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10、【Full Steam Ahead】S01E02 The Melancholy Cod（1） ...
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【Full Steam Ahead】S01E02 The Melancholy Cod
Monday, 28 January 1980.
In late January London, a persistent chill wrapped itself around Westminster, seeping relentlessly into the excessively spacious office of the Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination.
On the Victorian-style oak desk, the In-tray was already piled high with new documents, beside which lay two invitation cards, freshly read by Charles Hyde.
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 movements.
Finally, Charles stopped pacing and turned to Cyril.
"What is the meaning of these invitations?" he asked, gesturing towards the cards on the desk.
Cyril cleared his throat and duly reported the contents. "An invitation from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, MAFF. They hope you might visit Newlyn Harbour in Cornwall this Wednesday for a seminar with local fishermen's representatives on the 'Common Fisheries Policy' quota issue, to soothe local sentiment. At the same time..." he paused, "...the British Tourist Authority, BTA, has also sent an invitation, hoping you might officiate the ribbon-cutting for the 'Cornwall Seafood Festival', taking place on the same day, in the same harbour."
"..." Charles looked at him. "I can read, Cyril. What I'm asking is, from your understanding of Whitehall, what does this signify?"
"I'm sorry, Minister. The materials currently at my disposal are insufficient to support a definitive judgment on the deeper motives of MAFF and the BTA. Superficially, however, MAFF's invitation aims to use your presence to divert attention from the deadlock in the CFP negotiations, temporarily shifting local pressure upwards. The BTA, meanwhile, clearly hopes to leverage the presence of a cabinet minister to maximise media exposure and tourism benefits for the festival," Cyril said, his hands clasped behind his back, his body leaning slightly away.
Charles seemed to sigh. "The same day, the same harbour. On one side, melancholy fishermen complaining there are no fish to catch. On the other, joyous tourists celebrating a seafood bounty? The sublime art of government, is this Whitehall's latest black comedy?" He circled back to his desk and sat down.
"Am I 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 conspire to make a laughing stock of me?" As he spoke, a note of amusement at the sheer absurdity crept into Charles's voice.
"Not conspiracy, Minister," Cyril corrected him quietly. "Merely a lack of sufficient inter-departmental schedule coordination, which has resulted in this... compatibility issue."
"'Compatibility issue'? Excellent. The next time the Treasury and the Ministry of Defence are fighting over the budget, I shall say they've encountered a 'resource allocation compatibility issue'. A wonderfully useful phrase. It can turn a war into a technical fault... Do you and Alistair share a lexicon?" Charles was clearly irked by the distinctly Alistair-esque choice of words.
"Speaking of which, is our 'Observer' aware of this 'compatibility issue'?"
"Yes, Minister." Cyril stepped forward and, from the In-tray, precisely extracted a slim memorandum, 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 Itinerary Conflict Regarding Invited Visit to Newlyn, Cornwall
Minister,
1. Background:
The Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF) and the Department of the Environment (DoE) have a long-standing disagreement over fish quota allocations and coastal ecological protection standards under the Common Fisheries Policy (CFP). Fishermen in Cornwall, agitated by quota reductions and deteriorating fishing grounds, have repeatedly protested to MAFF and their local MPs.
2. Invitations & Conflict:
a) MAFF Invitation: MAFF formally invites you to Newlyn Harbour this Wednesday (30 Jan) to attend an "Emergency Seminar on the Future and Sustainability of Fisheries," aimed at placating local sentiment and demonstrating the central government's "listening posture."
b) BTA Invitation: Simultaneously, the British Tourist Authority invites you, on the same day and in the same harbour, to officiate the ribbon-cutting for the "Cornwall Seafood Festival," an event designed to promote local tourism and cuisine.
3. Core Conflict:
The two events represent an essentially irreconcilable conflict of interest: on one side are the producers facing a livelihood crisis (fishermen), and on the other are the consumers celebrating the fruits of that industry (tourists and the catering sector).
4. Risk Assessment:
Media Risk: Your presence at a morning seminar calling for "fishing restrictions to protect resources," followed by an afternoon ribbon-cutting for a "seafood feast," could easily be portrayed by the media as "hypocritical" or "out of touch."
Political Risk: Siding with either party risks alienating the other and the government department behind it. Mishandling the situation could severely damage the nascent credibility of the DSC.
Physical Risk: The fishermen are highly agitated. The possibility of protest actions disrupting or escalating into localised conflict cannot be entirely ruled out, presenting a tangible risk to public order on site.
5. Recommendation:
a) It is advised to politely decline one, or both, of the invitations, citing a "pre-existing full schedule" or the "priority of central inter-departmental coordination matters." If attendance is unavoidable, it is recommended to attend only one event, with the Private Office undertaking advance explanation and appeasement with the other party.
b) Refrain from making any public statements of inclination on this matter for the time being. Instead, the DSC should take the lead in urgently convening a high-level inter-departmental coordination meeting with MAFF, the DoE, and the BTA (along with representatives from its parent department, the DoT) to assess and propose a "coordinated public information release strategy" that balances all interests. Such an action would demonstrate the core value of the DSC in handling complex cross-departmental conflicts.
Please advise.
A. Cavendish
The memo was brief. Charles finished it quickly.
"A meeting?" The absurdity was palpable in his voice.
"Get MAFF and the BTA to sit down in Whitehall and spend weeks drafting a 'perfectly worded' joint statement? By then, the fishermen in Cornwall will have blockaded the harbour. Is our Lord solving the problem, or solving the person who raised it?"
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 instantly. "Shall I draft a letter of refusal to one of the parties?"
"No, Cyril. Tell both MAFF and the BTA we accept their invitations. I will attend both events." Charles met Cyril's somewhat alarmed blue eyes. "And inform your Sir, who I presume is in his office now?"
Cyril glanced almost instinctively at the door connecting to the Permanent Secretary's office. "Yes, Minister. Shall I ask him to come over?"
"No, you needn't 'ask' him." Charles picked up the memorandum and handed it back to Cyril. "Take this. Tell him his risk assessment was brilliant, and his 'recommendation' is in the finest tradition of Whitehall—packaging a complex problem into a perfect procedure and letting the problem dissolve within it. But his Minister has decided to go and solve the problem on-site, instead of gift-wrapping it to send back."
"Yes, Minister. I will report your instructions to Sir immediately and begin preparing the travel details." Cyril responded again, gave a slight bow, and walked swiftly out of the office.
Charles watched him go, guessing he would simply walk around to the other side to enter the adjacent office.
---
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 thick with the heavy scent of diesel. The split-flap departure board issued its crisp "clack-clack-clack," updating information for trains to Reading, Exeter, Plymouth, and the end of the line—Penzance.
An Austin official car pulled up outside the station.
Charles stepped out.
Cyril followed close behind, clutching a heavy briefcase containing two speeches, background materials, a list of emergency contacts, and other necessities.
"I've booked two adjoining first-class sleeper compartments, numbers 11 and 12. The train departs at 23:45. I've spoken with the carriage attendant; he'll be waiting for us in the lounge," he reported in a low voice.
After a brief stop in the first-class waiting room, they were guided by a train guard wearing an armband towards the platform, where the dark blue livery of the night sleeper, emblazoned with the British Rail double-arrow logo, rested silently on the tracks.
Due to Charles's packed schedule on Tuesday, they had to take "The 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 sliced through the darkness. The sea breeze brought a salty, damp tang that mingled with the smell of diesel.
At the terminus of the Great Western main line, a liaison officer from the local council was already waiting on the platform. He escorted Charles, who had changed into a brown tweed jacket, and a somewhat anxious Cyril into an official car.
The cries of seagulls were incessant, the salty air now tinged with a deeper smell of fish. The diesel smell, however, remained constant.
The drive from Penzance to Newlyn was short. Around a bend, the full panorama of Newlyn Harbour came into view.
Rust-streaked, listless trawlers... and colourful bunting that stood out starkly against the lead-grey sky.
"They're pretending the other doesn't exist," Cyril heard Charles say. "Funeral and feast."
---
The morning seminar was held in a venue temporarily converted from an old fish market warehouse.
The light was dim, the atmosphere oppressive. Twenty-odd fishermen's representatives were squeezed onto the seats below, wearing old oilskins over their sweaters, their faces deeply etched by the sea wind.
"Friends, fellow fishermen..." Charles walked slowly onto the "stage," which was only a single step higher than the floor. His voice sounded slightly 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 title sounds like some kind of abstract joke. Frankly, sometimes I think so too."
He paused, his eyes scanning every face.
"I can guess what you're thinking right now. Another politician from London who can't tell a cod from a haddock, here to read us a pre-written, meaningless speech. He'll say some nice things about 'listening', 'understanding', or 'working together', then get on a train back to his warm office and forget all about us and our troubles. Am I right?"
A murmur mixed with surprise and agreement rippled through the crowd, even a few chuckles. The atmosphere seemed to loosen slightly.
"Good." Charles nodded. "Then let's skip the platitudes. Today, this is not a government podium. I don't intend to read you a policy white paper, and you don't have to be polite to me. Let's talk frankly. I am here because I want you to tell me the truths I can't 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 walked among the fishermen.
"Everyone here knows the sea better than I do, knows the boats better than I do, and knows the cod better than I do. You know when the storms are coming, you know where to cast your nets. It's just that now, you've run into some problems you can't solve on your own, is that right?"
"That's right!" a younger fisherman shouted from the back. "The bureaucrats in Brussels, they sit in their offices and draw lines on a map to divide up our fishing grounds. The politicians in London, they sell our livelihoods as bargaining chips in exchange for something else. And those Frenchmen in their giant trawlers, their net mesh is smaller than the law allows, they're taking all our juvenile fish! They don't give a damn about us! What are you people in Whitehall doing? Just having meetings and surrendering?"
"Yes!"
"He's right!"
"They don't give a damn about us!"
"The quotas are a joke!"
The atmosphere ignited instantly, repressed anger finding an outlet.
Cyril, at the side of the stage, clenched his fists, his palms slightly damp with sweat, ready to signal security to escort the Minister out at any moment.
Charles raised a hand, not to push down, but extending it forward in a gesture of request. The noise gradually subsided.
"A very good question," Charles said, looking in the direction of the young man. "And your name is... sir?"
"Tom Penrose."
"Thank you, Tom. To be blunt," Charles said, "we all know the Common Fisheries Policy is a major problem, a complex issue involving the interests of multiple countries and a long negotiation cycle. In the short term, we cannot change the bureaucrats in Brussels. We can work to amend the rules, to fight for better terms, but if we simply tear up the rules, then tomorrow, our boats could be seized on the high seas, and we wouldn't be able to sell our catch in any market on the continent. That is a worse outcome, would you agree?"
Tom opened his mouth but couldn't refute the cold reality.
Charles continued, "However, 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 boat? Do they come often enough? Are their boats fast enough? Do they have enough authority? Can they seize those illegal vessels on the spot?"
"A patrol boat? One came last month, did a lap and left. Their boat isn't even as fast as ours!"
"Even if they catch them, it's just a fine. The bastards are back the next day!" another fisherman shouted.
"Enforcement issues. Cyril, note that down," Charles said, turning to Cyril and watching him scribble furiously in his notebook. "Assess the enforcement efficiency, equipment, and mandate of the patrol teams. Request a detailed report from the Royal Navy's Fishery Protection Squadron on their enforcement actions off the Cornish coast over the past year. This will be the first specific issue for us 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, Minister," an old fisherman spoke up.
"Please, sir. And your name." Charles walked over to the old fisherman, meeting his weather-beaten eyes.
"John Tregenza," the old man replied, then explained, "The water coming down from the Falmouth estuary, it's gotten dirtier and dirtier over the past twenty years. When I was young, you could catch fat sea bass right in the estuary. Now? All you smell is chemicals. Cod need a clean seabed to spawn. The seabed now is covered in a layer of slimy, black mud. The fry can't survive, so where are the big fish going to come from?"
"Thank you for speaking up," Charles's expression grew serious. "Industrial pollution. Cyril, second point. Investigate the industrial discharge permits for the River Fal catchment area. Cross-reference the Department of the Environment's monitoring data with actual discharge levels. This is an issue we need to coordinate with the DoE and the relevant industrial departments."
The mood among the fishermen began to shift subtly.
"Minister, there's the cost!" another fisherman finally spoke up, unable to hold back any longer. "The price of diesel is rising faster than the price of fish. Every time we go out, it's a gamble. And the government's fuel subsidy, for independent 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..."
Line after line of English and shorthand filled the blank pages of the notebook as the morning wore on.
As the seminar was about to conclude, 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 true, I understand. 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 things, 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 bill?"
Charles was silent for a moment, then finally shook his head gently. "I can't, John."
"I cannot interfere with the commercial decisions of a bank, John. But I can promise that I will do everything in my power, in a personal capacity, to call the bank manager and try to secure an extension for you. I cannot guarantee the outcome, but I guarantee I will make that call."
"At the same time, your case will become the first and most powerful piece of evidence in our push for a comprehensive review of the existing government support systems. We will coordinate with the Treasury to examine why these seemingly effective schemes prove so slow and rigid in the face of real hardship. John, I can't promise I can 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 everyone like you."
He turned to Cyril, who understood immediately and took a step forward, addressing John Tregenza. "Sir, if you would remain behind after the meeting, I'll need to take down your specific details."
---
After the seminar, Charles declined an invitation to lunch with the MAFF officials, opting instead for a private room on the second floor of a small pub overlooking Newlyn Harbour, where he and Cyril ate alone.
The air smelled faintly of wood wax and beer.
The waiter brought two plates of the local fish and chips. The batter was golden and crisp, steam rising from the fish, but Charles barely touched his fork.
He just held a glass of local pale ale and stared 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 didn't look at him, his gaze 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 accomplish this morning?" Charles began slowly.
"I let them vent, I proposed solutions—enforcement, pollution, subsidy procedures... but did you notice, Cyril, there was one word I deliberately avoided the entire time."
"Brussels, Minister?"
"Exactly. Brussels." Charles gave a bitter smile, his gaze returning from the window to meet Cyril's worried eyes through his glass. "I deliberately avoided Brussels, deliberately sidestepped the real heart of the problem, the Common Fisheries Policy. I feel as though I spent the morning telling a series of feeble lies, letting them believe their problems were about patrol boats and discharge pipes. I talked about everything except their most central predicament—the CFP that decides their fate—about which I maintained a shameful silence. Because I know that on that issue, no matter how eloquently I speak, it's just empty words."
Charles prodded the freshly fried fish on his plate with his fork. The crisp golden batter encased pearly white flesh and smelled delicious, but it tasted of sawdust. "They spend all day looking at these boats, thinking about how to get them out to sea again instead of being repossessed by the bank. And I... I can only sit here eating the fish they caught, talking about distant issues that require an 'inter-departmental working group' to move forward."
"I really have become the 'hypocritical Cod Minister' on this trip," he said very quietly, as if to himself.
"No, Minister." Cyril gently put down his knife and fork. "You did the most effective thing possible under the circumstances. You channelled their widespread anger into specific, solvable problems. Minister, you gave them hope, and you also identified tangible entry points where the DSC can actually intervene. That is not a lie."
"Acknowledging the complexity of a problem, and finding its true pressure points, is the first step to solving it. You could never solve the Common Fisheries Policy in a single seminar, and besides... it doesn't even fall under the DSC's direct remit, Minister. We cannot make promises we can't 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 immense courage to even confront the core issues and guide people to articulate them. You made those who have been ignored feel heard, and you brought their scattered hardships together before the government. This provides the most authentic data for the subsequent... synergy and coordination. You have done everything you possibly could within your remit. You opened doors for them that they could not push open themselves."
Charles was silent for a moment, then drained his glass of ale. The bitter malt flavour slid down his throat.
"A few doors..." he repeated softly, his gaze returning to the window. "Let's hope that before they need to get through the largest one, the small ones we've opened will give them... a bit of breathing room."
---
The lunch hour slipped by amid Charles's reflections and Cyril's reassurances. Led by the liaison officer, they made their way to the site of the seafood festival.
Colourful bunting slapped limply against flagpoles in the salty sea breeze. The afternoon sun failed to penetrate the thick cloud cover, leaving the sky a backdrop of leaden grey.
Charles stood beside a much more formal stage than the morning's, having changed from his tweed jacket into a light brown wool casual suit. He was engaged in polite conversation with the beaming Director of the Tourist Board, Alan Lambert.
Lambert was enthusiastically describing local specialities, and Charles smiled and nodded, though his thoughts kept drifting back to the pub window, to the fishing boats rising and falling with the tide.
As his gaze swept over the front rows of tourists, vendors, local residents, and journalists, he saw familiar faces on the periphery of the crowd—John Tregenza, young Tom Penrose, and several other fishermen's representatives from the morning meeting. And, of course, many more unfamiliar fishermen. They just stood there silently, their expressions complex as they watched this celebration for tourists.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the seafood festival officially began.
After the emcee's effusive introduction, Charles walked to the microphone at the centre of the stage.
"Good afternoon, Newlyn," he began, his voice carrying over a slightly crackly sound system. "Thank you to the Tourist Board for the invitation, and thank you all for coming out in what is... well, typical Cornish weather."
Charles gestured towards the grey sky and wind-battered flags, drawing a light laugh from the audience.
"This morning, I had the privilege of having a frank conversation with the fishermen of Newlyn, on the other side of this harbour. We talked about quotas, about enforcement, about the real and pressing issues that threaten their livelihoods. It was a serious, even solemn, conversation."
The crowd quieted. The journalists immediately snapped to attention. Cyril's heart leaped into his throat.
"So, as I stand here, on a stage designed to celebrate Cornwall's seafood, I must admit, my feelings are complex." He paused, looking earnestly towards the fishermen at the back of the crowd.
"It seems like a paradox, doesn't it? This morning we were discussing a crisis of survival, and this afternoon we are celebrating a boom in consumption. But I am here to say the exact opposite."
"This is not a paradox. This is the reality we must confront together. We cannot pretend one of these facts doesn't exist just to talk about the other. I came away from this morning's conversation with a sobering realisation: Cornwall's fishing industry is facing structural challenges. At the same time, I see the hope this festival represents: Cornwall's tourism and catering industries are becoming increasingly vital pillars of the local economy."
"They may seem contradictory, but I believe these two things must be viewed together. Because we cannot celebrate the result on the dinner plate while forgetting where it all begins," Charles's tone was sincere. "We must acknowledge 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 wonderful food, the fruits of this prosperity are truly returned to the people who brave the waves to bring it to us."
"This seafood festival, its meaning should be more than just a feast for the palate. It should be a declaration, a window to the world showing how Cornwall can perfectly blend tradition with the future, ecology with economy. It's difficult, and it will be 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? We can barely afford fuel for our boats, Minister!" It was young Tom Penrose who shouted first.
"He's lying!"
"He's in league with them!"
A commotion erupted from the back of the crowd. The fishermen began to push forward, while tourists looked on, confused and alarmed, backing away.
The media swarmed like sharks smelling blood.
"Please, everyone, calm down! That's not what I meant... I mean, the fruits of this labour..."
Charles instantly realised he'd used the wrong word and tried to explain, but he was cut off.
A middle-aged fisherwoman in an oilskin apron, her face a mask of fury, had pushed her way to the front, holding a wicker basket. Before anyone could react, she hurled its contents—a basketful of wet seaweed—at the stage.
"Celebrate this, Minister! This is the only 'bounty' we have today!"
A cold slap, a briny stench, and slimy liquid dripping from his hair.
The scene erupted into chaos. The sound of camera shutters was a continuous roar, flashes of light blinding, instantly capturing the humiliating moment.
Cyril, his face pale, was the first to react. He rushed onto the stage, using his body to shield Charles from the cameras, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. He tried to wipe the mess off Charles while ushering him towards the back.
The fishermen in the distance began to jeer, a mixture of cheers and catcalls that was even more jarring.
---
In a tent serving as a makeshift backstage area, Cyril was using a damp towel to clean the stains off Charles.
Charles said nothing, his lips pressed into a tight line.
The tent flap was thrown open, and Mr. Lambert, the Director of the Tourist Board, stumbled in. The ruddy glow was gone from his face, replaced by a post-disaster pallor and a deeply complex expression—a mixture of horror, apology, and a certain... relief that he couldn't quite conceal.
"Minister! My God, Minister!" he cried, rushing over to Charles, his voice trembling with agitation.
Charles, assuming he was here to complain about the ruined event, began, "I am so sorry, Mr. Lambert, the chaos out there..."
"No! No, no! Please, you mustn't blame yourself!" Lambert interrupted, his tone so urgent it was almost rude.
He glanced at Charles's discarded suit jacket, a flicker of awkward sympathy crossing his face, but it was quickly replaced by a more pressing emotion. "Minister, you... you may not be aware... just now, just before you were... well, before that unfortunate incident, I received an emergency call from the Chairman of the County Council."
Charles and Cyril both froze.
Lambert caught his breath and explained rapidly, "He said people from the Department of the Environment... I don't know why, but they suddenly called to question our 'Public Safety Assessment' and 'Historic Structure Impact Report' for the festival. They even sent an urgent official letter of inquiry. Said our breakwater was a safety hazard, that it might... collapse under the weight of the crowd."
"They threatened that if we couldn't produce an effective evacuation and crowd control plan immediately, they would apply for an emergency injunction to halt 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 a bead of sweat from his forehead, his voice full of remembered fear.
"And then... then a miracle happened." Lambert's expression was indescribable. "Just as we were at our wits' end, the... incident... happened outside. You... you had your accident."
"My assistant immediately seized the opportunity, rushed on stage and announced: 'As a mark of respect for the legitimate concerns of our fishing brethren, and to ensure the safety of all our guests, we have decided to simplify the remaining proceedings and conclude today's opening event early.' This move perfectly addressed the DoE's 'safety concerns'. The County Council just called back, said we 'handled the situation appropriately and responded swiftly', and they won't be pursuing the matter for now."
Lambert looked at Charles, his eyes a mixture of apology and gratitude.
"Minister, I am by no means happy about your misfortune, you must believe me," he said with utmost sincerity, bowing slightly, his voice trembling. "But you... you inadvertently drew all the media fire, and you gave us an unimpeachable, even... humane, way out. Otherwise... we would be facing a complete and utter disaster right now."
Charles listened wordlessly to Lambert's "grateful" speech. The expression on his face shifted from stunned, to bewildered, to a kind of tragically absurd, hollow amusement.
He understood.
His public humiliation, the potential stain on his political career, the moment his good intentions were shattered by reality... all of it had, by perfect coincidence, become someone else's perfect excuse to solve a much bigger problem.
He wanted to laugh, but his facial muscles were too stiff to move.
In the end, all that escaped his throat was a dry, rasping sound.
"Is that so?" he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Then... you're welcome."
