Boatman's dream 30

Lord Bowall stopped halfway along a hedge to examine the fence within.

“Always something to do.  Some of these are very old.  I don’t pretend to know the inventory.”

James Bellingham-Smythe listened to the sound of machinery working unseen beyond the hedgerows and tried to imagine the scale of the operation.

“How many people do you employ?”

“Directly?  Thirty or forty.  Within the various businesses on the estate?  No idea.  One pays people to take care of that.”

“Of course.”

They walked on.

“So what are your plans for the wharf, James?”

“To erect a bar and restaurant, bring in a chandlery partner from Bristol and really market the asset.”

“Sweat it."

Bellingham-Smythe wasn’t sure if the words were intended to sound disdainful. 

"And access to the Pill?  To the sea?”

The two men walked side by side. An onlooker might mistake them for old friends.

“Well, you know the tide, Gerald.  Two to three hours afloat, if you’re lucky – less up at the wharf.  It’s more about the setting.”

“The setting? The whole area is a protected site.  Natural England are all over it.  And you know that the land between Mean High Water and Mean Low Water is claimed by The Crown?”

“Yes.”

“And what about tradition?”

“What about it?”

Lord Bowall stopped and surveyed Bellingham-Smythe.

“How did you come into your line of work, James?”

“I didn’t come into it.  I worked bloody hard at it.  I’m a property developer.  I began buying up derelict houses in North London and refurbishing them.  The first one was under a fly-over on the North Circular Road.  Nobody wanted it.  It’s a different world now, of course.”

“Self-made?”

“Yes.  And I’m proud of what I’ve achieved.  How about you?”

Lord Bowall looked Bellingham-Smythe directly in the eye.

“Inheritance, James.  Some call it accident of birth.  But then one has to accept the burden of maintaining this excruciatingly complex system and handing it all on intact.  I was the eldest of four boys.   I have two daughters.  It gets very complicated when one dies.”

“I’d swap places.”

“But aren’t we all looking to achieve something, in our own way?”

Bellingham-Smythe stepped onto a stile separating two fields and looked around him.  His own wealth was numbers and zeroes on statements, stocks, profit and loss accounts.  Here he was surrounded by a wealth that extended beyond the field boundaries and farms, out to the distant hills.

Lord Bowall followed him over the stile. The dog found a gap in the hedge.

Bellingham-Smythe waited.

“Has your family always had this?”

“My ancestors had the good sense not to support the Monmouth Rebellion.  James II honoured them with this title."

Lord Bowall watched the dog as it followed a trail.

“It comes with responsibilities, James.  There are twenty-four villages on this estate.  Almost a hundred tenant farms.  Public houses, churches, two small ports.  Most of all, people.  The 2011 census numbered twenty thousand people, give or take a few.  That’s quite a responsibility.”

Bellingham-Smythe nodded.

“So why have you invited me here?”

“Considering all the modern distractions, the population here is surprisingly content with the status quo.”

He called the dog to heel.

“My grandfather faced the biggest crisis for generations at the end of the Second World War.  My father, similarly, towards the end of his life made concessions to the New Labour Government.  And, yet, we still have the overwhelming support of the rural population when it comes to maintaining this way of life.”

“Go on.”

“We don’t need someone wading into all that and upsetting the balance.  Challenging tradition.”

“Someone like me, you mean?”

“Do I really have to spell it out, James?  Nothing is as simple as it seems.  Don’t underestimate the complexities.”

“I beg to differ.  In my experience, it’s when you make things too complicated that everything falls apart.  Keep it simple.  That’s the way these days.  And it works.  The moment you overcomplicate things, they fall on their arse.  Believe me.”

“Let’s walk on.”

They passed through the next two fields without speaking.  Rain clouds were beginning to form.  Bellingham-Smythe only had a light jacket, suitable against wind or the lightest of showers.  He began to feel unusually low.

“So what are you saying?  What do you want me to do?  Or what don’t you want me to do?”

“Access to the moorings is a given.  It’s outside your ambit.  The land belongs to the Crown and is managed by Natural England.”

“But the administration of moorings is entrusted to a committee of the Boating Club, which I intend to de-mutualise and capitalise.  My company will control access to the moorings in the wider interests of the town.”

“The wharf belongs to me.”

“The title isn’t settled.”

“Who told you that?”

“I won’t divulge my source.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.  Push comes to shove and I’ll settle it through the Prerogative that gave this land to my ancestors.  I can secure a consensus in the House.”

“Really?  You want to put that to the test?”

“Be careful when you go kicking over hornets’ nests, James.  Be very careful.  There’s a delicate ecosystem here.  This isn’t Essex.  It isn’t London.  It isn’t even Surrey.  Down here, tradition is very important.  I urge you to remember that.  That’s why I invited you down.”

The two men looked at each other.  Rain began to fall more steadily, but neither appeared to notice.

“I’m between a rock and a hard place, Gerald.  On the one hand I need to give your friends up in London a return on their investment, and on the other I have you telling me I can’t take the business decisions I need to achieve that.  If I’m to go ahead with the Underhill development, I need free rein.  I need the wharf, and I need those people moved off.  We can make this a success.  We can sell the story of that success in the media.  Your delicate balance can be maintained.  But we do that through media and communications, not through some Mediaeval concession.”

Lord Bowall’s dog was out of sight.

“Jack!  Jack!  Here!”

The Retriever came rustling through the thick undergrowth.  It had a dead owl in its mouth.

“Drop it!  Drop it!” he commanded.

The dog stared back, holding tight onto its prize.

“Drop that, you hear?”

Finally, it cowered and released the bird, which had been dead for some time.

Lord Bowall threw the mess of feathers over the hedge and brought the dog to heel. He looked at Bellingham-Smythe.

“If I sense that I have to get in your way for the sake of maintaining the peace, I will.  Make no mistake.”