Whirligig (29 page)

She sat down, and a ripple of applause began around the hall. It couldn't be said to be much more than respectful, except from the wind farm's known supporters. Coky's eyes directed a questioning look at Claypole. He smiled awkwardly.

John Bruce, seeing Claypole, leaned across to Tommy Thompson and whispered. The chairman also looked at the back of the hall and raised his eyebrows when he too saw Claypole. When the applause died down, Tommy Thompson spoke.

‘Thank you, Coky. At this point there may be questions from the floor.' A few hands were raised. ‘I should remind you that this is not a time to express your opinions. That time has gone. This is to explore last-minute questions of fact.'

Tommy Thompson smiled as he saw that several people with their hands raised had put them down again. But of the hands that remained in the air, the most noticeable was that of Claypole. Tommy Thompson seemed to hesitate for a moment before he said, ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I had been led to believe before this meeting that the spokesman for the
Loch Garvach Wind Farm was not due to be present at this meeting, but I see now that he is. So, the chair recognises Gordon Claypole.'

There were a few mutterings, and some of the audience turned their heads in the direction of the chairman's eyeline. But the biggest reaction came from Peregrine, who bolted out of his chair and swivelled on his heels to see Claypole making his way through the audience and coming to the front of the stage. Peregrine's face had turned beetroot. He gathered his thoughts, and then blurted, ‘A point of order, Mr Chairman!'

‘Yes,' said Tommy Thompson in a tone of measured surprise. ‘Peregrine MacGilp.'

‘Claypole no longer represents Loch Garvach Wind Farm Limited.' And turning to Claypole, he snarled, ‘You're fired, matey.'

Tommy Thompson looked at Claypole, who reached the stage and stood coolly beside the fuming Peregrine. ‘Brr. What if I were here in a personal capacity?'

There were mutterings from the audience. Peregrine huffed triumphantly. ‘Nothing entitles you to be here, in that case. You're not even a resident of Loch Garvach…' And he added with a cruel twist of his lips, ‘or anywhere else, apparently.'

No one laughed. They were waiting for Tommy Thompson's reaction.

‘This is a public meeting,' began Tommy Thompson thoughtfully, ‘and as such can be attended by any member of the public. The chair has recognised Mr Claypole.'

Peregrine's eyes darted furiously from Tommy Thompson to Claypole and back again.

‘Perhaps,' began Claypole, ‘I could be allowed a
moment in private with my coll
–
… Sorry, my former colleague?'

Tommy Thompson looked at Peregrine, and Pere-grine looked at Claypole, who looked at Coky and smiled.

‘Guh,' said Peregrine, and pointed at the back of the stage.

‘Thank you, Mr Chairman,' said Claypole, and waddled off after Peregrine.

‘While they are… um, perhaps I could answer a few questions from the floor?' said Coky, facing the front.

Next to a large cardboard shark, Peregrine turned to Claypole. They could still be seen by the audience, but not heard by them.

‘That's a very good idea,' said Tommy Thompson, glancing behind him at the two men at the back of the stage. ‘Does anyone have any questions?'

No hands were raised, and Tommy Thompson could see that all eyes were fixed on the silent drama unfolding behind him. Peregrine was poking Claypole in the chest, but the younger man was not reacting.

‘Well, perhaps I'll ask one,' said Tommy Thompson, also unable to tear his eyes away from Peregrine and Claypole. Claypole had drawn some papers out of his pocket and handed them to Peregrine. ‘Could you remind us of when building might begin on the wind farm, should it, er… should it be given planning permission?'

‘Yes, I, er…' Coky looked behind her as surreptitiously as she could to see Claypole, his hands in his pockets, talking quietly, while Peregrine leafed through the papers he had been given. The old man clearly did not like what he saw, or heard. ‘Initial works on the foundations could begin in about nine months, but…'

Coky had ground to a halt. Peregrine was running his hands through his hair, and his shoulders had dropped. Claypole was continuing to speak to the old man.

‘… And, er… yes, if everything goes… If everything goes well, then, er…' Coky looked back at the audience, and saw that no one was listening to her, so she gave up and stopped talking.

All the eyes in the hall watched as Claypole gave Peregrine a pat on the shoulder and walked confidently back to the front of the stage. Peregrine followed him a couple of seconds later, grim defeat on his face.

As he reached the front of the stage, Coky searched Claypole's eyes but he looked nothing other than completely collected as he planted himself in the middle of the stage.

‘It seems that… Brr… I am happy to say that I have been rehired as the spokesman for the Loch Garvach Wind Farm.'

Everyone's attention switched from Claypole to Peregrine, who nodded before sitting heavily in his chair at the front of the audience. Then all eyes were back on Claypole.

‘First, I'd like to say a little something about myself, just for the record… Brr. Got any water?'

Coky offered him the glass that stood in front of her.

‘Thanks,' said Claypole, and drained the glass. Coky noticed that he was dressed in the same clothes he had on the previous night, and found herself wondering where, or whether, he had slept. Like everyone else in the hall, she was also wondering what on earth had just taken place between Claypole and Peregrine.

‘So. Yeah. You've probably read the
Glenmorie Herald,
and… I'm not
a rich and successful entrepreneur. Actually I never said I was. But I didn't deny it, so… that was foolish, and I did it, I suppose, because the fact is that I'm really in the sh
–
… Er…'

He looked at an old woman in the front row, whose eyes were narrowed. He inclined his head slightly in her direction.

‘I am in a
jam
,' he continued. The old woman nodded graciously. ‘But I've spent a week here now, immersed fully, um, in the area… and I've got a bit to say about the place.'

He cleared his throat gently and glanced down at his hands. The audience was now completely still, attending closely to every word.

‘Let's deal with the big picture first. Anyone who doesn't think that climate change by human cause is scientific fact beyond reasonable doubt is either an idiot or being deliberately obtuse. But even if you insist that it is still a matter of opinion, there remains the simple reason that it is now government policy. Our governments, both UK and Scottish, have decided that generating electricity using wind turbines must happen.'

Claypole looked up. Every eye was on him.

‘The question before us – and every other wind farm – is not “should there be wind farms?” but “should there be a wind farm
here
?” '

Claypole looked at his left palm, and stared at it. Then he looked at his right. Coky could see now that both hands were covered in blue biro.

‘Sorry, brr,' he said, looking on the sleeve of his shirt, where there was more biroed scrawl. ‘Wrote this in a bus shelter. Ah, yeah. So… no one likes the idea of suddenly living next to a power station, of whatever kind. Some don't like the idea of a power station that
moves, and moves in what may be a beautiful setting. And we fear the unknown. Who can say from a map or a drawing what they will really feel when they see a 125-metre-high turbine across the valley? But really, none of this matters.'

There were murmurs from the audience, but Claypole ignored them, rolling up his sleeves to reveal more biro.

‘We all go through life thinking that the nasty things get done somewhere else. Modern life is designed this way. You might never see the inside of a morgue, but sure as Christmas you will die. You might never go to an oil processing plant, but you still drive your car. And you will probably use a hundred megawatt hours of electricity in your life without ever going near a power station. Most of us are completely disconnected from the consequences of our actions.'

There was a hiss from somewhere, but Claypole ploughed on.

‘But “why here?”, you say. Here in Loch Garvach, where there are no traffic jams, no sirens, no pollution to contend with, although all of those things happen in the cities that make your lives possible. Government and crime and mail order distribution centres barely impinge on your lives, and yet you have roads and police and you can buy anything you like on the internet. Wind farming is the one thing of inconvenience that society at large is now asking of the country dweller. Is that so bad?

‘I've listened to the fears of a lot of people in the last week. I have spoken to shepherds and ghillies and people who rely on tourism, and I'm convinced there will be no impact on their livelihoods. The forests and the fisheries will be unaffected, and your house will
still be worth what it is today.'

Claypole paused and looked at the faces in the hall. Some wore grimaces, set firm. Some smiled curiously. Some had mild frowns. All were paying full attention. Tommy Thompson interrupted him. ‘Could you stick to matters of fact, Mr Claypole? Your opinion as to the value of my house is not relevant.'

Claypole smiled at Tommy Thompson.

‘Sure,' he said calmly. He rolled his sleeves down and put his note-ridden hands in his pockets. ‘I'll give you some facts. Wind farming is a professional business. People with MBAs and electrical engineering degrees operate a multi-billion-pound industry. Very rarely do the little guys – the amateurs like the Loch Garvach Wind Farm Company – get a large wind farm through planning successfully. But in the rare cases that they do, it is because they give something special to the communities in which they exist. My final word, therefore, is this…'

Claypole paused, looked at Coky briefly and raised his voice suddenly – almost shouting – so that some in the audience jumped.

‘If you're going to have a wind farm, for God's sake get it right! Why are you only getting £2,000 per turbine? Ask for ten. Or twenty. Peregrine MacGilp will still make millions out of it, but so will you. At the moment it's like someone's found gold in your hills and you lot are all standing around wondering why anyone would want the shiny yellow rocks. An opportunity like this comes along once a century, and if you don't grab it with both hands, you will have spectacularly missed out, and you'll only have yourselves to blame.'

Claypole's hands were held out to the audience as if grasping it collectively by the elbows. The community
hall was completely still except for Peregrine, who was shaking his head and grinding his teeth. But he said nothing.

‘If I were in charge… and let's face it, I'm not… In fact, I hearby resign as the spokesman for the wind farm… But if I were in charge, I would make Peregrine do all the environmental survey work again. But this time make him accountable. Do it together! Maybe you could even pay for some of the survey work that clearly still needs to be done. Then you can see that it's all done correctly and reap more of the reward. Perry gets his wind farm, all aspects of the environment are protected, and not only does the community make money, you can make sure that none of you resents it without being properly heard first.'

Claypole sighed. ‘Well, that's it. Don't say “no”, and don't say “yes”. Say “maybe”. Say “give us a better deal”. That's my advice. I wish you all good luck, and goodbye.'

Claypole walked off the stage, the only sound his own footsteps on the lino. He walked through the hall and out through the double doors. Lachlan and Milky slipped out behind him.

Only when the doors had stopped swinging did the room begin to stir. A grim-faced Tommy Thompson leaned over to Helen MacDougall and John Bruce. There was intense whispering between them as some in the audience began to talk. The noise of discussion was loud by the time the councillors emerged from their huddle. It was John Bruce who spoke. He did not stand, nor did he look at the crowd, which shut up instantly, and he addressed a point some four feet in front of his toes.

‘We are required to give an answer today to the
request for planning permission for the Loch Garvach Wind Farm. Much as Mr Claypole might advocate it, the answer “maybe” is not an option. There is only “yes”, or “no”, and it has become apparent that I have the casting vote. Councillor MacDougall has been implacably opposed to the wind farm since it was first suggested. She disliked the idea on principle, and her mind has not changed. Chairman Thompson, on the other hand, is convinced in the other direction. It is his view that any commercial activity for an area of this kind should not be passed up merely because it may be an inconvenience for a few individuals.'

Tommy Thompson did not demur.

‘I respect both of those points of view, and have taken them into account in forming my own opinion. In fact'
–
Bruce straightened up
–
‘so firmly held are these views that I have been lobbied by both sides in this debate, and very heavily in the last couple of days. So heavily, in fact, that I'm afraid I have had to pretend to agree with both sides…'

Eyebrows were raised from both his fellow councillors, but they did not interrupt. Tommy Thompson looked at Peregrine, who sank lower in his chair.

‘… for which I apologise to both of them. I think it is a matter for judgement, not dogma. I can see the advantages, and I can also see that there will be some damage and some inconveniences. I must weigh those considerations and make my decision.'

John Bruce chewed his lip. There were no sounds in the auditorium.

‘In my mind, it comes down to this. Do I safeguard the immediate local environment, and vote against? Or do I try and safeguard the wider environment, and vote in favour?'