Read The People on Privilege Hill for Free Online Page B

you have to go and watch them every day?”
    Mr. Jones brooded and said he didn’t know. “They seem to like me. Since I was a baby,” he said, “children won’t leave me alone. I don’t know why. Mother said that there are just some people like that. My brothers and sisters used to hug me all the time. Children follow me. Mother said that the famous novelist, Jane Austen—you may have heard of her—had the same trouble.”
    â€œNo, sir. I hadn’t heard.”
    â€œI don’t like to tell them on the Common that I’m not really interested in them. I—you see, I tend to look at ghosts.”
    â€œGhosts, sir?”
    â€œAll the ghosts. The old ghosts. All gone now.”
    â€œI have to ask you something, sir. Do you ever wish you could see the children in the nude?”
    â€œIn the nude? Of course not! I never ever saw my brothers—good gracious! I never saw my sisters—my mother—oh, good gracious!”
    â€œI’m afraid I have to warn you, sir. It’s the climate of the times.”
    â€œI don’t take The Times , I take the Daily Telegraph .”
    â€œHave you a solicitor, sir? Just in case.”
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    The following Sunday Mr. Jones hung about after the church service until the coffee was finished and the coffee ladies had washed all up. The vicar, seeing him, was worried. “Care to come back for a bite of lunch, Mr. Jones?” and his wife said, “Oh yes, please do. It’s only fish pie, but come.”
    â€œDelighted,” said Mr. Jones, but spoke hardly a word. He did not seem hungry.
    Afterwards she said, “Mr. Jones—what’s wrong? Go and talk to George while I clear up.”
    â€œTrouble?” asked the vicar.
    â€œA policeman came,” said Mr. Jones.
    â€œI’d heard something,” said the vicar.
    â€œSaid I mustn’t watch the children on the Common. I can’t think why. I always did. Some people watch the tennis. Now people seem to be keeping away from me.”
    â€œI’ll fix it,” said the priest, and went down the hill to the station on the Monday morning.
    â€œI’m not having this,” he told them. “Right? I’ve known Jones for years. We all know him. He’s an innocent.”
    â€œIt’s with the Crown Prosecution Service now, sir. It’s out of our hands. There’ve been allegations.”
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œCome in here, sir, for a minute. There have been allegations of gross indecency. About forty years ago. A woman of fifty has alleged rape. When she was eight. On the Common. Persistent rape. A hundred times in three months.”
    â€œMr. Jones?”
    â€œYou’d be surprised, sir.”
    â€œNothing surprises me. Was this woman in therapy? Going through the menopause? Useless husband?”
    â€œSomething of the sort, sir,” said the policeman, surprised.
    â€œThey so often are,” said the vicar. “Wanting to find a reason for an unsuccessful life. ‘Nothing ever came up to my lovely childhood’—destroyed by a pervert. Tripe. We’re only just beginning to learn about the memory. And the powers of suggestion. Innocence is not considered.”
    â€œI’m afraid there are quite a lot of allegations, sir. One woman seems to have jogged the memories of others. We’ve been working on this case for a long time. The neighbours are not happy. Some of them have children.”
    â€œThe Common is where Mr. Jones feels safe. You must see he’s a bit strange. A lonely man. One on his own.”
    â€œIt’ll be his only hope, sir. ‘Diminished responsibility.’ Otherwise it’s going to be—well, you know—a custodial sentence.”
    â€œSend Mr. Jones to prison? At eighty-three!”
    â€œLook in the papers, sir.”
    â€œThe police have gone mad.”
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    The inspector walked the vicar to his car and said, “Look. Now