us – into a dump for so-called “travellers”, “gypsies”, “Romany” or whatever the correct “liberal” – with a very small L – phrase is in vogue this week. That not a single councillor bothered to appear this evening is less than edifying proof’ (Isaac Pye, the landlord of the Black Swan, yelled, ‘We’d’ve lynched the buggers out on the green, that’s why!’ and Mr Castle smiled like a patient uncle till the laughter’d died away) ‘is less than edifying proof of their duplicity, cowardice and the weakness of their case.’ (Applause. Mr Woolmere shouted, ‘Well said, Gerry!’) ‘Before we begin, the committee wishes to welcome Mr Hughes of the Malvern Gazetteer’ (a man in the front row with a notepad nodded) ‘for slotting us into his busy diary. We trust his report of the outrage being perpetrated by those criminals at Malvern Council will reflect his newspaper’s reputation for fair play.’ (That sounded more of a threat than a welcome.) ‘Now. Apologists for gypsies will inevitably drone, “What do you have against these people?” I say, “How much time have you got? Vagrancy. Theft. Sanitation. Tuberculosis…”’ I missed what he said next, thinking how the villagers wanted the gyspies to be gross, so the grossness of what they’re not acts as a stencil for what the villagers are.
‘Nobody denies that the Romany people need a permanent place of abode.’ Gwendolin Bendincks’s hands shielded her heart. ‘Romanies are mothers and fathers, just like us. Romanies want what they believe is best for their children, just like us. Heaven knows I’m not prejudiced against any group of people, however “way out” their colour or creed, and I’m sure no one in this hall is either. We are all Christians. Indeed, without a permanent site, how will Romanies ever be taught the responsibilities of citizenship? How else will they be taught that law and order guarantee their children a brighter future than begging, horse-dealing and petty crime? Or that eating hedgehogs is simply not a civilized act?’ Dramatic pause. (I thought how all leaders can sense what people’re afraid of and turn that fear into bows and arrows and muskets and grenades and nukes to use however they want. That’s power.) ‘But why oh why do the powers that be believe that Black Swan Green is an appropriate location for their “project”? Our village is a finely balanced community! A horde of outsiders, especially one of, shall we say, “problem families”, swamping our school and our surgery would tip us into chaos! Misery! Anarchy! No, a permanent site has to be near a city big enough to mop them up. A city with infrastructure. Worcester, or better still, Birmingham! The message we send to Malvern Council is united and strong. “Don’t you dare fob your responsibilities off on to us. Country people we may be, but by golly yokels that you can hoodwink we are jolly well not!”’ Gwendolin Bendincks smiled at her standing ovation like a cold man smiling into a bonfire.
‘I’m a patient man.’ Samuel Swinyard stood feet planted apart. ‘Patient and tol’rant. I’m a farmer, I’m proud of it, an’ farmers ain’t people to get a bee in their bonnets about nothin’.’ (A rash of good-humoured mutterings broke out.) ‘I ain’t sayin’ I’d be objectin’ to a perm’nant campment’n all for gypsies if they was pure gypsies. My dad Abe used to employ a few pure gypsies come harvest-time. When they put their minds to it they was hard ’nough workers. Dark as niggers, teeth strong as horses’, their people’d wintered’n all in the Chilterns since the flood. Had to keep an eye on ’em. Slipp’ry as the Devil they could be. Like in the war and they all dressed up as women or buggered off to Ireland to avoid goin’ off to Normandy. But at least with pure gypsies yer knew what they was an’ where you stood. Now why I’m on this stage tonight is, most of these characters driftin’ round callin’ ’emselves gypsies’re chancers an’ bankrupts an’ crim’nals who wouldn’t know a pure gypsy if one flew up his’ (Isaac Pye shouted ‘Arse, Sam, arse!’ and a giant fart of laughter erupted from the back of the hall) ‘nose, Isaac Pye, nose! Beatniks an’ hippies an’ tinkers’n all who tag ’emselves “gypsies” so they can qualify for handouts! Unedyercated scroungers after “Social Security”. Oooh, it’s all flush-toilet campsites’n all they’re wantin’ now! Social workers flappin’ round at their every beck and call! Why don’t I call myself