The journey to Britnuc B, in the heart of the Welsh hill country, impressed and awed as many of the journalists and newsmen who travelled down, by car, by train, by helicopter, to cover the media event of the year (for that, according to Britnuc’s PR, was what it was) as it troubled and depressed others. The wild beauty of the hills, their sheer scale, the overwhelming presence of nature unorganized and unconfirmed, the indifference of the shaggy cattle, the unkempt quiet roads, the general dwarfing and rendering risible of mankind, inspired as much deference to nature as resentment of it.
Britnuc Β had been carefully landscaped so as to offend the aesthetic sensibilities of landscape lovers as little as possible. Some – on the whole those with country cottages – shuddered as they approached the power-station complex, and their radios crackled and faded beneath the marching pylons. Others were thankful that something sensible, profitable and organized had at last, thanks to Britnuc, enlivened the rural torpor of the area.
Green grass grew wherever possible inside the security fence: the massive containment unit was so placed that it was all but dwarfed by the flat rock face that reached up to the sky behind it. Birds wheeled unconcerned above it, delighting in updraughts and downdraughts, the low, interesting, steady thunder of the heavy steam-driven turbines. As Carl May loved to say, ‘What is a nuclear power station but a gigantic kettle? All we do here is boil water!’
Only the security gates themselves, the high fences, the handing out of security badges, the requiring of passes, the writing down and checking of names, made matters appear the least unusual: that here was the focus of a nation’s terror, the very fount of paranoia.
Britnuc’s PR teams made coffee, poured drinks, handed out booklets. Chernobyl could not happen here, the Russian designs were other, all other, hopelessly old-fashioned, and even if it did, would be no worse than a coal-mine explosion – less horrible, in fact, less likely to be a lethal accident. Nuclear power plants were the opposite of labour intensive! Carl May himself wished to make this very point. And if this proved too technical for the mass-circulation papers, middle rather than front page stuff, why, Carl May was engaged to be married – yes, he was free to marry – yes, he was divorced: a matter of mutual consent many years back: there would be a press handout presently. In the meantime, international TV was present on this wonderful day: a cinema film was being made, not just TV – though we’re glad so many TV stations are represented here today: we really do have to get this message across to the general public. Yes, the film was to be part-funded by Britnuc: of course, why not? Part of the PR job – and look here, mementoes for everyone, on this splendid occasion. Choose from a genuine leather-bound Filofax or this genuine Barbour – if the rain should just possibly fall no one must get wet – and of course there’d be a buffet lunch after the event. Telephones, telex and fax facilities all available in the press office – and out, everyone out into the beautiful fresh air of Wales! The show’s beginning. Carl May, nuclear magnate, and Bethany his bride – well soon to be his bride: no, the date wasn’t quite fixed, but the press would, of course, be informed the minute it was – would ceremoniously jump into the cooling pond to prove low-level waste was no threat to anyone, and the future of nuclear power, clean, efficient, safe, would be assured.
And all trooped out into the clean, bright, windy air: a good day! A long way to come but at least Britnuc knew how to organize things.
‘Do I have to jump?’ asked Bethany. She stood on the edge of the concrete bunker looking down at the clean bluish water below. She’d felt the water with her long, nervy, trembly fingers. Pink fingers, as Carl kept saying. Pink fingers. It made her uneasy. The water was just nicely warm. Bethany wore a yellow bikini, with polka dots; it was cut high up the thigh to make her long legs longer. Her red hair flowed out in the wind. Her bosom was only just encased in yellow, polka-dotted fabric.
‘This is really something,’ murmured Hamish Tovey. ‘Get a look of that!’
‘This’ll travel round the world,’ said someone from a newspaper not in the Scotland chain. ‘This’ll really hit headlines.’
The Scotland chain were concentrating on the copycatting angle. They were rerunning the Scotland/Bethany trout-farm pics, to go out side by side with this one, inviting the reader to decide whether Bethany was going up or down in the world.
‘Focus on the girl,’ said Hamish, as Carl May joined Bethany on the concrete ramp. He wore black swimming trunks and was in good trim condition for a man of his age. But he was shorter than she was. ‘Forget him.’
Carl looked Bethany up and down: he was elated.
‘She wore a teeny weeny ultra-teeny
Yellow polka-dot bikini –’
he chanted.
‘No, Carl,’ said Bethany. ‘I’m sure it’s not ultra-teeny.’
He pushed her in.
‘Oh Christ,’ shouted Hamish. ‘What are you playing at? We’ll have to do that again!’ Though most of the press had got it, he wasn’t yet rolling.
‘We’ll do it without the girl,’ said Carl May. ‘She’s irrelevant,’ and so they had to, because Carl May said so. The mood of the day changed. The media became bored and sour: what a waste of time: all the way to the Welsh mountains to get one old man, who had to hold in his paunch, jumping into a pond, top executive or not. Carl was in and out of the water six times before NBI was satisfied. They did not make it easy for him. As for Bethany, she’d scrambled to the side at once and had a really good hot shower straight away, and washed and dried her hair, and then sat gently crying. Carl May had finally really upset her. She hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place: she had only said she would for the sake of the nation, for their moral health, as Carl put it: to keep the flag of faith flying, as her father did: doing the kind thing which was the right thing. And now Carl was angry, swimming around in the water, doing stupid things for a camera, not himself – where was his pride? Where was his integrity? She had more than he had when it came to it, and now she was frightened again: Carl had taken the name of marriage in vain and would be punished for it: yet he knew no better. She found she was sorry for Carl, which was almost worse than being bored and she hated the countryside: green hills closed in around her. She wanted to be back in the city.
A man came up to her and said he was Hughie Scotland’s PA: Hughie had said if she wanted a lift home, he could give her one. Bethany was doubtful. Then she looked over to where Carl May still thrashed about in the water of the cooling pond, white head bobbing.
‘Hughie says not to worry,’ said the PA, who was young, broad-shouldered, good-looking and interested. ‘Hughie says he’ll look after you. If you know what I mean.’
‘OK,’ said Bethany. ‘I seem to remember what he means.’
She sat next to the PA in the car on the way back to London, not in the back as he’d expected. She felt shivery and a little sick presently, but it soon passed. She took out her contact lenses.
‘I like your eyes grey,’ he said, his own eyes off the road.
‘Do watch where you’re going,’ she said, ‘or you’ll kill us both,’ but she was pleased. Presently she started humming to herself:
‘I do, I do, I do,
And I ain’t going to tell you who.
But I belong to somebody,
Yes indeed I do!’
and felt positively brave and cheerful, and as if her life had begun anew, which indeed it had.