Sun Dance (37 page)

Eilidh and I waited a little on the doorstep before going into the room. Eachan poured a nightcap, the two women went to the kitchen leaving us alone. I heard the rattle of cups and before they would join us, I lifted my glass, “Eachan, if you hadn't lifted me off that ledge I wouldn't be thanking you tonight for saving my life.” He looked hard into my eyes, “Not at all, Hector boy, I was only saving there being one hell of a heart- broken woman.”

Ella put tea down beside her man. Eilidh took me by the hand, there was no awkwardness; we said our thanks and goodnights and climbed the stairs to the bedroom which I now thought of as being mine. Even in the darkness Eiludh's body seemed to glow as she slipped under the sheets.

I opened the skylight and listened. Up from the shore came the whistling of a redshank, perhaps heralding a change in the weather for beneath its notes the sea was booming.

Fair or storm, happiness or sorrow,

We were in each other's arms.

Sir Joshua Goldberg balanced his generous proportions, all be it a mite precariously, on a shooting stick at the edge of a dignified stand of ancient woodland. Ancient indeed, the antiquity of the forest being of some considerable pride to its owner, Jeffery Norton-Winters, Esq. He was wont to inform his shooting guests, “Doomsday Records prove it to have been personally planted by William the Conqueror.” Moreover when in a suitable frame of mind, as their luncheon hamper emptied he was given to declaring, “It pains me to tell you these glades provided a favourite haunt for Robin Hood and his band of Merry Layabouts.”… a troupe of ne’er-do-wells whose inclination towards the redistribution of wealth Norton-Winters regarded as the precursor of the wastefulness of today’s Welfare State.

“Cock over now sir, high to your left, sir,” the cartridge loader, smart in tweed jacket and moleskin breeches, stood respectfully behind his guest issuing directions for the gentleman’s first target of the day. Up into the blue rose a squawking pheasant, a whirring russet flash. Up went the barrels of Sir Joshua’s 12 bore, a swing to the right, he sighted a trifle high, BANG! Perhaps a shade out of practice the gun’s recoil took him by surprise. Up into air shot the portly legs of Nuen’s Knight of the Realm. With commendable presence of mind his gun loader skipped neatly aside, not a moment too soon. Such was the Company Chairman’s alarm at finding himself so abruptly brought down, he pulled the second trigger, BANG!

Beech leaves fluttered down to settle on the winded form of Sir Joshua in an auburn coverlet, to be followed seconds later by a splatter of descending lead shot. A crowing pheasant settled several fields away. The Chairman’s knickerbockered legs stopped beating the air, “I say, it’s confoundedly slippery here,” he panted as his loader set him back on his feet.

The unseasonably warm afternoon’s sunlight created a mosaic on the rustling carpet of autumn, and still the aging oak and beech had leaves to shed. Early December and yet still no frosts to have squirrels snoozing in their tails. Even the pheasant, though plumped for the shoot by the corn in their feed hoppers, were able to feast on a variety of insects as they awaited their turn for dietary shift to lead pellets. During their alfresco luncheon one shooter was moved to comment, “Global warming, bit of a lark I say, can’t wait to get the vines into the garden, far healthier.”

Quite annoyingly however for the thatched Ann Hathaway hamlet of which Norton-Winters regarded himself as its rightful squire, the trout stream’s normal leisurely saunter past the Morris Dancing green and ducking stool had taken on new dimensions; already the village had been swamped three times. The last occasion being so rapid it found their Vicar, after choir practice, stranded in his vestry with the lady organist. As one fireman reported after carrying the pair to safety, “They were both up to their knees in water. It was not a time for an organ recital.”

The cavalcade of Range Rovers and assorted three litre 4x4’s loaded with an exultant shooting party and heaps of pheasant strung together in pairs, toiled away from the woodland towards Norton-Winter’s manor house, in tracks of mud a foot deep. Touching his cap and looking ruefully at the quagmire, the gamekeeper observed, “Aarr, m’Lord, the weather it is a-changing.” Hoping his respectful address might be overheard, a beaming Winters nodded, “Oh if I were you Williams, I wouldn’t let that worry you, you’ve given us an excellent day’s sport.” The squire had yet to be ennobled but then for rather differing reasons the use of a title pleased both parties.

Oak panelling, family portraits and a raftered ceiling, the dining room spoke of an era of doublet and hose. Mellow lighting and a blazing log fire drew the shooting party to the cosiness of an inglenook. To warm the guests before they bathed and changed for dinner, and it has to be said to enhance the Elizabethan impression, a comely wench in no small danger of having her bottom pinched, poured copious draughts of rum punch into large silver goblets recently engraved with the Norton-Winters Coat of Arms. In keeping with the trend towards boasting one’s humble origins, Jeffery was wont to assert, “My thirty-fourth grandfather, paternal, was a swineherd in the New Forest on the day William Rufus was shot.” An honour reflected in the heraldic device, a boar sitting on an oak leaf. The researches of the genealogist had involved considerable ingenuity and amounted to rather more than he’d hoped to pay,

Faces shining from fresh air and bath salts sat before trenchers groaning under roasts of prime Aberdeen-Angus and wild boar, all the more satisfying when washed down with an exclusive red, the renowned Chateau Noir, 1939. As one devotee of the grape explained to the table whilst standing on his chair, “That was the larst decent summer we enjoyed down in Brighton before we tackled the Hun.” Gulping more vintage, “Chamberlain, bit of a wet I’d say, I remember perfectly those appalling sirens, dreadful air raid shelters; naturally Pater would have none of it, shouldered the elephant rifle which saw him through the Boer War and made straight for the Cliffs of Dover.” The evening’s historian later retired under the table to shelter from the effects of his memory.

Meal finished, a few of the diners tottered to the kitchen to thank to the cook. “Henrietta, how lucky to own such a wonderful chef,” purred a dowager unaware the chef was hired for the night. Winter’s wife beamed, “Shall we withdraw ladies and leave the men folk to their boring politics?” The ladies adjourned with much swishing of silk dresses to the Drawing Room. The men gathered to their host’s end of the antique Jacobean dining piece; the butler, also hired for the occasion, polished the crystal glasses for a third time and soon beneath a blue haze of the finest cut cigars, the brandy bottle circulated the table.

Not every after dinner exchange of opinions enjoyed those of a Chancellor of the Exchequer and a Westminster Under Secretary. Goldberg, not quite by accident, found himself beside the power behind the UK’s energy police, his school chum, Norton-Winters. Their conversation deepened; Sir Joshua leaned close, “Look here Jeff, do you realise that the world’s biggest energy project so far devised is shortly to be developed in the Sahara, twenty major German Corporations are forming a consortium to build a series of solar thermal generation planets, stuffing sunshine into a steam boiler to drive a turbine, it’s the same as canning sunshine, and they aim to supply an initial fifteen per cent of Europe’s needs; a peak output of a hundred gigawatts, that’s about a hundred of the your dirty coal fired power stations you’re dithering over building. “

Winters swirled his brandy glass in an unconcerned manner. Sir Joshua’s face twisted in anger, “and this crowd are putting up four hundred billion ecu’s of funding, where the hell are they finding that amount, four hundred billion.” He breathed heavily at the thought of such a sum, “And what Jeff are you doing to help our nuclear programme get started, just what- might I ask?”

Norton-Winters looked coldly at the friend he knew too well from school days, and aware that the Chancellor seemed to be chattering amiably to an American financier whom Goldberg had brought for the weekend, he said quite firmly, “Look here Josh, the Government’s cutting through the local planning red tape and next week we shall be designating sites for ten nuclear installations. My clear advice to you, my friend, is to cut the first turf in your nuclear waste plant; believe me many cards will then fall into place. We might even help you by a little, shall we say, by an adjustment of the carbon tax on emissions, but as you will be well aware both here in UK and in America the Nuclear Safety Inspectorates are questioning some of the aspects of the design you’re proposing, so you’d better get any design fault rectified, pronto.”

He let that sink in before looking directly at Sir Joshua with obvious annoyance, “By the way I do happen to know of your arrangements behind my back for supplying the M.O. D. with weapons’ grade plutonium, whilst promising to dump the rotting nuclear submarines which they’re scrapping.”

Not used to being on the receiving end, Goldberg swallowed hard and choosing to ignore any comment on design problems, forced an ingratiating smile, “Jeff old chap, you know how touchy the M.O.D. can be, especially the way things are out in Helman.” Norton-Winters turned to speak to another guest and Sir Joshua was left sullenly watching his friend, Nicky Fellows, the financial manipulator from America, laughing and joking with the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Always the considerate host, Norton-Winters arose and carefully holding onto the table, announced, “Shall we join the ladies?” No longer able to stand the jollity of the night, Goldberg shot a penetrating look at Nick Fellows and carefully negotiating the stairway with a little help from mahogany balustrade, he stomped up to his bedroom.

The porcelain bedside clock approached three am.before the door opened to admit a grinning Fellows, “Gee man, what a party, and that Chancellor guy, sure we got on just great, just…” “Come in Nicky, I want to talk to you, clear of all that tomfoolery downstairs.” “Josh, don’t be so nasty to your own little Nicky,” and supported by one the pillars of the four-poster bed, Fellows patted the corpulent figure of Sir Joshua, “Joshy, I’ve had a wonderful conversation with the guy. Man, man, he’s going to break up those Scottish banks he got his hands on, break ‘em up man.” Fellows rolled his eyes, “Josh just think of the pickings out of that lot with sterling on its knees, just begging man, just begging,” and falling onto the bed in a roar of guffaws, “Josh, just think of it, stuffing the British taxpayer; I’ll fund your miserable little nuclear dump on the strength of it.”

Far from being mollified by his friend’s three am offer of support, and knowing full well the impact a grey dawn can spread over even the brightest ideas, Goldberg snapped, “Yes, yes Nicky, I appreciate your consideration,” and as his friend, slumped beside him on the bed, “unless Nuen can move fast, and by that I mean in the next few months, this confounded Sahara Solar project will catch on and pull in even more funding. Even the stupid UK government might wake up. Do you realise all Europe’s electricity could be supplied from an area of only two hundred and fifty square kilometres? Cooling water’s the problem obviously, but damn it they’re talking desalinisation and supplying water for crop irrigation; it’s horrendous.”

Fellows merely grunted. “This is serious Nicky,” Sir Joshua was talking to himself, “plans are afoot for solar farms in Israel and China. Australia’s going solar, the Germans are sticking solar panels on every damn roof and now they’re pulling the strings in Africa, California’s leading the way in America, I tell you, apart from the M.O.D., that dope of a chap Shivering Winters and his Ministry of Trade and Energy is our best hope of any future business.”

“Nicky my dear chap,” he prodded his snoring friend, “Nuen needs the cash for this waste bunker, and fast, otherwise without more political influence in the right quarters our nuclear job, thanks to this bloody Sahara Power project, is going to be shafted by sunshine.”

Breaking over with the brittle crash of splintering crystal, the wave crest toppled towards a mammoth hole in the ocean. The screaming gale reached a higher note, foaming white a cascade poured down, the Valkyrie became a smothered hull. She began to roll. Anderson washed into the falling torrent, took a gasp of air. In the seconds with his head above water, he saw her mast coming towards him. She’s going over.This will be the end. He was being dragged down, a rushing gurgle pounding his ears; pressure crushing his lungs. He fought against breathing. Water filled his nose, all was going black and deathly silent.

Each Atlantic gale will create the few immense waves which remain a terrifying vision in those who survive their greed. Seeded by falling pressure and a rising wind these mountains of the sea are sucked towards the sky; in a relentless urge they devour their smaller brethren, grow in height and might, and prowl the trackless wastes to seek a victim. Top heavy giants, they crash. The ocean’s pit of a sailor’s dread is filled, acres of sea are flattened, the remains of a majestic peak are reduced to the foam streaked carcass of a departing greyback; and the laughter of a gale.