Whirligig, page 18
Once Claypole had regained his composure, he stood upright again and looked full into Harry’s eyes, desperate not to find a hint of recognition. He found nothing but pity. With one ostensibly charming wink Harry managed effortlessly to say, ‘It’s OK, you are an idiot, but I forgive you.’
‘Brr,’ said Claypole. His eye level was at Button Two of Harry’s expensive pink shirt. Claypole felt as if he were from a fatter and more troglodytic species.
‘Hi,’ said Harry with a manly bark. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Awright,’ said Claypole, now averting his eyes.
‘I expect you two have a lot to talk about,’ said Peregrine.
The men stood in silence.
Peregrine offered them cocktails, particularly pushing gin and Dubonnet with a jaunty ‘if it’s good enough for Her Majesty, it’s good enough for me’. Harry accepted but Claypole opted for coffee, pleading that he required the caffeine. He went off at Peregrine’s grumpy suggestion to make it himself, and bumbled around the kitchen, stepping around busy caterers and over reclining dogs, reflecting that all he had to do was get through the evening without making a fool of himself and stay fresh and sober for the meeting at the community hall the following day. At dinner, he said to himself, he would be as silent as he could possibly make himself.
Just as he took the first sip of the enormous bucket of coffee he had concocted, Coky appeared.
‘Ah. There you are,’ she said coyly. She was wearing a little black dress, a small black cardigan and high heels, and was carrying a brown envelope. He had never seen her dressed up or made up, and he was momentarily disorientated. She was showing by most standards a very modest amount of cleavage, but it was certainly different from the shotgun-wielding killer of the hills, and the transformation was intense. He tried to smile, but the hot coffee scalded his lips. She whispered, ‘Come with me.’
Coky led a wide-eyed Claypole to a chilly room next to the kitchen. On the shelves were trays covered in linen cloths and many decanters of wine. She turned to him with a conspiratorial bent.
‘I just want you to know,’ said Coky excitedly, ‘I think you’re doing really well.’ Her face was not more than six inches from his. ‘And I’ve got something to show you.’
Claypole had so rarely been propositioned that he was ill-equipped to know whether the light in Coky’s eye was as it might look if she wanted to kiss him. He swallowed and sucked in his stomach.
‘Look!’ she said, and smoothed the front of her dress. Claypole was appalled. He didn’t want it to be like this. He wanted candlelight, and music. Coky slipping out of a negligée in a Venice hotel bedroom. Not this. Not like some back-alley barmaid type showing her boobs for a port and lemon.
‘What…?’ he managed.
Coky handed him the brown envelope, and Claypole drew out the contents, examining them in the dim light as Coky continued.
It was two sets of land release documents, as drafted by an Edinburgh law firm, one for the attention of Dorcas MacGilp and one for Bonnie Straughan. They were both signed.
‘Dorcas’s one had a note on it from her. It said, “If Claypole wonders why, tell him: because he didn’t ask.” But I can’t imagine what you said to my mother to make her change her mind.’
‘I didn’t…’ Claypole started, but couldn’t think of what to say.
Coky leaned forward and kissed Claypole on the cheek. He felt himself blush instantly. Seeing this, the smile went from her face, and she backed away. The air between them seemed to freeze.
‘Listen, Claypole,’ she said, and retreated another step. ‘There’s something you should know about me.’
Claypole gulped. ‘You’re a cop?’ Coky was not smiling, so he tried again. ‘You’re a bloke?’
‘Oh, shut up a minute. This is important. I suppose I have developed a habit… The same way some people find themselves having the odd cigarette, then they buy a packet for parties, then it’s two or three a day, and suddenly they are a smoker. That’s pretty much how it happened to me…’
‘Yes,’ he said knowingly.
Coky looked puzzled. ‘What?’
‘I know,’ said Claypole in condescending triumph. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Really?’ Her puzzlement continued.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see. It doesn’t take a genius to work out your… little problem. Pretty obvious, really. Your secret is safe with me.’
His smile was broad and understanding.
‘Oh. Right.’ She seemed almost deflated. ‘OK then.’
‘What was it? Smack?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Weed, then. Or was it alcohol? I don’t mind. I mean, I’m no saint, so…’
‘What are you talking about?’
Suddenly, Claypole doubted himself. But it was too late.
‘You’re a… You’ve had problems with…’ he began, but her expression was suddenly both confused and offended. He knew that he had made a mistake, but he could not stop his sentence from completing. ‘… drugs.’
‘Gordon, I’m talking about sex.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Brr.’
‘I started saying no to men, even when I liked them. I just… well, because I didn’t want the complication, the embarrassment and the hassle involved in dealing with it all. When I found that it made me feel better about myself, I suppose I just got hooked.’
Claypole blinked several times. She was looking at him in a way that indicated that he should say something.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Well. I suppose…’ She looked at Claypole. ‘I just thought you should know… My habit is the habit of not sleeping with people.’
Claypole made a noise like a tyre deflating. ‘Pff. Yeah. Cool.’
‘Great.’ She smiled. ‘Good. Come on. Let’s stop talking shite and go and enjoy the party.’
And then she was gone. Claypole was left in the pantry, holding a brown envelope in his hand, and with his dangerously weak heart dangerously close to broken.
Some minutes later, Claypole was still dazed, but had allowed his legs to carry him to the drawing room. Peregrine grabbed him by the arm.
‘Come in, my dear old thing,’ he said. He had clearly had a couple of gin and Dubonnets already. ‘All ready for tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,’ said Claypole, trying to introduce a note of caution.
‘Never mind that now. No shop talk tonight!’ Peregrine yelled, dragging him into a circle of guests. Peregrine placed Claypole in front of a small woman in a red trilby and barked, ‘This is Miko! She’s a shepherd, and she also composes electronic pop for Israeli transsexuals.’
‘Brr,’ said Claypole, trying not to elbow the woman’s drink out of her hand.
‘Only one of my clients is a transsexual,’ said the woman. Claypole wondered why she sounded apologetic. But Peregrine was introducing others.
‘George and Vesper are funeral directors.’
A bald man in octagonal spectacles nodded, and a woman in pink raised her glass and smiled.
‘We’re, um,’ said the man, ‘we’re wicker-basket and bury-you-in-a-field types, not the brass-and-mahogany sort.’
‘Right,’ said Claypole.
‘And Harry Lightfoot you’ve met,’ said Peregrine. ‘Campaigner, businessman, saviour of the planet.’
‘Bollocks, Peregrine. You’re a silly arse, and you’re embarrassing everyone.’ Harry’s tone was light, and Peregrine giggled delightedly. Harry winked at Claypole and continued his conversation, which seemed to be with everyone.
‘You can’t own pets and say you’re an environmentalist. You just can’t. Domestic cats kill about eight million birds a year in Britain, and dogs require an enormous amount of meat, which is incredibly unsound carbon-wise.’
Some nodded. Some sipped their drinks. Peregrine looked at Harry with pure outrage.
‘But, but, but… dogs are the… cornerstone of the countryside!’ Peregrine examined the faces of the others, hoping for encouragement. ‘Everyone’s got a dog, for heaven’s sake! I mean, there’s… shooting… and… hunting, and fishing… well, no. All right, not fishing. But I mean to say… You’ll be saying humans eat too much meat next. This carbon doo-dah has got completely out of hand, if you ask me. I mean, what about breathing? Do you want me to knock that off too?’
‘Hey,’ Harry shrugged. ‘Population is a problem too.’
‘Well, ladies and gents,’ said Peregrine clasping his hands together. ‘That’s just the hors d’oeuvres. Aren’t you looking forward to Harry going head to head with our guest of honour over dinner? I know I am.’
Peregrine slapped Harry on the back before moving off, and Harry raised his eyes to heaven. Claypole was wondering whether he should introduce himself to the group when a large man in his sixties appeared at the door, and everyone’s attention seemed to be drawn to him. In suede shoes and new-looking corduroy trousers, accompanied by a small woman in a pashmina with brittle blond hair, the man beamed at the room professionally. Peregrine fussed around the couple.
‘Have you met Banfield Haines?’ asked Harry, sotto voce. Claypole said he had heard the name but couldn’t place it. Harry explained.
An averagely successful barrister before the current government, Banfield Haines QC had shared chambers with the Chancellor of the Exchequer decades before. The friendship had remained, although there were rumours that it was beginning to sour now that Banfield had been made Lord Haines, and had been given the job of Minister for Constitutional Reform. Haines and his wife, the reliably irritating political columnist Marian Pace, had a holiday home across the loch.
‘It seems that he regards the job title of Constitutional Reform Minister as honorary. No reform need actually take place.’
This fiery streak in Harry Lightfoot, along with the ability openly to insult Peregrine and get away with it, was both unexpected and welcome. Claypole encouraged Harry to continue.
When he first started coming up to Loch Garvach for holidays, Banfield had appeared to be nothing more than an affable fogey – full of claret and good stories. But the government years had turned him into a puffy, meretricious bully. Claypole was just wondering idly if there was any merit in sucking up to Lord Haines to further the interests of the Loch Garvach Wind Farm, when Harry added with a snarl, ‘and he absolutely hates wind farms’.
Claypole looked at Harry Lightfoot. He so wanted to hate him, with his vast mop of dishevelled sandy hair and his ramrod posture. But Harry was entertaining, vituperative, articulate and fabulously indiscreet. Far from being someone from whom Claypole wanted to hide, he might be useful to hide behind.
‘Are you going to… brr?’
‘Tackle them?’ said Harry, draining his glass. ‘Aye.’
Claypole looked across the room at Coky, who was talking to the Americans from the shooting party. She smiled at him, which just made him feel sadder. Claypole turned back to Harry and was shocked to see an unpleasant leer on his face. Harry was also looking at Coky, and winking. Claypole’s blood turned to brimstone. But there was no time to kill Harry Lightfoot, because the gong for dinner sounded in the hall.
Dinner took place – or rather, was performed – in the grand old dining room of MacGilp House under the square dusty outlines where family portraits had once hung. The party wallowed in artichoke mousse and picked its way through quail, then hoovered up lemon posset. Claypole had been seated next to a woman who had recently come to Loch Garvach to paint and recover from a painful divorce. They were rubbing along adequately until she said innocently, ‘It’s so peaceful in this part of the world compared to London. You must love it here’, and Claypole froze.
‘Peaceful?’ he said, and turned to her. Her innocent expression was broken by his incredulity. ‘Brr. It is not peaceful!’
Her brow knitted, but he could not let it go. He spoke through gritted teeth.
‘The countryside is appallingly bloody noisy. In every corner of every valley, and on every patch of grass and in every inch of tree are the sounds of beast and bird and everything else fighting or fucking.’
The woman could only blink at him.
‘You only have to put your ear to the air, particularly at night. Doesn’t take long to tune into the screeching and rustling and squawking and slithering that is breaking and beating all around you. The death and the sex perpetually pound and bite and gnaw away at you from every surface, behind and under every object, and in every damp nook and open space. It’s deafening.’
The woman’s eyes were welling up, but Claypole could not stop himself.
‘The only thing that these fuckers and fighters stop for is the rain. As soon as the rain stops, they’re all at it again. A bigger one chasing a smaller one for one reason or another until one or other of their tiny hearts gives out and they get buggered or eaten. Then something smaller still will polish off every last scrap of them before sunrise.’
The woman was staring into her pudding, but Claypole did not notice. ‘I tell you, it’s a multi-layered cacophony of orgy and murder. Peaceful? Brr.’
Claypole sipped his water and waited for the woman to agree with him. A few seconds passed before she began to cry gently into her lemon posset. He looked around him to see if anyone else had noticed, and went to place a surreptitious hand on her shoulder. She shrank away from him. So Claypole turned to his other side.
Instantly engaged in conversation by a stout and heavily pearled woman, he was asked what he was doing in Loch Garvach, and he told her. But just as she was beginning to give him the benefit of her opinions about wind farming, one of the Americans joined in with an observation about the wind farms in California. Within seconds, the subject of wind farms engulfed the whole table.
‘So, Harry!’ bellowed Banfield Haines so that all other conversations were cut short. ‘How is the world of wind?’ His tone was mocking.
Harry finished his mouthful in a considered way and took a glug of wine before answering.
‘Wind farming has changed. It used to be a few crazy people in sandals desperately trying to get tiny projects off the ground in the face of ignorance and suspicion. It was still a bit like that when I started in the business ten years ago.’ Here he looked significantly at Claypole. ‘Now it is like any other business. There is still ignorance and suspicion, but everyone thinks they know all about it.’
Haines frowned. ‘But we do know more about it these days. It’s in the newspapers all the time.’
Harry snarled, and looked at Marian Pace. ‘Mm. Does that mean we are any the wiser?’
Haines scoffed, but his wife took up the baton. ‘What do you think of Peregrine’s project, Harry? Do you think he’ll get the go-ahead to spoil another chunk of Scotland?’
‘Ah, you’re one of them,’ Harry muttered darkly.
‘I don’t know what you mean by that,’ said Marian Pace archly, ‘but you have to admit, even if you think they’re useful, that they are a ghastly scar on some of our most beautiful landscape.’
The words hung in the air. She looked around the table as if no one could possibly disagree with her. Harry stared into his wine.
‘Is that it?’ he asked of his wine, quietly. The atmosphere suddenly chilled.
‘I’m sorry?’ Haines knew bare-faced cheek when he heard it, and could not but react. Claypole didn’t know what to think. This was embarrassing, but was it also damaging to his interests? He knew the best policy was to remain quiet.
‘Who cares?!’ Harry had raised his voice. It had the effect of bringing anyone who was not concentrating absolutely to attention. ‘Who cares whether it’s beautiful or not?’
There was some harrumphing and shifting in seats. Coky attempted to diffuse.
‘Some people think they are beautiful, Marian. Me included. I –’
‘This could be the ugliest country in the world…’ Harry interrupted. ‘The ugliest part of the ugliest country… and if wind farming wasn’t a good thing to do, then it shouldn’t be done. Never mind that there may or may not be a beauty in form and function. But, really… why are we having an aesthetic debate about a power station? No one says they don’t like nuclear power because the power stations aren’t very pretty!’
‘But,’ Marian Pace leaned over the table, her face reddening, ‘wind farms are ugly!’
Harry smiled grimly. ‘Have you actually seen a wind farm?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where?’
‘Coming up here yesterday.’
Harry’s smile was sly. ‘Oh yes. The one near Moffat, or the one in Cumbria? And the road from which you saw it… the M6… or the M74. Is a motorway a thing of beauty and a joy for ever?’
Marian Pace narrowed her eyes unpleasantly.
‘When you build a wind farm,’ Harry slurred, ‘you have to set aside money to reinstate the land exactly – exactly – as it was before you built it. You don’t have to do that with a housing estate; you don’t have to do that with a factory. But you have to do it with a wind farm. It’s a very good idea, of course. It’s completely unfair, but it is a good idea. If someone finds a better way of making electricity, in twenty-five years the wind farm gets taken down again with no harm done. What we’ve all got to get used to, and fast, is that we’re not in the business of ruining the countryside to the benefit of cities, or the other way around. We are in the business of saving the entire world from total meltdown.’
Claypole wondered whether Harry had lost his audience by being over dramatic.
‘Shouldn’t we be using less electricity instead of building more power stations?’ asked the woman next to Claypole.
‘Yes!’ Harry was shouting. ‘Absolutely. But we should be doing that as well as, not instead of, renewable electricity generation. We have to do everything to combat climate change. Energy efficiency, offshore wind, onshore wind, solar, tidal, the lot. We can’t just pick and choose.’
The rest of the table was quiet. No one wanted to be the next target of Harry’s righteous ire. He continued.
