‘I’m sorry, but I’m not back until next week. Can you please tell me about the allegations?’ I kept my voice low, hoping none of the seated passengers were listening.
‘I’m sure it’s a simple mix up, but I would like to get it clarified as soon as possible. The person concerned has involved a lawyer, so we’re having to do it all by the rules, but really, I’d rather we could sort it all out in a friendly manner.’
‘Yes, but what’s the complaint, exactly?’
‘It’s a claim that you’ve misused data, basically that you have taken credit for work that is someone else’s.’
‘And who is it that’s claiming this?’
‘I can’t tell you who has lodged the grievance, I’m sorry. I know that’s awful for you, and I imagine you’ll be trying to guess, but I have been told I must allow them to remain anonymous.’
‘Is it Yuri?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t say. Will you come in and see me as soon as you get back?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Do you know what it’s getting at? I’m afraid it’s completely out of the blue to me. I had no idea there was a problem, until I got the lawyer’s letter.’
‘I haven’t a clue, sorry. I’ll rack my brains, but I can’t think of anyone who might think I’ve stolen their work.’ An announcement started up on the tannoy and people began getting to their feet and heading for the gangway. ‘I’ve got to go, my boat’s loading.’
‘OK. Thanks for calling. Have a good trip.’
On the ferry, I blessed the expenses budget that allowed me the privacy of a cabin to myself, allowing me to nurse my thoughts in peace. I racked my brains to think if any of the angry farmers I had encountered in recent weeks might have raised the grievance. But the letter said it was a member of the Institute staff. It had to be Yuri. What was he up to? Could this be about me taking up the position on the panel? Was he going to get me for insubordination? Anja had said in a recent message that he was proving ‘awkward’, but she was going to persist in her efforts to persuade him my new role was a benefit to his department. I suspected she wasn’t making much progress.
Despite these worries, I surprised myself by sleeping well and woke to the ship’s horn announcing the approach to Aberdeen. Dad was waiting for me, looking like he had just had a bad sea crossing himself. He hugged me to him and I felt his once-sturdy body now frailer than my own. In the car park he asked me if I wanted to drive. ‘Get used to the car. I’ve put you on the insurance, thought it might be handy for you to get around.’
‘I’m on expenses. I’d intended hiring, if I need to.’
‘Ach, just use mine. I’ve little need for it these days.’
I took the keys. He was proud of his car, a Nissan Sunburst electric with hydrogen cell backup for long journeys. He and Mum had bought it with his golden handshake for their trips around the Highlands, when the new wind-generated hydrogen plants were being hyped as the new oil boom.
‘It’s a nice car to drive,’ I said, once we were on the main road, heading home. I saw him nod appreciation, knew I’d said the right thing. The wipers swished rain out of our view.
We talked weather for a while, the latest flooding after weeks of record high temperatures, then he said, ‘Sounds like your commission’s taking you all over the place. I can’t imagine you’re getting much real work done.’
So, it had begun already. Would he needle me all weekend about my job? I decided to ignore the dig. ‘I think it’s nearly over, that bit,’ I said, ‘but it’s been amazing. Romania was a total treat. I wish I could’ve stayed three months, not just three days.’
‘You went all that way just for three days? That’s daft.’
‘I couldn’t stay. I had to cover Finland as well in time for the next meeting with the minister.’
‘What is it you were doing? Finding bears to take to Norway?’
‘Not really, just finding out where they like to live, so we can choose the best place for their return.’
‘And what’s this meeting you’ve got tomorrow?’
‘It’s to see if anyone in Scotland would like to be involved in the project and look at bear reintroduction here.’
‘Oh aye,’ he snorted. ‘The farmers’ll love that one.’
I turned the windscreen wipers up to maximum and bit my tongue.
I took the turning to home and we didn’t speak again until the car was parked up outside. The houses had been built in the Fifties by the Forestry Commission: good quality timber buildings, a brief dalliance with Scandinavian construction that had, inexplicably, failed to catch on. Perhaps this was why I had thought I might feel at home in Norway.
‘Shall I put it in the garage?’ I asked.
‘No, I’ll do it later.’ We got out and he made for my bag out of the boot, but I got there first. He didn’t look strong enough to lift a football, let alone a suitcase. I waited until we were ensconced inside, sitting in the comfy chairs in the living room, Dad in his high-backed chair, Mum’s still with its tapestry cushion. I sat on the sofa under the window. There was dust on the skirting boards, but otherwise the place was tidy. Once we had drunk our tea, I asked about his operation.
‘Och, I’m fine,’ he said.
I realised I would have to drag the information out of him, and did: diagnosis, prostate cancer; prognosis, pretty good. He would be kept under close observation but they thought it had been caught early enough to stave it off.
‘It’s my ticker they’re a bit more concerned about,’ he eventually conceded.
‘Do I have to give you the seventh degree?’ I sighed. ‘Come on, tell me. You’re my dad. I care. I love you. I want to know how you really are.’
‘You don’t.’ He shook his head.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m missing your mother.’
‘Of course you are, Dad. I am, too.’
‘I’m not, well, there are some things I don’t know I can cope with. I never was much of a homebody.’
‘You could get a cleaner.’ I thought of Malcolm, for the first time in ages. Perhaps I might contact him, now that I was actually back in the same country again.
‘It’s nothing a cleaner could help with. Believe me, quine. I’m a mess since your mother died. Not even surgery’ll heal that. It ripped me apart, losing her.’
I went to sit beside him, hugged his head to my shoulder. He let me stroke him as he wept like a lover, brokenhearted. I’d never seen him cry; never, that is, until now. I began to glimpse a side of him I hadn’t ever imagined.
‘I’m sorry, Callis.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket.
‘No need to be sorry.’ I was crying now, too, into his thin hair. I hadn’t known we had it in us to be so open.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, blowing his nose, wiping his cheeks and eyes and pulling himself upright. ‘Thanks for coming home. It’s been hard going since the funeral.’ He nodded and swallowed between words.
I felt as if a cat was kneading me with its claws out.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get back sooner,’ I said. It sounded crass after his disarming honesty. ‘My life seems suddenly to have gone into overdrive.’
‘And is Yuri happy now? He seemed concerned you were going off on a bit of a tangent with this government job. You don’t want to do anything to upset him, you know, he’s a good boss.’
I took a deep breath and said nothing.
‘Did I tell you he says we might be able to wangle sponsorship for a minibus for the team?’
‘No, but Yuri is full of surprises.’
He turned to me, eyeing me curiously.
I tried a change of topic. ‘Have you seen much of Auntie Marjory? She told me she’d look after you.’
‘Your aunt is as disreputable as ever. Now stop changing the subject.’
‘OK, but please let’s not talk about Yuri.’
He continued to scrutinise me. ‘You look well. Your skin’s clear. You suit your
hair short.’ Since when had he ever noticed, let alone commented, on my hair? ‘Have you got a new man, is that it?’
I couldn’t hold his gaze. ‘Not exactly. It must just be my work. I’ve been to some amazing places, met some amazing people in the past month.’
‘Including a man?’ he insisted.
‘No!’ I giggled, feeling myself blush at his interrogation. It was like being fifteen again.
As if he could read my mind, he said, ‘Well, if there’s no a man in your life, you should look up Malcolm Johnstone while you’re here. He’s been asking after you and he’s got a look in his eye. I met him in the town last week, and he’s here this weekend, visiting his mother. It’s her 70th birthday. You should go and wish her many happy returns and put her son out of his misery while you’re at it.’
‘Are you matchmaking?’ I pretended affront, trying not to think about the night in April. He gave me a grin I hadn’t seen in years.
I got up to make some more tea. He followed me into the kitchen and sat at the table watching me as I fussed unnecessarily over tea caddies and sugar cubes.
The rain had stopped and the sun was out. The world was glistening outside. I opened the kitchen window and let the scents of the roses beneath it waft into the room, then sat down and poured the tea.
A bee buzzed into the kitchen through the open window and landed on the yellow tablecloth. We watched it rub its front two legs in front of it as if wringing its hands and then rub them over its swivelled head, like a cat washing its ears. ‘Your mother would have squashed that by now,’ he observed.
‘No, she wouldn’t. She’d have put a glass over it and tipped it out of the window. She only squashed flies.’
‘Bees, flies, same difference,’ he muttered.
‘No, they’re totally different. Bees make honey.’ I could hear myself regressing to around seven years old. How did parents manage that? One moment you’re feeling proud to have grown up so fine and the next minute you’re back in primary school.
He reached for a newspaper. ‘Same difference.’
I flicked the bee away before he could hit it. ‘Now it’ll be buzzing around all day annoying us.’
‘It’ll go out the way it came in.’ The bee battered itself against the closed window. ‘Eventually.’ I took the newspaper from him. ‘With a bit of help.’ I guided the bee back out of the open window.
‘The roses smell gorgeous,’ I said. Another bull’s eye.
He got to his feet. ‘I’ve a mind to do some weeding,’ he said. ‘I’ve not really felt much like it, since…’
‘I’ll give you a hand, if you like.’
‘It means killing wild flowers, you know.’ A half-grin.
‘I agree it’s hard for a botanist to understand the concept of weeds.’ I smiled back. ‘But I’ll try.’
We were going to try to be kind to each other after all. He pottered out, and after deciding that thinking about Malcolm, or Petr, or Yuri, should be avoided at all costs, I pottered after him.
After lunch, I checked my phone and skimmed my messages. Among the junk and newsletters there was one from Professor Petr Scazia. I left it waiting in the inbox while I deleted rubbish and sent apologies for meetings I would miss. I thanked an editor for the peer-review comments on a paper I’d submitted to the Palaeobiology Society Bulletin. I wondered for the thousandth time what the grievance was, which data I was being accused of misusing, and which, if any, of the various papers currently in the process of publication contained the problematic claims. Then I stared at the bold symbols of the unopened message. It bulged back. I clicked it open.
Dear Callis
It seems only a moment since you were here. Of course I would like to work further with you – it is not often I encounter someone with such openness to new ideas and ability to assimilate knowledge so rapidly. It was a pleasure, to be continued, I hope.
Unfortunately, I am not willing to become a partner in the consortium as you suggest. I have been involved in these EU projects before and swore never again. The bureaucrats have too much control. Also, the project seems just to be a desk study and I’ve never seen the point in them. No bears in the office, as far as I can tell. Contact me again if you have plans for work out in the forest.
Please don’t take this personally. Perhaps, if you’re at the IBA conference this autumn we could do some plotting there.
Petr
I felt a stone in my stomach and my face scorching. I only realised now how much I had hoped, expected, looked forward to his involvement. We needed Romania. I should ask him if he might recommend a Romanian who would be willing to be involved, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond to what felt like a snub. What really hurt was that it was true. It was just a desk study: no new data would be gathered, the work was theoretical, not out in the field. The EU rules explicitly ruled out fieldwork costs.
I searched for ‘IBA conference’ on the Internet and felt even more stupid. The International Bear Association, of course, a whole world of professional bear researchers I didn’t even know about. No wonder Petr didn’t want to work with me. I was just an amateur with overblown ideas.
The house had just become a trap that I had to escape from. I had boots in my bag, and waterproofs. I dug them out, and dressed for a walk.
Dad was weeding again. He looked up from the border under the kitchen window as I passed.
‘I’m off up the hill,’ I said. ‘Need to stretch my legs.’
‘Aye, catch the weather. Don’t go off the path.’
Don’t do this. Don’t do that. It was his perpetual refrain. I opened the gate at the bottom of the garden on to the back lane. He was no longer a policeman, maybe, but it was still part of his character. Don’t give up your job. Don’t do anything to threaten your job. Don’t so much as think differently from the person in authority over you.
At the end of the road was the edge of a large plantation of Sitka spruce. Through the kissing gate, I followed the forestry track up into the trees.
I felt his obedience trained in, from childhood. It was the value he most espoused. Daddy’s girl was good and didn’t break the rules. And now here I was, a grown adult, still cowed by his instructions. No doubt he meant them kindly enough. But ‘don’t cross your boss’ meant ‘don’t follow your dream’, and ‘follow your dream’ was always Mum’s mantra. What would her advice have been right now? Chances are she’d have fallen in behind Dad, not to cause open conflict, but then quietly, behind the scenes, she’d have said, ‘follow your dreams’. How much bedroom diplomacy she must have worked, bringing Dad around from his absolute ‘don’t do that’ position. I wondered how she’d managed it. I remembered his determination that I must not go off to work in a foreign country, and how, when I got the postdoctoral fellowship in Trondheim, he had, miraculously, come round to it. What had Mum said to persuade him?
Now instead of Mum, he was having backroom chats with Yuri. All of a sudden he was a hero, having helped his beloved football team to their splendid new strips and now, seemingly, maybe also able to wangle sponsorship for a new minibus. It unnerved me to think the two men were talking to each other. Was it just a coincidence, and if not, what was Yuri up to? Was he trying to win me round to giving up the bear job? If so, it was a really strange way of going about it.
Panting, I reached a clear-cut area. Massed foxgloves had sprouted among the brash, the plush rosettes of their foliage beneath spears of buds, their first purple flowers opening like finger puppets. Mum had told me they were sleeping bags for pixies, who cuddle bumble bees as we do teddy bears. I’d never forgotten the image. I smiled at the memory but then remembered my most recent experience of a sleeping bag, out in the Romanian forest, with a real bear, and I found myself back at the message from Petr.
I stomped on, up the hill, towards the moor, where clouds were thickening again. That would be right. It would rain. I would carry on walking anyway.
The following afternoon Stig had offered to take me out to the
lynx reintroduction site. He collected me from the house in a Land Rover and we drove south into the hills, over a pass where plantations of conifers flanked both sides of the road. Stig slowed, gesturing on down the road.
‘I stay in the next village that way, but this is where we go off-piste.’ He indicated left and turned on to a forestry track. Two miles on, he halted and jumped out to open a gate.
‘I could have done that,’ I said.
‘Go on then,’ he said, pausing on the other side.
I got out to close it behind us and we drove on. Shortly afterwards Stig pulled up and switched the engine off. He reached for his coat, put his finger to his lips to indicate quiet, and pointed to a raised hut among the trees. We climbed out and approached the hide. I tried to soften my footfalls, look in all directions at once, peel back my ears for any sound and remember to breathe. While Stig unlocked the door, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and switched it to silent.
The hide was positioned at the edge of dense Sitka spruce plantation, looking out into mixed, pretty young-looking native woodland. After we’d been in the hide for an hour and a half, we had still seen nothing but a couple of squirrels. The trees were in full leaf and the undergrowth here was thick: bracken knotted among brambles. There could have been anything moving around out there for all we would see of it.
For the first hour, the small wooden hut had been dense with excitement, as the landscape outside had slowly given up its secrets. I scoured the slope up from the hide for any sign of movement. At first, as I scanned the hillside, each grey rock was possibly a creature and the shade patterns lengthening under trees all potentially concealed what we were looking for. My eyes tracked backwards and forwards, trying to learn the view out of the window off by heart, so that any change would become more obvious. I looked and looked, as if it was possible to peel the visible away and reveal a hiding animal. Instead, whatever was hidden remained obstinately obscured by ever amassing details of foliage and stone.
Nothing moved except eyeballs. I found my shoulders tensed around my ears, and had to make a conscious effort to loosen them. I fiddled with a broken toggle in my pocket. My lower back was sore from sitting on the uncomfortable bench by the hide window.
Bear Witness Page 15
