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22、[Maiden Voyage] S01E02 The Melancholy Cod ...
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[Maiden Voyage] S01E02 The Melancholy Cod
Monday, 28th January, 1980.
The late January chill of London, hard to dispel, enveloped Westminster and seeped relentlessly into the overly spacious office of the Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination.
On the Victorian oak desk, the In-tray was once again piled high with new documents. Beside it lay two invitation letters, just read by Charles Hyde.
And Charles himself was pacing beside the desk.
His young Principal Private Secretary, Cyril Astley, stood cautiously to one side, his gaze following the Minister's every step.
Finally, Charles stopped and turned to Cyril.
"What is this invitation?" he asked, pointing to the letters on the desk.
Cyril cleared his throat and duly reported the contents of the two invitations. "The Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food has sent an invitation, hoping you might go to Newlyn, Cornwall, on Wednesday, to hold a seminar with local fishermen's representatives on the issue of the Common Fisheries Policy quotas, to soothe local sentiment. At the same time…" he paused, "the British Tourist Authority has also sent an invitation, hoping you might cut the ribbon for the opening of the 'Cornwall Seafood Festival', to be held on the same day, in the same port."
"..." Charles looked at him. "I can read, Cyril. I'm asking you, from your understanding of Whitehall, what does this mean?"
"I'm sorry, Minister. The materials I currently possess do not support a definitive judgement on the deeper motives of MAFF and the BTA. But on the surface, MAFF's invitation aims to use your presence to divert attention from the stalemate in the Common Fisheries Policy negotiations, temporarily pushing local pressure upwards; whereas the BTA clearly hopes to use the presence of a Cabinet Minister to maximise the media exposure and tourism benefits of the seafood festival." Cyril stood with his hands behind his back, his body leaning back slightly.
Charles seemed to sigh. "The same day, the same port. On one side, melancholy fishermen complaining there are no fish to catch; on the other, joyful tourists celebrating a bountiful harvest? The high art of government? Whitehall's latest black comedy script?" He walked back behind his desk and sat down.
"Is this asking me to first deliver a eulogy at the cod's funeral, and then encourage people to eat its corpse? Did the two of them simply fail to communicate, or did they collude to make a fool of me?" As he spoke, Charles's voice took on a tone of amusement at the absurdity.
"Not collusion, Minister," Cyril corrected softly. "Just a lack of sufficient inter-departmental schedule coordination, which has resulted in this… compatibility issue."
"'Compatibility issue'? Splendid. The next time the Treasury and the Ministry of Defence are fighting over the budget, I'll say they've encountered a 'resource allocation compatibility issue'. A very useful phrase. It can turn a war into a technical fault… Do you and Alistair share a thesaurus of euphemisms?" Charles was clearly irked by this very Alistair-like choice of words.
"Speaking of which, does our 'Observer' know about this 'compatibility issue'?"
"Yes, Minister." Cyril stepped forward and, with precision, extracted a thin memorandum from the In-tray, placing it before Charles:
MEMORANDUM
Department of Synergy Coordination
Ref: DSC/MIN/VISIT/001/80
To: The Secretary of State (The Rt Hon Charles Hyde MP)
From: A. Cavendish, Acting Permanent Secretary
Date: 28 January 1980
Subject: Urgent Briefing and Schedule Conflict Regarding Invited Visit to Newlyn, Cornwall
Minister,
Background:
The Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF) and the Department of the Environment (DoE) have a long-standing disagreement over the allocation of fishing quotas under the Common Fisheries Policy (CFP) and near-shore ecological protection standards. Fishermen in Cornwall, agitated by quota reductions and the deterioration of fishing grounds, have repeatedly protested to MAFF and their local MPs.
Invitations & Conflict:
a) MAFF Invitation: MAFF has formally invited you to Newlyn this Wednesday (30 Jan) to attend an 'Emergency Seminar on the Future of Fisheries and Sustainable Development', aimed at calming local sentiment and demonstrating the central government's listening posture.
b) Tourist Authority Invitation: Simultaneously, the British Tourist Authority has also invited you, on the same day and at the same port, to cut the ribbon for the opening of the 'Cornwall Seafood Festival'. This event aims to promote local tourism and catering.
Core Conflict:
The two events fundamentally represent an irreconcilable conflict of interest: one side is the producers facing a livelihood crisis (the fishermen), the other is the consumers celebrating the fishery's output (tourists and the catering industry).
Risk Assessment:
a) Media Risk: Your calling for 'restricting catches to protect fishery resources' at the morning seminar, and then cutting the ribbon for a 'seafood feast' in the afternoon, could easily be portrayed by the media as 'hypocritical' or 'out of touch'.
b) Political Risk: Whichever side you favour, you risk infuriating the other and the government department behind it. Mishandling could lead to the DSC being labelled as capable only of 'superficial coordination'.
c) Public Order Risk: The fishermen are agitated. The possibility of protests disrupting or escalating into local conflict cannot be entirely ruled out, presenting a certain on-site public order risk.
Recommendation:
a) It is recommended to politely decline one, or both, of the invitations, citing a 'pre-existing full schedule' or the 'need to prioritise central inter-departmental coordination matters'. If attendance is essential, it is recommended to attend only one event, with the Private Office undertaking advance explanation and appeasement with the other party.
b) To refrain from making any public statement of inclination on this matter for the time being, and for the DSC to take the lead in urgently convening a high-level inter-departmental coordination meeting with MAFF, the DoE, and the British Tourist Authority (along with representatives from its parent department, the DoT), to assess and propose a coordinated public information release plan that considers the interests of all parties. This action would demonstrate the DSC's core value in handling complex inter-departmental conflicts.
Please advise.
A. Cavendish
The memo was not long. Charles finished it quickly.
"A meeting?" He found it somewhat absurd.
"Get MAFF and the BTA to sit down in Whitehall and spend a few more weeks drafting a 'perfectly worded' joint statement? The fishermen in Cornwall will have already blockaded the harbour. Is our Lord addressing the issue, or archiving the issuer?"
Charles placed the memo back on the desk, his gaze lingering on it for a long moment before he spoke again. "Cyril, book me a train ticket. Tell Cornwall their 'Cod Minister' is on his way."
"Yes, Minister," Cyril replied immediately. "Shall I draft a letter of refusal to one of the parties?"
"No, Cyril. Tell MAFF and the BTA we accept their invitations. Both events. I will attend both." Charles met Cyril's somewhat panicked blue eyes. "And tell your 'Sir' as well. I assume he is in his office now?"
Cyril almost instinctively glanced at the door connecting to the Permanent Secretary's office. "Yes, Minister. Shall I ask him to come over?"
"No, don't 'ask' him." Charles picked up the memo and handed it back to Cyril. "Take this. Tell him his risk assessment is brilliant, and his 'recommendation' is in the finest Whitehall tradition—packaging a complex problem into a perfect procedure and then letting the problem dissolve itself within that procedure. But his Minister has decided to go and solve the problem on-site, not to package it more prettily and send it back."
"Yes, Minister. I will report your instructions to Sir immediately and begin preparing the travel details," Cyril replied again. He gave a slight bow and walked quickly out of the office.
Charles watched Cyril leave, guessing he would go straight around to enter the adjacent office from the other side.
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Paddington Station at night was a world away from its daytime clamour.
Under the vast arched glass roof, only a scattering of travellers and staff remained. The air was thick with the heavy scent of diesel. The mechanical split-flap departure board clicked and clattered, updating the information for trains to Reading, Exeter, Plymouth, and the end of the line—Penzance.
A Jaguar official car pulled up outside the station.
Charles got out.
Cyril followed closely, clutching a heavy briefcase containing two draft speeches, background materials, a list of emergency contacts, and more.
"We have booked two adjacent first-class sleeper cabins, numbers 11 and 12. The train departs at 23:45. I've spoken to the steward; he will be waiting for us in the lounge," he reported in a low voice.
They waited briefly in the first-class lounge before being guided by a train guard wearing an armband towards the platform. The night sleeper train, in its grey and blue livery with the British Rail double-arrow logo, sat silently on the tracks.
Due to Charles's busy schedule on Tuesday, they had to take this 'Night Cornishman' to reach their destination at the south-western tip of the country by the following morning.
The train let out a long whistle, leaving London behind as it cut through the night. The salty, damp scent of the sea air mingled with the smell of diesel.
At the terminus of the Great Western main line, a local government liaison officer was already waiting on the platform. He welcomed Charles, now dressed in a brown tweed jacket, and a somewhat anxious Cyril into an official car.
The cries of seagulls were incessant, the salty dampness of the sea now tinged with a deeper smell of fish. The diesel smell, however, was unchanged.
The drive from Penzance to Newlyn was short. Around a bend, the full view of Newlyn harbour opened up before them.
Rusty, listless trawlers… and, stark against the leaden grey sky, colourful bunting.
"They're pretending each other doesn't exist," Cyril heard Charles say. "Funeral and feast."
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The morning seminar was held in a hastily converted old fish market warehouse.
The light was dim, the atmosphere oppressive. Twenty-odd fishermen's representatives were crowded below, wearing old oilskins over their sweaters, their faces deeply etched by the sea wind.
"Friends, brothers of the fishing community…" Charles walked slowly onto the 'stage', which was only one step higher than the ground. His voice sounded a little distorted through the rudimentary sound system. "Good morning. My name is Charles Hyde. The government has given me a very long title—Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination. I know that for many of you, this name sounds like some abstract joke. Frankly, sometimes I feel the same way."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over every face.
"I can guess what you're thinking right now. Another politician from London who can't tell a cod from a haddock, come to read us a pre-prepared, meaningless platitude. He'll say some nice things about 'listening', 'understanding', or 'working together', and then get on a train, go back to his warm office, and forget all about us and our plight. Am I right?"
A murmur of mixed surprise and agreement rippled through the audience, with even a few soft laughs. The atmosphere seemed to loosen slightly.
"Good," Charles nodded. "Then let's dispense with the nonsense. Today, this is not a government lectern. I am not here to read you a government white paper, and you don't have to be polite to me. Let's talk frankly. I have come because I want you to tell me the truths I cannot read in government documents. Your problems, I know some of them, but certainly not enough. Your lives, I may not be able to fully experience, but my ears are open." He stepped down from the stage and moved among the fishermen.
"Everyone here knows the sea better than I do, the boats better than I do, and the cod better than I do. You know when the storms are coming, where the nets should be cast. It's just that now, you're facing some problems you can't solve on your own, right?"
"Right!" a younger fisherman shouted from the back. "The bureaucrats in Brussels, they sit in their offices and draw lines on a chart to divide up our fishing grounds. The politicians in London, they sell our livelihoods as bargaining chips for something else. And those Frenchmen with their giant trawlers, their nets have smaller mesh than the law allows, they're taking all our young fish! They don't give a damn about us! What are you people in Whitehall doing? Just holding meetings and surrendering?"
"Yes!"
"That's right!"
"They don't give a damn about us!"
"The quotas are a joke!"
The atmosphere was instantly ignited, the suppressed anger finding an outlet.
Cyril, at the side of the stage, clenched his fists, his palms slightly sweaty, ready to call security to escort the Minister out at any moment.
Charles raised a hand, not to suppress, but extending it forward in a gesture of request. The noise gradually subsided.
"An excellent question," Charles said, looking in the direction of the young man. "This gentleman… may I have your name?"
"Tom Penrose."
"Alright, Mr Penrose. Thank you very much." Charles was blunt. "We all know the Common Fisheries Policy is a major problem, a complex issue involving multiple national interests and a long negotiation cycle. In the short term, we cannot change the bureaucrats in Brussels. We can try to amend the rules, we can fight for more favourable terms for us, but if we simply tear up the rules, then tomorrow, our boats may be seized on the high seas, and we won't be able to sell our seafood in any market on the continent. That would be a worse outcome, wouldn't you agree?"
Tom opened his mouth, but could not refute this cold reality.
Charles continued. "But, the illegal fishing by foreign vessels—we should not be powerless against problems on our own doorstep. Tell me, Tom, when was the last time you saw a fishery patrol vessel? Do they come often enough? Are their boats fast enough? Do they have enough power? Can they impound those illegal boats on the spot?"
"A patrol boat? One came last month, did a lap and left. Their boat's not even as fast as ours!"
"Even if they catch them, it's just a fine. The next day, those bastards are back!" said another fisherman.
"Enforcement issues. Cyril, take this down." Charles turned to Cyril, watching him write furiously in his notebook. "Assess the enforcement efficiency, equipment, and authorisation of the patrol teams. Request a detailed report from the Royal Navy's Fishery Protection Squadron on their enforcement activities off the Cornish coast over the past year. This is the first specific issue we need to coordinate with MAFF and the Ministry of Defence."
Charles turned back to the fishermen. "Besides quotas and enforcement, what else is killing the cod in these waters?"
"The river water, Minister," said an old fisherman.
"Please, tell me, sir. And tell me your name as well." Charles went to the old fisherman, meeting his weather-beaten eyes.
"John Tregenza," the old fisherman replied, then explained, "The water coming down from the Falmouth estuary, it's gotten dirtier and dirtier over the past twenty years. When we were young, you could catch fat sea bass right in the estuary. Now? There's just a chemical smell. Cod need a clean seabed to spawn. Now the seabed's covered in a layer of slippery black sludge. The fry can't survive. How can there be any big fish?"
"Thank you for speaking up," Charles's expression grew serious. "Industrial pollution. Cyril, note the second point. Investigate the industrial discharge permits in the Falmouth river basin. Cross-check the Department of the Environment's monitoring data with actual discharges. This is an issue we need to coordinate with the DoE and the relevant industrial departments."
The atmosphere among the fishermen began to change subtly.
"Minister, there's the cost!" another fisherman, unable to hold back any longer, spoke up. "The price of diesel is rising faster than the price of fish. Every time we go out to sea, it's a gamble. The government's fuel subsidy policy, for individual fishermen like us, the application process is as complicated as filing a tax return. By the time the subsidy comes through, we'll have sold our boats."
"Fuel costs and subsidy policy," Charles nodded. "We will coordinate with the Treasury…"
String after string of words and shorthand symbols filled the blank pages of the notebook, and the time gradually crept towards noon.
As the seminar was about to end, the old fisherman named John called out to Charles.
"Minister…" his voice was hoarse. "What you've said… quotas, enforcement, the environment… it's all right, I understand all that. But these are big problems. They'll take a long time to fix. I want to believe you, but… we've been promised so many times. Your working groups, your reports, they need time. But my boat, next week, it's going to be repossessed by the bank because I can't make the loan payment… Can the 'sustainable future' you talk about help me pay that loan?"
Charles was silent for a moment, then finally shook his head gently. "I cannot, John."
"I cannot interfere with a commercial bank's decision, John. But I can promise that I will do everything I can, in my personal capacity, to call the bank manager and try to get you an extension. I can't guarantee the result, but I guarantee I will make that call."
"At the same time, your case will become the first, and most powerful, piece of evidence for us to push for a comprehensive review of the existing government support system. We will coordinate with the Treasury to examine why these seemingly effective systems prove so slow and rigid in the face of real hardship. John, I can't promise to save your boat, but I promise that your plight will drive us to knock on those seemingly closed doors in Whitehall, to find a more efficient, more humane solution for all people like you."
He turned to Cyril, who understood at once and stepped forward. "Sir, if you could please stay behind after the seminar, I may need to take down your specific details."
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After the seminar, Charles declined the MAFF official's invitation to lunch, choosing instead to dine with Cyril in a private room on the second floor of a small pub overlooking the bay in Newlyn.
The air was faintly scented with wood wax and beer.
The waiter brought two plates of the local speciality, fish and chips. The fish was golden and crispy, steaming hot, but Charles barely touched his fork.
He just held a glass of local pale ale and looked out the window.
The faces from the morning's meeting—a mixture of anger, numbness, hope, and despair—still haunted him.
"Cyril."
"Yes, Minister?" Cyril was carefully cutting a small piece of fish. He looked up at Charles's voice.
Charles did not look at him. His gaze was fixed on the grim sea outside, on the fishing boats bobbing gently with the tide in the harbour.
"I've been thinking… what did I actually do this morning?" Charles began slowly.
"I let them vent. I proposed solutions—enforcement, pollution, subsidy procedures… But did you notice, Cyril, I deliberately avoided one word the entire time."
"Brussels, Minister?"
"Exactly. Brussels," Charles gave a wry smile, his gaze meeting Cyril's worried eyes briefly through his glass. "I deliberately avoided Brussels, deliberately skirted the real heart of the problem, the Common Fisheries Policy. I feel like I spent the whole morning telling powerless lies. I let them believe their problems were with patrol boats and discharge pipes. I talked about everything except their most central plight—the Common Fisheries Policy that decides their fate. I kept a shameful silence. Because I know that on this issue, no matter how beautifully I speak, it's all empty words."
Charles poked at the freshly cooked fish on his plate with his fork. The crispy golden batter gave way to white flesh, exuding an inviting aroma, but to him, it tasted like ashes. "They spend all day looking at these boats, thinking about how to get them out to sea next time, instead of being repossessed by the bank. And I… I can only sit here eating the fish they caught, talking about distant issues that need an 'inter-departmental working group' to move forward."
"I feel like I really have become the 'Cod Minister' on this trip," his voice was low, as if talking to himself.
"No, Minister," Cyril gently put down his knife and fork. "You did the most effective thing you could under the circumstances. You channelled their generalised anger into specific, solvable problems. Minister, you gave them hope, and you identified a tangible entry point for the DSC to intervene. That is not a lie."
"Acknowledging the complexity of a problem, and finding its true root, is in itself the first step to solving it. You could not have solved the Common Fisheries Policy in one seminar. Besides… that is not even within the DSC's direct remit, Minister. We cannot make promises we cannot keep. That would only cause deeper harm."
He paused for a moment, his blue eyes entirely serious. "Many problems have deep roots and cannot be solved overnight. It takes great courage to face the core issue and to guide them to speak of it. You made those ignored voices heard. You brought their scattered plights together before the government. This provides the most authentic data for subsequent synergy and coordination. You have done everything you could within your authority. You have opened several doors for them that they could not open themselves."
Charles was silent for a moment, then drained his glass of beer. The bitter malt flavour slid down his throat.
"Several doors…" he repeated softly, his gaze returning to the window. "I hope that before they need to get through the biggest door, these small doors we've opened will let them… catch their breath for a while."
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The lunch hour slipped by in Charles's reflection and Cyril's reassurance. The two of them, led by the liaison officer, made their way to the venue for the seafood festival.
Colourful bunting flapped limply from the flagpoles in the salty sea breeze. The afternoon sun failed to penetrate the thick clouds, leaving the backdrop a leaden grey.
Charles stood beside the much more formal stage than the one from the morning. He had changed from his jacket into a light brown wool casual suit and was engaged in polite pleasantries with the beaming director of the tourist board, Alan Lambert.
Lambert was enthusiastically describing the local specialities, while Charles smiled and nodded, his thoughts drifting back to the bobbing fishing boats outside the pub window.
His gaze swept over the crowd of tourists, vendors, local residents, and journalists in the front rows. He saw, on the periphery, some familiar faces—John Tregenza, young Tom Penrose, and several other fishermen's representatives from the morning. And, of course, many more unfamiliar fishermen. They just stood there silently, their expressions complex as they watched this festival for tourists.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the seafood festival officially began.
After the host had given him a glowing introduction, Charles walked to the microphone in the centre.
"Good afternoon, Newlyn," he began, his voice carrying over the slightly crackly sound system. "Thank you to the Tourist Authority for the invitation, and thank you all for coming out in such… well, typical Cornish weather."
Charles gestured towards the grey sky and the wind-battered flags. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd.
"This morning, I had the privilege of having a frank conversation with the fishermen of Newlyn, on the other side of the harbour. We talked about quotas, about enforcement, about the real and urgent issues that are threatening their livelihoods. It was a serious, even a grave, conversation."
The crowd quietened. The journalists immediately became more focused. Cyril's heart was in his throat.
"So, as I stand here, on a stage designed to celebrate Cornwall's seafood, I must confess, my feelings are not light." He paused, his gaze turning earnestly towards the fishermen at the back of the crowd.
"It seems like a paradox, doesn't it? This morning we were talking about a crisis of survival, and this afternoon we are celebrating a boom in consumption. But what I want to say is just the opposite."
"This is not a paradox. This is the reality we must face together. We cannot pretend one of these facts doesn't exist and only talk about the other. From this morning's conversation, I took away a heavy realisation: Cornwall's fishing industry is facing a structural challenge. At the same time, I also see the hope represented by this festival. Cornwall's tourism and catering industries are becoming increasingly important pillars of the local economy."
"They seem contradictory, but I believe these two things must be looked at together. Because we cannot just celebrate the results on the dinner table and forget the source of it all; every dish on the table begins with a net on a boat." Charles's tone was sincere. "We must recognise that an industry that cannot guarantee the dignity and livelihood of its producers is not sustainable. We must ensure that when we cheer for Cornwall's cuisine, the fruits of this prosperity are truly returned to the people who braved the storms to bring it all to us."
"This seafood festival, its meaning should not just be a celebration of taste. It should be a declaration, a window to show the world how Cornwall can perfectly combine tradition with the future, ecology with the economy. It is difficult, it is a long road, but it is the only right path. So, today, let us work together to ensure that the bounty on our plates today can continue for the next generation…"
"Bounty? Our boats are nearly out of fuel, Minister!" young Tom Penrose was the first to shout.
"He's lying!"
"He's one of them!"
"Go back to London!"
A commotion erupted at the back of the crowd. The fishermen began to push forward, while the tourists, confused and a little alarmed, stepped back.
The media reporters swarmed like sharks smelling blood.
"Please, everyone, be calm! That's not what I meant… I mean, this bounty…"
Charles instantly realised he had used the wrong word. He tried to explain, but he couldn't finish.
A middle-aged fisherwoman in an oilskin apron, her face contorted with anger, had pushed her way to the front, holding a basket of seaweed. In front of everyone's stunned gaze, she hurled the contents of the basket at the stage.
"Celebrate this, Minister! This is the only 'bounty' we have today!"
A cold sensation instantly covered Charles. The thick, fishy smell filled his nostrils, and a slimy liquid dripped from his hair.
The scene descended into chaos. The sound of camera shutters went off like a machine gun, flashes of light creating a continuous strobe, capturing the humiliating moment.
Cyril, his face pale, was the first to rush forward, shielding Charles from the cameras with his own body. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, trying to wipe the mess from Charles's clothes while ushering him towards the back of the stage.
The fishermen in the distance began to hoot and cheer, their voices mixed with jeers, making the sound even more grating.
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In a tent temporarily serving as a backstage area, Cyril was using a damp towel to clean the mess off Charles.
Charles was silent, his lips pressed tightly together.
The flap of the tent was abruptly thrown open, and Mr Lambert, the tourist board director, practically stumbled in. The ruddy glow was gone from his face, replaced by a post-catastrophe pallor and an extremely complicated expression, a mixture of terror, apology, and a relief he could not quite conceal.
"Minister! My God, Minister!" he rushed to Charles, his voice trembling with agitation.
Charles thought he was there to complain about the ruined event. "I'm very sorry, Mr Lambert, the chaos on site…"
"No! No, no, no! Please, don't blame yourself!" Lambert interrupted, his tone almost rude in its urgency.
He glanced at Charles's discarded suit jacket, a flicker of embarrassment and sympathy crossing his face, but it was quickly replaced by a more pressing emotion. "Minister, you… you may not know… just now, just before you were… uh, before that unfortunate incident, I received an urgent call from the chairman of the county council."
Both Charles and Cyril were stunned.
Lambert caught his breath and quickly explained. "He said someone from the Department of the Environment… I don't know why, but they suddenly called to question our 'public safety assessment' and 'historical building impact report' for the seafood festival. They even sent an urgent formal letter of inquiry. They said our breakwater had safety hazards and might… collapse due to the crowds."
"They threatened that if we didn't immediately produce an effective evacuation and crowd control plan, they would apply for an emergency injunction to stop the entire event! My God, Minister, this is our most important event of the year, all our investment is in it! We were terrified, we had no idea what to do!" he wiped the sweat from his forehead, his voice full of fear.
"And then… then a miracle happened." Lambert's expression was indescribable. "Just as we were at our wits' end, outside… things happened. You had that accident."
"My assistant immediately seized the opportunity, rushed onto the stage and announced: 'As a mark of respect for the legitimate demands of our fishermen brothers, and to ensure the safety of all our guests, we have decided to simplify the subsequent proceedings and conclude today's opening event early.' This action perfectly addressed the DoE's safety concerns. The county council has just sent back a reply, saying we 'responded appropriately and swiftly', and will not be pursuing the matter further for now."
Lambert looked at Charles, his eyes a mixture of apology and gratitude.
"Minister, I am by no means happy about the unfortunate incident you suffered, please, you must believe me," he said with utmost sincerity, bowing slightly, his voice trembling. "But, you… you inadvertently drew all the media fire, and gave us an unimpeachable, even a humane, way out. Otherwise… what we would be facing now would be a complete disaster."
Charles listened to Lambert's 'grateful' speech in silence, his expression shifting from astonishment to bewilderment, and then to a sense of utter, tragicomic absurdity.
He understood.
His public humiliation, the potential stain on his political career, the moment his ideals were shattered by reality… all of it had become the perfect excuse for someone else to solve a much bigger problem.
He wanted to laugh, but found his facial muscles too stiff to move.
In the end, Charles just managed a dry sound from his throat.
"Is that so?" he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Well then… you're welcome."
