Boatman's dream 15

It was hard not to like James Bellingham-Smythe.  An affable kind of bloke.  Friendly, jokey.  If anything , he could be a little competitive.  He derived his greatest pleasure from winning.  A handy yachtsman, he’d earned his skipper’s ticket many times over.  Always had a yarn to share on a winter’s night in the clubhouse, and never flinched from standing a round. 

He’d been making a point of getting himself seen in the corridors of County Hall in weeks since his election a councillor.  He was keen to make his mark, but also nurtured a genuine wish to represent his constituency and, as he saw it, restore the fortunes of the town.

He spotted Stephen Gentry, Chief Planning Officer, walking down the corridor towards him, deep in thought.  Good timing.

“Hi Stephen!”

Stephen looked up and smiled.

“James!  Hello.  How are you getting along?”

“Fine, thanks.  Sorry to buttonhole you, but any news on the draft proposal I showed you?”

“I’ve glanced at it, James.”  He clutched the bundle of files with his right arm and looked at his watch.  “My meeting’s been pushed back half an hour if you’re free now.”

Bellingham-Smythe’s face opened into a broad grin.  “Of course.  Thanks, Stephen.”

The office of the Chief Planning Officer was no more than a screened-off area in the corner of the county planning office.  Gentry stopped and dropped the files on his PA’s desk. 

“Sorry Anne.  We’ve been rescheduled.  Do you mind if I leave these here?”

Anne shook her head.  She was typing a transcript from her earphones.

He looked at Bellingham-Smythe.  “Fancy a cuppa?”

“I never say no.”

They walked through the office to the kitchen.

Gentry searched through mugs stacked in a cupboard.  “This is John’s.  He’s off having his hernia done.  I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Bristol City fan?”

“Must be.  Are you ok drinking out of it?”

“Football’s not my thing, Stephen.  I might have turned the Bath rugby one down.”

Gentry’s laugh was like a thunderclap.  Bellingham-Smythe flinched slightly.  His mind automatically took note.

“Green tea?  Mint?  Infusions?  We seem to have everything.”

“Just good old-fashioned tea for me, thanks, if you have it.”

“Yes, somewhere.  Same for me.”

He scalded the tea-bags.  “Milk?  Sugar?”

“Milk and just half a spoon, please.”

Gentry led them to a table by the window.  It was ten a.m. – there was no one else in the kitchen.

“Your proposal.  I’ve had a quick shuftie.  It’s going to ruffle a few feathers.”

“I’ve never been fearful of doing that, Stephen.  You can’t make an omelette… etcetera, etcetera.”

“Hmmm.”

Gentry looked out of the window across the fields.  Two lines of traffic passed each other on the perpetually-flowing ribbon of M5 in the middle distance.  The road bisected lush pastureland, long ago salt marsh.  Beyond, lay the Mendips and the Polden Hills.  Shafts of sunlight sparkled on inner reaches of rivers, drains and rhynes.   The small, dramatic hills rising from the Levels caught Stephen’s eye.  Most prominent among them, pushing through the haze, was Glastonbury Tor.   He drew-in a long breath and let it go.

“Do you know the wharf is mentioned in the Domesday Book?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Not in and of itself, perhaps, but as one of several landing sites along this stretch of the estuary.  You can’t see it from this side of the building, but off to the right” He indicated with his mug. “is the River Parrett.”

“Yes.  I’ve sailed up it.  Burnham has its club there.”

“So you know the waters here quite well?”

“I’m getting to know them, yes.”

“You know about the legend of Joseph of Arimathea?”

“I’ve heard it, yes.  What of it?”

“History, James.  Tradition.  Precedence.  You want to establish ownership of the wharf and, one suspects, buy it?”

“Everything is owned by somebody, ultimately.  Therefore, everything can be bought.  It isn’t a crime.”

“We often say that when title is defined in ancient documents – for example, the Domesday Book…  If, say, William of Normandy was content with the title, then there’s a precedent.”

Bellingham-Smythe’s eyes closed briefly and his eyebrows rose in a look of mild consternation.

“So what are you saying?” he asked.

“Well, there’s no documented title.  And the wharf doesn’t lie between mean high-water and mean low-water, so the Crown doesn’t claim it.  But its common use for boatmen of the village and surrounding lands is well documented.  It’s like common grazing.”

“And if I challenge that?”

“Through the courts?”

“Yes.”

“That’s for the courts to decide.”

“But it can be challenged?”

“Of course.”

“Ok.  Thank you, Stephen.  And thanks for the tea.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Did I give you an invitation for the ‘Crew Experience Day’ next month?  We’re running it in conjunction with the RNLI and RYA.”

“Yes.  It’s in my desk, thanks James.”

“Fancy it?”

“My son might, if that’s ok.”

“Absolutely!  It’ll be great to see him down at the club – and you, too, if you fancy.  No obligation.”

“Thanks, James.  I might take you up on that.”

Gentry looked at his watch.

“Oop!  I need to get a move on.  Nice talking to you.  Sorry I can’t help any more than that.”

Bellingham-Smythe drank the last of his tea off.  “No problem, Stephen.  It was a big help.  Thanks.  I’ll wash up.”