Two women were waiting for their appointment with the mayor. Petitioners, Congreve called them, but they were just representatives for householders who lived near the harbour and who were concerned about the freedom camping there. When he’d finished the discussion with the CEO, Pearly sat behind his desk and the women were shown in — Mrs Elaine Lilley and Mrs Amy Ransumeen. Pearly’s office was impressive in a rather dated, predictable way, and he’d found that a measure of formality often tended to subdue the demeanour and stridency of presentation in those who came with a complaint. Reference and minute books lined one wall, the furniture was of solid, dark wood, the carpet lush, and on the uncluttered, expansive desk were two mounted crests, one the council’s own, the other representing the town’s sister city in China that he’d visited once, had no wish to return to and whose name he consistently mispronounced. Behind the desk was a large window with its second-storey view of the post office, the museum park, the St John Ambulance building and a bird cage of used cars.

Pearly was studiously regarding his computer screen when the women entered, but he stood up to greet them, though remaining behind the desk. He could see almost immediately that Amy Ransumeen was the driving force of the small deputation. A tall, flowing woman dressed in green who met Pearly’s gaze as a challenge and when seated held her bulging white handbag firmly in her lap with two hands, as if restraining a goose. ‘We’re here to express householder and ratepayer concern at the state of the harbour park,’ she said. ‘In the summer that is, especially.’

‘Yes,’ said her companion, ‘especially in the summer.’

‘The campervans and caravans,’ continued Amy. ‘So many don’t have amenities. It’s disgusting the state the place gets into. Often people just stay overnight in cars. Young people drinking and littering all hours. Howling like wolves, arguing and fighting. The place is a shameful mess on Sunday mornings and the locals won’t let their children go there. We have a volunteer clean-up group, but why should it be necessary? And often they get abused.’

‘My own husband was abused,’ said Elaine.

‘There are public toilets just two blocks up, by the fire station,’ said Pearly.

‘They don’t know, or they can’t be bothered to go,’ said Amy. ‘Some do their business in the trees. It’s a disgrace.’

‘A disgrace,’ confirmed Elaine.