Open and shut case Roy Hattersley When we moved in
Open and shut case Roy Hattersley When we moved into our house there was only one window in the dining room. It was built to keep out cold, not let in light. So its northern wall, two feet thick, was left blank. For years we suffered the frustration of eating our summer suppers in the knowledge that, on the other side of the fireplace, there was a garden in full bloom which we could not see.
Then I had an idea. A cupboard was sunk into the wall where a window ought to be — exactly in line with the sundial, and, if the dining-room and downstairs drawingroom doors were left open, affording a view of the garden from one side of the house to the other. The window, into which it could be converted, would not be as big as we would wish. But we feared that the planning authority would veto anything extravagant. Converting the cupboard seemed more likely to win official approval. So, with the assistance of a solicitor, architect and builder, we made an official application to dislodge about ten square feet of limestone.
The planning authority responded by sending a team of high-powered experts — including an antiquarian and, for all I know, a forensic pathologist. Whenever I watch Waking the Dead, Boyd and his team of scientific sleuths always remind me of the visitation of the planning experts. Much to their credit they responded to my application within a couple of weeks. The hole had been cut in the wall just before the second world war and was, therefore, of no consequence. However, the door which hung in front of it was of 'special historical interest' and must form the entrance to a cupboard in some other suitable place in the house. There was heavy emphasis on the word suitable.
For reasons which I no longer remember, the downstairs drawing room was ruled out completely. The upstairs drawing room was disqualified for reasons which I did not understand even at the time. The suggestion that the old cupboard might replace a more modern cupboard door on one of the landings was regarded as laughable. The proposal that it should hang in the kitchen was dismissed with contempt. It had to be rehung in the room from which it came.
Fortunately, on the other side of the chimney breast from the cupboard's original location, the wall retreated by about two inches. The breadth of the enclave was almost exactly the same as the width of the door. Perhaps that was where the cupboard had been hung when whoever owned the house was a loyal subject of George I. Not even the antiquarian could explain why anyone would want a twoinch-deep cupboard. But the planners brooked no argument. The door must move to the other side of the chimney breast or stay where it was. The fact that it would look ridiculous was neither here nor there.
The workmen — specially selected for the delicate task — removed the cupboard door. It had, I was forced to admit, a special interest. But it was more commercial than historic. One of the batons which held it together was stamped 'Fyffe Bananas'. On another, the words 'Pear's Soap' could clearly be seen. The planning authority, in their word 'appraised' of the discovery, expressed reluctance to 'revisit' (their word again) their original decision. The two-inch cupboard remains.
You think, cynical reader, that I am about to launch into a tirade against the tyranny of the planning laws and call for major relaxations. Not a bit of it. Like the rest of the village, I am passionately in favour of the most stringent control on the smallest change to any of the ancient buildings by which we are surrounded — as long as they do not apply to me. Show me a petition objecting to planning permission for a porch or portico and I will sign it without hesitation. If there is a scandal involved in our planning laws, it is the freedom to build conservatories without obtaining permission from anybody. My planning application days are passed. So I am now wholly in favour of draconian regulations enforced with total disregard for the owners of the properties. Otherwise, before you can say 'listed building', we will have cupboard doors made out of old packing cases.
And even the cupboard had what might be called a silver lining. The chairman of the planning authority — a friend of mine, who kept properly aloof from my application — left local government for greater things in the world of conservation. I made a speech at his farewell supper. Being, like me, a man who deplores overt sentiment, he was embarrassed to hear me say that I think of him each day. I think of him when I see the cupboard defiling my dining-room wall. He has promised me a commemorative plaque to hang beside it. I await its arrival with undisguised impatience.
Roy Hattersley, 2007
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