Chapter 5
Puck's Dell, Stumblefrith Forest, Wealdshire. Saturday 9 May 1998
'When's the doc visiting? Does anyone know?' Shadow studied each of the faces around him, most of them barely discernible in the reddish flickering light thrown out by the small fire which was struggling to stay alight. He didn't expect much response but he had to try. A couple of heads shook slowly from side to side, a pair of shoulders managed a half-hearted shrug, and a meaningless grunt emerged from a mouth which was hidden behind several layers of a well-wrapped scarf. All eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the puny flames as if willing them to flare up into a blaze which would throw out enough heat to warm frozen hands and dry sodden clothes.
Shadow, regarded by everyone as the unofficial leader of the camp, was doing his best to raise everyone's spirits — but knew he was wasting his time. He had less chance of raising a smile in the camp than he had of persuading Wealdshire County Council to abandon their road plan. 'Perhaps I'll give the doc a call on Monday and see if he can pop out to see us. If we don't get pneumonia, we'll probably all end up with foot rot.'
The only reply was a cough from Falcon, a sneeze from Misty and a truly revolting sniff from Hooter — but then, Hooter wasn't called Hooter for nothing.
None of the protesters used their real names as they felt safer remaining 'unknown' to the authorities. Most of them had been arrested on more than one occasion and were convinced that, if they gave their real names and addresses, the information would be entered into a top secret database and entered on assignment cards for government-funded hit squads. Besides, it was much more fun to give your name and address as something like Will o' the Wisp, Puck's Dell, Stumblefrith Forest.
Bizarre names not only appealed to the anti-road protesters but were also more likely to appeal to the media. The name of the game was positive publicity, and if you called your camp 'Tinkerbell's Tavern', it was more likely to be mentioned in the news than if it was called 'Camp B' or, worse still, nothing at all.
All the members of Shadow's team were veterans of anti-road campaigns. And they'd learned a few lessons along the way. In the old days, the press had referred to them as long-haired layabouts and dole scroungers. As time had gone by, however, the protesters had acquired an increasing amount of respect from the general public. In part, this was due to the way that the campaigners had been able to improve their strategies to frequently leave the authorities looking like foolish bullies. But more importantly, perhaps, the eco-warriors had gained the support of 'respectable' people who realised that the protesters were not looking for an excuse to throw mud at policemen, but were genuinely concerned about the destruction of the environment.
This weekend had not been a happy one. Everyone had become so accustomed to dry weather that the rain had knocked them sideways. Morale was low and Shadow needed to think of some way to restore everyone's spirits. If the police and bailiffs were to call tonight, Shadow thought grimly, they could evict us without any resistance. He wished that Martha hadn't had to go home for the weekend.
An active 62 year old retired drama teacher, Martha McKenzie was an example to them all (and the only one who insisted on using her real name). For the last two months she had been living in a tree house and no-one had heard one complaint from her. She negotiated the rope walkways which linked the tree houses as if she were a teenage gymnast, raced up rope ladders faster than a squirrel, and slid down the escape ropes like a sailor in the rigging on an old sailing ship. If Martha had been here, everyone would have been too ashamed to feel sorry for themselves. Shadow wasn't sure how long she would be away, but he hoped she would return soon.
He stood up, grimaced as he heard his feet squelching inside his soggy boots, and announced that he was turning in for the night. He didn't expect more than a few nods and grunts — and he didn't get it. He splashed his way through the trees for a short distance and found his home. Tonight it didn't look particularly welcoming.
A large tarpaulin, tied to two tree trunks at one end and pegged to the ground with metal tent pegs at the other end, kept the rain off — but there was nothing to stop the water trickling into his house from the rain- splashed ground around. Shadow decided that he would dig a moat around his house in the morning to divert the ground water. Or, if he had time, he would build himself a proper bender, the previous one having mysteriously disappeared while everyone was celebrating Beltane a few days earlier. As the old Celtic festivals were important to the eco-people, everyone had gone off to a sacred spot to celebrate the arrival of summer, leaving no-one to guard the camp. When Shadow had returned, there was no sign of his bender. The tarpaulin, hazel frame, and all his home comforts had simply vanished. Shadow was almost certain that it had been dismantled and removed by the goons (as the security people were often called) but, good eco- warrior that he was, he simply accepted that that sort of thing happens in wars, and made himself a temporary shelter the following day.
He stooped down and crept under the tarpaulin. Taking a box of matches from his pocket, he felt around until he located his lamp. He turned the gas on, struck a match, and held it beneath the glass. The little lamp gave out more than enough light to allow him to see what he was doing. Wrapped in a sheet of plastic was his sleeping bag. He slipped his hand inside and was relieved to find that the rain hadn't penetrated. He was equally pleased to find that his mobile phone seemed to have stayed dry. He slid it out, switched it on and entered a number. One of the 'respectables', the supporters who lent their assistance to the resident protesters whenever they could, brought him a freshly-charged battery every few days but, as batteries didn't last very long, he tried to use it as infrequently as possible. After a couple of rings he heard, 'Good evening — Jerry Sanders.'
'Jerry — it's Shadow.'
'Hiya Shadow. Want a nice warm bed for the night?'
'It's tempting, mate — very tempting — but I think the troops would lynch me if I sloped off.'
'Yeah. Tough being the boss, huh? Got to keep setting a good example.'
'I do my best. Not easy tonight, though. They're all cold, wet and miserable.'
'Do you think any of them will want to give up?'
'I don't think so, but I wouldn't blame anyone who did want to creep off.'
'Is there anything I can do?'
'Yeah. That's why I'm calling. Do you think there's any chance of some of the respectables calling in tomorrow and making a bit of a fuss of everyone?'
'Not a problem. I'll get Trudy to pass the word round. Expect to see a mob of middle-aged ladies bearing gifts sometime tomorrow morning.'
'Thanks, mate. That'll work like a charm. The gang love being mothered.'
'And the ladies love doing the mothering. Believe me, some of them have become new people since the protest started. I dunno what they'll do when it's all over.'
'Drive along the new road to their coffee mornings?'
'Hell no, Shadow! There won't be a new road! Keep strong. Yeah, I know it's easy for me to say that from the comfort of my warm home with roof that doesn't leak, but you wait till the sun comes out. You'll feel good again.'
'Yeah. Hope you're right. One more thing, Jerry . . .
'What's that?'
'A meet. Soon as you can. Gotta go. Bye.'
Shadow switched the phone off, replaced it in its waterproof bag and then thought for a moment. Had he said anything that he shouldn't have said? You could never be sure whether phones were being tapped. Unlikely with mobiles, but you never knew.
He allowed himself a smile — a visit from the respectables would solve one problem — a bit of motherly fussing would do wonders for morale. And a visit from Doctor Sengupta would make some of the off-colour ones feel better.
That just left one difficulty to resolve — how to stop Andrew Starling, Superintendent of Roads and Transportation, devastating a vast swathe of countryside to build his motorway. That was the reason he'd asked Jerry to meet him. He wanted him to arrange a brainstorming meeting with some of the key supporters to see if anyone could come up with some fresh ideas for putting a spanner in Mr Starling's works. His thoughts were interrupted by someone calling out quietly, 'Knock, knock.'
He looked up and saw a friendly face smiling at him from behind a curtain of long black hair.
'Hello, Misty. What'y'doin?'
'The others asked me to come and apologise. We're all feeling terribly guilty 'cos you tried so hard to cheer us all up and we behaved like spoiled kids. Here — I've made you a cup of cocoa.'
'Lovely!' He took the mug from Misty and carefully raised it to his lips. 'That's good. Thanks.'
Misty looked relieved that the peace offering had been accepted. 'I hope it warms you up,' she said as she turned to go.
'Not as much as a friendly smile,' Shadow replied, but not loudly enough for Misty to hear.