《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

23、[Maiden Voyage] S01E02 The Melancholy Cod

　　The train home was late.
　　They had booked two adjoining seats in a first-class carriage for the return journey.
　　Charles leaned wearily against the window, silent. He had changed into spare clothes, but the fishy smell of Cornwall seemed to linger around him.
　　Cyril sat opposite, also silent, opening his notebook to sort through the day's events and tomorrow's to-do list, occasionally glancing up at Charles, who had his eyes closed in feigned sleep.
　　The train sped eastward. The silhouette of St Michael's Mount receded in the twilight. The scenery outside the window gradually transitioned from rugged coastline to rolling hills and dark river valleys. The last of the sunset was swallowed by heavy clouds, leaving only the scattered lights of distant villages.
　　As it crossed the Royal Albert Bridge over the River Tamar into Devon, the train slowed. A blue and white sign reading 'PLYMOUTH' flashed past the window.
　　This was Devon's largest city and a major hub on the Great Western main line. The train would stop here briefly. What had happened in Cornwall might already have been reported in the Evening Herald.
　　With a series of slight jolts and the screech of metal on metal, the train came to a halt.
　　Charles seemed to be asleep, his head resting against the window, his breathing even. Cyril rose silently, passed through the swaying connection between carriages, and went to the carriage door.
　　The platform was brightly lit. A few staff in British Rail uniforms were pushing luggage trolleys.
　　He checked his watch and hurried towards the W. H. Smith at the end of the platform.
　　"Good evening. Could I have… could I have two copies of the Evening Herald, please."
　　"That'll be twenty-four pence, sir," the newsagent said, pulling two papers from a stack and handing them over.
　　Cyril fumbled in his pocket, finally producing a one-pound note. "Sorry, I don't have any change."
　　"No problem." The newsagent took the note and opened his cash box, beginning to count out the coins one by one. "...that's fifty pence, ten pence…"
　　A sharp whistle blew.
　　Cyril looked back. The train guard had already raised his green flag.
　　"Keep the change!" he almost shouted, grabbing the papers and turning to run.
　　"Cheers, sir!" the newsagent called back, raising a hand in thanks.
　　The soles of his leather shoes tapped a rapid rhythm on the concrete platform. Cyril heard a series of doors being slammed shut behind him, each bang closer than the last.
　　As he reached his carriage door, a guard was already reaching for the heavy handle.
　　"Please wait!" Cyril yelled.
　　The guard saw him, breathless, and frowned, but still pulled his hand back, leaving a space for him. "Quickly now, sir!"
　　"Sorry, sir," Cyril said, grabbing the handrail and stepping up.
　　The train began to move slowly forward. Behind him, the guard slammed the door shut with a bang, sealing off the noise of the platform.
　　Cyril leaned against the carriage wall, catching his breath. The newspapers in his arms were slightly crumpled. He pulled one out and opened it…
　　When Cyril returned to the first-class seating area, he found that Charles had, at some point, opened his eyes.
　　"Sorry, I thought you were asleep, Minister," he said, placing the newspaper on the small table and straightening his tie, trying to hide his recent dishevelment.
　　"Alright?" Charles asked, his voice a little hoarse.
　　"Yes, Minister," Cyril said, watching Charles open the paper. "The tone of the local evening paper is milder than expected. They've reported your morning seminar in detail."
　　The headline of the Evening Herald, in large, bold black type, read:
　　Festival Falters: Minister Gets Seaweed Salute
　　Below it was a black-and-white photograph taken from the side of the stage. In it, Charles's back was somewhat isolated, and the expressions on the faces of the fishermen in the audience were hard to read.
　　Charles quickly scanned the article, finding the tone indeed more balanced than he had anticipated. It even detailed his promises from the morning's seminar. His tense shoulders relaxed slightly.
　　"Now we just have to wait for tomorrow's morning papers. The Private Office will do its best to handle the PR, Minister," Cyril said from the side.
　　"What will they write?"
　　"The Times will report objectively and analyse the root causes. The Guardian will probably elevate it to a sociological level for analysis. The Telegraph might condemn the protest," Cyril carefully avoided the popular press.
　　"It seems your contingency plan did indeed include a media relations plan," Charles pressed his forehead. "Was what Lambert said… was that part of your plan too?"
　　"Minister, I believe it was… a procedural coincidence. The Department of the Environment has a regulatory responsibility for Grade II listed structures. A large public event would indeed trigger their safety assessment procedures. Perhaps your visit increased the profile of the event, which in turn led the DoE to discharge their duties more stringently."
　　"A truly… astonishing coincidence," Charles said, looking out at the dark night. "One department expresses 'concern' about another department's foundations just before a seafood festival begins, and then happens to graciously accept an early conclusion due to 'safety concerns' after an 'accident' occurs."
　　The image of Lambert's post-disaster face flashed before his eyes, followed by the cool risk assessment in Alistair's memo, and those grey-green eyes that seemed to see everything. A thought flickered in his mind.
　　"Cyril," Charles suddenly turned his head. "When you reported the itinerary, did you mention the breakwater issue to… Alistair? Or did he mention any related materials?"
　　Cyril instantly recalled the brief report in Alistair's office yesterday, the profound look in Sir's eyes when he heard that detail, the note Sir had made. He knew he could not lie, nor should he.
　　"Yes, Minister," Cyril heard himself say. "In yesterday's pre-trip briefing, I reported it orally to the Acting Permanent Secretary as part of the local background information."
　　A rhythmic clanking came from the carriage connection.
　　Charles was silent.
　　He did not press further, but slowly, slowly leaned back into his seat, his gaze returning to the endless darkness outside the window.
　　He could feel it clearly, beyond the floodlit stage, there was a vast web woven of procedure, rules, and unspoken understandings.
　　---
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　　---
　　Time rewinds to midday.
　　London, Whitehall.
　　Alistair was in his office, reviewing the preliminary feedback from various departments on the liaison officer mechanism, compiled by Cyril before his departure.
　　The telephone rang. It was an internal line.
　　"Sir," came the voice of an assistant secretary. "Mr George Arbuthnot, Deputy Permanent Secretary at the Department of the Environment, is returning your call."
　　"Put him through," Alistair said, picking up the receiver. "George, good afternoon. Alistair Cavendish. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
　　"Not at all. I was looking for an excuse to get out of the office. Good to hear from you. Old friend, I hear you've moved to a new department? Congratulations."
　　"Hardly congratulations, George. Just serving in a different capacity. I'm calling today about a small matter, on which I might need your expert opinion," Alistair said, leaning back in his chair, his tone relaxed and consultative.
　　"Oh? Go on."
　　"We at the DSC are currently undertaking a review of the 'coordinated maintenance of key local assets'. You know, in the current climate, ensuring the robust operation of the nation's key assets and identifying potential gaps in inter-departmental collaboration is a priority for the Cabinet Office. In reviewing the files for the South West, one case caught our attention—Newlyn harbour in Cornwall. The breakwater there, I recall, is a Victorian engineering masterpiece?"
　　"Yes, built in 1884. A Grade II listed structure. What about it?"
　　"Nothing major. It's just that we've noted there's a rather large seafood festival being held there today. You know, large crowds, temporary catering facilities, increased traffic flow… We were just curious, purely from a risk management perspective, do you at the DoE have any assessment models for the stress such large-scale commercial activities place on such historic infrastructure? Or rather, when a local council approves such an event, are they required to report to you for an environmental and safety impact assessment?"
　　There was a silence of a few seconds on the other end of the line.
　　George was clearly thinking fast about the subtext of this conversation.
　　"...Under normal circumstances, the local council has discretionary power, Alistair. But if it involves a Grade II listed structure, and the scale of the event could pose a potential, irreversible risk to its structural integrity, then, yes, our department has the right to intervene, to request a detailed risk assessment report, and possibly… to recommend they postpone or modify the event until the safety concerns are eliminated."
　　"I see," Alistair said, like a student who had just had an epiphany. "Thank you for your professional explanation, George. That's very helpful. After all, if a local council were to have any oversight in its planning approval, leading to damage to such a historic structure during a public event, I imagine they wouldn't just be facing endless questions from a Select Committee. More importantly, it would trigger a collective media assault on the department for regulatory failure, and could put the Minister under immense pressure in the House. That sort of consequence, for the department's reputation and for senior personnel arrangements, would not be a good thing. It's always a headache, isn't it?"
　　"Of course, of course," George's voice grew serious. "I'll have my people look into the situation, make sure all procedures are in order. Thanks for the heads-up, Alistair."
　　"Not at all. Thank you for your time, George. See you at the club," Alistair said, hanging up the phone and continuing to make annotations on the DLO-related briefs and documents.
　　---
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　　---
　　It was late at night when they returned to London.
　　Charles declined Cyril's offer to see him back to his hotel, taking a cab alone back to Brown's Hotel.
　　He did not rest, but dialled a number.
　　The phone was answered almost instantly.
　　"Vic—Alistair. The Cornwall business. I know you'll turn it into a perfect case for advancing the department's agenda. Whatever you submit tomorrow to strengthen the DSC's coordinating role, I will sign. But, I have my conditions."
　　The familiar voice replied, "Your instructions, Minister."
　　"I want the full details on the old fisherman who questioned me this morning. His name, his boat, how much he owes the bank. I will make that call to the bank. Also, I want a feasibility report on establishing a 'Fisheries Community Emergency Hardship Fund' on my desk within a week. I want a real solution, Alistair, not just a procedural victory for our own departmental expansion."
　　"As you wish, Minister," Alistair replied. "The report will be prepared. Regarding Mr Tregenza, his personal details and the relevant bank's contact information will be delivered with your morning papers."
　　The line went dead.
　　Charles walked to the window and stared out at the silent, late-night London.
　　The performance in the spotlight was over. The stage lights had long been extinguished. And the real game, in the deep shadows, was being quietly continued by calm, tireless minds, writing the script.