The dilapidated three storey mansion that greeted her no longer boasted any formal gardens, instead it was surrounded by a thin sprinkling of gravel, punctuated by drifts of poisoned dandelions, thistles and ground elder. And creeping ever closer to the building were armies of rhododendrons, their shiny leaves reflecting the evening sunshine, a few guinea fowl pecking disconsolately in their shade. Jagged cracks in the harling on the house revealed glimpses of the cut stone below and an isolated stretch of guttering hung perilously above the front door, its companions to the left and right lying, rusted and broken, where they had fallen. Despite this, the place remained strangely impressive, eloquent of status, if no longer of wealth.
Alice readied herself for the forthcoming ordeal; meeting a band of complete strangers, each known to the other, united by a common purpose, and one completely alien to her. By the time she had located the doorbell, discovered it to be silent and knocked instead, a shower of rain had begun to fall and she shivered, involuntarily, waiting to be let in. Prue MacGregor, when she finally came, matched her description. Mr Rice had warned his daughter to expect a small, bandy-legged creature with piercing blue eyes and an inhospitable manner. Without the usual pleasantries or introductions, a glass of red wine was thrust peremptorily into Alice’s hand as her hostess, intent upon answering her mobile phone, marched out of the kitchen.
No one approached the uneasy newcomer, so she looked round, taking in her surroundings, accustoming herself to the hum of other people’s conversation. The room was harshly lit by a single fluorescent strip, and suspended from the ceiling was a massive pulley, laden with jodhpurs, patched blankets and overalls, swinging a couple of feet above the visitors. Otherwise, the kitchen contained little furniture bar a large oak table and a miscellaneous collection of ill-fitting cupboards flanked by a gloss-painted Welsh dresser, its shelves bowed with the weight of the Horse & Hound magazines piled on them.
Some of the guests began to drift towards the door and Alice followed passively, notebook in hand, as they processed into a dark, musty drawing room. Fifty years earlier the room had been magnificent with linenfold panelling and plasterwork columns, but its glory days had long gone – blisters disfigured the wallpaper and the brocade on the furnishings was threadbare, slits of black horsehair visible beneath. A pair of gilt-framed mirrors, silver peeling, flanked an ornate chimney-piece, in front of which two men sat at a table, facing chairs set out before them as if in an old-fashioned school room. The men looked on apprehensively as the party settled into the seating provided. When Alice’s turn came, only an embroidered footstool remained, and she lowered herself onto it gingerly, expecting its woodworm-infested legs to crumble under her weight.
As she was breathing a sigh of relief, sitting safely with the footstool still intact, the younger of the two men stood up and introduced himself as Ewan Potter, Commercial Director of Firstforce, and then gestured towards his companion, Doctor Angus Long, Technical Consultant of the Company. Potter’s voice was smooth, assured and resonated with authority, as if used to giving orders and accustomed to obedience, but as he began telling his audience about the company’s desire to consult with the local community, to accommodate their wishes, he was interrupted by a thickset woman with unconcealed aggression in her tone. Alice felt the temperature in the room rise a few degrees, and the tension in it, created by the speaker’s blatant antagonism, became palpable.
‘You want to “consult” with us, do you? “Accommodate” our wishes, eh? But, Mr Potter, you and your company are not wanted here. There is nothing to consult with us about!’ the woman shouted. ‘To accommodate our wishes you’d have to ensure that none of your twenty-five bloody turbines came anywhere near Gimmerfauld. That’s our view, we told you that at the last meeting…’
Following this outburst, Alice glanced around the room expecting every jaw to have dropped in astonishment at this seemingly unprovoked display of fury, but saw, instead, a few heads nodding, as if in approval of the views expressed. For a second she caught the eye of a rotund, bespectacled man, and the quizzical look she bestowed on him was not reciprocated as he patted his knee, as if applauding the speaker’s tone.
Doctor Long swallowed, adjusted his tie, then readjusted it, before looking intently downwards at his papers and re-assembling them into their previous impeccable order. In contrast, his companion leant forward over the table and stared hard at his antagonist as if his pugnacious attitude might persuade her to alter, or retract, her cutting words. But the woman seemed oblivious to his display of annoyance and continued speaking, still at an uncomfortably high volume.
‘You’ve seen where we live, Mr Potter, and our hills cannot “absorb” the one hundred and twenty-five metre structures you’ve planned for them. We’ve asked you to reduce the height of the towers, the size of the blades, to “accommodate” us, but have you? Have you buggery! I told you and your sidekick the last time, three of your sodding turbines are within two hundred metres of my house. Have you considered for one moment what that might be like, eh? I don’t give a flying fuck about you or your company. This is just a job to you; you knock off and then go back to your comfy little house somewhere or other, but your “project” results in the ruination of my home, my sodding life, actually. And don’t imagine we don’t know what Firstforce’s real concerns are. Nothing to do with clean, renewable energy, polar bears and saving the planet… No, it’s all about the bottom line, capital returns, dividends for your shareholders…’
Potter cleared his throat loudly in an attempt to halt the apparently unstoppable flow, and his ploy worked, the speaker was surprised into silence, as if she believed that her tirade might bring about his departure, and with it, the cancellation of Firstforce’s plans for the wind farm. But in seconds, any such illusions were shattered.
‘Thank you, Miss Lamont. We are all familiar with your views by now. You gave us the benefit of them last month and at the gathering before that. All I am trying to do is to get across to you that whilst the fact of our wind farm in this location is non-negotiable, as far as the company is concerned, we may be able to accommodate the wishes of the local community in respect of the proposed layout. Equally, Firstforce intend to set up a community-fund…’
Like a small child, a middle-aged man in a worn green tweed jacket put up his hand to attract attention, and in deference to him the Director returned to his seat.
‘I’m in exactly the same position as Sue… uh, Miss Lamont. Your design shows my farm, at least I’m the tenant of it, with six of the turbines within my boundary and the ones marked… uh, ten, fourteen, eleven and thirteen,’ he jabbed a thick forefinger at a creased map, ‘surround my house. Number fourteen is actually to be built on the catchment area for my water supply. The same is true at Blaebridge, Miss Kerr’s cottage. Her house is supplied by a borehole, and it’ll be bound to get polluted if you erect turbine number twenty-three where you’ve shown it on the plan. Miss Kerr’s not here tonight, she’s too upset, but she’s an old woman who could do without all of this hassle. Couldn’t you just re-think the whole thing, find another site?’