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As the last few drops of poison are squeezed outArifa Akbar10/08/2001 The inside of James Forster's home looks immaculate. The enormous front room window has no curtains, leaving the orderly contents exposed to passing gazes. It is as if the inhabitants have nothing to hide. It is as if they are saying: "Come in and take a look, all of you, just see what you can find." Neat china dogs and horses line the mantelpiece. Wooden reindeer and decorative horse-shoes stand on the sideboard. Twee scenes adorn the walls - grazing cattle, trees, mountains. The Forsters are evidently nature lovers. There is no hint of messiness, no slovenly slippers left by the settee, no stray tea-cups abandoned on the tables. The room is so ordered it verges on the self-conscious, as if James and his wife Elizabeth busied themselves with obliterating any hint of carefree intimacy before they left for their final day in court, removing every stray sign of themselves from this most "public" of views. The garden has been groomed just as fastidiously. There's a pretty fir tree on one side, a baby tree on the other. Herbaceous borders line the lawn, mown with almost symmetrical perfection. Indeed, the Forsters were wise to clean up for visitors. I cannot have been the first journalist to have pressed my nose up against their sitting room window for a glimpse of the contents inside, hoping to pick up clues as to what led the man into conducting his sinister, 12-year reign of neighbourly terror. But there is nothing inside which hints at a deranged mind or reveals a motive for his bizarre behaviour. The orderly space only signifies a man who was used to being utterly in control of his surroundings. So in control that he managed to victimise a string of neighbours and create a plague of bad feeling that has festered in the village for as long as some people have lived there. Many came to the village for peace and quiet. Ironic then, that the quiet, unremarkable North Yorkshire village has been inundated by strangers with cameras, microphones and notebooks over the past few years. Families on Cottagers Lane are sick of the sight of journalists at their doorstep. "It has all gone on for so long, we are fed-up of the whole thing. It seems so unreal to us," says one neighbour, who lives doors away from Forster. She says the village is not riven into camps, those who detest Forster for what he's done and those who have stayed untouched. Everyone is, however, unanimously weary. You can feel the relief on the street, the final sigh at never having to face another reporter with a notepad. She moved to Manfield 11 years ago for a quiet life with her husband, not to see her street appearing on the evening news. She has been untouched by the persecution Forster wreaked on some and was on perfect speaking terms with him. Indeed, he stopped by her front garden for a genial chat just days ago, on his way into town. "I'd sometimes stop and say hello to him. He was just ordinary, a very unlikely villain," she says. Likewise, neighbour Nancy Yarrow, who lives two doors away from Kirklea, doesn't have a bad word to say about him. "He seemed like a perfectly nice man," says the retired farmer's wife. "His wife, Elizabeth, has been a member of the Women's Institute for years, as have I, and none of us have treated her any differently. Not every villager has been affected by this but every single one of us are relieved that the end has come." Other neighbours remain tight-lipped. Some shut the door without comment. The man whose family moved into Meadowfield, the home which Forster wanted desperately to buy - a factor which triggered his hate campaign - shies away from the media glare. The village is quiet yet there is a palpable relief in the air. The Crown Inn is closed until the evening apart from weekends, while the church, school and the village hall are shut today. But many Manfield people must be celebrating the verdict behind closed doors. If there is one certainty, it is that they will not be receiving any more sinister mail. Letters can be opened without a second thought now. Back at Forster's front door, there is one visible sign that sums up the tools of his evil trade - an unopened letter lying on his doormat. Strange to think how the postman's innocent deliveries could have caused so much pain for so many people, and for so long. • Back
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