Little Black Lies (11 page)

I want to tell her I can’t imagine anyone better, but I’ve rather got out of the habit of kind words, so I nod. She hovers for a few seconds, then walks into the door on the way out and disappears rubbing her hipbone.

Pete helps me load the equipment and we set off. Back at the harbour, my boat is empty. I feel a moment’s qualm about leaving Queenie with a man who is clearly emotionally unstable. I was prepared to be lenient when it was my own safety at stake but if he hurts my dog, I will kill him.

There is nothing to be done. I don’t have time to track them down now and in any event, Queenie has been coping with emotional instability for three years. I doubt she’ll notice the difference.

We don’t take my boat. It isn’t fast enough. The RIB will get us there in an hour so even if people have already set off overland, we’ll still beat most of them to it.

‘Pilot whales?’ Pete has to shout his question at me above the roar of the engine as we leave Stanley harbour.

‘Probably.’ I take the RIB up to its top speed. Janey is a true daughter of Grandpa Coffin, she knows her whales. Besides, pilot whales are among the most common to be involved in mass beachings.

‘It won’t be pretty,’ I shout back, which is something of an understatement. Of all possible marine disasters – oil slicks, pollution incidents – the grounding of a pod of large mammals is one of the trickiest and most distressing to deal with.

As we near Speedwell we pass other boats heading the same way. One of them appears to be from the cruise ship, which isn’t great news. Island people will be pragmatic, ready to pitch in if there’s anything sensible they can do, stoical if not. Visitors from overseas, with no real understanding of the natural world, will be a different matter.

‘Why?’ Pete is mouthing at me. ‘Why does it happen?’

I couldn’t answer that one in a few words and sign language. No one really knows why it happens. My father, who made something of a life’s work studying whale beachings, argued that they were akin to road traffic accidents. Any number of things could go wrong, but the result was the same. Animals can hit ships, be attacked by predators; in the northern US, pneumonia is a common reason for beachings. The animal could have a virus, a brain lesion, parasites. Quite often animals are washed ashore posthumously.

With a mass beaching though, there’s something else going on. Strong social cohesion within a pod of whales means that if one gets sick or is injured and swims into shallower waters, it’s quite likely to be followed by the rest of the group. The whole pod then gets in trouble.

Some scientists believe the echolocation systems that whales use to navigate are less adept at picking up the gently sloping coastlines around the Falklands. The whales simply don’t see the beach until it’s too late.

The environmental lobby are quick to blame man’s habit of pillaging the planet, that military sonar can cause whales to lose their bearings, stray into shallow water and end up on the beach. On the other hand, there are reports of cetacean strandings dating back to Aristotle. My own belief is that Dad probably had it right. Lots of different causes, the same horrible result.

We see our first whale when we’re still a quarter of a mile from the beach. Dead, belly up. Janey was right. This is a long-finned pilot whale, sleek and black, with a bulbous nose. An adult, female at a guess, about four metres long.

As we approach land, we see more whales. Some of them are floating in the shallows, gently bumping up against the shore with each new wave. Most are on the beach, in a grim, straggly formation.

‘Jesus,’ says Pete.

There are several other boats in the bay, all creeping in. I count around twenty people on the shore, most of whom will be from the nearby settlements, although I can see a few of the red anoraks worn by visitors from off the cruise ships. I spot the bright blue baseball cap that Janey invariably wears to contain her mass of dark curls when she’s out of the house.

She wasn’t exaggerating. There are well over a hundred. Possibly closer to two hundred. The surf around the water’s edge is red with blood. Some of the animals are being dashed against the rocks. And the petrels haven’t waited for the whales to die.

When I glance at Pete he looks close to tears. I take the RIB up to the edge of the bay and head in. ‘I need you to be OK.’ I sound harsh, I know, but this is going to be hard enough without human sentimentality.

He sniffs. ‘I’m OK.’

A man jogs along the shore to meet us. It’s Mitchell, Janey’s husband. Pete throws him the RIB’s painter and he pulls us in.

‘One hundred and seventy-six, I counted twice,’ Mitchell tells me. I nod my thanks. Counting them would have been my first job and Mitchell has saved me the trouble. More people are arriving all the time. They’re wandering about among the whales. Some of them are going to get hurt.

I pick up my bag, gesture to Pete to bring the stretchers and stride up the beach. When I’m close to the biggest group of people I give two short blasts on my whistle.

‘I need your attention, ladies and gentlemen. Can you all gather round and listen up.’

Not everyone is listening. I give one more blast, shout at a man who is ignoring me. ‘Mate, I need you over here now. We’re running out of time.’

I go on quickly, while I have their attention.

‘My name’s Catrin Quinn. I work for Falkland Conservation and my speciality is cetaceans. I’m in charge of the operation.’ I don’t say rescue operation. I don’t want to give them false hope. ‘Thank you for coming. Now, when you approach the whales, move slowly and quietly. They are very distressed and we don’t want them any more frightened than they are already. Be very careful. Keep away from their tails and their mouths. Watch for them rolling on you. They can still hurt you a lot more than you them. No children or animals are to go anywhere near.’

Everyone is listening to me now.

‘The first priority is to keep them cool and wet. Protect them from the sun. Put sheets and covers over as many as you can and keep them soaking with seawater. Those of you with spades, start digging channels to get water to the whales. I’m going to go along the beach now, marking them with flags. Red means they’re small enough to be stretchered back to the water. My colleague Pete is in charge of that, and he’ll tell you when we’re ready to start lifting. Blue is for the bigger ones that we can try to harness and pull back in using the boats. Black means cover them up and keep them cool.’

‘How do we get the black ones back?’

I look at him. Big, middle-aged, self-important. In the red anorak that will make it easier for the ship’s steward to spot him when it’s time to herd all the passengers on board. He thinks he’s being clever, catching me out.

‘I’m hoping the RAF will spare us a helicopter,’ I say. I don’t tell him that airlifting a whale back into the water is a time-consuming and tricky task. Even if we do get a helicopter and some men to help on the ground, the chances of our saving more than one or two are slim.

‘The best thing you can do for them now is make them more comfortable. And try to keep those birds off. OK, let’s go.’

‘Come on, you heard the woman.’ Janey’s voice follows me down the beach. ‘Get some chains formed.’

Starting at one end of the beach, I begin examining the whales. Pilot whales are the second largest of the oceanic dolphins, orcas being the biggest. The males can grow up to six and a half metres long. Not massive, by the standard of whales, but big enough. They’re playful creatures, fond of following boats, riding bow waves, and they have this habit of spy-holing, when they hang vertically in the water and peep their heads out to give you a good looking at. They are one of my favourites of all the cetacean species.

After forty minutes, we’re ready to start lifting the smaller whales. Out on the water, a flotilla of boats is on standby to nudge and coax them into deeper water.

‘We need to roll them on to the stretchers.’ I have to shout to make sure everyone can hear me. ‘Take care because, although they’re big, they’re quite delicate and they’re in pain because the weight of their bodies will be pressing down on their internal organs. Sand in their blowholes will be very distressing. On the other hand, once we start we should work as quickly as possible.’

No one knows how to begin, so I kneel down beside the closest whale and gesture for others to join me. I slide my hands under her body just as a large pair of hands that I recognize appears at my side. Others copy us.

‘And lift,’ I say.

We can only raise the creature an inch or so, and only then for a second, but Janey is at the head, and her friend Katie at its tail and they’ve done this before. The man next to me gives us the muscle we need.

‘And slide,’ Janey says, and the two women slide the groundsheet beneath the whale.

‘Nicely done.’ I turn to Callum. ‘Where’s Queenie?’

‘In my car on the mainland. Asleep probably. Stopford’s not very pleased with you.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘But he’s happy for you to be here?’

‘I’m bigger than he is.’

Six of us stand on either side of the whale, bend and take hold of the groundsheet. Callum, being the tallest, moves to the head.

‘And lift.’ The whale gives a huge sigh. We can’t hold it for long. ‘And walking.’

This whale is only feet from the sea. Callum strides off and we do our best to follow. The water laps up around my legs and I don’t look down. I don’t want to see that I’m wading in diluted blood. The whale is panting, emitting small distressed sounds, but Callum is deep enough now to lower it and let the water take some of the weight.

‘As soon as the groundsheet’s removed we need to get clear,’ I say. ‘Ready, and let her go.’

We loosen the improvised stretcher. The whale hovers in the water for a second. I can see her getting ready to roll.

‘Callum, get out of the way.’

He moves to the side as the whale rolls on to her back. Her tail flicks and catches me on the thigh. I stagger but stay upright. ‘Get to shore, everyone.’

Other groups are following our example, wrapping and lifting the smaller animals. Slowly, but steadily, the whales around us are being returned to the sea.

‘Any news?’ I ask. ‘About … you know?’

Callum looks round to make sure no one is in earshot. ‘Nothing I was told directly. Rumour is that the military will start searching the wrecks today. Less encouraging is that both Fred Harper and Jimmy Brown’s families have apparently made contact with Archie West’s. There’s talk about them getting in touch with British newspapers.’

‘Well, I’m sure that will help enormously.’

‘It won’t help Stopford’s efforts to play the whole thing down. He’s under pressure from the Governor, too. The powers that be really don’t want this place getting a reputation for being a dodgy place to bring a kid.’

I look at the chaos surrounding us. Right now, this doesn’t feel like a great place for anyone to come for a couple of weeks’ R and R.

‘How many can we save?’ Callum asks.

I’ve been wondering the same thing. Fewer than a third of the beached animals are small enough to lift. If everyone on the beach stays for the rest of the day, without food and rest, if we get additional help from the military, we have a chance of getting around seventy back into the sea.

‘Reinforcements.’ I look towards the dunes and breathe a sigh of relief. Just one squad, around a dozen soldiers, but a whole lot better than nothing. I thank the red-haired, freckle-faced sergeant in charge and ask him to get his men helping the lifting teams, while I harness one of the bigger whales. If we can get a larger one back, I’m going to contact the RAF and beg the use of a Chinook.

With military help, we can save even the biggest whales and suddenly it feels like the right thing to do. More than that, it feels as though, for the first time in years, I have a purpose. An interest in the living.

Blimey, how did that happen?

With a sudden burst of energy, I jog back to the shoreline. Callum is waiting, but he’s not looking at me. ‘Cat, they’re coming back.’

8

The words I’ve been dreading. Even so, I try not to hear them.

‘The whales.’ Callum is looking about fifty metres off shore. ‘The ones we rescued. They’re coming back in.’

I walk to the water’s edge. I have to make sure Callum’s right, although I have no doubt he is. I can see three, no four, of the smaller whales we carried out nosing their way back to shore. Beaching themselves again. Around me, other people are noticing. Word spreads and the rescue effort stops.

‘Why are they doing that?’

‘What’s going on?’

I tell myself it’s not the end of the world. These waters have a healthy population of pilot whales. We can afford to lose a couple of hundred. These things happen. Everyone is looking at me.

‘Are they the same ones?’

‘They’re not going to beach themselves again, are they?’

It’s exactly what they are going to do. No one knows why they do that either, but it’s all too common. Either the beaching was deliberate in the first place and they’re not going to let human sentimentality get in the way of the plan, or they simply can’t bear to leave the group behind.

‘Keep going,’ I tell Callum. ‘Try and get some more back.’

‘Come on, everyone, we’re not giving up now.’ I leave Callum behind and step into the water. Aunt Janey and her friend, Katie, follow, and one or two others from the islands. We stride out, meeting the returning whales head on. Janey slaps her hands on the surface. Someone else shouts at them. Janey resorts to language that would scare me away. It works, for a while. The whales hang back, some even turn away, but their hearts aren’t in the retreat. They’re hanging around, or looking for another route, staring at us with their big, reproachful eyes. One way or another, they’re coming back in.

I allow six more whales to be carried out to sea before I admit defeat. We can’t spend any amount of time in the water, it’s too cold. Now, we just have to see what happens.

*   *   *

What happens is that they all come back. They nose their way towards shore, pushing through the corpses of those already dead, squeezing past the dying. They roll and flap and push themselves out of the water, back on to the sand.