Sun Dance (55 page)

His hand swept over the plan, “and this flat area which at the present is a totally worthless expanse of grass and sand dunes, I shall lay out as a golf course. I shall call it, Oceanic Paradise. In years to come, once the place has been knocked into a civilised shape, I shall also incorporate a luxury timeshare complex.”

“Naturally Sir Joshua, any future venture will receive our closest attention,” the chief planner smiled ingratiatingly. “Our record in tasteful developments is second to none; you may be aware that we are the consultants involved in Dubai’s visionary new city.”

Goldberg merely grunted. Half a head shorter than the company executives, he drew himself up and turning from one to the other, “Gentlemen, I find myself reasonably satisfied with your final designs. I insist however on immediate action, move in your heavy equipment, the site clearance must begin at once, and kindly do not use adverse weather as an excuse for any delay.”

Much civility escorted Sir Joshua from the consortium’s top storey offices. Ticking over on their forecourt waited his personalised Bentley, SJG, 1. The newly engaged bodyguard held open a rear door, and taking an elbow, helped a wheezing Goldberg into his limousine. Behind darkened windows Goldberg settled himself deep into its leather upholstery, “Downing Street!” he ordered his chauffeur.

Oil spilling into the Gulf, financial meltdown, renewable energy mania, never had there been a better time to turn the screw on politicians and taxpayer alike; the initials, PFI had an appealing ring, music to his injured pride. The side of a red bus loomed over the Bentley. Goldberg leant forward, “Kindly remember driver you’re not employed to give way to London Transport, my time is valuable.”

Yes, he assured himself, Private Finance Initiative, how accommodating of the Chancellor to dream up such a clever wheeze for keeping some of the Nation’s debt off his capital account, so helpful towards getting a handsome return on one’s outlay. Let the taxpayer get a taste of the cost of borrowing, turn up the rate, this countrys’ been living on handouts too long, everything on the cheap, NHS is a classic, turned UK into a troupe of malingerers, they require a smart lesson in paying for what they get, a Nation in need of his expertise must be taught a lesson in economics.

This surge of righteous indignation brought on an attack of panting. Sir Joshua glared at the wrought iron gates of the Nations political playpen, he was no longer a behind the scenes Scientific Advisor to an outfit of amatures. Soon they would know the strength of his financial muscle.

Taking an elbow the chauffeur helped him alight.

Darkness and driving rain, I wrenched frantically at the boarding nailed over the house door. ‘No Admittance’ jeered at me. I ripped the sign off, flung it to the wind. Berserk, in bare -handed fury, I beat and tugged. The nails held. Nothing came away. More frantic wrenching, blood ran down my arm. Unable to see clearly, I gave up for the moment. My heart pounded. Hurriedly I checked. Every window in the place and the byre door, nails and boards! A clap of thunder grumbled away south. Eilidh stood dripping, Eachan tucked beneath her oilskin. They needed shelter. I must get them some form of shelter.

Lifting the table I carried it round to the lee side of the house; still raining at least it was out of the wind. Furniture, books, clothes and all our possessions were heaped on top of each other to form a bonfire, obviously ready for burning. I dragged our sodden mattress from under the chairs, lugged it round and squeezed it in below the table, a tarpaulin covered the table top and down the sides. Nothing dry to lie on, I delved amongst the heap.

Bursts of heavy rain swishing in across the bay rattled on the kitchen utensils. In spite of my hurry I moved things carefully, searching for something which might just be dry. Our two easy chairs were near the bottom. I pulled one from the pile. Our bedroom mirror lay in pieces amongst some of Eilidh’s clothes. Even in the blackness, drops of blood from my bleeding hand showed up on one of her white blouses. It needed a bandage. I raked the jumble for a bed sheet to rip. My hand felt a piece of leather. Even in the dark I knew it, my cursed briefcase!

Plastered hair, rain dripping off the end of my nose I groped for a strap, jerked it free. Flap and lock hung open. I thrust inside. Empty. All my notes, the research papers on the dangers of nuclear waste storage, gone. Scattered or taken? I stood up, felt the rain run down my neck, my spine, for the first time that chilling night, I shivered.

More hasty delving, an old cupboard lay on its front. I dragged out dampish towels and blankets and hurried them round to the makeshift shelter. Handing the boy to me, Eildh took them and vanished under the table. Her head popped out a minute later, “That’s the bed ready.” I patted her soaking hair, “Won’t be long, I’m away down to unload the boat.” As so often before, I ran to the jetty, this time without a lightness of heart. By the orange flash of a fish farm beacon I washed my cut hand in the sea and after unloading the Hilda, pulled a tarpaulin over our pile of stores.

Heedless of the weather, I stood on the edge of the jetty watching the Hilda. Each tug on her mooring ropes shed amber droplets of rain. Streaks of orange reflection across the bay glistened on her varnished planking, timbers which had known the shores of a tree clad fiord. The long poem written by my great grandfather of the old women frozen beneath a larch tree, her sacrifice for a new born child, wandered through my head. The swish of gusting rain played on the water, first beside me, then somewhere far away. In its lulls and flurries the larches swayed, and autumn needles fell thick and auburn on a carpet of hidden memory.

Shaking the rain from my hair I jogged back to the house and stripping off, wrung the water out of shirt and trousers before crawling gladly beneath the table. Eilidh’s warm body greeted me and with the boy snuggled between us, to the pelting of rain on the tarpaulin, we slept.

“Do you mind telling me where you found these papers?” “Found, Sir Joshua, found?” the blank expression on the face of a Downing Street Permanent under Secretary suggested he intended to be both evasive and strictly official, “We do not find such things. They were merely obtained.” At the stiffness of tone Goldberg snorted, contempt filling the pools of his dark eyes. “And may I remind you, Sir Joshua,” the Secretary showing just a trace of condescension, “they have been obtained partly at your request to the past P.M., quite some time ago as I recall.”

Realising his question had been blocked by the last remark, Goldberg countered, “I take it you will have copies of them?” The man rose, height and hauteur looked down on his questioner. “I am not personally aware of that, Sir Joshua.” At Goldberg‘s eye level his Adams apple yo-yoed up and down a scrawny throat. “Is there anything else you require?” Such an obvious and pre-emptory dismissal left the Nuen Chairman only capable of choking out, “I think not.” Without further word he gathered the papers into his briefcase, turned his back on the official and stood waiting for the man to open the door.

That evening Sir Joshua sat alone to dinner. “Table for one!” he’d barked at the Head Waiter of London’s top West End restaurant. “That one over there in the corner, if you please.” “I’m sorry Sir, that table is reserved.” “Nonsense,” snapped Goldberg, “find whoever it is and move them elsewhere.” Knowing from regular visits this customer’s taste in expensive wines, though not noted for leaving any ‘consideration’, the waiter bowed, “as you wish sir.”

Under the watchful eye of his personal bodyguard sitting out in the foyer Sir Joshua drew from his briefcase the papers which he suspected could prove critical, thoughts of which had thoroughly spoiled his dinner, so much so he’d called the Head Waiter to complain about the fish course. Now, flicking page over page, his face grew tense. He digested the salient projections of this confounded MacKenzie’s research work.

As he’d feared at his only reading of its conclusions on the day of meeting this interfering fellow in Downing Street, these deductions must not ever, ever be seen by any other person. Momentarily the whereabouts of this scientist, if he still existed, clouded his mind. The answer he’d been given to a casual but highly discreet enquiry at top level in an office along the Thames, “the matter is in hand,” was not altogether reassuring. Likewise his relaying of the location of ex-chairman Anderson to his US contact had drawn a non-committal response. However that was a totally different issue, mentally blanking it off, he gulped wine and read on.

The supremely agile mind of Nuen’s chairman was alarmed. Below the table his knee twitched unnoticed and unstoppable. The utterly exhausting work of getting the waste storage plans over so many hurdles, he rested his forehead on a sweating palm. The calculations which MacKenzie had given on storage density of enriched waste and possible temperatures could not be contained comfortably within Nuen’s design without reducing intake. Cut intake, cut profits, a bead of sweat fell on the papers. He thrust them savagely into his own brief case. “Tomorrow,” he growled, “for this little lot, it’s the incinerator.”

Sitting back he took stock of his thoughts. Of course he’d sanctioned the cutting of corners, albeit by a tacit nod, never on record. Far too late to change anything now, go back to square one. ‘Never, never!’ screamed inside a bursting head, utterly impossible; his shares would crash, his chairmanship under threat, oh my God.

Safety and profit, forever a damn difficult mix, there was no such thing as a hundred percent safety, the totally unforeseeable, now that always made an excellent alibi; if this whole nuclear process had one factor built in, it was uncertainty.

An equally nimble minded bodyguard followed Goldberg out of the restaurant, “Shall I carry your briefcase, sir?” he enquired quietly touching its handle. His startled client jumped aside, “Certainly not.”

To the bodyguard’s ear Sir Joshua’s voice seemed unnaturally shrill. “As you wish, sir,” the man said softly.

Sometime during the early hours the storm had passed away to the east, and at first light we crawled from beneath our table shelter, to the scent of tangle freshly washed upon the beach. Pulling on wet clothes and leaving Eilidh sitting on the table top feeding the baby I rounded the gable with a marked reluctance. Soaking furniture met me, ruined books and clothes mixed amongst the sticks of what had made a home- all were heaped yards from the boarded doors and windows, but by whom? Presumably the Sheriff Officers had paid a visit, but who was behind our eviction? The fish could be owned by a multinational operator and they might well require an onshore base. Supposing we were in their way, even by the usual steamroller tactics which money and power was capable of adopting, this approach seemed drastic.

Last night's rage lapsed into a morning's bitterness. Standing in the grey before sunrise, I saw the shambles of our belongings in a wider perspective. Ruined furniture, the gutting of a house, it meant less than the loss of sanctity which existed on the island. We saw ourselves as guardians of an integrity which demanded respect of the land, its wildlife, the dead of generations to whom it was body and soul. Not for the first time I brooded, were we as outdated as flat earth believers, the dupes of an intangible nostalgia, back to nature sun worshippers via a solar panel?