This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You (17 page)

‘You should stay up here,’ he said. ‘It’s safer.’ She looked at him, and at his hand on her arm. ‘They’ll be here in a minute,’ he said.

‘I just need to get my phone,’ she said. ‘I need to call someone. I’ll be careful, thanks.’ She tried to step away, but he held her back. ‘Excuse me?’ she said.

‘You’re probably in shock,’ he said. ‘You should be careful. Maybe you should sit down.’

‘I’m okay, actually, thanks? I don’t want to sit down?’ She spoke clearly, looking him in the eye, raising her voice above the wind and the traffic. Plus raising her voice against maybe he was a bit deaf, as well as the learning-challenged thing. She wanted him to let go of her arm. She tried to pull away again, but his grip was too tight. She looked at him, like: what are you doing? He shook his head. He said something else, but she couldn’t hear him. She didn’t know if the wind had picked up or what was going on. He looked confused, as if he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be saying.

She glanced down the other side of the embankment, and saw the older man at the edge of the woodland. He was standing with his back to the trees, looking up at the two of them, his hands held tensely by his sides. What was he. He seemed to be trying to say something to the younger man. He seemed to be waiting for something. She tried to pull away. But what.

What Happened to Mr Davison

Cadwell

First of all I want to start by saying we all of us just really have every sympathy as regards what happened to Mr Davidson. Obviously the conclusion was not one which I or any of us were seeking. That goes without saying. I mean, I honestly don’t think that what happened was within the range of foreseeable consequences. Not that we sat down and undertook a full risk assessment before embarking on that particular course of action. Of course not. It was more of a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment type of scenario. But I think even given how little forward analysis was involved it would be safe to say that the outcome was not one any of us envisaged. I mean, clearly not. That’s just not the kind of people we are, any of us. I think that’s just really understood. I think I’m safe in saying that that’s been accepted, by some of the people who’ve been impacted upon, in terms of the subsequent turn of events. Including Mr Davidson himself. As far as we’ve been able to gather. I mean, you know, some of the people he has around him have been understandably cautious, in terms of what I suppose you could call access. That’s been my understanding at least, to date: that an approach of that manner would not be favourably received at this time, given the ongoing circumstances. I’m speaking in terms of with reference to third parties, in this context. Given our feeling that a direct approach would be likely to have been deemed insensitive, in light of the wider context, and the history and suchlike.

Davison. Yes. Of course.

Right.

I’m not sure there’s actually any need to rehearse the facts of the day in question. I think everyone’s very familiar with the sequence of what went on. Suffice it to say that the context was rather a pressured one. Myself and the other three gentlemen in question have discussed this at length, and we all agree that any of the precursors to our actions would in and of themselves have been sufficient as to be considered intolerable; but it was the combination of those precursors which led to the rather hastily agreed-upon course of action which was then taken.

Yes, I would concede that it was hastily agreed-upon.

No, I wouldn’t support that notion. That doesn’t necessarily follow.

I can’t recall which one of us specifically initiated the proposal. We’ve spoken about this as well, and we are all in agreement that the proposal arose as a more or less spontaneous initiative between us. We take collective responsibility on that point. Which is to say, on the limited point of how and by whom the proposal was initiated; that was a collective responsibility, I’m saying. I’m not talking about the wider question of responsibility for the eventual outcome. Not at all. That’s very much a matter for debate. I think we can all agree on that. And of course that’s a debate I would welcome, when the time comes. No one would welcome that more than me. But my feeling is that this wouldn’t be the appropriate context for that discussion, not today. My understanding was that this was simply an opportunity to clarify the narrative, as it were.

Thank you. Yes. I will.

Yes, quite so. The background. So. Mr Davidson and myself have been near-neighbours for a number of years, understanding of course that neighbour is a relative term in that neck of the woods. His house is visible from our house, and his land abuts on to ours. I wouldn’t say that we’ve become close friends over that duration; he’s a busy man, understandably, and although I spend as much time in that property as is possible I wouldn’t class myself as a full-time resident, by any means. So our opportunities for interaction have been naturally limited. But there hadn’t been any animosity between ourselves. Not historically speaking.

I wouldn’t say surprised as such, no. One expects a certain amount of countryside activity in the countryside, clearly. Possibly the range and duration and volume of those activities did somewhat exceed our expectations, yes. But we understood that our grounds for complaint were fairly restricted. Mr Davidson was a farming man, after all, and that much was perfectly clear at the time we purchased the property, and indeed Mr Davidson was absolutely entitled to reiterate this fact from time to time, as he felt it necessary to so do.

Davison. I stand corrected.

Quite, absolutely.

Well, it’s just that I would dispute whether motorcycle scramble racing can be considered to be a farming activity. Harvesting is one thing, even allowing for the fact that at times it went on until two or three o’clock in the morning. Constructing a new intensive poultry-production unit is also one thing; notwithstanding one’s own personal views on the merits of such a farming method, it is still classifiably a farming activity. But motorcycle scramble racing is just quite another thing altogether, I’m sure we can agree. I mean, look, I understand the need for economic diversification as much as the next man, especially in this day and age. I really do. I just wonder whether there’s such a thing as being too diverse.

Oh, I’d hardly know where to begin. It wasn’t just the noise, although that was of a peculiarly piercing and high-pitched quality which I have to tell you was just about consistently unbearable. But noise is one thing. No, it was more the fumes, and the dust, and the type of people it brought to the area. I mean, the dust was unbelievable. The situation was extremely unpleasant, at best.

Intolerable was a word I used earlier, you’re quite right. I stand by that.

Oh, now hang on. By saying type of people I simply meant to refer to the behaviour in terms of road-use, parking on verges and blocking driveways and bringing in large vehicles which the road there simply isn’t designed to be capable of coping with. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions. Far from it. This whole thing had nothing whatsoever to do with that. It wasn’t the late-night music we objected to, nor the type of language we sometimes heard being used in the designated camping area which happened to be in the field adjacent to our garden. No. This was simply a question of the dust, and the fumes, and the overall intrusion into and disturbance of our lives.

Yes. That is my understanding of the prognosis.

Quite.

Well, yes, of course I would agree that Mr Davidson’s life has now been disturbed, absolutely. But I think that’s rather an emotive way of framing the situation, if you don’t mind my saying so. The outcome of our actions on that day cannot in any way reflect upon the reasons we felt we had for taking those actions. Look, the situation had been recurring for months. And on this occasion, with guests at the house who were able to see the situation anew and emphasise to myself just how utterly unacceptable it was; well, the phrase I recall being used was this will not stand. You know, this simply will not stand. A line needed to be drawn. I had guests in my home, and I was effectively being humiliated by the situation. And so that was the background to the decision which was taken by myself and the other three gentlemen in question.

Possibly it was an emotive decision, yes. I do accept that.

Yes. Yes I do. I do believe it was a proportional response. Clearly the eventual outcome of the resulting chain of events was tragically disproportionate. But our original actions were reasonable, I feel, under the circumstances which I’ve gone to some lengths to outline for you today. And look, you know, the criminal proceedings relating to the earth-moving equipment, and the taking without consent thereof, have been concluded to the satisfaction of the Crown Prosecution Service. So that matter is actually now closed, I believe.

Right. I understand. Indeed.

Well, look, you know, regret is a very difficult word. It’s a complicated word. Do I, in all hindsight, wish things had turned out very differently? Of course I do. We all do, fervently. Would I have undertaken an alternative course of action had what we now know to have been the outcome been clear to me at that time? Absolutely I would. But the fact remains, the outcome wasn’t at all clear to any of us at that moment in time. As I’ve said, we were operating very much on a spur-of-the-moment basis. Something had to be done. The situation was intolerable. Of course I regret what eventually came to be seen as the outcome of the chain of events which the four of us perhaps somewhat inadvertently set in motion. But I’m just not sure I can accept the premise that this means I should regret my actions at that particular juncture, or the very limited decision-making process which led to those actions. Would an expression of regret change one single iota of the outcome of that day, or the impact upon Mr Davidson and his family? Of course not. Would such an expression somehow absolve myself of the burden of responsibility which I so rightly bear upon my own shoulders? Quite frankly, I fail to see why it should.

Look, of course I feel a sense of sadness about what happened to Mr Davidson. Of course I do. But this apprehension that somehow we should all go around apologising left, right and centre for a whole host of actions which clearly we are completely powerless to go back and rectify; well, I just don’t buy it. I absolutely don’t. None of us do.

Davison. Right. Of course.

Years Of This, Now

Grantham

She sat beside the bed and watched him breathe. She pulled her chair closer, the metal legs scraping across the floor. She’d been here barely ten minutes, and already she wanted to leave.

She should be praying now, she supposed. But she didn’t know what she would be praying for, if she were to pray honestly; whether she would be praying for his healing or simply asking not to have to be here at all.

The machines beside his bed did what they needed to do. His chest rose and fell.

She tried to remember when she’d last prayed for anybody. The thought of it seemed almost ridiculous, now. She reached out and held his hand. It was warm. She held it between her two hands, and she thought she felt some small pressure in response. Was that possible? She closed her eyes. She opened her eyes and looked around. The door to the main part of the ward was open, but nobody was watching. She could hear the nurses talking in their little side-room, further down the corridor. She could hear a television beside one of the beds in the ward. She turned back to Michael, and closed her eyes. Keep him safe, she said, silently. It was all she could think to say. Keep him safe and well. Keep him on this road to recovery. Or, no; keep him.

She opened her eyes, shocked at herself.

She leaned forward and smoothed the hair away from his forehead. It was getting long again. And he needed a shave. She wondered whether the nurses would do that. She pulled the sheet a little higher up his chest. She watched his breathing, his stillness. It was a long time since she’d seen him as relaxed as this. Even his sleep had seemed restless and tense of late; his arms wrapped round himself, his jaw clamped shut, his fists clenched. The doctor had warned him, in a way; if not of this exactly then of something. You’re too busy, the doctor had said, too stressed. You’re in need of a break, in need of some exercise, in need of a better diet. In need, also, of being able to pay attention when someone who knew what they were talking about said something like that, rather than thinking he was too young or too strong or just too bloody blessed for it to apply to him.

No, that wasn’t fair. Michael had paid attention, but he’d had no idea what to do with the information. I can’t have a break, he’d insisted. How can I have a break? How would the parish go on without me, at a time like this? There wasn’t a time when it hadn’t been a time like this. She wondered whether it was a male trait, this notion of being trapped by one’s own indispensability, or if it was something exclusive to Michael.

She shouldn’t be angry. It wasn’t fair. He was dedicated to his job. That was a good thing. The world needed people who were dedicated to their jobs. That church needed a vicar who was dedicated to the parish, finally. But she was tired of it now. She was tired of being left alone while he did these things. This new parish was supposed to have been a chance for them both to take things a little more slowly. It was supposed to have been a refreshing change after the urban pressures of the last parish; a nice quiet country church to see them both into retirement. Long walks. Coffee mornings. Ladies seeing to the flowers. The occasional trip into the city to go to the gallery, the cinema, the restaurants.