Whirligig, page 21
But Coky was unaccustomed to anger, and she tried to dismiss these unwelcome thoughts while she tried to read about projected wind speeds and the capacity factors of industrial turbines.
The second person to arrive in the hall was chairman of the planning committee Tommy Thompson. He approached Coky, but seeing she was so ensconced in her reading, he backed off and started laying out chairs. The third and fourth persons were the other councillors – Helen MacDougall and the strange-looking John Bruce. MacDougall played with her smartphone, and Bruce sat scratching his greasy scalp and rocking back and forth metronomically while reading a copy of the Glenmorie Herald. Soon others began to file through the door and take their places. The noise built further, and Coky was forced to abandon her attempts to concentrate.
When Peregrine MacGilp arrived, wearing a maroon tie that matched his hangover complexion, Tommy Thompson took him off into a corner of the room.
‘I heard about Mr Claypole’s departure,’ said Tommy Thompson quietly.
‘Bloody fool,’ tutted Peregrine.
‘Yes, well,’ Tommy Thompson said, also smiling. ‘It doesn’t matter. I did what you asked. John Bruce is in favour, so that makes two to one on the committee.’ Tommy Thompson gave a wink to his old friend. ‘It’s in the bag.’
Peregrine took his seat with a sly smile playing on his lips.
The hall was nearly half full now, and Coky felt a presence by her side. She turned to see her mother.
‘You know that little Johnnie Bruce is against it, don’t you, darling? Helen MacDougall and I met him yesterday and he’s definitely going to vote against the wind farm.’
Coky looked at her mother and gave a painful sigh.
‘You’ve never given me an inch, have you, Mum? Not one inch.’
Bonnie looked at her daughter with surprise. ‘There’s no need to take it personally, darling. I’m only doing what I think is best. You chose to…’
‘To what…?’ said Coky after a pause.
‘Well, to side with Peregrine.’
‘Oh God,’ said Coky, suddenly riled. ‘Is that what you think this is? Now who’s taking it personally?’
‘Oh, darling –’
‘No, you just listen for a change,’ Coky whispered furiously, shaking. But she couldn’t continue. She was near tears, and did not want to be. Not now.
‘You didn’t think,’ said Bonnie, her moon eyes widening, ‘that this was about family, did you?’
Coky took a breath. ‘I’m not defending what Peregrine did over the house and estate for a moment. But it was ages ago, and it’s not as if he’s had it easy…’ Coky stopped abruptly. This argument could be conducted another time. ‘I need to prepare,’ she said. But she could not stop herself from asking one further question of her mother.
‘Mum, why did you give your consent to the right of way if you knew we would be defeated today?’
To Coky’s surprise, her mother looked pained. The hall was nearly full. Tommy Thompson was looking at his watch as Bonnie whispered to her daughter.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ said Bonnie without her usual shrill tone. ‘I think Gordon Claypole, for all his bumbling weirdness, is quite a class act. It takes some balls to try and do what he did. He’s funny too, even if he is a crook. Do you know what he said when I asked him to produce one reason why I should vote in favour of the wind farm? He said, “money”.’
Coky smiled weakly. ‘Aye. I thought I liked him too,’ she said.
‘There’s another reason, though. I…’ Bonnie paused for a moment, during which Coky wondered if she had ever seen her mother like this. ‘I once did the Claypole family a… disservice, shall we say…’
Coky screwed her face in confusion, but remained silent.
‘It was before I met Angus. I was having a strange time, and I didn’t behave well… So… Well, we’ll leave it at that.’
Bonnie smiled sheepishly as she took a seat among the building audience. Tommy Thompson banged his gavel.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ said Tommy Thompson, and the room hushed in a moment. ‘First tonight is Tony Ponder, the council’s Acting Planning Officer.’
A small man in a blue suit, whom no one had noticed, stood and gave a highly technical speech to which no one listened. Although his recommendation was that the scheme be turned down, it was entirely clear to everyone in the hall that he had no power. When Ponder had finished, Tommy Thompson stood again.
‘Thank you, Tony,’ he said without enthusiasm, and turned to the hall. ‘It has been a dramatic week in the life of our community, I think you’ll all agree. The questions we asked of the Wind Farm Company at the last meeting a week ago have kindly been answered, and copies of that document are on some of the chairs in this hall as you can see.’
He coughed, as did some others.
‘It seems that we will have to do without the spokesman for the wind farm, as he has been indisposed.’
There were some titters from the assembly.
‘But Coky Viveksananda has kindly agreed to step in at the last moment and read a statement by the company. So we should give our thanks to her.’
There was silence in the hall as Coky rose from her chair and prepared to pronounce the last rites over what she was sure was the dead body of the Loch Garvach Wind Farm. She had decided, as her one and only tactic, to give the facts very formally and drily, in the hope that anyone speaking against the wind farm might sound hysterical and illogical by comparison. Her voice as she began was quieter than Tommy Thompson’s professional boom, but it was steady and gently confident. Her small presence on the stage was attended to closely by the whole hall, and even those at the back found that they could hear her well.
As she went through her statement on behalf of the wind farm, correcting certain misconceptions that had surfaced at the previous meeting, and logically presenting the case in favour, she noticed certain people in the audience. In the front row of the audience was Peregrine. His beaming grin was intended, she knew, to provide her with confidence, but it was the same smugness that Coky had been ignoring in her uncle all her life in order to try and love him. She glanced at the back of the hall. There was Lachlan, brooding and looking at the floor. Milky, standing next to him, had been the last person into the hall. He looked distracted. There was Kevin Watt from the Glenmorie Herald. And there, right at the back, with the door swinging silently shut behind him, was Gordon Claypole.
Coky stuttered slightly, but managed to continue her speech despite the storm raging in her head, once or twice looking back at Claypole to check that her eyes were not deceiving her.
‘In conclusion, then, we say change should be given a chance. The Loch Garvach Wind Farm will improve the environment and enhance our community. Thank you.’
She sat down, and a ripple of applause began around the hall. It couldn’t be said to be much more than respectful, except from the wind farm’s known supporters. Coky’s eyes directed a questioning look at Claypole. He smiled awkwardly.
John Bruce, seeing Claypole, leaned across to Tommy Thompson and whispered. The chairman also looked at the back of the hall and raised his eyebrows when he too saw Claypole. When the applause died down, Tommy Thompson spoke.
‘Thank you, Coky. At this point there may be questions from the floor.’ A few hands were raised. ‘I should remind you that this is not a time to express your opinions. That time has gone. This is to explore last-minute questions of fact.’
Tommy Thompson smiled as he saw that several people with their hands raised had put them down again. But of the hands that remained in the air, the most noticeable was that of Claypole. Tommy Thompson seemed to hesitate for a moment before he said, ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I had been led to believe before this meeting that the spokesman for the Loch Garvach Wind Farm was not due to be present at this meeting, but I see now that he is. So, the chair recognises Gordon Claypole.’
There were a few mutterings, and some of the audience turned their heads in the direction of the chairman’s eyeline. But the biggest reaction came from Peregrine, who bolted out of his chair and swivelled on his heels to see Claypole making his way through the audience and coming to the front of the stage. Peregrine’s face had turned beetroot. He gathered his thoughts, and then blurted, ‘A point of order, Mr Chairman!’
‘Yes,’ said Tommy Thompson in a tone of measured surprise. ‘Peregrine MacGilp.’
‘Claypole no longer represents Loch Garvach Wind Farm Limited.’ And turning to Claypole, he snarled, ‘You’re fired, matey.’
Tommy Thompson looked at Claypole, who reached the stage and stood coolly beside the fuming Peregrine. ‘Brr. What if I were here in a personal capacity?’
There were mutterings from the audience. Peregrine huffed triumphantly. ‘Nothing entitles you to be here, in that case. You’re not even a resident of Loch Garvach…’ And he added with a cruel twist of his lips, ‘or anywhere else, apparently.’
No one laughed. They were waiting for Tommy Thompson’s reaction.
‘This is a public meeting,’ began Tommy Thompson thoughtfully, ‘and as such can be attended by any member of the public. The chair has recognised Mr Claypole.’
Peregrine’s eyes darted furiously from Tommy Thompson to Claypole and back again.
‘Perhaps,’ began Claypole, ‘I could be allowed a moment in private with my coll–… Sorry, my former colleague?’
Tommy Thompson looked at Peregrine, and Pere-grine looked at Claypole, who looked at Coky and smiled.
‘Guh,’ said Peregrine, and pointed at the back of the stage.
‘Thank you, Mr Chairman,’ said Claypole, and waddled off after Peregrine.
‘While they are… um, perhaps I could answer a few questions from the floor?’ said Coky, facing the front.
Next to a large cardboard shark, Peregrine turned to Claypole. They could still be seen by the audience, but not heard by them.
‘That’s a very good idea,’ said Tommy Thompson, glancing behind him at the two men at the back of the stage. ‘Does anyone have any questions?’
No hands were raised, and Tommy Thompson could see that all eyes were fixed on the silent drama unfolding behind him. Peregrine was poking Claypole in the chest, but the younger man was not reacting.
‘Well, perhaps I’ll ask one,’ said Tommy Thompson, also unable to tear his eyes away from Peregrine and Claypole. Claypole had drawn some papers out of his pocket and handed them to Peregrine. ‘Could you remind us of when building might begin on the wind farm, should it, er… should it be given planning permission?’
‘Yes, I, er…’ Coky looked behind her as surreptitiously as she could to see Claypole, his hands in his pockets, talking quietly, while Peregrine leafed through the papers he had been given. The old man clearly did not like what he saw, or heard. ‘Initial works on the foundations could begin in about nine months, but…’
Coky had ground to a halt. Peregrine was running his hands through his hair, and his shoulders had dropped. Claypole was continuing to speak to the old man.
‘… And, er… yes, if everything goes… If everything goes well, then, er…’ Coky looked back at the audience, and saw that no one was listening to her, so she gave up and stopped talking.
All the eyes in the hall watched as Claypole gave Peregrine a pat on the shoulder and walked confidently back to the front of the stage. Peregrine followed him a couple of seconds later, grim defeat on his face.
As he reached the front of the stage, Coky searched Claypole’s eyes but he looked nothing other than completely collected as he planted himself in the middle of the stage.
‘It seems that… Brr… I am happy to say that I have been rehired as the spokesman for the Loch Garvach Wind Farm.’
Everyone’s attention switched from Claypole to Peregrine, who nodded before sitting heavily in his chair at the front of the audience. Then all eyes were back on Claypole.
‘First, I’d like to say a little something about myself, just for the record… Brr. Got any water?’
Coky offered him the glass that stood in front of her.
‘Thanks,’ said Claypole, and drained the glass. Coky noticed that he was dressed in the same clothes he had on the previous night, and found herself wondering where, or whether, he had slept. Like everyone else in the hall, she was also wondering what on earth had just taken place between Claypole and Peregrine.
‘So. Yeah. You’ve probably read the Glenmorie Herald, and… I’m not a rich and successful entrepreneur. Actually I never said I was. But I didn’t deny it, so… that was foolish, and I did it, I suppose, because the fact is that I’m really in the sh–… Er…’
He looked at an old woman in the front row, whose eyes were narrowed. He inclined his head slightly in her direction.
‘I am in a jam,’ he continued. The old woman nodded graciously. ‘But I’ve spent a week here now, immersed fully, um, in the area… and I’ve got a bit to say about the place.’
He cleared his throat gently and glanced down at his hands. The audience was now completely still, attending closely to every word.
‘Let’s deal with the big picture first. Anyone who doesn’t think that climate change by human cause is scientific fact beyond reasonable doubt is either an idiot or being deliberately obtuse. But even if you insist that it is still a matter of opinion, there remains the simple reason that it is now government policy. Our governments, both UK and Scottish, have decided that generating electricity using wind turbines must happen.’
Claypole looked up. Every eye was on him.
‘The question before us – and every other wind farm – is not “should there be wind farms?” but “should there be a wind farm here?” ’
Claypole looked at his left palm, and stared at it. Then he looked at his right. Coky could see now that both hands were covered in blue biro.
‘Sorry, brr,’ he said, looking on the sleeve of his shirt, where there was more biroed scrawl. ‘Wrote this in a bus shelter. Ah, yeah. So… no one likes the idea of suddenly living next to a power station, of whatever kind. Some don’t like the idea of a power station that moves, and moves in what may be a beautiful setting. And we fear the unknown. Who can say from a map or a drawing what they will really feel when they see a 125-metre-high turbine across the valley? But really, none of this matters.’
There were murmurs from the audience, but Claypole ignored them, rolling up his sleeves to reveal more biro.
‘We all go through life thinking that the nasty things get done somewhere else. Modern life is designed this way. You might never see the inside of a morgue, but sure as Christmas you will die. You might never go to an oil processing plant, but you still drive your car. And you will probably use a hundred megawatt hours of electricity in your life without ever going near a power station. Most of us are completely disconnected from the consequences of our actions.’
There was a hiss from somewhere, but Claypole ploughed on.
‘But “why here?”, you say. Here in Loch Garvach, where there are no traffic jams, no sirens, no pollution to contend with, although all of those things happen in the cities that make your lives possible. Government and crime and mail order distribution centres barely impinge on your lives, and yet you have roads and police and you can buy anything you like on the internet. Wind farming is the one thing of inconvenience that society at large is now asking of the country dweller. Is that so bad?
‘I’ve listened to the fears of a lot of people in the last week. I have spoken to shepherds and ghillies and people who rely on tourism, and I’m convinced there will be no impact on their livelihoods. The forests and the fisheries will be unaffected, and your house will still be worth what it is today.’
Claypole paused and looked at the faces in the hall. Some wore grimaces, set firm. Some smiled curiously. Some had mild frowns. All were paying full attention. Tommy Thompson interrupted him. ‘Could you stick to matters of fact, Mr Claypole? Your opinion as to the value of my house is not relevant.’
Claypole smiled at Tommy Thompson.
‘Sure,’ he said calmly. He rolled his sleeves down and put his note-ridden hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll give you some facts. Wind farming is a professional business. People with MBAs and electrical engineering degrees operate a multi-billion-pound industry. Very rarely do the little guys – the amateurs like the Loch Garvach Wind Farm Company – get a large wind farm through planning successfully. But in the rare cases that they do, it is because they give something special to the communities in which they exist. My final word, therefore, is this…’
Claypole paused, looked at Coky briefly and raised his voice suddenly – almost shouting – so that some in the audience jumped.
‘If you’re going to have a wind farm, for God’s sake get it right! Why are you only getting £2,000 per turbine? Ask for ten. Or twenty. Peregrine MacGilp will still make millions out of it, but so will you. At the moment it’s like someone’s found gold in your hills and you lot are all standing around wondering why anyone would want the shiny yellow rocks. An opportunity like this comes along once a century, and if you don’t grab it with both hands, you will have spectacularly missed out, and you’ll only have yourselves to blame.’
Claypole’s hands were held out to the audience as if grasping it collectively by the elbows. The community hall was completely still except for Peregrine, who was shaking his head and grinding his teeth. But he said nothing.
