Whirligig Read Online Free Page B

incompetent. ‘How much do you need?’
    â€˜I really don’t want your money, old chap,’ said Peregrine, not letting up with his smile. ‘I just need you to stand up in front of the powers that be and give them a bit of the old razzle-dazzle.’
    â€˜Brr,’ said Claypole. ‘You really think the plan stacks up? Profit-wise?’
    â€˜Oh yes. It’s a gold mine. Thanks to the government.’
    â€˜There are government grants?’
    â€˜Not quite. It’s cleverer than a straight hand-out.’ Peregrine leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Because of these global warming do-dahs – you know, Britain has to reduce our carbon whatsits by such-and-such – anyone who has a wind farm can charge more for their electricity than someone with a coal-fired power station, or gas or whatever. A lot more. And there’s a lot of other financial how’s-your-fathers that make it even more attractive.’
    Claypole scratched his nose.
    â€˜Speaking personally,’ Peregrine continued, ‘I’m not absolutely convinced that there is such a thing as global warming… Doesn’t matter what I think, of course. Everyone else seems to think it’s important, and so do the powers that be. It’s the law.’ Peregrine looked around him for spies. ‘Don’t tell my niece that I don’t really believe in global warming, will you? She’s a fervent believer.’
    â€˜Brr,’ said Claypole, attempting inscrutability. ‘But Loch Garvach is windy, yeah?’
    â€˜Oh yes. Frightfully windy,’ said Peregrine.
    â€˜Blow your hat off?’ suggested Claypole.
    â€˜Blow your face off,’ corrected Peregrine. ‘Honestly, it would carry you off to Ireland.’ Then Peregrine was suddenly grave. ‘If the wind were an easterly… which it rarely is.’
    â€˜Right,’ said Claypole, also suddenly serious.
    They fell silent for a moment. The old man in the light-blue blazer was slipping further towards his plate of avocado and prawn, and Claypole wondered whether he should alert someone.
    â€˜Do you go back to Scotland much?’ asked Peregrine.
    â€˜Nah. Haven’t been there for years. Used to go on holiday there till Granny died. I stay put in London mostly. Spain for holidays.’
    Peregrine sniffed the air. ‘Ah yes. Italia para nacer, Francia para vivir, España para morir. And of course you can’t beat the dear old Prado.’
    The two men stared into the middle distance, remembering their respective Spanish holidays. Of the two of them, only Claypole could see how different those memories would be. Peregrine, a floozy named Minty or Bella in tow, probably drank delicious rosé with cravat-wearing Spanish nobility in the olive groves of delightfully dilapidated castles. To date, Claypole’s solo holidays had consisted of sleeping in the burning sun on plastic deckchairs next to tattooed plumbers from Brentwood with brattish children, and then trying to find somewhere in the evening that actually served Spanish food while he thumbed through a paperback.
    Peregrine continued.
    â€˜The reason I ask is that you might have to… how shall I put it…? emphasise… no, encourage, the Scottish part of you, should you decide to go into this business.’
    â€˜Why is that?’ Claypole leaned back.
    â€˜The Scots – the real Scots, not people like me who were educated in England – are terrible whingers.’
    Claypole’s brow twitched.
    â€˜Well, it’s true. The silly buggers think they’re a persecuted minority.’ Peregrine wasn’t smiling. ‘It’s incredibly childish. But I suppose being Scottish is pretty ghastly, so the only thing they’ve got is being more Scottish than someone else…’
    The ghost of a smile crept into Claypole’s expression.
    â€˜I’m serious! These people hate outsiders, especially the