mr Barratt, do you have any idea exactly where they may be buried, and roughly how many of them there are?’

He shakes his head.

‘The memory came back while I was standing down there, so I think it might be down there somewhere. It wouldn’t have been near where we were planting, so I would say, down that way, nearer to the street. And as to how many – I remember seeing them laid out on the table in our living room when the officer unloaded them from the box. There might have been ten, something like that.’

Anand has tapped a number into his phone. Judging by the speed with which his call is answered, he’s called 999. Of course, I realise belatedly, he will have been through drills for all kinds of emergencies at court any number of times, including full-scale building evacuations. He’s used to taking charge in this kind of situation, even if an outdoor location is rather unusual for a courtroom setting, and if anything, the evacuation is on a far smaller scale than he’s used to.

‘Police… yes, I’m in Lower Wattage… W-A-T-T-A-G-E, a street called The Ramblings… R-A… yes, that’s right, and I’ve just been alerted to the possible presence of unexploded World War Two ordnance… yes, that’s exactly what I said… a bomb, yes… well, possibly more than one, actually, it could be as many as ten… my name is Anand Gupta… G-U-P-T-A… could you expedite this, please? Yes, I will hold the line…’

He turns to me. ‘Judge, I’d like everybody to make their way off the Middle Plot in an orderly fashion and convene in the Black Bull.’

‘There’s no need for all that, surely,’ Andrew Pearce protests. ‘There can’t be any danger. Even assuming that there ever were any sticky bombs, or whatever you call them, buried here – which, I must say, I rather doubt – they’ve been here for at least sixty years, haven’t they, with children jumping up and down, playing football and cricket all over the place? If they were going to explode, they would have done it by now, for God’s sake.’

‘Ordnance can deteriorate over time, Mr Pearce,’ Anand replies. ‘I’d prefer not to take any chances. In any case, the police will probably insist on evacuating the area so that the bomb squad can take a look.’

‘Anand is right,’ I say with as much authority as I can muster. ‘Let’s exit top right, up by the vegetable patches. From what Mr Barratt has told us, there shouldn’t be anything in that area.’

I lead the way at a measured pace, the Pearces following behind me with an ill grace – as if to indicate that in their view, we are all falling victim to some desperate confidence trick on the part of Archie Barratt – and with Molly, doing a passable imitation of a border collie, shepherding the others into line behind them. We make a wide trajectory taking us to the right of the Old Rectory, and then turn towards the street. As we reach the street, I inform our limo driver of the situation, and advise him to remove the car to a place of safety, preferably the car park of the Black Bull. He sets off immediately. I turn back towards Anand.

‘No need to stand there, Anand,’ I say. ‘The police will find us. Come away.’

But he’s talking on the phone, and as we reach the door of the Black Bull the sound of a single siren and the flashing of blue lights announce the arrival of the first police response in the form of the local bobby. I look at my watch: almost twelve already. It’s a slightly ridiculous formality in the circumstances, but it’s time to declare that the Court has decided to take an early lunch. Work is effectively over for the morning, anyway – the view has come to an abrupt end for now – and it doesn’t take me long to see that the odds on any further case-related work being done today are getting longer by the minute. I make the announcement about lunch accordingly. The parties and their lawyers commandeer separate tables on opposite sides of the bar. Molly is explaining the situation to Dennis, who is alarmed at first, but when Molly explains that there is no threat to the Black Bull, recovers admirably and starts taking orders for coffee, soft drinks and sandwiches. I order coffee and a Cheddar and pickle sandwich; I have my eye on the bar, but it will have to wait until later.

I call Marjorie, who is in chambers receiving periodic reports on the progress of the repair work going on at the front entrance. All is quiet, she tells me. Apparently word of Chummy’s miraculous recovery has spread, and the police haven’t detected any enthusiasm among his mates – a number of whom are in any case in custody, facing serious public order and explosives charges – for a repetition of the events of yesterday. All the same, DI Derbyshire isn’t ready to release Legless from her protection just yet – she’s planning on keeping him in her clutches until the end of the week, just in case. But all in all, everything seems to be under control. Stella is hard at work revamping the list for the next few weeks, and Marjorie thinks she may be able to list a few urgent bail applications tomorrow, and perhaps some guilty pleas and sentences on Thursday and Friday, so that the week isn’t a complete write-off. She asks me what I’m doing.

‘Funny you should ask,’ I reply. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m in the Black Bull pub in Lower Wattage with the parties and their lawyers, hiding from some explosive devices.’

She laughs hysterically, and rings off.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon

Just after one o’clock, a uniformed police inspector arrives, accompanied by a sergeant and by Anand, for whom Molly has thoughtfully ordered a ginger ale and a vegetable wrap.

‘Inspector Jeffrey Whittaker, from Cambridge, my Lord. I just wanted to give you an update on what’s happening out there, and I must say I’m grateful to Mr Gupta here for his help.’

‘My pleasure, Inspector,’ Anand replies, taking a grateful gulp of his ginger ale.

‘We’ve got officers from the bomb squad on the way from RAF Alconbury, sir, ETA one thirty. My lads have evacuated the houses opposite the Pearce and Barratt residences, just to make sure, and the occupants have been advised that they won’t be allowed back until the Middle Plot has been thoroughly inspected.’

‘How long is that likely to take?’ I ask.

‘It’s impossible to say, sir, until the bomb squad boys know what they’re dealing with. If you want my honest opinion, it could be a long afternoon. I would settle in for the long haul if I were you, make yourself comfortable.’ He grins. ‘Look on the bright side, sir. It could be worse: there are lot of less comfortable places you could be holed up in.’

I have to agree.

The leader of the bomb squad team, an amiable young lieutenant by the name of Jonathan Dawson, calls to pay his respects just after two o’clock. Everyone leaves the refuge of their separate tables to gather around – they all want to hear this.

‘My team are running the metal detector over the entire area now, sir,’ Lieutenant Dawson assures us. ‘I say “metal detector”, but obviously it’s a bit more sophisticated than the version people use to search for old coins and the like. Actually, it’s more like clearing a minefield.’ This causes a couple of gasps and sharp intakes of breath among those assembled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he adds quickly. ‘We’re taking every precaution. We’re going to be very careful, but if there’s anything there, we’ll find it. ’

‘And then what?’ I ask.

‘If there’s anything there, sir, we’re going to dig the blighters up one at a time. We’ll make an assessment of their condition. If they’re stable, meaning they’re not about to blow, we’ll remove them back to base and detonate them remotely under safe conditions.’

‘What if they are about to blow?’

‘Well, sir… then we might have to detonate them in situ. That’s why no one can return home just yet. I don’t know how long it’s all going to take, to be honest. We have a couple of very powerful arc lights on the way, so we can continue work after dark if necessary. We’re not going to leave these things where they could cause harm a minute longer than we have to, believe you me; and at least we have one major advantage in this situation.’

‘What might that be?’ I ask.

He grins. ‘Well, they’re ours, sir, aren’t they? Usually when we come across ordnance of this vintage, it’s German, and before we can do anything else we have to identify the type and work out how it’s made; and often the markings have faded and they’re all in German anyway. But these will be ours, and we should have a blueprint on its way to my phone less than a minute after we’ve dug the first one up.’

A soldier opens the door and puts his head inside.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ he says, ‘but you need to see this.’

‘Do excuse me,’ Lieutenant Dawson says. ‘Duty calls. Further update as soon as I can.’

It’s after three by the time we are given the further update. Lieutenant Dawson is in company with the soldier who put his head around the door earlier, and he’s cradling, with obvious care, an almost spherical silver metallic object lying in his gloved hands on top of what looks like a filthy old towel. Once again, everyone gathers round. He spots Archie, who’s standing to his left, next to Ruth.

‘You would be Mr Barratt, would you, sir?’

‘Yes. I would.’

He grins. ‘Recognise this, by any chance, sir?’

Archie looks closely, and backs away rather quickly. ‘Oh, my God. That’s one of them. That’s one of the sticky bombs.’ This causes a general movement away from the door.

‘It’s all right,’ the Lieutenant assures us. ‘It’s completely stable. The pins are in as tight as the day it left the production line. I just wanted to show you. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to anti-tank hand grenade Number 74, more commonly known as the “sticky bomb”, issued to the Home Guard for use against enemy tanks in the event of an invasion. There are actually two pins in place, one to release the sticky core from the outer casing, and one to activate the device. The core is a glass sphere filled with nitroglycerin – very nasty potentially.’ He looks directly at Archie. ‘But I’m glad your father never had to use one of these, sir. I know I wouldn’t want to.’

‘Oh? Why is that, then?’ Archie asks.

‘Well, for one thing, even if you could get near enough to the tank to plant it, it might not stick if the tank was dirty and muddy, as they usually are. The only reliable method of getting it to do real damage would be to climb up and throw it into the interior of the tank, in which case the explosion would almost certainly kill you as well as the crew. Also, it had a nasty habit of sticking to your clothing instead of the tank if you weren’t careful what you were doing: and obviously, that wasn’t good. Apparently the government advertised sticky bombs to the public with the slogan, “At least you can take one with you”. Not the most inviting call to action, if you ask me, but I suppose those were different times.’

‘My dad would have taken his chances,’ Archie insists.

‘I’m sure he would have, sir,’ Lieutenant Dawson agrees at once. ‘And that’s not all we have to thank your father for. It’s down to him that they’ve lain there all these years without blowing.’

‘Oh?’

‘He kept them in good nick for us by wrapping them up in these oilskins before he buried them. The oilskins help to keep the dirt and moisture out. It’s thanks to him this one’s not going to hurt anybody.’

‘This one? So there are more, Lieutenant?’ Anand asks tentatively.

The Lieutenant nods. ‘We think there are twelve altogether. That’s what the machine is indicating, and if so it’s going to take us a while to dig them all out. But if they’re all in the same good nick as this one, we will be able to bring them up safely. Anyway, I should get back, but I wanted to show you this. It seems that Mr Barratt’s memory is completely accurate, and we’re certainly glad that you remembered about these little blighters, sir.’

‘I’m sure we all are,’ I add, with a pointed look in the direction of Andrew Pearce, who nods towards Archie, though not as graciously as one might have hoped. They return to their respective tables.

Lunchtime turns into very late afternoon, with no further updates. But as dusk begins to settle we can see the arc lights casting their bright light down on the Middle Plot, and from the movement of the dark figures around the excavator and the occasional shouted instructions we know that the delicate work is continuing. Oddly, despite the police cordon around quite a stretch of The Ramblings and the evacuation of a handful of residents, the population of Lower Wattage seems to be taking the day’s excitement in its stride, and a good number of locals have joined us in the Black Bull to partake of their usual pints, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary going on. Just before six o’clock, bowing to the inevitable, I declare court to be adjourned for the day and advise everyone that they are now free to drink whatever they want. Leading by example, I order a pint of Abbot for myself, a vodka and coke for Molly, and another ginger ale for Anand, who, he intimates, doesn’t do alcohol. The Pearce and Barratt camps make their own separate ways to the bar to follow suit.

By eight o’clock I’m on the phone, chatting happily away with Marjorie, who in contrast to yesterday evening is relaxing at home with her feet up and a gin and tonic close to hand. The atmosphere in the bar of the Black Bull has also become considerably more relaxed, and there has even been a little tentative cross-table contact between the parties in my case – until Lieutenant Dawson suddenly returns, looking rather more serious than hitherto. He has with him a soldier carrying a walkie-talkie.

‘Right, everyone,’ he says, raising his voice against the din in the bar, ‘if I could have your attention, please: just to let you know, we’ve removed ten of the devices without any problem – they’re very stable and not presenting any threat. However, the remaining two are buried very close together and one is showing signs of serious deterioration. The outside pin is highly unstable, and we don’t think it would be safe to try to remove it. Unfortunately, this leaves us with no alternative but to detonate it in situ. When we do it will also set off the twelfth device, so there will be a rather big bang, and, I’m afraid, some damage to the frontages of the houses, especially those on that side of the street. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. Stand by.’

‘Are we in any danger here?’ Dennis calls across the room from the bar.

‘No, sir,’ Lieutenant Dawson replies. ‘But,’ he adds as an afterthought, ‘everyone stay back from the windows – just in case.’

‘Oh, my God,’ Dennis mutters to himself.

‘Charlie, are you still there?’ Marjorie is asking.

‘Yes, sorry,’ I reply. ‘There’s something going on here. Hang on a moment.’

‘All personnel clear, and no civilian activity visible, sir,’ the soldier is saying, holding the radio to his ear. ‘The sergeant is awaiting your order for remote detonation, sir.’

‘Proceed,’ the Lieutenant replies authoritatively.

‘Proceed. Roger that, sir. Proceed!’ the soldier fairly bellows into the radio.

‘Charlie, what on earth is going on down there? Are you –?’

There is the most almighty bang, and the sound of glass breaking.

‘Oh, my God,’ I hear Gwendolyn shriek.

‘Charlie, Charlie, for God’s sake. What’s going on? Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, Marjorie,’ I reply. ‘They had to detonate a Number 74 anti-tank hand grenade, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, all in a day’s work; we’re all at a safe distance. I think it’s all clear, now.’

‘Charlie…’

‘Just one of those noises that give delight and hurt not,’ I say. ‘Look, I need to go and talk to the parties, make sure they’re all right. I’ll call you back later.’

* * *

Tuesday evening

Feeling fairly sure that events in Lower Wattage will by now have attracted the attention of the media, and that the Reverend Mrs Walden may well have learned of them, I make a pre-emptive call home. Fortunately, she’s been in a Parochial Church Council meeting for two or three hours and hasn’t seen the news yet, so I’m able to reassure her that, whatever alarming images she may see, I’m safe and sound and happily contemplating a third pint of Abbot without a care in the world – except for the nagging thought that fairly soon, despite the recent trauma it has suffered, I’m going to have to decide the fate of the much disputed Middle Plot, and for all today’s excitement I’m still no wiser about which way I’m going with it.

The bomb squad and the police have left now and Lower Wattage has returned to some semblance of normality. Thoughtfully, the bomb squad have left behind the arc lights – the ground around the Post House and the Old Rectory is cracked and uneven, and there’s broken glass everywhere, so it would be a real hazard in the dark. Molly and Anand are deep in conversation at the bar, and I’m just wondering about finding our driver and making my way back to the George for the night, when I see Robert and Ruth approaching. I wave them into chairs at my table.

‘How are they all doing?’ I ask.

‘I think Archie’s in a state of shock,’ Ruth replies. ‘He keeps asking what would have happened if he hadn’t remembered about the sticky bombs. I think it’s beginning to dawn on him what a lucky man he is. That device could have blown at any time, Lieutenant Dawson said.’

‘He’s led a charmed life,’ I reply.

They look at each other. ‘Are you in a hurry to get back to Huntingdon, Judge?’ Ruth asks.

‘I suppose not,’ I reply. ‘Were you thinking of another drink? I daresay it would do us all good. Allow me…’

‘Well, no, actually, Judge,’ Ruth continues. ‘I mean, we could, but also we were thinking that we might be able to take advantage of the parties being in something of an altered state as a result of today’s events.’

‘An altered state? Oh, you mean, the shock of it all?’

‘Exactly, Judge. Well, that and a couple of strong drinks apiece, certainly in Archie’s case.’

I look at Robert. ‘Are the Pearces also in an altered state?’

‘They’re certainly rather traumatised by it all, Judge, and I daresay the gin and tonics have something to do with it too at this point. She’s quite weepy – and she’s not someone who does weepy. I’ve certainly never seen her like this before.’

I nod and swirl the remains of my pint around in the bottom of the glass.

‘Are you seriously suggesting,’ I ask, ‘that we should take advantage of the trauma and inebriation the parties are experiencing?’ I can’t think of anything less likely to happen in a criminal case at Bermondsey. I’d be more likely to remand the pair of them in custody if they showed up at court in that condition. But then again, I did declare court closed for the day.

They exchange looks. ‘Indeed we are, Judge,’ Robert replies.

‘What – to promote a settlement of some kind?’

‘Exactly, Judge.’ He smiles. ‘I know it’s not something you’re used to in the Crown Court, but in civil cases we can often do a bit of mediation while the trial is still going on, and there’s no difficulty about the judge joining in, as long as the parties have no objection.’

‘If you don’t mind telling them that you haven’t made your mind up which way you’re going yet,’ Ruth adds, ‘so there’s still everything to play for.’

‘There is,’ I reply honestly. ‘Even leaving the facts on one side, I’m going to need your help with the law before I can decide anything, so I still have a long way to go.’

‘Sounds good, Judge. Do you want to give it a go?’

‘I’ve never actually done a mediation,’ I admit. ‘I have no experience of them at all. But I had no idea that it was the practice to do them after two or three pints, or gins and tonics.’

‘It’s not usual, Judge,’ Ruth concedes. ‘But they do happen in all kinds of circumstances. For a successful mediation you need everyone in the right frame of mind, and sometimes you find yourself in a situation they don’t teach you about when you do your mediation training.’

‘Such as doing it in a pub when everyone’s had a couple of drinks,’ Robert adds.

‘It’s just a matter of taking advantage of circumstances when they arise,’ Ruth says. ‘Are you up for it?’

‘Do you really think it might work?’

‘It might, Judge,’ Robert replies. ‘The key is to get the parties to tell each other what they’re really upset about – which often has nothing to do with the things they’re suing each other over – and set the stage for apologies. You’d be amazed how many cases settle once the parties are prepared to apologise to each other. And with their guard down – who knows? In vino veritas, as they say.’

I’m wondering what Marjorie would have to say about this, and hoping that I’m not making a complete fool of myself. I could, of course, easily call her and find out what she thinks. But I’m here and she isn’t, and I have a gut feeling that these two barristers, who know their clients far better than I do, know what they’re doing and aren’t going to lead me down the garden path. And in any case, what’s the worst that can happen – that they won’t let me do a civil case again? I’m in uncharted waters, and perhaps part of it is the Abbot talking, but it seems worth taking a chance.

‘All right, then. Why not?’ I reply. ‘Let’s give it a try.’

‘There’s a long table by the wall at the far end of the bar,’ Robert observes. ‘Why don’t I move everyone over there? Do you want to take the lead, Ruth?’

‘I’d be glad to.’

Cooperation once again, I note. I make my way over to the long table, where Ruth places me at the head of the table, with Robert and herself on either side of me, the Pearces next to Robert and Archie next to her, with Anand, Molly, and the solicitors at the far end of the table.

‘With the Judge’s agreement, and yours,’ Ruth begins quietly, ‘we thought we might explore whether there is any ground for you to come together and talk about the case, away from the more formal atmosphere of the courtroom. Robert and I understand, obviously, that what’s happened today has been very distressing for you. It’s come as a shock to us all. But as a result, there may be a window for you to talk to each other and see if you can come to a better understanding of what it is you’re really angry with each other about. The discussion will be completely off the record, so it won’t be binding on anyone, it can’t be referred to in court, and it won’t affect the judge’s view of the case.’ She turns to me. ‘In fact, Judge Walden, I believe you feel that you’re not in a position to reach any conclusion about the case yet?’

‘That’s quite right,’ I confirm.

‘Archie,’ Ruth continues, ‘would you like to kick it off for us?’

I’m fascinated. I assume there’s been some prior discussion between them about the process of mediation, from which Ruth has emerged fairly confident that Archie would indeed like to kick it off – because otherwise this may turn into the shortest mediation on record, which wouldn’t do anything positive for the future management of the case, and might well be a disaster for her side of it. My previous observation of Archie Barratt doesn’t predispose me to think that a holistic practice like mediation would greatly appeal to him, but looking at him again, I note that the events of the day do seem to have had an effect, and an altered state isn’t a bad way of putting it. He looks somewhere between shocked and chastened, or perhaps both. I’m still not entirely sure how spontaneous his recovered memory of the sticky bombs was – the cynic in me insists that having twelve lethal explosive devices buried so close to your home is not the kind of thing you’re likely to forget, even if they were buried there more than sixty years ago. But the fact remains that he didn’t make any effort to have the grenades disposed of during that time despite the obvious risk, and there’s no doubt that, as the Reverend Mrs Walden would say, he’s altered the chemistry of the case.

‘Well,’ he replies after some time. ‘I suppose what’s happened today has made me think – think how lucky I’ve been, and my boys have been, over all these years. And when I think about that… about what could have happened… well, it sort of puts everything else into perspective. So, I suppose what I want to say to you, Mrs Pearce – Gwendolyn, if I may…’

I wouldn’t put money on that permission being granted… but to my amazement…

‘Of course, Archie…’

‘I suppose what I want to say, Gwendolyn, is that I’m sorry about ripping up all your trees and flowers and such like. It was a childish thing to do. But, you see, I got annoyed when you started mucking us about when you’d only been here about five minutes, trying to make Lower Wattage into some kind of show village – which it isn’t and never has been – and I suppose I resented you as a newcomer, having had the Pitt family as my neighbours for so long. But anyway… I shouldn’t have done it, and I want to apologise to you.’

Ruth is smiling at me. As Dorothy once put it: ‘Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’ This isn’t a different state from the Crown Court, it’s a different planet, and it’s one on which I can’t immediately get my bearings. I return the smile. There’s nothing I can do but sit back and watch the experts work.

Gwendolyn gives a deep sigh. ‘I’m the one who should be apologising, Archie,’ she replies. ‘We could have been killed today, too, and somehow all this arguing seems so trivial after that. It was insensitive of me to rush into the village and think I was somehow entitled to change your way of life, which you and your family have had for centuries. I’m so embarrassed. I want to apologise to you in turn, and so does Andrew – don’t you, Andrew?’

Andrew nods, although he doesn’t seem to be in quite such an altered state as his wife.

‘Accepted, of course,’ Archie replies graciously.

‘It was all so silly, anyway,’ Gwendolyn adds. ‘I can’t even get my own garden under control. Mr Pitt left it in such a state I don’t even know where to start with it. It was stupid of me to think I could transform the whole village when I can’t even transform my own garden.’

‘Bill Evershed could help you with that,’ Archie volunteers. ‘He lives down on Market Street – the far end, by the new housing estate – and he does a bit of landscaping. He’s got some good heavy equipment that will rip all that long grass and the weeds right out of the garden and churn up the ground, and once you’ve got rid of all that kind of stuff you can take your time and plan what you want to do with it. I’ll call him tomorrow and ask him to drop by.’

‘Thank you. That would be very kind.’

‘And – first things first – his brother Joe is a builder. We should ask him to come and look at the damage first thing in the morning. Well, we can’t leave it as it is, can we? He should at least be able to put some temporary boards up for us until we can get some new windows made, and he can clear away the worst of the mess so that we can at least get in and out of our front doors. Shall I see if he’s available?’

‘Yes please. That would be wonderful.’

‘And there is one funny thing about all this, isn’t there?’ Archie says.

‘What’s that then?’ Gwendolyn asks.

‘Well, the Home Guard managed to do what Hitler and his lot couldn’t do in five years of trying, didn’t they? They finally blew up The Ramblings.’

Even Andrew sees the humour in that, and we all have a good laugh.

‘Well, that all sounds very positive,’ Ruth says. ‘Thank you both. I feel you’ve both come a long way. Don’t you, Robert?’

‘Very much so,’ Robert replies.

‘Does anyone feel differently about the case, now that we’ve cleared the air to some extent?’

‘I’m not sure what we’re even arguing about,’ Gwendolyn says, after a longish silence. ‘It’s not as if the Pitts ever made any use of the Middle Plot, is it? Archie, if you’re willing, I think we should treat it as a joint project, and see what we can do with it. If the lawyers can work it out, so that you can come on to the land and work it, as long as we can talk about what we want to do with it – what would you think about that?’

‘I’d be very happy with that, Gwendolyn,’ Archie replies. ‘I never really wanted to own the Plot all on my own. I didn’t have any use for that, but I didn’t know what else to do to get access to it. If we could work out some arrangement like that, I’m ready to drop the case and agree to it.’

He offers her his hand. She takes it. Ruth turns to me.

‘Judge, if you could give us until after lunch tomorrow, that should be enough time for Robert and I to work on some wording and produce a draft agreement. We should at least be able to present you with a basic agreement, subject to liberty to apply if we need your help with the final version.’

‘They will both need the morning to secure their property after the damage,’ Robert adds. ‘We can work on the agreement while they do that.’

‘Of course,’ I agree immediately. ‘I’ll be ready to start at two o’clock, but let me know if you need any more time.’

Andrew Pearce is taking orders for drinks. Robert, Ruth and I discreetly remove to a table closer to the bar, so that they don’t have to worry about saying the right thing in front of us. Of course, there is some small chance that being left alone together will cause the agreement to unravel as quickly as it was made, but there’s no sign of that at the moment. I get drinks in for the three of us.

‘So, does this kind of thing often happen in civil cases?’ I ask.

‘You’d be surprised how effective it can be if you can just find the right space for the parties to get together away from court,’ Ruth replies. ‘Admittedly, this was a bit unusual by any standards, but – well, whatever works.’

‘We hope today’s experience won’t put you off doing more civil cases, Judge,’ Robert adds, ‘and perhaps you’ll come out this way to see us again.’

‘Who knows? Perhaps I will,’ I reply.

We toast each other silently.

On arriving back at the George, after some hesitation, I call Marjorie. It’s late now, and I’m not really expecting her to be awake; but she’s on her own – Nigel is in Frankfurt for work – her memories of yesterday continue to linger, and so she’s sitting up on the sofa with the lights dimmed, wide awake, with a mug of cocoa and a glass of something stronger, watching old films on TV. I regale her with the full story of the events of my day, and to my pleasure and relief she laughs uproariously.

‘I know it’s late at night,’ I say, ‘but may I ask you a technical question?’

‘At your own risk,’ she replies.

‘Well, if a member of the Home Guard buries sticky bombs in his neighbour’s plot during the war and then leaves them buried there for more than sixty years without saying anything, could that constitute evidence of adverse possession?’

‘Absolutely. Why do you ask?’

I smile to myself. ‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just that I have a shrewd suspicion that the Barratt family are not quite the country bumpkins people like the Pearces take them for…’ I pause for a moment or two. ‘Tell me honestly, Marjorie, do you think I did the right thing?’

‘What, you mean getting everyone around the table together when they were all as pissed as newts?’

‘Yes. I mean, you don’t think it could all go horribly wrong, do you?’

She is silent for some seconds.

‘Well, Charlie, sitting the parties down in a pub and plying them with drink probably isn’t in the best classical tradition of mediation. But apparently, it worked. I suppose the only potential for it to go wrong is if the parties wake up this morning with a hangover and start to get buyer’s remorse. As you know, until the ink’s dry on the settlement agreement, they’re free to change their minds, and I’m not sure I’d want all this coming out in the Court of Appeal.’

‘But counsel implied that things like this are all in a day’s work for you civil types.’

‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘and you had good counsel in front of you, who wouldn’t have let it happen unless they were pretty sure of a good outcome. Besides, the sticky bomb trauma probably played just as much part in it as the drink. Sometimes, that kind of thing focuses people’s minds in a way a mere trip to court can’t. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Well done! You’ve successfully concluded your first civil case.’

* * *

Wednesday afternoon

‘My Lord,’ Robert begins, ‘I’m pleased to inform your Lordship that the parties have reached an agreement to settle this case, and we will not require your Lordship to give a judgment.’

I’ve had a nice, relaxed morning – certainly more so than the parties, who will have spent it assessing the devastation caused to their homes by the sticky bombs, and making the buildings secure until permanent repairs can be made. I enjoy a full English breakfast at the George, cooked for me personally by Darla, who’s sad that I’m leaving and hopes that I will return soon – the prestige of having The Judge in Residence, one assumes – and recommends that I have a stroll around the Wednesday morning market in Market Square, which after perusing The Times, I do. It’s no match for the legendary Bermondsey market, but it has a certain rustic charm, and strolling among the various stalls I realise that I’m actually unwinding from the cares of being the RJ of a London Crown Court and, like the barristers in my case, enjoying the slower pace of life away from the big city.

‘In essence, my Lord, the claimants have withdrawn their action to assert title to the Middle Plot, and the defendant has withdrawn his claim to have acquired title to the Plot by adverse possession. Instead, the parties have signed a memorandum of understanding: the gist of which is that while the claimants will continue to have sole paper title to the Middle Plot, they will grant Mr Barratt, his heirs and assigns, a right to enter on to the land at reasonable times and to a reasonable extent for horticultural purposes. This memorandum will form the basis of a formal settlement agreement, which should be ready for signature by the end of the week.

‘The reason for the slight delay is that the parties’ solicitors want to consider whether to achieve that goal by means of an easement or licence, or in some other way. They are confident that they will find the most appropriate way, and copies of the documentation will be filed with the Court at that stage. The memorandum also contains an understanding between the parties, which will not form part of the formal settlement agreement, as both parties accept that it is essentially unenforceable. This understanding is that the parties will collaborate on the future use of the Middle Plot before engaging in any works there.

‘Finally, my Lord, Mr and Mrs Pearce also agree not to enter Lower Wattage in the Cambridgeshire Best Kept Village Competition, or any similar competition, until such time as both parties are satisfied that doing so would command the support of the inhabitants of Lower Wattage as a whole.’

‘That is correct, my Lord,’ Ruth adds, ‘and in the circumstances we invite your Lordship to make no order as to costs.’

‘So ordered,’ I say. It’s a phrase I seem to remember civil judges using in films and on TV, and it’s always sounded pleasingly definitive.

‘The only other thing, my Lord,’ Robert adds, ‘is to express the gratitude of the parties, and indeed the gratitude of my learned friend and myself, to your Lordship for his willingness to adopt such an unorthodox approach to bringing the parties together. Without your Lordship’s innovative approach to mediation it is very likely that we would still be contesting this case instead of settling it in such a constructive manner.’

I look up. ‘I hardly think I can claim any credit for that, Mr Mason,’ I protest. ‘You and Miss Bannerman educated me about the possibilities available to a judge sitting without a jury in a civil case, so it wasn’t really a case of innovation on my part.’

‘Nonetheless, my Lord,’ Ruth says, ‘that’s what we’re going to tell Mr Justice Gulivant, as senior Presiding Judge. It’s the best hope we have of making him send you back to see us again.’

Back in chambers, I thank Molly and Anand for their outstanding work during what on any view has been a remarkably challenging case, and promise that their contribution is something else Mr Justice Gulivant will be hearing about.

After Molly has left us to clear up in court, Anand and I share a pot of tea.

‘Couldn’t you find me something else to do for the next couple of days, Anand?’ I ask. ‘They won’t have anything for me at Bermondsey until next week and I’m rather enjoying sitting at Huntingdon. It wouldn’t be a problem for me to stay for a couple of days and help out.’

‘I’m sorry, Judge,’ he replies with a smile. ‘I wish I could, but we just don’t have that much work here. We’ve got nothing else scheduled until next week. Look, if you’re not in a hurry, why don’t you just take a couple of days for yourself, extend your stay at the George, rent a car, take in the sights? And I can recommend a couple of good restaurants, Indian and Italian, not too far away, if you like. I’m not entirely sure about the Italian, but I can claim to know a little about Indian.’

Once I’m alone I call the Reverend Mrs Walden.

‘I know you’re busy, Clara,’ I say, ‘but couldn’t you take a couple of days off and come up here and breathe some fresh air with me? I’ll have you back in good time for Sunday, I promise.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Charlie. I’ve got so much to do…’

‘I’m in need of pastoral care,’ I whine. ‘You are my vicar, you know, as well as my wife.’

She hesitates. ‘Well, you have been through a lot this week,’ she admits, ‘so I suppose it may be my duty – spousal as well as pastoral – to assist in your recovery, and if a short foray into the country would help…’

‘It might make all the difference,’ I say.

‘In that case, I will see you in time for dinner this evening. Get the noises, sounds and sweet airs ready for me, as long as they give delight and hurt not.’

‘I think I’ll forego any further noises, if you don’t mind,’ I reply, ‘but I’ll have the sounds and sweet airs ready in the George by six.’