When she finally caught his eye, Alexander was in the company of a late-middle-aged man. He had an implausibly red face, as if it had been spray-painted, this startling effect heightened by his silver hair and a bright yellow shirt. — Alison … Alexander smiled, as she moved over to them, — this is Councillor Markland, chair of the recreation committee. He then turned to the belisha-beacon man. — Stuart, Alison here’s our new admin support for the unit. She’s been seconded from the RCP.
— How’s things at the Commie these days? Councillor Markland asked her.
— Fine, Alison smiled, warming to the councillor for using the punter’s colloquialism for the Royal Commonwealth Pool, rather than the bland councilspeak Alexander had deployed. — I’ve just started this job with Alexander today, on secondment for a year.
— Come and grab some lunch with us, Alexander said, — then I’m going to take you on a wee drive round some of the Dutch elm disease hot spots.
They left the Chambers, heading in hazy heat across the Royal Mile to a wine bar. It was the last day of the festival and the narrow street was packed with crowds watching performers do their things on the cobblestones. By the time she got across, Alison had flyers for eight different shows pressed into her hand. Alexander took a couple, but Stuart Markland waved away the proferring young students with a low, gruff burr, displaying the intimidating bearing of a man who’d seen it all before. But he ignited as they stepped inside the tavern, literally rubbing his hands with glee as they were shown to a table in the corner.
Though far more appreciative of the wine than the food — her stomach seemed to have shrunk — Alison nonetheless forced her way through it, mindful that she’d eaten little over the last two days. Stuart Markland seemed to be enjoying both. He grinned wolfishly at them as he shovelled some chicken Kiev into his mouth, then wiped it with his napkin.
Alexander, nursing one glass of red, made a serious point. — I don’t like the way some people are deploying the acronym ‘DED’ in council correspondence. I’ve made this view known to Bill Lockhart. If the papers get a hold of that and start adopting it, it gives off a ghoulish, defeatist impression. We have to avoid own goals, Stuart, he said, compelling the councillor to give this point his attention.
— For sure, Markland barked.
— Dutch elm sounds more robust. Alexander stabbed the air with his fork. — The press will be a huge part of this campaign, so let’s make sure we’re all singing from the same song sheet as soon as possible. Alison, you might like to monitor the correspondence relating to the unit, and Dutch elm disease in general, and perhaps diplomatically issue a wee note to concerned parties to that effect.
— Right, Alison said.
What the fuck is he on aboot?
Markland seemed to be considering something, lowering his busy brows. For a few seconds, Alison thought it was the wine he was savouring, before he asked, — So when does this felling and planting policy start coming intae action?
— I’ve got a squad out right now. Down in darkest West Granton, by the gasworks. Started yesterday, Alexander said, stopping short of smug in his self-satisfied confidence. He knew he’d bent the rules and jumped the gun by sending them out before the policy was rubber-stamped, but he was anxious to appear dynamic.
He studied Markland’s booze-beaten face for a reaction, feeling palpable relief when it crumpled into a smile. — You dinnae let the grass grow under your feet, the councillor said, adding, — no pun intended, and to Alison’s delight and Alexander’s obvious discomfit, he waved across to the bar, ordering a second bottle of wine.
When the bottle came round, Alexander put his hand over his glass, and looked up at the waiter. — I’m driving.
Markland reminded Alison of an illustration of the Cheshire cat from a book she’d had as a child, as he turned to her. — Great, aw the mair for us! Here’s tae the new unit, he toasted.
Alison in Wonderland, Mum used to say.
By the time she left the bar with Alexander, Alison was more than pleasantly groggy to the extent that she had to be careful as she lowered herself into the passenger seat of his Volvo. She thought there was no point in trying to conceal her state. — Wow … I’m not used to afternoon drinking, she said. — I have tae admit, I feel a wee bit sozzled n that’s pittin it mildly!
— Yes, thanks for taking one for the team, Alexander nodded, starting up the car, apparently genuinely pleased at her for drinking what was the best part of a bottle of wine.
Barry fuckin job this …
With yesterday’s excesses, the lack of sleep and the early-afternoon effect, she was certainly feeling it. — S’awright …
— Don’t get me wrong, Stuart Markland’s a great guy, Alexander said, turning onto the South Bridge, — but he’s very much of the old school.
Alison was about to say that she had no objection to that, but quelled her talkative instinct. You’re at work, she kept reminding herself. But it didn’t feel like that, sitting in this upholstered car, the windows down, the sun blasting in. Alexander was a bit of a wanker, but he looked good in that suit, and she felt like flirting with him. She stretched her legs out, her gaze going down her shin bone to the red-painted toenails, jutting out her strappy flat summer shoes. The impression that Alexander’s eyes had made the same journey beset her, but as she turned quickly, they were firmly on the road.
— This is a very, very sad sight, he frowned, as they drove up West Granton Road. They pulled up outside the big, blue gasworks tower, and as they stepped out of the car, Alison saw the squad of men chopping away at a tree with cutting equipment, like a moving version of the slide Alexander had shown earlier.
— This one was exhibiting signs of infestation, he said, squinting in the sun, pointing out another stricken tree, which men were busy digging out. Then his arm swept over to a mini-forest on the other side of the gasworks tower. — These guys are still healthy. Well, for the time being. This really is the front line.
I want you up me, Alison thought to herself, first just as an intoxicated subversive and vaguely malicious impulse. Then the growing kernel of lust, which seemed to flare up after she’d allowed herself that trangressive notion, both surprised and excited her, as they stepped off the tarmac onto the grass.
Along this stretch of foreshore, reclaimed from the river, two chopped trees were being hauled away to join some others in a pile. Although it was hot, the ground was growing mushier and Alison felt a cold, wet squelching in her feet. They moved close to a man two-handedly chucking splashes of petrol from a large rectangular can over the ruined trees. He was about to set them alight when Alexander shouted, — Wait!
The man looked up at him with a hostile frown. A second, authoritative-looking guy, with close-cropped black hair and thickset features, whom Alison assumed was the supervisor, stole menacingly over and growled, — Jocky, git these fuckin things burnt, glaring at Alexander in challenge, his jaw thrust out.
Alexander shot out what he hoped would be a disarming hand. — You must be Jimmy Knox. We’ve spoken on the phone. Alexander Birch, Dutch Elm Disease Control Unit.
— Aw … right, Jimmy Knox responded without a hint of deference, only taking the proffered hand with some reluctance. — Well, we’ve goat tae get these bastards burnt before the fuckin beetles in them git airborne. Then wir aw fucked, and he looked at Alison, who had raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, adding, — pardon ma French, doll.