The People on Privilege Hill by Jane Gardam Read Free Book Online Page A

you?”
    â€œI am able to read.”
    But reading, he did not understand.
    â€œDo you want to sign these allegations, sir?”
    â€œI want to see my parish priest.”
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    Four hours later, he was given a cup of tea. Mr. Jones was allowed home. The handcuff was not restored. “We’ll drop you on your doorstep, sir. The padre will be there looking out for you. We found him. You’re staying with him tonight.”
    Mr. Jones stared.
    â€œWe’ve insisted, sir. It’s usual. We don’t want you doing something foolish. By the way, don’t forget that we’ll need your passport. Get the padre to bring it in.”
    â€œI have no passport. I’ve never been abroad.”
    â€œHere we are then, sir. There’s the light on—he’s there.”
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    The wonderful familiarity of the front door. The brass bell and letter box. The door was on the latch.
    But inside the house felt different. Antiseptic. The kitchen dresser, the wardrobe in the bedroom, the bathroom cupboards, some slightly open, had a self-consciousness he had not seen before. The downstairs lavatory door stood open and a rubber glove lay on the floor.
    â€œMr. Jones? Hello? Is that you? Don’t come in here—”
    But it was too late. Mr. Jones went into the schoolroom and saw that all the children’s books were gone, and only then did he burst into tears.
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3.
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    After the police search of Mr. Jones’s house, and the charges made that he had been once a rapist, they left him to himself for some months, only requiring that he did not leave his premises overnight without informing them of his whereabouts. Mr. Jones never went anywhere overnight and was only persuaded once or twice to stay at the vicarage or with a parishioner when faceless grey men with cameras began to hang about his gate. This happened on the occasions when he had to appear at a more important police station and then at the Crown Court. His solicitor was changed to one more used to crime and he found a Silk who specialised in this sort of case. This was a woman so busy that she hardly saw Mr. Jones but said they would meet properly at the trial. Mr. Jones looked at her with mild interest. She reminded him of one of the more forceful of the whistle-blowing teachers at the infant school who had apparently told the police, “We never quite took to him.”
    â€œThe QC is very good,” said the vicar. “So we hear.”
    Mr. Jones thought that she hadn’t looked particularly “good,” but certainly strong and determined. Obviously he was not the easiest client because he was finding speaking more and more difficult. At one point the magistrates asked if he was deaf. It was the vicar who stood near him in the dock and answered the questions, Mr. Jones observing the scene in silent and bewildered dignity.
    The legal steps went forward steadily for several more months before the trial. The press came and went at the gate. At each court appearance there was now a report in the Surrey newspapers and a footnote or two in the Guardian where he was described as a pensioner, grey-haired and tall. The year drew to its end.
    Mr. Jones still walked on the Common but now went round two sides of a triangle to avoid the pond and the long seat. He walked out beyond the pine trees and the site of the old Roman fort where he could hear the steady throb of the motorway along Ermine Street. As a sort of comfort and passport he carried the dogs’ lead. He avoided people with children. Sometimes a child who had known him ran up to him and he would turn his back and shout into the distance, “Yeoman? Farmer? Here, boys, here.” People with dogs smiled at him and on the far tracks through the woods riders on horseback sometimes reined up and spoke to him. “Take care out here on your own, sir. It’s getting late. You can easily get lost. There are nasty people about.”
    â€œI know every