‘Nothing doing,’ Stig murmured.
‘Not a twitch,’ I whispered.
I scratched at an insect bite on my ankle and yawned.
‘You had enough?’
I breathed out hard. Then sighed, and nodded reluctantly.
‘Sorry mate, another day.’
I nodded again. I had a momentary vision of throwing a childish tantrum, stamping my feet and howling, ‘I wanna see de puddy tat.’ I thought better of it. I wasn’t sure I could make it seem convincing as jest, not real.
I unwound myself from the bench, rubbing my lower back, arching my shoulders. Stig appeared as loose and calm as when we had arrived. He had sat, silent, watching, alert but peaceful, while I had twitched, itched and shuffled. That man is made for watching, I thought. He reminded me of Petr. His movements were graceful and noiseless as he swung the door to the start of its creak, ushered me out then followed. He closed the hide up, locked it with a quiet click and tucked the key away in a hiding place above the door. Then he drifted down the wooden steps to ground level and stopped, waiting for me to fall in behind him for the walk out in the greying dusk.
The air was still among the trees, a dor beetle droned past and a distant woodpecker drummed. The scent of moss wafted a seduction from somewhere unseen. Stig stood motionless, intent on something to his right. His hand, I realised, was pointing in a subtle gesture to a ghost under a pine tree, a grey smudge in the gloaming. The blur ambled out from the tree shadow and took on the form of a pale foxlike body, but too tall for a fox. Its head lifted, scenting. Pert ears over a cat’s face, glimpsed for a second, and then, long legs running, gone.
Straining into the half-dark I looked and looked, my face taut with wonder. Lynx! It was a lynx! It had been no phantom. It was real, and here, hunting in the woods.
Stig grasped my hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘Female,’ he mouthed. How could he possibly tell, I wondered? But I didn’t question that he knew. What else had he seen that I had not? Watching him observe I saw a heightened form of seeing. Could I learn to tune in to the world like that? To attune to animals, to life, to being, without interference from abstract thought, emotion, ego, all the clutter clogging up my brain: the stresses of deadlines, tasks, duties, obligations, negligences, failures, bitterness, grief. Perhaps it was already happening and I hadn’t noticed. For a moment, I looked into the woods, just looked, and felt my life shed some of its triviality, like a tree losing leaves in autumn.
Stig was off, padding along the track, out of the woods, back to the Land Rover. The night was thickening. As the startling door-light blazed, it cast the world into total dark. I scampered after him.
‘Good one, eh! She didn’t want you to leave disappointed.’
‘Beautiful.’ I was as close to speechless as I had ever been. I clambered into the seat beside Stig, and fumbled with the seatbelt.
The engine juddered into noise, and Stig raised his voice over it. ‘That’s Lara, she’s three years old. I’m hoping we’ll see her with young in spring. She’s been mixing with males a fair bit and she should be old enough for a litter.’
‘How do you know it’s her?’
‘Size, colour, markings, just like you know your house cats. She’s got a smashed right ear from a fight last year. Her pelt’s pure grey, no mottling like a lot of them.’
Stig reversed the Land Rover back on to the track, eased into first gear, then up into second.
‘How many are there now?’
Stig was keeping the pace slow, avoiding the worst of the ruts. We splashed through a puddle.
‘Eleven females now, eight males. Four of the females bred this year. I think we might have seven young left: two have pairs, one has three and the other lost them all.’
‘How?’
‘Fox probably, maybe raptors, maybe she just couldn’t feed them, lost them in a river, hard to tell. It’s tough out there for kittens.’
‘Ah, I’d love to see them.’
‘Yeah, they’re cute. Hard to spot though, the mothers keep them well hidden.’
We stopped at the gate and I jumped down, opened it and gave a queenly wave as Stig drove through. It clunked shut and I climbed back into the cab.
‘So, it’s working, the reintroduction?’ I said.
He turned to me as if to gauge my tone. ‘Aye. If you mean they’re still here. Breeding, settling in. It’s early days, though. Plenty opposition out there, yet to be convinced they aren’t going to ravage farms and steal their babies.’
Stig slowed to nudge over more ruts in the track. On both sides, Sitka spruces towered, blackening out the sky.
‘The foresters are pleased though. I’m getting good support for the reduction in roe deer damage on the new plantings. Give it time.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Aye, wolves next. That’d make a real difference.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘In my dreams.’ I shot him a sideways look but he was concentrating on the track.
‘What about bears?’ I ventured.
‘What about bears?’
‘Could we reintroduce them? Bring them back to Scotland?’
We reached the end of the forest track and Stig pulled up. ‘Do you want a lift home or do you fancy a pint at the Cask?’
‘Do the aforementioned big furry animals shit in the woods?’
He hit the indicator and turned left.
In the pub, I put a pint of Big Cat Ale down on the table in front of him and sat down opposite. He snapped his phone shut.
‘Big Cat beer, has to be a good sign,’ I grinned.
‘Aye, I guess so. Unless it’s just to wind the farmers up. How’s your farmer, anyway?’
‘Shut up!’
‘Frances warned me it might be a sore point. Sorry, I just put my foot in it, didn’t I?’
‘No. There’s nothing to put your foot in. We had a one-nightstand after my mum’s funeral, then I’ve met a rather delicious Romanian and failed spectacularly to manage even one night with him. Otherwise my lovelife’s a washout. Shall we stick to talking about whether we can we bring bears back?’
‘Yeah. You’re serious.’
‘Course. I’m pretty obsessed with bears these days.’ I liked the way he smiled at me then, eyeing me with those piercing blue eyes, stroking his beard.
‘To be brutally honest I don’t think there’s the habitat.’
His body language had changed completely since we hit human civilisation. The languid attentiveness had tightened up. His eyes darted for threats. There were other men in the bar, three of them lined up along the counter, two at tables, all watching the football on the plasma screen, eyes trained like guns on the sport, periodically sighting round for trouble or predators, firing volleys of sarcasm at the game or each other.
‘All right, Jock,’ Stig had said as we came in.
‘Aye,’ had been the barman’s response. Stig didn’t really belong here, I could see that.
He drained his beer halfway in one swig. I supped, wiping the froth off my lip. ‘Good beer,’ I said.
‘Aye, not bad.’
We chatted about mutual friends and I probed for news of Frances and Diana. Stig didn’t know what Diana was doing but he had heard all about our spat at Fenwick from Frances. According to Stig, she was feeling sorry for me.
‘Well, you tell her to get in touch with me, then,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to snap, but she knows all my numbers.’ The idea of being pitied by Diana and Frances infuriated me.
We fell silent and drank. Towards the bottom of my pint, I had to ask. ‘Can the habitat be restored?’ I wondered if I was pushing it.
‘For bears?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want another pint?’
‘Twist my arm.’ I handed him my glass.
With a full pint in front of him he talked. ‘The thing is, bears need a lot of feeding, especially to build up for the winter. They need an easy source of food: good woods, you know
, rich in nuts and berries, full of toads and slugs and anthills.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fish must have been a big part of their diet in the past, but the summer runs of salmon are so feeble now and hydro dams have screwed up half the rivers.’
I shook my head. ‘According to the people I’ve been talking to, fish don’t feature much in European brown bear diets. North American brown bears eat a lot of salmon, but our salmon are a different species and don’t die after spawning, so there isn’t the same fishing frenzy you see in places like Alaska. In Sweden and Finland bears eat elk – I was told they take the stupid one‑year‑old ones – so if they don’t get lots of nuts and fruit, they’ll just eat more meat.’
‘I’m not convinced that would work in Scotland.’
‘Why not? We’ve got loads of deer. Too many deer.’
‘But more than likely they’d take sheep or find their way to grain stores on farms. They like to roam a bit, keep moving, need some space. Our woods are so fragmented they’ll keep busting out to farmland, that’s the problem. They’d be in constant conflict with people, just like Norway.’
‘But…’ I stopped.
‘What?’
‘There are two quite separate issues, aren’t there? The bears need habitat, food, a place to live that’s ecologically ready for them. But they also need a human society that will tolerate them, even welcome them. In Norway, habitat’s not the problem, it’s society, the bloody farmers and the law that let them shoot bears on their land. Here in Scotland, we’re bringing predators back and mostly I think folk are ready to see them here, but you say the habitat’s no good.’
‘Not no good, just not rich enough and big enough to ensure the bears stay out of harm’s way.’
‘But if society could ensure no harm if and when they come on to farmland?’
‘Aye, right. That’ll be the farmland where they grow flying pigs.’
‘But the lynx are here, we’re going forwards not backwards.’
He drained his pint. ‘You really are serious, aren’t you?’
‘Deadly!’ I grinned, picked up his glass, and my own, and got up. ‘Another one?’
‘You’re mad.’
‘About bears, yes.’ I walked over to the bar. ‘Two more Big Cats, please,’ I said to the barman, giving him a two-pint smile.
‘Miao, miao.’ He took the glasses from me and put a clean one under the tap.
‘No pussy jokes, now.’
‘Would I?’ he smirked.
‘I saw a lynx today,’ I told him. ‘That’s why I’m getting drunk. We should bring back bears, too, don’t you think?’
‘No, thanks. I like to be left in peace when I’m fishing. I don’t want some old grizzly breathing down my neck.’
‘Aw, killjoy. Just take a spare rod and lend it to him. They’re not very good at fishing.’
‘Aye, that’ll be right.’
The following Monday, I met Stig at the lobby of the Scottish Land Institute. I was relieved to find him in jeans and a rugby shirt. I hadn’t known whether to dress up for the meeting and had opted for the comfort of casual clothes. He led me up to the boardroom, where his boss was already helping himself to coffee.
‘Peter Harsel, Callis MacArthur.’
We shook hands and I watched myself being appraised while Stig poured coffee. His boss was not much older than him, if at all, but was sharp-suited, shiny-shoed and sported a navy-blue institutional tie. I began to wish I had worn something smart, after all. The door opened and an older man walked in from a military mess room of an earlier century, complete with polished bald head, handlebar moustache and tweeds.
‘Sudbury,’ he announced in a plummy Home Counties accent. ‘You must be Dr MacArthur. Delighted.’
Professor Sudbury and Dr Harsel sat like an army general and navy lieutenant opposite Stig and I, and proceeded with an interrogation so lacking in logic that I soon began to despair. I had sent various documents beforehand with the intention that we would work our way through them, in order; the key document being a concept note outlining the proposed EU project. But without so much as glancing at it, they proceeded swiftly to page seven of the thirteen-page sample funding application form, which I’d expected we might get around to in the afternoon, if we managed to agree on certain principles and core ideas.
‘Risk assessment and amelioration,’ boomed Professor Sudbury, a man, I realised, who would only have a first name to close friends and family, and possibly not even them. ‘Key issue, I think, for us, here.’
‘Absolutely key,’ Harsel nodded vigorously.
‘Surely we need to be clearer first of what exactly the risk is to be assessed?’ Not very well expressed, but, I hoped, a logical remark. I wondered if I would ever get a chance to make a proper introduction to the study idea.
‘Well, risk of damage to the reputation of the Institute, naturally.’ Sudbury got up and paced, as if seeking a mantelpiece to lean against to pontificate with greater stature. ‘We cannot be seen to be scaremongering. There’ll be media all over it. The first scent they get of wolves, they will all howl.’ He chuckled.
‘There is no suggestion of wolves,’ Stig pointed out.
The professor ignored him. ‘Far too many horror films, not to mention Little Red Riding Hood.’
Harsel waded in. ‘There’s a real risk it will undermine our other programmes, reduce our credibility in the agriculture sector.’
I was getting sweaty and probably looking red in the face. I tried to keep my voice calm. ‘Professor Sudbury, Dr Harsel,’ I breathed, ‘there seems to be a misunderstanding of what is involved here.’
‘Large Carnivore Reintroduction.’ Harsel poked the three words on the title of the document in front of him.
‘That is an example of a successful project application under the same Habitats Directive Programme we are proposing to apply to, but it is just an example to give us some ideas, to act as an inspiration, if you like.’ I tried to smile and hoped my grimace wasn’t too canine. ‘It’s clearly much more ambitious than anything we could realistically do in Scotland, or indeed Norway. The reality in France and Spain is very different to here.’ I kept smiling, speaking slowly, as if to idiots. ‘Very different. What we are proposing is much less ambitious. We are proposing merely to look at the ecological feasibility of introducing bears, not actually to introduce them, of course. We’re nowhere near that stage.’
‘The idea is to start with just a desk study,’ Stig threw in. ‘to better understand the constraints that exist here in Scotland, with respect to bears. No intention of looking at wolves at all.’
‘No wolves whatsoever?’ said the professor.
‘None whatsoever.’ Stig and I shook our heads gravely. Sudbury looked reassured.
‘Still, bears are dangerous carnivores,’ Harsel jibed.
‘They’re omnivores, actually, mostly vegetarian,’ I threw back, ‘though we of course recognise that they could pose a modest risk, for example to farm livestock, so we would need to carefully assess those risks. I think that is the kind of risk assessment the funders would be expecting to see under section seven there.’ Sudbury still had his document open at that page. ‘But before that, don’t you think we should look a little at the concept note for the proposal, work out if we see eye to eye on the overall objective, for example, and discuss just what it is we might be trying to achieve here?’
‘Quite right,’ Sudbury said. ‘Lead us through it, Dr MacArthur.’
‘Please, call me Callis.’ The charm was working. I leaned across the table and reordered the papers in front of him. ‘This concept note has been drawn up by a government commission involving Norway’s most eminent ecologists and natural scientists, farmers’ organisations and so on, chaired by Professor Anja Eldegard who, as I’m sure you know, is Head of Natural Resource Management at Oslo University. She asked me to give you her regards, Professor Sudbury.’
He nodded sagely.
‘But of course it is not se
t in stone.’ I smiled at Peter Harsel, who was stony faced. ‘And we need Scottish expertise to ensure that the methodology we are testing is not coloured too much by the particular political situation we are facing just now in Norway.’ I explained about the recent loss of bears and the public fervour for their return.
‘There’d be a public outcry if you tried to bring bears here, I’ll tell you that for a fact. The farmers would never tolerate it.’ Harsel’s hands were fists on the table in front of him.
‘Actually I have a letter expressing support for the project concept from the National Farmers’ Union of Scotland. Shall I read it to you? It’s from John Mackay, Chairman.’
‘John Mackay?’ Harsel opened his eyes wide and laid his hands flat. ‘What does it say?’
‘It starts by thanking us for the chance to look at the concept note. Then it says,’ I read from the email I had printed that morning, still not quite sure I could believe its contents, ‘“We would be very interested to learn about the ecological issues around bear reintroduction and to contribute to a study of the constraints and potential impacts of such a reintroduction. It will be important for such a study to gauge the public opinion surrounding this issue in light of the recent downturn in the Norwegian agricultural sector. We see potential opportunities as well as threats and welcome the opportunity to participate in further discussion of this issue.” And then there’s some stuff about their ecological policies.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Sudbury. ‘More coffee anyone?’
Malcolm was waiting for me in the snug, with a full pint in front of him. He was in jeans and a sweater, dressed down compared to the last time. I made a mental note of comparison with Petr – Malcolm was burlier, and no less attractive. Spotting me, he leapt to his feet to buy me a drink.
‘Sit down! I’ll get it,’ I said. ‘You can get the next round.’
I was surprised how comforting it was to see him. The chat was easy, easier than I’d expected. I found myself talking about Mum. He talked about his dad’s death a few years back. Conversation moved on to music, a remarkable congruence of tastes. Then we got on to bears.
Bear Witness Page 16
