The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 41
The Liberty Takers

Our Quiet One was very fond of his Aunt Annie. She was a Shooters Hillbilly, and our Quiet One would often pop up to visit her. She was good company. A bit eccentric, but a lovely lady. Sometimes he would just sit with her. Sometimes he would sit and look after Holly, her King Charles Spaniel. Sometimes he’d go with his aunt for a walk in the nearby woods. Sometimes he’d take Holly for a walk in the woods, chasing squirrels and raking through leaves. It was a bit of a bolt hole for our Quiet One.

Except once. That was when his aunt’s neighbours had the builders in. They were putting up an extension. It had been a major bone of contention. The extension would block out a lot of natural light for the aunt. The neighbours didn’t care about that. An extension was the thing to have. Adds value to the property, and all that. The aunt objected. Appealing to the neighbours’ better nature. That didn’t work. She then complained, officially, to the council. That didn’t work either. They’re just liberty takers, said the aunt. They know I’m on my own. Remember that fence they put up, she added? They were taking liberties then.

Anyway, there they were, the builders. That afternoon. The aunt had gone off to visit an old friend, who sadly was in a hospice over Beckenham way, which was quite a trek on the bus. So while she was off there, our Quiet One was round her house, minding Holly. Sitting there reading a William Wharton book. When suddenly there was an almighty crash, and the sound of breaking glass, which made our Quiet One jump out of his skin. He rushed out to see what had happened. There was glass everywhere in the aunt’s conservatory. Looked like a slate had come crashing down from next door, or something. She loved that conservatory, too, did the aunt. Often she’d sit out there, dreaming, among the plants. Our Quiet One was red with rage, and rushed out into the garden to find out what the hell was going on. Oi, he shouted up at the builders. Ooh look, said the builders, killing themselves laughing.

It was a funny thing. The so-called class struggle. What was it all about? None of us had two brass farthings to rub together. None of us came from well-to-do families. So what class were we? We had all done pretty well at school. The local grammar. Where money didn’t really make a scrap of difference. We were pretty good at sports. Could scrap if we had to. But preferred books. And music. Some pretty odd music, in some people’s view, though not ours. We spoke ok. Not posh. Not rough. We got on with most people. Though there were always people like the builders working next door to the aunt who didn’t like us. They knew us instantly. Knew what we were. Knew we weren’t like them. Knew seemingly instinctively that we didn’t work all the hours under the sun to get the nicer things in life, knew we weren’t big drinkers, knew we didn’t like cars, or jewellery. At least it seemed that way. Paranoia? Maybe. After all our Redhead’s people were in the building trade, sort of, but they were different. And they were Irish. Not good working class salt-of-the-earth Londoners. With their prejudices. The good old working class. The ones we were fighting the class war for. And the greatest living Englishman, Mr Benn, was born into the nobility. Work that one out.

So the builders next door. They knew our Quiet One. They knew there wasn’t much he could do. So they stood and laughed as he almost wept with rage. They jeered. They shouted catch phrases from TV shows. Loadsamoney. Made the gestures. That was one that stuck in our Quiet One’s throat. He knew when to retreat. He knew it would be no good Holly barking her head off. She’d get laughed at too. With those eyes and those ears. She wasn’t a Rottweiler by any stretch of the imagination. No, it was better for now to retreat discreetly, clear up the mess in the conservatory, and make things as palatable as possible for when the aunt returns. Then plan some suitably subtle revenge. Which is what happened.

What form should the revenge take though? That was something we pondered on at leisure. The obvious thing was to get our Redhead’s extended family to put the boot in. That would have been effective, if a little obvious. Tempting though to take a baseball bat to the brats. And yet that seemed to be sinking to their level. Why sink down when you can rise above it all? After all wasn’t that what it was all about? What happened to self-improvement? The Left Book Club? Workers’ Educational Associations? What about workers educating themselves rather than wallowing in ignorance and greed? That way of thinking and being. Oh it certainly wasn’t a universally held view, but any drop in the ocean had to be better than oafs standing up on scaffolding in rolled gold chains waving imaginary wads of banknotes around.

So what to do? Well what we decided on was to take on the builders with a weapon they simply would not understand. It was time to call on a force for good in the world. Well, perhaps not everyone would agree with that. But that’s what we called Clive the Campaigner. He was one of those fearless old contemptibles. Retired. Yet as busy as he ever was. Taking up whatever cause he thought would improve his neighbourhood. He was an inveterate writer of letters. The local paper printed his epistles weekly. The local council quaked in its corporate shoes when one of his tomes arrived. The local MP employed a researcher just to deal with The Campaigner’s correspondence. The local radio station almost gave him his own show. The local kids made up rhymes about him.

You name it. Clive took up his cudgel to fight about it. The Campaigner was against litter and dogs fouling the pavements. He was for good street lighting and uncracked paving stones. He was anti noise. He was pro speed limits and parking restrictions. And he didn’t mind who knew about it. Many a time people had tried to shout him down and put him down and knock him down. But he would not shut up. If he thought someone was worth complaining about then he jolly well got on and complained about it. And he did it with a certain elegance, which is why we kind of liked him.

So we went and wound him up. About cowboy builders. Unnecessary extensions. Front gardens being paved over. Trees being cut down. Daylight being blocked out. Pavements being cracked by the weight of lorries delivering bricks and block paving. Radios blaring out, disturbing the peace, while workmen went about their business. The foul language being used by workmen, when children were passing on the way to school. The cavalier desecration of green space. That sort of thing. And the great thing about Clive the Complainer was that he wasn’t afraid to name names. If you don’t like what I’m saying son, he’d say, then sue me. And the complained about tended to huff and puff, but somehow never seemed prepared to see Clive in court. Funny that.

While The Complainer and ourselves may have seemed strange bed fellows, it wasn’t that odd an alliance really. After all we were huge fans of his elegant letters, and we tended to agree with what he had to say. I am not sure he approved of us too much, but we didn’t cause anyone too much trouble. We weren’t roaring round in souped up jalopies. We weren’t building all over this green and pleasant land. We weren’t doing much at all really. Which might have been a bit of an issue for some people. But Clive, well, he thought we were writers or something, and in a way he was right. He had literary aspirations of his own, and one or another of us would often chat with him about John Buchan or GK Chesterton. That sort of thing.

It really wasn’t hard to set the wheels in motion on this one. We sat down with Clive. Told him what had been going on. What the aunt had been put through. What this firm of builders was getting up to around the area. Gave him a few facts and figures. A bit of a dossier. Lit the touch paper. Stood back. And watched the master in action. Forget the Monkey Wrench Gang. They couldn’t wreak the havoc or fly in the face of officialdom and organised vandalism like old Clive. The funny thing is he really did get on to something. Exposed some corruption in the planning department. Found out about a few back handers. A few patios paid for on the sly. A few officials on the take. A few builders on the make. Some we knew all about. Soon everyone knew about it. The local paper got onto it. The net was cast far and wide, and some pretty unpleasant sprats were caught up in it. Shame. Cost some of them loadsamoney to extricate themselves. Oh dear. How sad. Never mind. As another old and far, far better catchphrase used to go.