Boatman's dream 21

Bellingham-Smythe gathered himself at the front of the packed room, taking his time, sitting back against the edge of the table and scanning the faces.

He paused briefly, when his eyes met Arthur’s, and scratched his chin. 

Last month’s Moorings Meeting – the quiet bloke at the end of the bar.  Welshman.

Where does he fit in all this?

He stood up and began pacing the floor in front of the table, eyes fixed on his audience.  “When you put yourself in the public eye, as I have, you know there’ll be times when you’re not going to be popular; that some people will never see eye-to-eye with you.  So it goes.” 

“Was it Nixon said…?  Anyway, I accept that not everyone here shares my aspirations for the town or for the Boating Club.”

There were words of encouragement from some of the crowd. 

He waited for a moment.

“As Rhys pointed out, I’m a relative newcomer here, but I like to think I’ve made my mark and brought some improvements to the town.”

He listed the Spa Theatre renovation, seafront improvements and the hotels and bars he’d brought new life to.

“But I think that I – that is, we – can do much more.  And I think this particular amenity…”

He gestured in a wide arc.

“…can be improved for the benefit of the entire town and opened up to a far wider group of people.”

He ignored a comment about “bloody outsiders” and pressed on.

“This morning’s fire is incidental to the bigger picture.  Merely a symptom of what’s wrong.”

He poured himself a glass of water, leaving his audience to fill in the gaps. 

An argument started a few feet away between one of the yacht racing fraternity and two wharf rats.  It developed into jostling.  Arthur stepped in and parted them.  The yachtsman wasn’t happy.  He didn’t take his eyes off Arthur for the rest of the meeting.  The Herald photographer managed to capture the whole thing.

As voices rose, Merlin shouted above the din.  “So what are you proposing, James?  What’s your master plan?”

Calm returned as everyone listened for the answer.

Bellingham-Smythe put his glass down and addressed the room.

“Firstly, to place the whole operation on a commercial footing;

second, to bring in external investment, which I’ve done successfully elsewhere in the town, and;

thirdly, to bring in some controls – greater professionalism.”

He continued.

“What we have at the moment is anarchy.  A small group of drinkers and drifters have monopolised what ought to be an asset for the whole town.”

Indignant voices were raised in various parts of the room.

Elsewhere, someone shouted “Not before time!”

Arthur began speaking intensely to Rhys in a mix of Welsh and English.  Rhys nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes.” he said, then shouted across the rows of heads.  “Be careful!  Watch him!” 

“Think about what he’s getting out of this.  External investment?  Him and his City mates?  They’ll bleed us all try.  You don’t think they’re going to tip up their lovely money for nothing, do you?” 

Arthur spoke again.

Rhys nodded and continued.  “Yes, James, the fire certainly was a problem.  It was a problem for the boatmen on the wharf.  Don’t forget that.  Homes and lives could have been lost.   Who do you think raised the alarm?”

Bellingham-Smythe’s son-in-law, Tim, had been watching Arthur since he arrived with Merlin and the others from the wharf.  He’d picked-up a lot about him from the men in the yard. 

He called across the room: “Who’s feeding your lines, Rhys?  Why doesn’t he speak up for himself?”

For the first time, Arthur was the centre of attention.  Some of the men began jibing each other about his appearance.

Tim picked-up the mood. “Arthur!”  he called, breaking into laughter.  “King Arthur!  Speak up and save your realm!”

As the jeering and mocking continued, Arthur remained dignified and controlled.  The mocking intensified as his tormentors sought a reaction.

Bellingham-Smythe was watching it all from the front of the room.  He sensed that there was an opening and instinctively took it.

“Order!  Order!  Please! Gentlemen!  Give him a chance to speak.  I, for one, would like to hear what he has to say.”

He turned to Arthur.  “Would you like to take the floor?”

The mocking continued, but there were shouts of encouragement as he made his way to the front.  Many hands were extended to pat him on the back.

The sight of Arthur in jeans, leather jerkin and heavy cape alongside Bellingham-Smythe’s pressed neat golfing attire was an arresting one.  Merlin moved behind him, to be on hand, just in case, as the room gradually came to order. 

Arthur’s stillness and inner-calm brought a sense of unease to some of the townsfolk.  He stood silently until he was ready to speak.

“I’ve never seen him like this before.”  Rhys whispered.

“I have.”  I answered.  “The first time I met him.”

Someone coughed, which seemed to break the spell.

“There was a time” Arthur spoke, “when men lived more protected lives.”

His English was slow and heavily accented, but clear.

“They made their pledge of allegiance and received protection in return.  Land was acquired through birth and through conquest.   Birthright and blood.  That is how men lived.”

I looked around the room.  “They’re listening.” I whispered.

“Now, you have more freedom.  Instead of fighting for what you want, you buy it with money and call it private property.   This room is divided between those who hold true to what has been given – to their birthright – and those whose money buys them what they want.”

He paused.

“You are going to be asked to move from birthright to private property.   Think about what you are going to lose – for you will almost certainly never get it back.  Think about your birthright.”

A voice called from the back of the room.  “You’re living in the past.  We’re living in the present and thinking about the future.  Money counts.  Money speaks.  Let’s hear what James has to say.” 

The man’s words drew cheers and applause. 

Arthur looked at Merlin. 

Merlin shook his head sadly.