《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

11、【Full Steam Ahead】S01E02 The Melancholy Cod（2）

　　The return train was delayed.
　　They had two connecting seats booked in a first-class carriage for the journey back.
　　Charles leaned wearily against the window, saying nothing. He had changed into his spare clothes, but the briny smell of Cornwall seemed to cling to him.
　　Cyril sat opposite, also silent. He opened his notebook and began to organise the day's events and the next day's to-do list, occasionally looking up at Charles, who sat with his eyes closed, seemingly resting.
　　The train sped eastward. The silhouette of St Michael's Mount receded in the twilight, and the view outside the window gradually shifted from rugged coastline to rolling hills and dusky river valleys. The last rays of sunset were completely swallowed by heavy clouds, leaving only the scattered lights of distant villages.
　　As the train crossed the Royal Albert Bridge over the River Tamar into Devon, its speed slowly decreased. A blue sign with white lettering—PLYMOUTH—flashed past the window.
　　This was Devon's largest city and a major hub on the Great Western line; the train would make a short stop here. The events in Cornwall would likely have already been reported in the Plymouth Evening Herald.
　　With a series of slight jolts and the screech of metal on metal, the train came to a halt.
　　Charles appeared to be asleep, his head resting against the window, his breathing even. Cyril rose noiselessly and made his way through the swaying vestibule to the carriage door.
　　The platform was brightly lit, with a few British Rail staff pushing luggage trolleys.
　　He checked his watch and walked briskly towards the W. H. Smith at the end of the platform.
　　"Good evening, could I have... two copies of the Evening Herald, please."
　　"That'll be twenty-four pence, sir." The newsagent pulled two papers from a stack and handed them over.
　　Cyril fumbled in his pocket before producing a one-pound note. "Sorry, I don't have any change."
　　"No matter." The newsagent took the note, opened his cash box, and began counting out coins one by one. "...fifty pence, ten pence..."
　　A sharp whistle blew.
　　Cyril looked back and saw the train guard raising his green flag.
　　"Keep the change!" he almost shouted, grabbing the newspapers and turning to run.
　　"Cheers, sir!" the newsagent called after him with a wave.
　　The soles of his leather shoes tapped a frantic rhythm on the concrete platform. Cyril could hear the heavy slam of carriage doors behind him, each one closer than the last.
　　As he reached his carriage door, an attendant was already reaching for the heavy handle.
　　"Please, wait!" Cyril yelled.
　　The attendant saw him, breathless, and frowned, but pulled his hand back, holding the space for him. "Quickly now, sir!"
　　"Sorry, sir." Cyril grabbed the handrail and stepped up.
　　The train began to slide forward beneath his feet. The attendant slammed the door shut behind him with a loud thud, cutting off the platform's noise.
　　Leaning against the carriage wall, Cyril caught his breath. The newspapers in his arms were slightly crumpled. He pulled one out and opened it...
　　When Cyril returned to their seats, he found that Charles had opened his eyes at some point.
　　"My apologies, I thought you were asleep, Minister." He placed the newspaper on the small table and straightened his tie, trying to mask his recent dishevelment.
　　"How is it?" Charles asked, his voice a little hoarse.
　　"Yes, Minister," Cyril said, as Charles unfolded the paper. "The tone of the local evening paper is milder than anticipated. They gave detailed coverage to your morning seminar."
　　The headline of the Plymouth Evening Herald, in large, bold type, read:
　　Festival Falters: Minister Gets Seaweed Salute
　　Below was a black-and-white photograph taken from the side of the stage. In it, Charles's back looked somewhat isolated, while the expressions of the fishermen in the crowd were difficult to discern.
　　Charles quickly scanned the article, finding the tone far more balanced than he had expected; it even detailed the promises he had made at the morning seminar. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
　　"Now we just have to wait for tomorrow's morning papers. The Private Office will handle the public relations as best they can, Minister," Cyril said.
　　"What will they write?"
　　"The Times will report objectively and analyse the root causes. The Guardian might elevate it to a sociological level. The Telegraph will likely condemn the protest," Cyril said, carefully avoiding the tabloids.
　　"It seems your contingency plan did indeed include a media relations strategy," Charles said, pressing his temples. "Was... what Lambert said... also part of your plan?"
　　"Minister, I believe that must have been... a procedural coincidence. The Department of the Environment has a regulatory duty concerning Grade II listed structures, and large public events do indeed trigger their safety assessment procedures. Perhaps your visit increased the profile of the event, which in turn led the DoE to... exercise their duties more rigorously."
　　"A truly... astonishing coincidence," Charles said, looking out at the blackness of the night. "One department expresses 'concern' over the structural integrity of another department's event just before it begins, and then, just after an 'accident' occurs, happily accepts an early conclusion due to 'safety concerns'."
　　The image of Lambert's face, a mask of post-disaster relief, flashed through his mind, followed by the cool risk assessment in Alistair's memo, and those grey-green eyes that seemed to see through everything. An idea sparked in his mind.
　　"Cyril," Charles turned his head suddenly. "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 the day before, remembered the intensity in Sir's eyes when he heard that detail, remembered the note Sir had made. He knew he couldn't lie, and shouldn't.
　　"Yes, Minister," Cyril heard himself say. "During yesterday's pre-travel briefing, I reported it orally to the Acting Permanent Secretary as part of the local background information."
　　The rhythmic clatter of the train's bogies over the track joints filled the carriage.
　　Charles fell silent.
　　He didn't press further. He just slowly, very slowly, leaned back into his seat and turned his gaze once more to the endless darkness outside the window.
　　He could feel it, clearly, beyond the floodlit stage: a vast web woven from procedure, rules, and unseen consensus.
　　---
　　Twelve hours earlier.
　　London, Whitehall.
　　Alistair was in his office, reviewing the initial feedback from various departments on the "Departmental Liaison Officer" mechanism, collated by Cyril before his departure.
　　The telephone rang. 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 picked up the receiver. "George, good afternoon. Alistair Cavendish here. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
　　"Not at all, I was looking for an excuse to leave the office anyway. Good to hear from you. Heard you're at a new department, old friend? Congratulations."
　　"Hardly congratulations, George, just serving in a different capacity. I'm calling today about a small matter, one that might require your expert opinion," Alistair said, leaning back in his chair, his tone consultative.
　　"Oh? Do tell."
　　"We at the DSC are conducting a review of 'collaborative maintenance of key local assets'. You know how it is, in the current climate, ensuring the robust operation of national assets and identifying potential gaps in cross-departmental collaboration is a priority for the Cabinet Office. While reviewing files on the South West, one case caught our attention—Newlyn Harbour in Cornwall. The breakwater there, I recall it's a masterpiece of Victorian engineering, isn't it?"
　　"It is. Built in 1884. Grade II listed. What about it?"
　　"Nothing major. It just came to our attention that a rather large seafood festival is being held there today. You know, large crowds, temporary food stalls, increased traffic... We were just curious, from a purely risk management perspective, does your department have assessment models for the kind of stress such large commercial events place on 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 few seconds of silence on the other end of the line.
　　George was clearly thinking fast about the subtext.
　　"...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, my department has the authority to intervene, to demand a detailed risk assessment report, and possibly... to recommend they postpone or modify the event until safety concerns are resolved."
　　"I see," Alistair said, sounding like a student who had just had a revelation. "Thank you for the professional clarification, George, that's very helpful. After all, if a local council were to have any oversight in their planning approval, leading to damage to such a historic structure during a public event, they wouldn't just be facing endless questions from a Select Committee. More importantly, it would trigger a media firestorm over departmental regulatory failure, and could put the Minister under immense pressure in the House. The consequences of that, for the department's reputation and senior personnel arrangements, would be most unfortunate. That's always a tiresome business, isn't it?"
　　"Indeed, indeed," George's voice turned serious. "I'll have my people look into it, 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 soon." Alistair hung up the phone and continued to make annotations on the DLO briefing papers and materials.
　　---
　　It was late at night by the time they returned to London.
　　Charles declined Cyril's offer of a ride to his hotel and took a taxi alone back to Brown's.
　　He didn't rest. Instead, he dialled a number.
　　The call was answered almost instantly.
　　"Vic... Alistair. I know you'll turn what happened in Cornwall into a perfect case for advancing the department's agenda. Whatever you submit tomorrow to strengthen the DSC's coordinating role, I'll sign it. But I have my conditions."
　　The familiar voice came through the line: "Your instructions, Minister."
　　"I want all the information on the old fisherman who asked me the question this morning. His name, his boat, how much he owes the bank. I will make that call to the bank. And I want a feasibility report on establishing an 'Emergency Hardship Fund for Fishing Communities' on my desk within a week. I want a real solution, Alistair, not just a procedural victory that expands our own department's power."
　　"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 tomorrow."
　　The call ended.
　　Charles walked to the window and stared out at the silent London night.
　　The performance under the spotlight was over. The stage lights had long been extinguished. But the real game, in the deep shadows, was being quietly continued by those calm and tireless minds, writing the next act of the script.