‘It’s a pretty crazy project you’re setting up,’ he said, sitting back, his arm along the back of the bench seat, not quite touching me.
‘Where did you see it?’ I cringed at the idea that the media might have got hold of it already.
‘NFUS. I’m on the exec committee for my sins. Got into it through the Young Farmers. Your project came up at the last meeting.’
‘I got a nice response from someone Mackay.’
‘John, aye. I wrote that.’ He grinned.
‘You wrote it?’
‘Aye. It caused a bit of a stooshie in the meeting. There’s a knee-jerk reaction from some of them if you so much as mention big hairy things with teeth.’
‘Cows are big hairy things with teeth.’
‘You know what I mean. I’d been keeping an eye on the news from Norway since your mother’s funeral, just out of interest. Your timing was good. There’d been an article about the boycott of that Norwegian meat-chain in the Scottish Farmer the week before.’
‘Svenson’s? That made the news here, did it?’
‘Aye. I read some bits out at the meeting. The committee didn’t like the sound of a groundswell of public opinion against Norwegian farmers, so we agreed to support the impact study. I argued that we’ve nothing to lose, and it’s important to influence your thinking. We’ve got to keep our beady little eyes on you, haven’t we! I persuaded them it’d be better to be inside shaping what you’re up to than having to react to the results.’
‘Oh, good for you.’
‘Anyway, as a result I got the job of writing the letter to you. I thought you’d spot my email address.’
I pulled my phone out of my bag and flicked through my email files until I found it.
‘There you are. [email protected]… bla bla bla, “Cheers Malcolm”. Shit, sorry. I totally missed it. I mustn’t have clocked the address. It’s obvious really, not that many Malcolm Js around. It never crossed my mind it might be you.’
He shrugged. ‘Nae bother.’
I felt bad about it, as if I’d blanked him on a street. I said so.
‘Look, I’m not worried.’ He put his hand on my arm and looked me straight in the eye. ‘You’re here. I’m here. You didn’t spot my email. Big deal. I enjoyed sending it. I got my kicks – you missed yours, shucks, eh?’
‘It won the day at my meeting at the Land Institute yesterday, if that’s any consolation. They were dead set against the idea, said the farmers would crucify them for even saying the word “bear” in public. Then I read out your letter and they all backpedalled like crazy. Stig was most impressed.’
‘They were opposed to it? But they’re all sandal-wearers, aren’t they?’
‘Don’t you believe it. Tweeds and brogues all over the place.’
‘You’re kidding me. So they’re not all like you?’
‘Not a bit. I was the mad ecologist just dropped in from Viking Land. I may as well have been wearing a horned helmet.’
He chuckled. ‘It’d suit you.’
I punched him on the arm.
‘Ow. I’m breakable.’
‘Oh, aye. Get us another pint before I cause a riot.’
‘You learn that in Norway?’ He looked at my empty glass.
‘Aye, marauding, pillaging and getting stocious, first year study. It cost me a fortune, the getting stocious module especially, but I got a distinction.’
He shook his head and headed for the bar.
‘I got you a pint of Red Rider. Seemed appropriate. Is that OK?’
‘Is that the one with the axe-wielding warrior?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Thanks. I’m actually a very sensitive Viking.’
‘Aye, I know. I remember how you looked when Brian McCabe stole your teddy.’
‘I’d probably still cry if you stole my teddy. Look, I really appreciate you getting NFUS support, it’s brilliant.’
‘Entirely selfish. You always were besotted with bears, nothing’ll change that. You haven’t got a cat in hell’s chance of getting them back here, but if you want a job in Scotland and this is the option, who am I to stand in your way? I’ll be honest, I’d like to see you back here. I could put up with seeing a bit more of you.’ He gave me another of those direct looks and I tried, but failed, to hold his gaze.
‘I think we’ll get bears back,’ I murmured into my pint.
There was an embarrassing pause.
‘Naa. Nae chance.’
‘I’m confident.’ I flashed him a glance.
‘You’re mad.’
‘Aye, mebbe. I’m still confident. And I wasn’t angling for a job. I’ve got the best job going in Norway.’
‘Oh?’ He looked unconvinced. ‘Your dad’d love it if you were back here, especially at the Land Institute.’
That shut me up.
A ginger-haired head peered into the snug. I pointed and laughed. ‘Jimmy Black, fancy seeing you!’
‘Is that really wee Callis MacArthur? A little birdy told me you were here. How the hell are you? Did you know a bunch of your old classmates are playing pool in the back bar? And Malcolm sire, is this a secret tryst or are you up for an old school pool challenge?’
‘No secrets from you, Jimmy,’ Malcolm said. ‘I’ve not quite made my pass yet, but I’m working up to it, that’s if she doesn’t get in first. She’s been in Viking country, you know. I’ve got as far as a confession for marauding and pillaging and I’m wondering what else she might get up to.’
I feigned affront. ‘Modern Vikings require prior and fully informed consent, signed in triplicate.’
‘Just show me the dotted line.’
Jimmy put both hands up in front of him. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds in peace then, shall I? That’s if Vikings do peace?’
Malcolm pushed back the table. ‘Nah, I think she deserves a thrashing on the pool table.’
‘Well, you’re welcome. Whatever.’
We joined the throng. I was blushing to my collar. I played a disarray of fluky brilliance dotted among utter rubbish and was wiped off the table within minutes. Malcolm lasted a bit longer.
I went for a round of beers and he came to help carry them, leaning behind me as I stood at the bar. I could feel the whole length of his body pressed up against me, his breath on my hair, his arms one on each side of me clasping pint glasses. He stood there longer than he needed to and I felt his warmth soak in, knowing the next step was inevitable, finding comfort in the press, hoping that we would find more excuses to stand close together like that, closer than necessary by far, just to feel our bodies wishing to work like one. And my so-called friends in Fe-Phi-Pho could, well, they could take a running jump. I had other pals.
In the toilet Catherine Sinclair said, ‘So how long have you and Malcolm Johnstone been an item?’
I had never been close to her at school. She had always been a bit prim. Now she was heavily made up, as if her real face didn’t match her soul or her expectations of life, but I was drunk and friendly.
‘We’re not,’ I said.
‘You look like you’re together,’ she said. ‘He can’t take his big eyes off you.’
The toilet door swung and banged behind her. I stood looking at myself in the mirror. I was flushed. My hair did suit me short, it was true. I thought of Petr and of Yuri, and wondered what my next night with Malcolm would be like. I pulled a face at myself and returned to the beery clamour.
Later, he walked me to Dad’s house, and I invited him in for coffee, but he refused. ‘I’d better get back, it’s Mum’s 70th tomorrow. And I’m a bit drunk to meet your father,’ he said.
‘He’ll probably be in bed.’
‘No, he won’t, he’ll be watching Newsnight, waiting up for you. Another time. There will be another time, won’t there?’
‘Of course,’ I said. He bent down and kissed me on the lips.
‘Is that a promise?’
I nodded, greedy.
‘When are you next in Scotland?’
‘I don’t know. It depends on the project. It’s a busy job. I’ll be sure and let you know as soon as I do.’
‘Come and stay at mine again. I’ll show you the bright lights of Inverness.’
‘Oooh.’ Deep sarcasm.
‘It’s all right, the Sneck. Cosmopolitan Heelan’ Capital. Stuffed full of Weegies and Poles. Excellent bar scene. An alky like you’d love it.’
‘Calling me an alky?’
‘You’re shit-faced everytime I see you.’
‘Yeah, like twice in twelve years.’
‘Three times in as many months.’
‘Aye, so it is. That was a nice kiss, have you got any more?’
‘Plenty where that came from.’
‘Show me.’ He showed me.
It was odd to part with unfinished business. ‘You’ve got my email address,’ he said.
The ball was in my court. I left it there, not sure what move to make, waiting for some witty inspiration to strike, sending no message rather than something bland. And life, on my return to Norway, was hectic.
On my first day back at the Institute I had a brief, cold meeting with Professor Bergen, who explained that the grievance was indeed from Yuri. He was claiming I was using pollen samples collected by others, then writing up the results as if it was my own work. He cited three recent papers. It was a cheat. Of course I had used pollen data collected by researchers around Norway, but I was sure they were all referenced and acknowledged. I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong, and if I had slipped up at all in referencing it was accidental, not deliberate. But the very accusation of data theft made me toss and turn in bed at night, rage alternating with despair at what this might mean if I couldn’t prove my innocence.
In an email to Yuri, copied to Professor Bergen, I demanded that he give chapter and verse about the data misuse but he merely said I was evading the claim and it was up to me to prove I had permission to use every piece of information I published. Meanwhile he continued a campaign of deprecation of my work as ‘derivative’, flawed and unscientific. I started to dread entering the Institute: conversations with once-friendly colleagues were strained and my pollen analysis work ground to a halt as I wrote to source after source, seeking written permission to cite their work and use their data. After this drudgery, it was always a relief to turn to work on the EU funding proposal for the study of the feasibility of restoring predator populations, despite the horrible Euro-jargon and mind-bogglingly complex financial arrangements.
In the end it was Malcolm who took the initiative in making contact.
Hullo Callis. Just wondering how you’re doing. Hope all’s well with you. I’ve just heard I’ve lost my job. It turns out the dairy’s been losing money down the drain for two years, bled dry by the supermarkets, same old same old. Four of us are out on our arses, hoping NFU contacts will come up trumps. Got some harvest work up in Easter Ross and I’ve put my name down for a croft in Sutherland. Getting sick of working other ****s land. Don’t hug too many bears. When are you next in Scotland? It’d be good to see you. Malcolm.
Hi Malcolm.
Fucking supermarkets. Fucking landlords. Sorry to hear your bad news, hope you find something better. I’m up to my eyeballs in work here, submitting the proposal for joint project – thanks to your support – and waiting to see if the Norwegian Parliament will pass the Bill to bring bears back. Life as a government advisor is cushy – covering the length and breadth of the country on expenses, but no time for a trip to Scotland in the near future. If you’ve got time off and want a holiday, you’re welcome to come marauding and pillaging.
Bear Hugs.
Callis.
I’ll take you up on that. Especially the bear hugs. M.
In early August there was a second, rather longer conciliation meeting, a valiant effort by Professor Bergen to keep Yuri’s grievance out of the legal system by resolving it within the Institute. It did not go well. Yuri stonewalled and kept up his accusations, alleging there were disgruntled academics from other institutions whose work I had misused, but refusing to give names, and insisting, still, that I prove all my data use was permitted. Professor Bergen’s nervousness about the Institute’s reputation seemed to limit her sympathy and she tended to agree with Yuri that, given the circumstances, I should gather more evidence in support of my claim that all my source material was freely given and fully referenced.
Tedious weeks went by but eventually I delivered what I believed to be a comprehensive report on all my data use since coming to Norway – frustratingly, several people from whom I had received pollen samples had not yet responded to my requests for written permissions, but at least I had proof of asking for these. Writing the EU project proposal was light relief by comparison.
The Sunday after I submitted both documents I found myself at a loose end. It had been the wettest summer on record and today was a particularly grey rainy day, a tidying up day. My inbox was, as usual, full of rubbish. There was a message festering in there, one bad apple, making them all seem sour.
I went on to FemComm, anything to avoid the real problem, and noticed that Catherine Sinclair had posted a photo of me from the pub in June, and that I’d been unfriended by both Frances and Diana. I’d never much liked online networking anyway. Half of my 421 so-called friends I’d never actually met and most of the rest I hadn’t seen since university, and even then ‘friend’ would have been stretching it.
Email couldn’t actually be any worse. I filed, responded briefly or deleted, trying to be systematic, and made good progress. The one difficult message at the top became more and more prominent. Eventually it was the only one left. I had to deal with it.
Callis
As agreed at the meeting on Thursday, I am willing to drop my complaint about your misuse of data when you resign from the Bear Reintroduction Working Group.
Yours
Yuri
His adamant misnaming of the group infuriated me.
Dear Yuri
I remain convinced that I have not misused any data and mystified by your complaint. I am sorry, but I am not willing to resign from the Parliamentary Expert Group on Ecological Restoration at present.
Yours
Callis
I cc’d the message to Professor Bergen.
The Bear Bill, as it had become known, was put before the Parliament on 22 August, so I went to Oslo for the debate. The minister was confident that it would pass, because the majority coalition had promised support. However, the farmers’ lobby had been working hard and they were there in force at the Storting, ranks of portly men and power-dressed young women. The academics and conservationists were thin and shabby in comparison. Fit and casual, I tried to tell myself.
It was a tense afternoon, waiting for decision time. I was offered a tour of the Storting but declined, instead killing time in a café nearby, watching rain stotting down on the pavement outside, and tourists hunched under umbrellas, unimpressed with the Nordic capital.
In the end, getting through security to get back into the building took so long that I missed the actual moment of the vote and wondered why I had bothered making the trip south. The Bill was passed by only four votes due to a mass of abstentions from the Christian Democrats in the coalition. Only the Greens voting for the Bill, from outside the coalition, won the day, which they were quick to point out, as was the media. One newspaper headlined ‘A hippy victory’.
Although the opinion polls still showed strong public support for the return of bears, it appeared to be waning. There were grumbles from various parts of the country about inadequate consultation on the locations that had been shortlisted for the releases.
‘We have to win some local support for our top sites,’ I said at our team meeting the next day. I managed to persuade Anja to launch a consultation at each of the twelve sites on the shortlist. I volunteered to attend public meetings and explain why particular sites had been selected, and I soon had a punishing schedule of site visits lined u
p for September.
Then Malcolm’s next message arrived.
Taking time out mid-September. Tromso Music Festival 20, 21, 22. Will bring horned helmet. Up for it? M
I rescheduled my third week and buzzed the festival number.
Hi Malcolm.
I have 2 tickets for Tromsø. Book the ferry.
Bear hugs waiting.
Callis.
Arr Trondheim 16 Sept. How the fuck do we get to Tromso? Hurtigruten boat? M
His message had a link to the Hurtigruten website. ‘The World’s Most Beautiful Voyage.’ It would take three days and looked ravishing. I made some enquiries and did some more rescheduling.
Hi Malcolm
Sounds like a holiday, but I can make it work and put it on expenses. Deluxe cabin booked and paid for.
Hugs
C
Jammy! M
It was a ridiculously luxurious cabin, all things considered. A porthole window on the bathroom door and some fancy knotwork in a frame hinted at nautical, but if it weren’t for the roll of the boat and the way the view flowed past the huge picture window, it could have been a five-star hotel, not a ferry. I sat on the bed.
‘How’d you wangle this on expenses?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Some job you’ve got here.’ He stood silhouetted by the window.
‘I have to meet some folk in Tromsø and we’ll stop off for a night at Harstad so I can be harangued by the locals.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Just a bit south of Tromsø. At the north end of the Lofoten Islands, supposed to be spectacular scenery. We’re looking at there as a release site. Hoping the wildlife tourism guys will carry more weight than the farmers. There’s a serious spat going on there, apparently.’
‘So you’re going to sort them out?’
Bear Witness Page 17
