impossible without a large stick and a lot of muscle. Catch had neither.
‘We’ll get to them in the end,’ Daisy said with a conviction she didn’t entirely feel. ‘There’s our tame MP, Jimmy. He’s had four shots at getting a question at prime minister’s question time. Might be fifth time lucky.’
‘But it’s no good, is it? Any of it.’
Daisy laughed. ‘Blimey, Alice, if I thought that, I might as well tie my ankles together and jump in the river.
Honestly, I’d give up tomorrow if I thought I was getting nowhere. It’s just slow that’s all. Like swimming through wet concrete. But we’ll get there in the end. I do believe that, Alice, I do, really, otherwise I wouldn’t be bothering.’
Alice was slumped in the seat. Her hair had dried into a grey frizz. She looked exhausted. ‘But they won’t even speak to us, will they? Won’t tell us anything. That’s not going to change, is it?’
‘Well – no, not for the moment,’ Daisy admitted. Incredibly, information on certain types of pesticides came under the Official Secrets Act because the chemicals had been developed from nerve gases. No good pointing out that almost every belligerent country in the world – and there were enough of them, God only knew – was well aware of how to produce nerve gases. No good arguing that information on this type of pesticide was freely available in the US. The British loved secrets. Correction: the British Establishment loved secrets – a different thing. The information that wasn’t protected by the Official Secrets Act was covered by that old stalwart of profit-making prevaricators – commercial confidentiality. MAFF and the pesticide manufacturers looked after each other very nicely, thank you. From the rosy picture the two of them painted, you’d never have thought there’d ever been a mishap, far less a disaster. No DDT, no 2,4,5-T, no dioxins. Very cosy, very frustrating, and very difficult to comprehend when all you wanted was the answer to a few simple questions like why and how, and can’t this be prevented from happening again.
Alice blew into a handkerchief with a blast like a ship’s siren, and shook her head. ‘Just what will it take?’
Daisy knew the answer to that. Cast-iron scientific proof in triplicate. A silenced agrochemical lobby (that would be the day). Further disaster.
‘They’re banning it in the States,’ Daisy reminded her. ‘It’ll get banned here in the end too.’
‘But when?’
Daisy sighed. ‘Good question.’
‘What will it take?’ Alice repeated, almost to herself.
‘Money, I’m afraid, Alice. Pots of dough. On a scale I don’t even dare think about.’
Alice nodded with weary resignation. She began to get out of the car. ‘I’ll send you a cheque when I can.’
Daisy’s throat tightened. ‘Oh, Alice, don’t. Keep your money. You’ll be needing it.’
Alice didn’t reply but climbed out and slammed the door.
Daisy wound the window down and called after her: ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’
Alice gave a small wave and got into her car. Daisy watched to make sure she got away all right, thinking that if only worthiness and dedication were enough, then the Alices of this world would keep Catch going for ever. But Catch ran on hard cash, and it took a shocking number of small cheques from the likes of Alice to keep it afloat. And that was without any wild notions about an independent research programme.
Put off by the rain, people were going home early and there were long queues of cars leaving the ground.
A research programme or two … And a proper press office, professional parliamentary lobbyists, a national membership organization, a glossy newsletter … Well, the list was endless. All it needed was what Catch’s accountant liked to call a healthy injection of cash. But then what campaigning organization didn’t need that? The few outfits that had managed to trap a tame environmentally minded millionaire kept good and quiet
‘We’ll get to them in the end,’ Daisy said with a conviction she didn’t entirely feel. ‘There’s our tame MP, Jimmy. He’s had four shots at getting a question at prime minister’s question time. Might be fifth time lucky.’
‘But it’s no good, is it? Any of it.’
Daisy laughed. ‘Blimey, Alice, if I thought that, I might as well tie my ankles together and jump in the river.
Honestly, I’d give up tomorrow if I thought I was getting nowhere. It’s just slow that’s all. Like swimming through wet concrete. But we’ll get there in the end. I do believe that, Alice, I do, really, otherwise I wouldn’t be bothering.’
Alice was slumped in the seat. Her hair had dried into a grey frizz. She looked exhausted. ‘But they won’t even speak to us, will they? Won’t tell us anything. That’s not going to change, is it?’
‘Well – no, not for the moment,’ Daisy admitted. Incredibly, information on certain types of pesticides came under the Official Secrets Act because the chemicals had been developed from nerve gases. No good pointing out that almost every belligerent country in the world – and there were enough of them, God only knew – was well aware of how to produce nerve gases. No good arguing that information on this type of pesticide was freely available in the US. The British loved secrets. Correction: the British Establishment loved secrets – a different thing. The information that wasn’t protected by the Official Secrets Act was covered by that old stalwart of profit-making prevaricators – commercial confidentiality. MAFF and the pesticide manufacturers looked after each other very nicely, thank you. From the rosy picture the two of them painted, you’d never have thought there’d ever been a mishap, far less a disaster. No DDT, no 2,4,5-T, no dioxins. Very cosy, very frustrating, and very difficult to comprehend when all you wanted was the answer to a few simple questions like why and how, and can’t this be prevented from happening again.
Alice blew into a handkerchief with a blast like a ship’s siren, and shook her head. ‘Just what will it take?’
Daisy knew the answer to that. Cast-iron scientific proof in triplicate. A silenced agrochemical lobby (that would be the day). Further disaster.
‘They’re banning it in the States,’ Daisy reminded her. ‘It’ll get banned here in the end too.’
‘But when?’
Daisy sighed. ‘Good question.’
‘What will it take?’ Alice repeated, almost to herself.
‘Money, I’m afraid, Alice. Pots of dough. On a scale I don’t even dare think about.’
Alice nodded with weary resignation. She began to get out of the car. ‘I’ll send you a cheque when I can.’
Daisy’s throat tightened. ‘Oh, Alice, don’t. Keep your money. You’ll be needing it.’
Alice didn’t reply but climbed out and slammed the door.
Daisy wound the window down and called after her: ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’
Alice gave a small wave and got into her car. Daisy watched to make sure she got away all right, thinking that if only worthiness and dedication were enough, then the Alices of this world would keep Catch going for ever. But Catch ran on hard cash, and it took a shocking number of small cheques from the likes of Alice to keep it afloat. And that was without any wild notions about an independent research programme.
Put off by the rain, people were going home early and there were long queues of cars leaving the ground.
A research programme or two … And a proper press office, professional parliamentary lobbyists, a national membership organization, a glossy newsletter … Well, the list was endless. All it needed was what Catch’s accountant liked to call a healthy injection of cash. But then what campaigning organization didn’t need that? The few outfits that had managed to trap a tame environmentally minded millionaire kept good and quiet
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