Freda – look, it’s obvious.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Geraldine admitted. ‘They’re all directly affected. In fact it was Evan who first drew my attention to what was happening.’ The man bowed his head in acknowledgement.
Karen mastered her tongue, and waited. Geraldine clearly needed to control the way the information was disclosed, and impetuous questions were not going to influence her in a favourable direction.
Maggie Withington had been bouncing on her seat for the past minute or two. ‘It’s about GMO, isn’t it!’ she said excitedly.
There was a silence for at least three heartbeats. Then Geraldine laughed. ‘Well guessed, Maggie. Clever old you.’
Karen leant back, with a sense of anticlimax. Was that all? It wasn’t even something new; there’d been genetically modified crops of corn popping up all over the country for years, as the scientists endeavoured to demonstrate that these crops had no effect on the surrounding environment.
‘Where is it this time, then?’ Maggie demanded. ‘Where do we meet to grub it all out? I’m game. The idea stinks, however you look at it.’
‘It’s not corn this time,’ Evan said.
‘That’s right,’ Geraldine nodded. ‘You haven’t managed to guess the whole story. I doubt if anyone could. I only came across it by accident myself. I couldn’t believe it, to begin with.’
‘Come on, for heaven’s sake,’ Karen burst out. ‘Stop being so circumspect.’
Geraldine pursed her lips. ‘It’s not that easy,’ she reproved. ‘There’s a lot of implications we haven’t properly explored. We really don’t know quite how to tackle it.’
‘Tell the press,’ said Oswald. ‘That’s the way to do it. Feed them the worst-case scenario and let them have their heads. The whole population’ll rise up and follow us then.’ Karen looked at him with amusement. He was given to poetic turns of phrase that she often found entertaining.
‘I agree that publicity would probably be good for us,’ Geraldine said. ‘But I do need to protect my sources, and without disclosing how I know about it, they might not listen.’
‘So how do you know about it?’ asked Maggie.
‘A friend of a friend, who’s been developing some of the computer software for the people involved. He suddenly realised what some of thedata meant, and emailed it to my friend, and she phoned me about it.’
‘Sounds very machiavellian,’ remarked Hilary, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet so far. ‘I still think you need much more proof before you take any action.’
‘You know what it’s all about then, do you?’ Karen turned awkwardly to meet Hilary’s eye.
‘It concerns me,’ Hilary said shortly. ‘Anyone working with fruit needs to be worried.’
Karen scanned the room quickly. Evan produced apples and plums; Hilary her jams and honey; Gillian had a large holding that grew strawberries and currants.
‘Not quite,’ Geraldine corrected Hilary. ‘Only really apples, as far as we know.’
‘Peter Grafton made apple juice,’ Karen said, with a sense of foreboding. ‘And Sally uses a lot of apple in her pickles.’
‘And I make apple jelly,’ Hilary said. ‘That’s right.’
‘OK,’ Karen nodded. ‘So we’re talking about genetically modified apple trees, are we? And you’re all worried that pollen from them will contaminate your own orchards. But wouldn’t it take ages for these new trees to get going and produce fruit? And aren’t apples already modified in every sort of way, with all that grafting and so forth? And there are all those hundreds ofvarieties to choose from. Why would they bother? What’s the point?’ She was into her stride now, knowing enough to ask sensible questions, but far from expert on the growing of fruit.
Geraldine answered carefully. ‘We’re not entirely sure about what they think they’re doing, but you can bet it has money at its core.’ Oswald snorted at the pun, which nobody else but Karen seemed to notice.
‘Yes, they do,’ Geraldine admitted. ‘They’re all directly affected. In fact it was Evan who first drew my attention to what was happening.’ The man bowed his head in acknowledgement.
Karen mastered her tongue, and waited. Geraldine clearly needed to control the way the information was disclosed, and impetuous questions were not going to influence her in a favourable direction.
Maggie Withington had been bouncing on her seat for the past minute or two. ‘It’s about GMO, isn’t it!’ she said excitedly.
There was a silence for at least three heartbeats. Then Geraldine laughed. ‘Well guessed, Maggie. Clever old you.’
Karen leant back, with a sense of anticlimax. Was that all? It wasn’t even something new; there’d been genetically modified crops of corn popping up all over the country for years, as the scientists endeavoured to demonstrate that these crops had no effect on the surrounding environment.
‘Where is it this time, then?’ Maggie demanded. ‘Where do we meet to grub it all out? I’m game. The idea stinks, however you look at it.’
‘It’s not corn this time,’ Evan said.
‘That’s right,’ Geraldine nodded. ‘You haven’t managed to guess the whole story. I doubt if anyone could. I only came across it by accident myself. I couldn’t believe it, to begin with.’
‘Come on, for heaven’s sake,’ Karen burst out. ‘Stop being so circumspect.’
Geraldine pursed her lips. ‘It’s not that easy,’ she reproved. ‘There’s a lot of implications we haven’t properly explored. We really don’t know quite how to tackle it.’
‘Tell the press,’ said Oswald. ‘That’s the way to do it. Feed them the worst-case scenario and let them have their heads. The whole population’ll rise up and follow us then.’ Karen looked at him with amusement. He was given to poetic turns of phrase that she often found entertaining.
‘I agree that publicity would probably be good for us,’ Geraldine said. ‘But I do need to protect my sources, and without disclosing how I know about it, they might not listen.’
‘So how do you know about it?’ asked Maggie.
‘A friend of a friend, who’s been developing some of the computer software for the people involved. He suddenly realised what some of thedata meant, and emailed it to my friend, and she phoned me about it.’
‘Sounds very machiavellian,’ remarked Hilary, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet so far. ‘I still think you need much more proof before you take any action.’
‘You know what it’s all about then, do you?’ Karen turned awkwardly to meet Hilary’s eye.
‘It concerns me,’ Hilary said shortly. ‘Anyone working with fruit needs to be worried.’
Karen scanned the room quickly. Evan produced apples and plums; Hilary her jams and honey; Gillian had a large holding that grew strawberries and currants.
‘Not quite,’ Geraldine corrected Hilary. ‘Only really apples, as far as we know.’
‘Peter Grafton made apple juice,’ Karen said, with a sense of foreboding. ‘And Sally uses a lot of apple in her pickles.’
‘And I make apple jelly,’ Hilary said. ‘That’s right.’
‘OK,’ Karen nodded. ‘So we’re talking about genetically modified apple trees, are we? And you’re all worried that pollen from them will contaminate your own orchards. But wouldn’t it take ages for these new trees to get going and produce fruit? And aren’t apples already modified in every sort of way, with all that grafting and so forth? And there are all those hundreds ofvarieties to choose from. Why would they bother? What’s the point?’ She was into her stride now, knowing enough to ask sensible questions, but far from expert on the growing of fruit.
Geraldine answered carefully. ‘We’re not entirely sure about what they think they’re doing, but you can bet it has money at its core.’ Oswald snorted at the pun, which nobody else but Karen seemed to notice.
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