Quiet night. Some rain at 8, then fine.
In the office, continual squabbles about labour and pay, row after row.
Boxted at 7.30pm, to be on Post again at 9. Two gypsy vans arrived in the wood this evening, and Smith, the farmer came running in to ‘phone for the police in an awful flap. Vicious brute. Walked out quietly, and went to the wood, where the vans were drawn just inside the gate, and four odd coloured ponies were tied to the trees. There was a little fire burning, and a man was standing, watching a black kettle boiling.
I said “Good evening” and he answered “Good evening, Sir” in a very civil voice.
I said “I rather think somebody has ‘phoned the police to say that you’re camping on private property. Does it matter?”
“No, no, Sir,” he said quite quietly, “doesn’t matter a bit.”
“Oh, well, alright” I said, “Goodnight”.
“Goodnight, sir, and thank you for coming”.
I went back through the orchard, and not more than 10 minutes later both caravans came rattling past at a spanking pace. Three quarters of an hour later I saw the Horkesley policeman talking to Smith, as I went off to the Post.
It was 9pm to 1am tonight, and Pawsey on with me again. ‘Divers’ had been on several times during the evening, but nothing near. Got off at 1 sharp, and went hopefully to bed.