His head lolled to the side again and he raised it upright, aware for the first time of its enormous weight. Am I still fully compos mentis, of sound mind or whatever, James Freeman mused, before concluding that he was, probably, no longer capable of such a judgement. Pouring himself more whisky from the decanter, the old man drank it neat, in a single gulp, determined to dull his brain further, banish all remaining senses. Anything, he thought, rather than stay in this limbo, with emotions heightened and nerves jangling. He had imagined a peaceful journey, a seamless transition from tranquil sensibility to blessed oblivion, with his love by his side. Never mind. Before long this cup too would be taken from him, and impatience at such a time, and with so little left, might lead to damnation. Hellfire no longer seemed preposterous, better play safe than risk that.
The ringing of the doorbell startled him, causing him to drop his tumbler onto the rug and utter a loud curse. Then realisation dawned, and his spirits soared. Now he would not be alone, despite all his well-intentioned efforts. Neither of them had proved strong enough to remain apart and he, at least, did not regret it. Rising immediately from his favourite chair, he was surprised to find how unsteady on his feet he was, swaying dizzily, the room spinning around him. With a supreme effort of will he straightened up and began to cross the carpet, heading towards the landing. His own momentum helped him down the stairs and he steadied himself on the banister end, resting for a few seconds before preparing to traverse the vast expanse of the hall. A straight crossing was all but achieved. ‘Fwiend or Foe,’ he whispered theatrically, before opening the doorto greet his caller. Without another word, he ushered his visitor in, readying himself to speak, concentrating intently on what he must say and saying it clearly.
The halting speech delivered by the old fellow elicited a reply, but it made no sense to him, sounding like a string of meaningless noises, and his inability to understand made him fearful. It could have been the braying of a donkey or the miaowing of a cat for all it now conveyed to him. Attempting to reimpose order on his befuddled mind, he focussed his attention on the corner of the window, where a butterfly was struggling to free itself from a spider’s web. A single silken thread had attached itself to the creature’s legs, and as it twisted and turned it bound itself more tightly, manacling its delicate wings, inadvertently parcelling itself up. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark form of the spider scuttling towards its prey and could bear to watch no longer. He must intervene. Conscious of the offence he might give, but careless of it, he turned his back on his companion, intent only on freeing the Painted Lady before it was too late.
The first blow to his head felled him and as he tumbled to the ground, his left hand caught the butterfly in her trap, simultaneously releasing her and killing her. And all the angry words that rained down upon him, accompanying each subsequent stroke, landed on deaf ears.
As James Freeman was speaking in his drawing room, trying, in vain, not to slur his words, Alice Rice was removing her keys from the ignition and smiling to herself, anticipating her parents’ reaction to her unheralded visit. Carefully she disembarked from the car, closing the door without making a sound. The front door of their house was ajar and she crept on tiptoes through the hall, heading in the direction of the kitchen. Unexpectedly, she found the place deserted. Wandering into the garden, she was surprised to see her father at the far end of it, energetically digging in the potato patch, intent on earthing up the shaws. In the Rices’ precisely demarcated world, such cultivation was solely her mother’s responsibility and never before had she seen her father wielding a spade. Still unaware of her presence, he stopped for a few seconds to catch his breath before returning to his task with redoubled vigour. Softly, she walked across the lawn until she stood, motionless, behind the bent figure, intending to tap him on the shoulder, hearten him with her unanticipated visit. But noticing her shadow on the ground, Alexander Rice turned round to face her before she had even begun to extend her arm.
‘Alice! What on earth are you doing here?’ He sounded irritated.
She was taken aback by his reaction, momentarily speechless, disappointed that he was not pleased to see her. Her face betrayed her feelings, and immediately he spoke again, this time his tone softer.
‘Darling, it’s lovely to see you. I’m so sorry, I just wasn’t expecting anyone, and to be honest I’m rather on edge today.’ He reached for her hand, abashed, eager to soothe any hurt he had inadvertently inflicted.
‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked, still numb from his initial response.
‘She’s in Edinburgh at the moment, I don’t think she’ll be back until about seven or so. Let’s go into the house, have a cup of tea, eh?’
Carefully, he poured milk into her cup, and then began to tilt the teapot. Glancing down at the resultant chalky mixture, Alice asked gently: ‘Dad, did you put any tea leaves or teabags in the pot?’
He lifted the earthenware lid, peered in and then smiled, shaking his head. They sat together at the kitchen table, elbow touching elbow, but not, as was usual between them, exchanging news and chattering easily. Both were discomfited by the continuing silence, but Alice’s attempts at conversation soon petered out as her father, preoccupied, failed to catch her drift or answer at all. He was somewhere else altogether. Looking at his familiar face, she noticed that his mouth moved occasionally, saying nothing, as if he was absorbed in some kind of troubled internal dialogue. It was a mannerism he’d never shown before, and it disturbed her.
‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ she asked, hoping that she did not sound as anxious as she felt.
‘Nothing, darling. Are you going to spend the night with us?’
She nodded. ‘That was my plan, if it suits you.’
‘Of course…’ He stared out of the window, into the distance, and then turned to her, adding as if the thought had just entered his mind, ‘Would you do me a favour, Alice? If you could it would make a great difference to me… well, to both of us, actually. I’m supposed to attend a meeting, an anti-windfarm gathering, at the MacGregors’ house near Stenton. I’m the minute-taker for the group. Would you go in my place? I want to speak to your mother about something when she gets back… to be here when she gets back.’
As he seemed so strained, so uncharacteristically tense, she longed to repeat her earlier enquiry, but he had chosen to say nothing, and presumably had a reason for it. Consequently, she refrained from asking anything, conscious that if she did he might withdraw his request, thinking it too much bother. Instead, she dissembled, telling him, despite a headache starting at the base of her skull, that she would enjoy going and seeing such a gathering for herself.
On the overgrown roadside verges the pink campion was dying back, seed pods wizened and stems broken. But among their fading blooms cow parsley was beginning to emerge as the midsummer weeds took over from their early season predecessors. The profusion of leaves on the lime trees transformed the narrow country lane into a tunnel roofed with foliage, dappled light dancing on the road below. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, Alice saw that it was nearly eight pm and accelerated, conscious that she must not be late. As instructed, she turned left at the bottom of the hill and began a bone-shaking ascent up a drive, once smooth with tarmac, now heavily potholed, slaloming between the chasms, anxious to preserve her car’s shock-absorbers and undercarriage.
The dilapidated three storey mansion that greeted her no longer boasted any formal gardens, instead it was surrounded by a thin sprinkling of gravel, punctuated by drifts of poisoned dandelions, thistles and ground elder. And creeping ever closer to the building were armies of rhododendrons, their shiny leaves reflecting the evening sunshine, a few guinea fowl pecking disconsolately in their shade. Jagged cracks in the harling on the house revealed glimpses of the cut stone below and an isolated stretch of guttering hung perilously above the front door, its companions to the left and right lying, rusted and broken, where they had fallen. Despite this, the place remained strangely impressive, eloquent of status, if no longer of wealth.
Alice readied herself for the forthcoming ordeal; meeting a band of complete strangers, each known to the other, united by a common purpose, and one completely alien to her. By the time she had located the doorbell, discovered it to be silent and knocked instead, a shower of rain had begun to fall and she shivered, involuntarily, waiting to be let in. Prue MacGregor, when she finally came, matched her description. Mr Rice had warned his daughter to expect a small, bandy-legged creature with piercing blue eyes and an inhospitable manner. Without the usual pleasantries or introductions, a glass of red wine was thrust peremptorily into Alice’s hand as her hostess, intent upon answering her mobile phone, marched out of the kitchen.
No one approached the uneasy newcomer, so she looked round, taking in her surroundings, accustoming herself to the hum of other people’s conversation. The room was harshly lit by a single fluorescent strip, and suspended from the ceiling was a massive pulley, laden with jodhpurs, patched blankets and overalls, swinging a couple of feet above the visitors. Otherwise, the kitchen contained little furniture bar a large oak table and a miscellaneous collection of ill-fitting cupboards flanked by a gloss-painted Welsh dresser, its shelves bowed with the weight of the Horse & Hound magazines piled on them.
Some of the guests began to drift towards the door and Alice followed passively, notebook in hand, as they processed into a dark, musty drawing room. Fifty years earlier the room had been magnificent with linenfold panelling and plasterwork columns, but its glory days had long gone – blisters disfigured the wallpaper and the brocade on the furnishings was threadbare, slits of black horsehair visible beneath. A pair of gilt-framed mirrors, silver peeling, flanked an ornate chimney-piece, in front of which two men sat at a table, facing chairs set out before them as if in an old-fashioned school room. The men looked on apprehensively as the party settled into the seating provided. When Alice’s turn came, only an embroidered footstool remained, and she lowered herself onto it gingerly, expecting its woodworm-infested legs to crumble under her weight.
As she was breathing a sigh of relief, sitting safely with the footstool still intact, the younger of the two men stood up and introduced himself as Ewan Potter, Commercial Director of Firstforce, and then gestured towards his companion, Doctor Angus Long, Technical Consultant of the Company. Potter’s voice was smooth, assured and resonated with authority, as if used to giving orders and accustomed to obedience, but as he began telling his audience about the company’s desire to consult with the local community, to accommodate their wishes, he was interrupted by a thickset woman with unconcealed aggression in her tone. Alice felt the temperature in the room rise a few degrees, and the tension in it, created by the speaker’s blatant antagonism, became palpable.
‘You want to “consult” with us, do you? “Accommodate” our wishes, eh? But, Mr Potter, you and your company are not wanted here. There is nothing to consult with us about!’ the woman shouted. ‘To accommodate our wishes you’d have to ensure that none of your twenty-five bloody turbines came anywhere near Gimmerfauld. That’s our view, we told you that at the last meeting…’
Following this outburst, Alice glanced around the room expecting every jaw to have dropped in astonishment at this seemingly unprovoked display of fury, but saw, instead, a few heads nodding, as if in approval of the views expressed. For a second she caught the eye of a rotund, bespectacled man, and the quizzical look she bestowed on him was not reciprocated as he patted his knee, as if applauding the speaker’s tone.
Doctor Long swallowed, adjusted his tie, then readjusted it, before looking intently downwards at his papers and re-assembling them into their previous impeccable order. In contrast, his companion leant forward over the table and stared hard at his antagonist as if his pugnacious attitude might persuade her to alter, or retract, her cutting words. But the woman seemed oblivious to his display of annoyance and continued speaking, still at an uncomfortably high volume.
‘You’ve seen where we live, Mr Potter, and our hills cannot “absorb” the one hundred and twenty-five metre structures you’ve planned for them. We’ve asked you to reduce the height of the towers, the size of the blades, to “accommodate” us, but have you? Have you buggery! I told you and your sidekick the last time, three of your sodding turbines are within two hundred metres of my house. Have you considered for one moment what that might be like, eh? I don’t give a flying fuck about you or your company. This is just a job to you; you knock off and then go back to your comfy little house somewhere or other, but your “project” results in the ruination of my home, my sodding life, actually. And don’t imagine we don’t know what Firstforce’s real concerns are. Nothing to do with clean, renewable energy, polar bears and saving the planet… No, it’s all about the bottom line, capital returns, dividends for your shareholders…’
Potter cleared his throat loudly in an attempt to halt the apparently unstoppable flow, and his ploy worked, the speaker was surprised into silence, as if she believed that her tirade might bring about his departure, and with it, the cancellation of Firstforce’s plans for the wind farm. But in seconds, any such illusions were shattered.
‘Thank you, Miss Lamont. We are all familiar with your views by now. You gave us the benefit of them last month and at the gathering before that. All I am trying to do is to get across to you that whilst the fact of our wind farm in this location is non-negotiable, as far as the company is concerned, we may be able to accommodate the wishes of the local community in respect of the proposed layout. Equally, Firstforce intend to set up a community-fund…’
Like a small child, a middle-aged man in a worn green tweed jacket put up his hand to attract attention, and in deference to him the Director returned to his seat.
‘I’m in exactly the same position as Sue… uh, Miss Lamont. Your design shows my farm, at least I’m the tenant of it, with six of the turbines within my boundary and the ones marked… uh, ten, fourteen, eleven and thirteen,’ he jabbed a thick forefinger at a creased map, ‘surround my house. Number fourteen is actually to be built on the catchment area for my water supply. The same is true at Blaebridge, Miss Kerr’s cottage. Her house is supplied by a borehole, and it’ll be bound to get polluted if you erect turbine number twenty-three where you’ve shown it on the plan. Miss Kerr’s not here tonight, she’s too upset, but she’s an old woman who could do without all of this hassle. Couldn’t you just re-think the whole thing, find another site?’
The man folded his map, returned it to his pocket and sat down, looking expectantly at Ewan Potter.
To the surprise of the assembled group, Doctor Long caught his colleague’s eye deferentially, nodded his head and then rose to his feet to respond.
‘Thank you for expressing your concern, Mr… Eh?’
‘Dougal.’
‘Yes, Mr Dougal. Fortunately…’
‘Dougal Thomson.’
‘Sorry, Mr Thomson. Fortunately, I think that I can provide all of you with a degree of reassurance in relation to private water supplies and the likely impact our proposal may have on them. We have commissioned independent experts, ECO-Co, to investigate the local hydrogeology, the catchment areas, subterranean water reservoirs and so forth, and every single dwelling within the site boundary has already been surveyed…’
Sue Lamont, evidently unable to control herself any longer, shouted, semi-incoherent with fury: ‘No, you stupid… basta… man. They have not. There are thirty-one properties that’ll be affected by your proposal and how many of them have received letters from ECO-Co and were surveyed by them?’
Angus Long, aware that the question was addressed to him, looked uncomfortable but did not attempt to respond.
‘Shall I tell you then? They’ve surveyed a pitiful twenty out of the thirty-one. You can’t even get that right, and we’re supposed to let you construct massive concrete foundations, quarries and mile upon mile of track all around us and be “reassured” that nothing untoward will happen. Why don’t you and your tinpot company leave us alone, eh? Pack up your bags, collect your papers and be gone. We all know that the scheme’s a done deal, so stop pretending to consult with us and just go…’
The sheer passion evinced by the woman both appalled and enthralled Alice. There was nothing false or manufactured about it, she was speaking from the heart and all eyes were on her, silently supporting her, egging her on. But Ewan Potter, sensing that any vestigial control he had over the meeting was slipping away, said loudly: ‘Any further questions from anyone?’
‘Your reports-hydrogeology and so on-you say you’ve received them all now. Can we see copies of them? No reason not to share them with us, eh… in the spirit of consultation and all.’ It was a woman speaking, standing up to make sure she was heard.
‘Er… No… They’re only in draft form, unfinalised-so, no. Any other queries?’
Alice watched as the members of the group exchanged glances as if to communicate to each other and to the two outsiders present their contempt for the proceedings. As they were doing so an old lady, sitting in the front row, eased herself to her feet.
‘Aye, I’ve yin.’
Ewan Potter gestured with his hand for her to continue.
‘It’s aboot a’ the burds…’ she began, licking her lips nervously and twiddling her crooked thumbs as she spoke. She had faded brown eyes, the irises encircled by bluish rings, and although she was indoors, her head remained swaddled in a thick, woollen bonnet.
‘The eagles, ye ken…’
Potter said, with pretended patience, as if to encourage her, ‘And what about… the eagles?’
‘Ye’ve nae mentioned thae burds in yer report, but they’ll be the yins tae git chopped up wi’ the giant blades. What’ll ye be daen aboot that? The buzzards an’ that I’m nae sae bothered aboot, there’s that many, but the eagles, noo, they’re special. An’ there’s only the fower o’ them…’
‘We’ve not mentioned the eagles, because there are no eagles,’ Potter replied trenchantly.
‘Says who?’ came back the startled response.
‘Says ECO-Co. They’ve had independent ornithological experts studying the site for two whole days and seen no eagles.’
‘Oh, twa hale days, eh…’ The old lady repeated sarcastically and then continued: ‘Twa hale days… a’ devoted tae the eagles?’
Doctor Long answered, looking less assured than his superior.
‘Well, no, actually. Not two whole days for the eagles as such, but for the bird study in general.’
‘A’ the burds?’ The tone was incredulous.
‘All the birds, yes. The expert ornithologist we employed saw no signs of eagles or eagle activity in any form.’
The old woman smiled mirthlessly before mimicking Long’s reply: ‘“No signs of eagles or eagle activity in any form”. Yon buggers must be blind, then! It’s a disgrace… you’re a’ a disgrace. I’ve stayed oan Gimmerfauld fer the past fifteen year, and I dinnae ken a’ the burds oan it yet. Yous breenge in for twa days an’ tell me that there’s nae eagles ’cause ECO-Co says so. If I’d nae heard it wi’ ma ain ears I’d nae hae believed it. Twa bloody days… that’s a’ it’s worth to yous. Ye’ll nae ken aboot the blackcock neither, I’ll be bound…’
Doctor Long, chastened by the woman’s disdain, said, almost in a whisper: ‘ECO-Co say there are no black game present within the site boundary.’
‘ECO-Co say… ECO-Co say. They’re nae gods, ye ken! Well, tell ECO-Co that there’s a lek less than a quarter mile frae my ain hoose and I’ll show them ma’sel if need be.’ The old lady glared at Firstforce’s representatives and then, unexpectedly and as if she could no longer stand the sight of them, sank back into her chair and covered her eyes with her left hand.
‘About the community-fund…’
The voice came from a bearded man leaning on a large mahogany sideboard. Before either of the company’s representatives had a chance to say anything, Sue Lamont hissed ‘Judas!’ and the fellow, now cowed, hurriedly made for the door.
Ewan Potter looked at his audience, confrontational in his unblinking stare, and then gathered up his papers and crammed them into his briefcase. Without any further words to the group, he and Doctor Long began to converse in low voices before they took their leave of the drawing room, both walking at an exaggeratedly slow pace, as if concerned to conceal the urge to run.
Alice looked at the old lady. Her blue-veined hand, tendons stretched beneath parchment skin, remained over her eyes, but it was trembling and a tear had escaped down the side of her bony nose.
‘They’ve gone now,’ Alice said.
‘I ken, but thanks anyway, dear. Ye’ll be Mr Rice’s daughter, eh? I seen ye in Prue’s kitchen, but I wis talking wi’ Rab. Ye’ll be the policewuman, eh? A sergeant, I’ve heard.’
‘That’s right, a detective sergeant with Lothian & Borders CID. I work at St Leonard’s Street in Edinburgh. You must be one of my parents’ neighbours. Whereabouts do you live?’
‘Aye, I’m a neighbour an’ a friend an’ a’. I stay in the wee white hoose at Crawfourdsden, ’ken on the other side o’ the toll road. Tell yer dad that Jessie wis asking aifter him, eh?’
Thinking that she had now completed her duties, and still reeling from the pyrotechnic display she had witnessed, Alice made her way to the door, eager to return to her parents house and ostensible normality. Prue MacGregor, however, had other ideas, and herded her towards the kitchen where the hardliners within the group were congregating in the absence of their enemy, preparing to reconsider their strategy. In the middle of the kitchen table lay a pile of bound volumes produced by Firstforce, and on top of the heap rested a blue and white striped sugar bowl. Sue Lamont removed one of the books and began flicking through it.
‘Look at that! Their own ZVIs show that the turbines will be visible on the other side of the Forth. Let’s see… they’ll be seen practically the whole way up to Perth.’
‘Yes, yes, we know that, but the point is what are we going to do?’
The accent was English, and the tone languid. Alice glanced towards the speaker, who had his back to the others, inspecting the fridge for milk. Having found it, the man sat down and continued. ‘We should have tried to nobble their mast, convince them that the wind “harvest” would be insufficient, but we didn’t. We should have complained to the Police about their trespassing on our ground to put up sound equipment, but we didn’t. We should have reported our Community Councillor for not agreeing to a special meeting, but we didn’t. All we do is talk and talk and talk, and so far, that’s got us nowhere.’
‘They stop motorways being built with direct action and, if necessary, I’ll take it,’ Sue Lamont said. ‘Make no mistake, I’ll lie down in front of the bulldozers, chain myself to their cranes…’
‘But by then the permission will have been granted,’ the man interjected impatiently. ‘We need to ensure that the council refuses the application. I suggest that we start liaising with other groups, the ones on Lochawe, Lewis, the Ochils, to find out how they’re tackling the problem. I heard yesterday that THH’s application at Muirness was turned down.’
Conscientiously, Alice continued to record the views expressed in her notebook, hampered as before by ignorance of the names of most of the speakers, attempting to memorise their faces for later identification by her father. Dougal Thomson leant back in his chair, blew noisily on his coffee and grinned, revealing his broken teeth.
‘I’ve been busy on the computer getting stuff from Companies House. Firstforce are not a big company, in fact, they’re not even a Scottish company as they’ve been pretending. They’re just a collection of four individuals from Bradford, all with the surname of “Owen”, who have somehow allied themselves to an Italian conglomerate called “Grupposerck”. And, what’s more, their most recent balance sheet shows a loss of seventy thousand pounds. So all their talk of community funds and guarantees for the dismantling of the scheme after twenty-five years may mean very little indeed. Now, if that’s not ammunition I don’t know what is. I suggest that at our next meeting, in nine days, on the twenty-first of June, we compose a letter about them to our Councillor and get him to raise it with the planners.’
Alexander Rice gazed at the photographs in the album on his knee. His wife, Olivia, smiling and holding aloft their new baby, Alice, with their elder daughter, Helen, standing, bemused, beside her. His eyes rested on his wife’s beloved red hair, wild curls encircling her face as if it was haloed by flame. The awful realisation that her wonderful mane, now more white than auburn, would all fall out, brought the tears back and he quickly turned over the page. A single black and white image confronted him. Olivia, still in her wedding dress, laughing, neck outstretched, as he, in full morning suit, genuflected on one knee before her, re-enacting his proposal of marriage. A photograph out of sequence, unexpected, and for which he had not prepared himself. He let out a low moan of sorrow, embarrassed himself by his own reaction and gulped down another swig of the raw whisky from the bottle by his side. The album had been selected to provide him with comfort, but he slammed its covers together, disappointed that it had proved itself to be a catalyst for grief rather than any source of help.
On her return Alice found her father on his own, ostensibly tranquil and composed, reading the newspaper. She noticed immediately the glass with the empty quarter of Strathfillan beside it. Not his whisky, a brand given to him and usually, in turn, quickly given away. Something was undoubtedly amiss.
‘Dad-please tell me, I know there’s something wrong.’
Without replying he patted the seat of the armchair beside his own, gesturing for her to sit next to him. As soon as she was seated, his arm reached across for his drink, slumping back onto his knee when he realised that the bottle had already been drained of all comfort.
‘Please, Dad, tell me what’s wrong,’ she said again, as seconds passed and he remained silent.
‘All right…’ he began slowly. ‘It’s about your mother, I’m afraid. She was at the Murrayfield this afternoon seeing a specialist and… well, she’s got breast cancer. That’s why I needed, to be frank, to get you out of the house. So that we could discuss it, alone, together. The hospital finally confirmed it today. On Wednesday they plan to take the lump out, and then she’ll have chemotherapy…’
His voice tailed off, tears now pouring down his face, eyes tight shut in desperation, oblivious to everything except his all-encompassing grief. Instinctively, Alice put her arms around his neck, but his undisguised distress frightened her as if, as in her childhood, he knew something that she did not; that the battle with the disease was already lost, and any remaining hope futile.
Half an hour later, having attempted to console her father with such reassurance as she could muster, she climbed the stairs to her parents’ bedroom and peered through the doorway of the dimly-lit room. She felt the need to be near her mother for a little while, even if she had already fallen asleep, and was completely unaware of her presence.
‘Alice?’ It was her mother’s voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Come in, darling.’