Whirligig (21 page)

And there it was. A new life. In Claypole's quivering hands.

Bitumen black, the foal did not move. I must get it out of this bag, Claypole thought, but he possessed nothing with which he could tear the sac and allow the foal to breathe. He looked back at the mare. She looked knackered and gave him no guidance. Swallowing hard, he braced himself. He must do this, he thought. This animal is relying on me to act. There is no one else, and I refuse to be responsible for another death. So he knelt down and bit into the sweet and sour placental sac. It tore easily, and he ripped away the rest of the sac from the foal's face with his hands, spitting the foul taste from his lips. Still the creature did not move, so
he ripped some of the sticky membrane from its body.

He looked down at his hands. They were pink with blood and goo, and his jeans had gone dark. His bare torso was steaming gently, also bloodied and sticky. He crawled away, disgusted with himself for being unable to commence the animal's life despite his sacrifice. He turned back to look, now sitting on the forest floor some six feet from the foal and the mare.

The foal craned its head and stood quickly, launching itself from a dead lump to standing in a second. Claypole's eyes widened. There it stood, its thin, shivering legs awkwardly splayed. It was like a chilly catwalk model in a tight black furry suit. To Claypole's delight, the mare got up and approached her progeny. She frantically licked the foal's face clean like it was covered in gravy. Claypole backed away again on his bottom, now at a distance of twenty feet. The foal looked at him and blinked. There was no fear in its eyes, and Claypole could not help smiling. It was not his normal smile – the guarded crinkle that barely ruptured his face. This was a real smile. His mouth was partly open, and his broken teeth visible. It didn't last long, though, because Claypole's mood was so confused. He found himself slightly annoyed because neither the mare nor the foal seemed to be showing him any gratitude. (Just a nod would have been fine. Even a noble glance.) But more importantly, and the real reason for the rapid fading of his smile, was that he found his bottom lip trembling.

At first he thought he must be cold. He was half naked, and misty rain had begun to fall. But these were not quite the symptoms of cold. Then, while sitting on the damp ground in the middle of nowhere, under moonlight and with two horses for company who were
now oblivious to his incongruous presence, Claypole found himself weeping.

Daylight did not so much break over Loch Garvach that morning as smear itself slowly over the land, taking an hour to do so. Claypole hadn't even registered that it was morning until he found himself shielding his eyes from the grey light as he strode with purpose over the brow of the hill that led to Dorcas's cottage. Sodden, sleepless, bloodied and bedraggled as he was, he was thoroughly energised. When he finally saw that the lights were on in the house, he would have broken into a run, were it not for the inextricable water in his shoes. He replayed the pictures in his mind of the foal's first steps. What joy to have helped it into the world! A life now existed because of Gordon S. Claypole. He skipped through Dorcas MacGilp‘s garden to find her welcoming him on the front doorstep with a cup of tea. She seemed unsurprised to see him.

After she had put his clothes in the washing machine and given him some more bizarre cast-offs to wear, he boasted of his recent bout of equine midwifery. It was not as satisfying in the telling as he had been expecting. Dorcas seemed unimpressed. She gave no more than one or two dutiful oohs and ahs, and Claypole found himself having to repeat what had happened in order to impress on her how heroic he had been. At length it was her turn to speak.

‘You need a knife,' she said, fumbling in a drawer of the kitchen dresser. ‘Everyone in the countryside has a knife.'

‘Oh,' he said. She handed him a penknife. ‘I suppose… Yeah.'
If he had had a knife, he would not have had to use his teeth on the placental sac.

‘You can have that. I've got a few.' Dorcas sat down again.

‘Thanks.'

‘On one condition. You don't use it on any horses.'

Claypole stared at the floor. He felt upbraided, but was having difficulty understanding what for. There was a pause.

‘My sister called me,' said Dorcas quietly.

‘Brr,' said Claypole.

‘She said you'd left her house in a huff, and she'd tried to find you to give you a lift. There was some tiff with Henderson's Taxis? She also said that you stole her boat.'

‘Yes. Well. Brr. She deserved it.'

Dorcas paused thoughtfully before speaking.

‘Gossip is vital in an area like this,' she began. ‘It's a form of social grooming. If you don't see the other people in the community very often, you have to gossip fast and hard. It's how we guard against mental illness. If someone has hit the bottle, or is bashing their kids, everyone should know about it. Then we all chew over the allegations and the evidence, and act collectively. It's better than a social worker or a judge having to mop the whole thing up after it's too late.'

‘Bit claustrophobic,' said Claypole petulantly.

‘Oh. But surely it is cities that really make people feel claustrophobic.'

‘Farmers are always… you know, offing themselves,' Claypole protested.

‘Ah, well, yes,' said Dorcas with a sad smile, ‘farming doesn't work so well any more. It used to be a communal
activity. It used to take fifty people to do anything, and you'd be chatting away while you did it. These days it's just one chap in a tractor with his headphones on. No wonder they go bonkers.'

‘Brr,' said Claypole.

‘Oh, well, I… I just wanted to say…'

Dorcas seemed unwilling to finish her sentence.

‘Huh,' said Claypole grumpily. ‘I just need to get out of here.'

Dorcas drew a thoughtful breath and pursed her lips. ‘I've been reading a lot about the Epicureans,' she said.

‘Mm,' said Claypole, taking a mouthful of cake, neither knowing nor caring what she was talking about.

‘It is said that Epicurus may have written over 300 books, on all subjects from music and food to fair dealing and love. Thirty-seven volumes on Nature alone. Probably the only philosopher you might want to spend an evening with. He not only liked fun, he thought it was of tremendous importance.'

‘Yeah. Course. Fun. Brilliant.'

‘Well, yes,' Dorcas began, with a cautious note in her voice, ‘but who can say they are truly an expert in enjoying themselves? Not “partying”, as the current parlance has it. God knows there are enough experts in that. I mean real joy. Long-lasting and profound.'

Claypole began to listen, if only because he detected that he was being patronised.

‘Epicurus lived in a commune, and ate bread, olives and cheese, all produced in the back garden of his shared house, and thought about things all day. He had no wealth, and thought it illogical to seek such a thing, because it did not follow that wealthy people
were happy. In fact, it seemed to him that the reverse was true.'

Claypole shifted in his seat and frowned. What was she driving at?

‘You think you're an entrepreneur, don't you?'

Claypole was about to say that, yes, he did.

‘Well, I've got news for you, Gordon. You're not.'

He was about to protest, both at the use of his first name and the accusation. But Dorcas ploughed on.

‘And that's a good thing!' She waved at him approvingly with a teaspoon. ‘Have you ever met a really successful entrepreneur, Gordon? Have you? They are arrogant, manipulative, selfish, planet-spoiling obsessives, often tortured by self-hatred and addiction, and more or less incapable of even basic empathy, let alone love. You almost have to be that sort to make a lot of money, I suppose. Now. I ask you… is that you, Gordon? Is that why you're doing the wind farm? Is it for the money, or for the good of the world? Or is it something else?'

Claypole blinked incredulously. This was an assault.

‘It's a Good Thing, isn't it? Capital “G”, capital “T”? Brr… a bit of everything, I s'pose.'

‘Hm,' said Dorcas. ‘Look, I know I sound like a crazy old goat, and I'm too much of a hermit. Epicurus would not approve. But I have found something important: the pleasure of being at one with your surroundings. The wax and wane of Nature is like a huge cosmic breath. The knowledge, while you are breathing in and out at such a break-neck pace until you run out of breaths, that something much larger and greater than yourself is also breathing, is truly joyful. Spring and summer in, autumn and winter out. In, out. Year after year for
aeons. And Nature breathes with such complexity, some of it beautiful, some of it merely awesome.'

Claypole was silenced.

‘There is a moment'
–
Dorcas spoke more slowly now, and drew a little closer to him
–
‘when the trees stutter in their breath. In fruit trees it's called June Drop, when the trees shed the fruits they know they cannot support and continue growing the ones they know they can. But all trees do it. It's at that moment in the summer when humans are rushing about wearing skimpy tops, or – in my case – just sitting down with a glass of lemonade at the end of the longest day. Everything stops growing, very suddenly, and takes a big breath. Like a child halfway through slaking its thirst with a glass of water. Like the child, the plants have concentrated all their energy on the task in hand and have spared no effort. Then, in the only pause since the first bud of spring, they take that much-needed breath before the final push. It is a moment of the most sublime pleasure when you know from the plants around you that it is happening. I feel like the parent of the whole world at that moment. I want it to succeed and thrive long after I am gone.'

Claypole was unmoving, gawping.

‘Oh dear. You have no idea what I am talking about. You look at the discomforts and the strangeness of the countryside and think I must be talking out of my bottom. But I urge you to try and get to a state in which you know that moment, Claypole. Know it, love it, and experience it as many times as you can before you yourself stop taking breaths and cease to be for ever.'

Dorcas put down her tea and smiled. And Claypole, given a natural break in the conversation, leaned across the sofa to kiss her.

PASSENGER ONE
: It's viruses and butterflies.

PASSENGER TWO
: What is?

PASSENGER ONE
: Life. Misery is like a virus. Once it gets hold of you, it uses you to multiply. Happiness is a butterfly. It arrives lightly, and leaves soon.

Overheard in Departures at Ibiza Airport, July 2001

S
calded cats have been known to move more sluggishly than Dorcas MacGilp did when presented with Claypole's kiss-face, although there was no need for speed in this instance. Claypole's advance was in the nature of a romantic lean-in, not a lusty jump, and she easily ducked under his embrace and away from his quivering lips. ‘Sorry. Oh. God. Shit. Did I…?' he said. ‘Wow. Shit. OK. Sorry.'

They had another cup of tea just to pretend that things hadn't become weird, after which she drove him back to the Loch Garvach Hotel, by-the-by mending the Land Rover with an ease that was at once relieving and irritating. In his hotel room, an inspection of his mobile phone revealed it to be encrusted with salt
water, and when he plugged it into its charger it was lifeless. So he picked up the hotel phone and dialled his answering service. He entered many numbers and passwords and listened to his messages.

‘Good morning Mr Claypole, this is Hunter Chase Bank. We've been –'

Bip. Erase.

‘Hi. Kevin Watt again here from the
Glenmorie Herald
. I just –'

Bip. Erase.

‘Hey, Claypole. It's Peregrine. I heard you went to Bonnie's and it didn't go very well. Not surprised. Come over tomorrow for breakfast and we'll chew over what to do next. Toodle pip.'

Bip. Message saved.

Claypole slept for fourteen hours straight. He woke at two in the morning, strangely refreshed, and almost sprang upright. Making a pot of filthy coffee using an ancient teasmade, he set to reading the wind farm files. When he looked at his watch next it was seven o'clock, and as he drove the Land Rover (at ponderously slow pace) over to MacGilp House, Claypole knew that when he addressed the meeting at the community hall the following evening, he would have a great deal to say about the Loch Garvach Wind Farm.

At MacGilp House, no one seemed to have risen. Claypole reminded himself that it was early on a Sunday morning and had breakfast alone but for Peregrine's trio of ancient dogs. They watched him, perhaps waiting for the handling error that would release a piece of bacon or a sausage onto the kitchen floor. They would then all scamper to gobble the stray meat. But Claypole couldn't help feeling that the Labrador with three legs was scrutinising him for another purpose.
He had probably had too much coffee, but he imagined that the old dog wanted to know his intentions as regards Coky, whom it had presumably known since it was a skittering pup with all its limbs. He found himself addressing it.