discussing selling fishing rights in certain stretches of water. It’s important. The islands need the revenue. John has to go to the meeting. Which means I’m in charge. Susan will have to stay in the office as a central point of contact.
‘But it’s your field, right?’ Susan looks to John for confirmation.
‘Cetaceans are Catrin’s speciality.’
I nod. ‘I know what to do.’
‘I can get on the phone.’ John is the first to pull himself together. ‘Explain the situation to Stopford and Wooton. See what they can spare us.’
‘The radio too,’ I tell him. ‘People should be able to decide for themselves.’ I want to tell him that Archie is almost certainly at the bottom of a bog or been swept out to sea, but there may still be a chance to save the whales. I don’t. Maybe it’s the memory of that tiny skeleton, lying alone on the Endeavour all this time, but I don’t.
‘What do you need?’ he asks me.
‘Couple of helicopters with load-bearing capacity would be good. Failing that, as many people as possible. Small boats with big engines, jet skis will do, ropes, stretchers, buckets and lots of large sheets or groundsheets. And spades. Lots of spades. Did I mention buckets?’
Susan makes a list, as John goes to find his phone book. ‘I can be there by mid afternoon,’ he tells me.
I spend the next half-hour getting everything I need. Pete arrives and makes himself useful. When John has finished his calls, we talk through the various scenarios. None of them inspires us with anything other than a sense of dread. We all hope Janey has been exaggerating the scale of the problem. I don’t say that Janey never exaggerates.
As I’m about to leave PC Skye arrives. ‘The Chief Superintendent asked me to pop in,’ she says. ‘We’ll do our best to get some people over to Speedwell, but we have to concentrate on the search for little Archie.’
‘Clear the area of livestock and do another infrared search,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll find him.’
Her eyes fill up. I forget how young she is. I forget that it’s possible to be so fresh and vulnerable that the death of a complete stranger can have a serious impact upon you.
‘Mr Stopford would prefer you to stay here,’ she goes on. ‘You and Callum. In case he needs to talk to you again.’
‘I’ll be contactable by radio all day.’
I haven’t given her the answer she wants but she chooses not to pursue it. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to Speedwell,’ she says. ‘The boss has put me in charge of liaising with Archie’s family.’
I want to tell her I can’t imagine anyone better, but I’ve rather got out of the habit of kind words, so I nod. She hovers for a few seconds, then walks into the door on the way out and disappears rubbing her hipbone.
Pete helps me load the equipment and we set off. Back at the harbour, my boat is empty. I feel a moment’s qualm about leaving Queenie with a man who is clearly emotionally unstable. I was prepared to be lenient when it was my own safety at stake but if he hurts my dog, I will kill him.
There is nothing to be done. I don’t have time to track them down now and in any event, Queenie has been coping with emotional instability for three years. I doubt she’ll notice the difference.
We don’t take my boat. It isn’t fast enough. The RIB will get us there in an hour so even if people have already set off overland, we’ll still beat most of them to it.
‘Pilot whales?’ Pete has to shout his question at me above the roar of the engine as we leave Stanley harbour.
‘Probably.’ I take the RIB up to its top speed. Janey is a true daughter of Grandpa Coffin, she knows her whales. Besides, pilot whales are among the most common to be involved in mass beachings.
‘It won’t be pretty,’ I shout back, which is something of an understatement. Of all possible marine disasters – oil slicks, pollution incidents – the grounding of a pod of large mammals is one of the trickiest and
‘But it’s your field, right?’ Susan looks to John for confirmation.
‘Cetaceans are Catrin’s speciality.’
I nod. ‘I know what to do.’
‘I can get on the phone.’ John is the first to pull himself together. ‘Explain the situation to Stopford and Wooton. See what they can spare us.’
‘The radio too,’ I tell him. ‘People should be able to decide for themselves.’ I want to tell him that Archie is almost certainly at the bottom of a bog or been swept out to sea, but there may still be a chance to save the whales. I don’t. Maybe it’s the memory of that tiny skeleton, lying alone on the Endeavour all this time, but I don’t.
‘What do you need?’ he asks me.
‘Couple of helicopters with load-bearing capacity would be good. Failing that, as many people as possible. Small boats with big engines, jet skis will do, ropes, stretchers, buckets and lots of large sheets or groundsheets. And spades. Lots of spades. Did I mention buckets?’
Susan makes a list, as John goes to find his phone book. ‘I can be there by mid afternoon,’ he tells me.
I spend the next half-hour getting everything I need. Pete arrives and makes himself useful. When John has finished his calls, we talk through the various scenarios. None of them inspires us with anything other than a sense of dread. We all hope Janey has been exaggerating the scale of the problem. I don’t say that Janey never exaggerates.
As I’m about to leave PC Skye arrives. ‘The Chief Superintendent asked me to pop in,’ she says. ‘We’ll do our best to get some people over to Speedwell, but we have to concentrate on the search for little Archie.’
‘Clear the area of livestock and do another infrared search,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll find him.’
Her eyes fill up. I forget how young she is. I forget that it’s possible to be so fresh and vulnerable that the death of a complete stranger can have a serious impact upon you.
‘Mr Stopford would prefer you to stay here,’ she goes on. ‘You and Callum. In case he needs to talk to you again.’
‘I’ll be contactable by radio all day.’
I haven’t given her the answer she wants but she chooses not to pursue it. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to Speedwell,’ she says. ‘The boss has put me in charge of liaising with Archie’s family.’
I want to tell her I can’t imagine anyone better, but I’ve rather got out of the habit of kind words, so I nod. She hovers for a few seconds, then walks into the door on the way out and disappears rubbing her hipbone.
Pete helps me load the equipment and we set off. Back at the harbour, my boat is empty. I feel a moment’s qualm about leaving Queenie with a man who is clearly emotionally unstable. I was prepared to be lenient when it was my own safety at stake but if he hurts my dog, I will kill him.
There is nothing to be done. I don’t have time to track them down now and in any event, Queenie has been coping with emotional instability for three years. I doubt she’ll notice the difference.
We don’t take my boat. It isn’t fast enough. The RIB will get us there in an hour so even if people have already set off overland, we’ll still beat most of them to it.
‘Pilot whales?’ Pete has to shout his question at me above the roar of the engine as we leave Stanley harbour.
‘Probably.’ I take the RIB up to its top speed. Janey is a true daughter of Grandpa Coffin, she knows her whales. Besides, pilot whales are among the most common to be involved in mass beachings.
‘It won’t be pretty,’ I shout back, which is something of an understatement. Of all possible marine disasters – oil slicks, pollution incidents – the grounding of a pod of large mammals is one of the trickiest and
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