While the lowliest of the Commission cultivated the fastest softwoods to mature, Assistant Director cultivated a political class for the funding his organisation needed, all in the interests of an industry whose profitability rested within the grasp of hands toughened by years of golf and squash.
He despised the politicos, of course. Their faces changed with ballot box counts and he had yet to encounter an Environmental Minister who did not view that post as a stop where one waited for the omnibus to greater things. They were transient careerists, flitting from job to job, while they cultivated support in order to rise within their cabal, their Political Party.
The present incumbent, a man-of-the-people who had taken his degree at Oxford, had been extremely disappointed not to be given ‘Transport’. He had already exhausted a poor enough pretence at heartfelt commitment to environmental issues, of which he had accumulated a little understanding during his eighteen months in office, having had none whatsoever on his appointment in common with a political preference not to have an expert come to power in his/her area of expertise. Such people held views which could seriously interfere with policy. It was a perceived political wisdom to confine experts to the task of reporting to parliamentarians. This gave the impression of doing something without the obligation to do anything. Recommendations were caveated to inconsequence by Parties occupying ‘the central ground’ (euphemism for ‘no political philosophy’). This was typically characterised by Press Officers as ‘following the wishes of the people’, or ‘Democracy’.
Recently, mention in the ministerial presence of the word ‘Bio-diversity’ had ceased, such was the violence of the Minister’s reaction to it. Much of the strain was taken up by Assistant Director who was rewarded by a sympathetic ear when applying for additional funding. The outcome of today’s meeting would be acknowledged with a wave of one Ministerial hand and a distant compliment from Westminster.
While Legal Blair was being instructed on the creative minuting of the meeting which had ended, he who had ventured the irritatingly critical comments on saturation planting of alien trees was using a telephone installed in the foyer. Assistant Director would have been shaken by the dialogue that took place.
“The meeting is finished and we got the runaround again. The Assistant Director, that bloody accountant that runs everything, he was there with his lanky legal. Nothing is going to be done. Unbelievable.”
“I’ll deliver the message to go ahead, then, just as we decided. Enough is enough. It’s now or never, Control, I hear it in your voice.”
“Yes, John, go ahead. There’s no other way to make these bastards take notice. Give him the message. I think he’ll be ready.”
“You told me he’s been well primed for this, that he’s straining at the leash with enough fuel siphoned off to make a nice little bonfire.”
“He’s keen, one of the best. I briefed him myself. He will take the first opportunity that presents. But make certain, John, that you follow our protocols to the letter.”
“Don’t worry, Control,” a hint of amusement, “I will be foot perfect, if that’s an appropriate term.”
“It had to come to this, in the end. As you once said, we have to light a fire under these people. Be sure to take all the precautions we agreed.”
“He will get the message in time for weekend action.”
“Sooner the better, of course,” came the reply, with an oddly contrived emphasis. It left an impression of doubt being overwhelmed by sound.
The call ended. The caller glanced nervously around the insincere marble and granite hallway before picking up a leather briefcase resting between his legs. Automatic doors slid apart and he stepped into a busy street, his gaze focused straight ahead. His heart was beating at such an unusually high rate that his face had flushed. A memory came of the schoolteacher whose only remembered contribution was a slogan that bad ends would be sure to attend foul means. Her hair had been clenched in a bun.
A hundred miles to the north west, a cellphone was thumbed off. ‘John’ went to the window of his third floor hotel room and blinked into bright sunlight. He would get rid of the cellphone when the time came to leave Fort William. For ten minutes he stood, quietly watchful. Steady streams of traffic included gaggles of bikers, touring through a perfect spring day, dry and clear. His Ducati sat in the car park. In helmet and goggles, even the sex of a rider was indeterminate.
This extended period of dry weather was unexpected and had to be taken advantage of. That the region was being inundated with weekend trippers was serendipitous, particularly since tourist traders were understaffed and blinded by the prospect of high profits.
The mantra ‘the careful one is worth two’ was a favourite with him. The man would be expecting contact, would be waiting, probably impatiently. He hoped so. Too often these amateur campaigners found an absence of cojones at the eleventh hour. All their bravado about ‘Giving Our Fragile Earth A Voice’ often ended with a paralysed wetting of pants. Maybe this time would be different. He didn’t really care.