I mentally counted down until Alex interjected. “I willnotbe remade in the image—”
“Of an oik,” I finished for him. “I know, I know. But here’s the thing. We don’t actually have to change very much at all. It might not seem like it, but the great advantage of being a tiny insignificant charity that deals with something most people”—I anticipated Dr.Fairclough’s objection before she could make it—“quite wronglyneither know nor care about is that they basically leave us alone. We’re the philanthropic equivalent of that streaming service subscription you never quite get around to cancelling.”
Alex looked puzzled.
“To that shooting club you keep paying membership fees for?”
Alex stopped looking puzzled. “Ah, you mean, a chap barely ever thinks of us, but there’s just enough of interest on the calendar that he doesn’t want to drop out?”
“Exactly.”
“You know,” he mused, “I really should go back to the South Riding Gin and Pellets Club more often.”
Barbara Clench was eyeing some part of the screen—probably my part of the screen—with a calculating look. “Suppose we did go in this direction. What do you think we’d actually need todo?”
That, of course, was the $64,000 question. Probably more like the $753,000 question, adjusted for inflation. “Ithinkwhat we’d need to do is for me to have a talk with him like I would with any other donor. You know, butter him up and all that. And then I’d need to sell him on something. Probably something big and shiny and superficially antiestablishment.”
“Not sure I like the idea of being antiestablishment,” warned Alex. “Pretty sure the establishment got that way for a reason.”
“Ididsaysuperficially.”
This didn’t reassure him. “Still, slippery slope.”
Dr. Fairclough, though, seemed interested. I felt, over the years, that she’d come to rely on me as a kind of interpreter, helping her get her point across to anybody who wasn’t either an insect or an academic. She might almost even have trusted me. “Do you have specifics?” she asked.
I didn’t. But I was pretty good at bullshitting specifics on the fly. “Well, most of what we do is so under the radar that the earlwon’t care at all. Which means if we want to do something big, we probably need to can the Beetle Drive.”
This led, predictably, to a chorus of no’s from the team.
“Best day of the year is the Beetle Drive,” protested Rhys Jones Bowen.
“Certainly our best day financially,” added Barbara Clench.
“And it’stradition,” said Alex, as if this was the only thing that really mattered.
I nodded. “All true. And I love the Beetle Drive as much as anybody.” Hell, it was basically my and Oliver’s anniversary. “But the whole eventscreams‘late Earl of Spitalhamstead.’ It’s formal, it’s got a slightly twee name—”
“Now hangon.” Alex was getting indignant again. “What’s wrong withBeetle Drive? Who doesn’t have fond memories of wandering down to the beetle drive on a summer’s morning to help raise money for the church roof and—”
“In the twenty-first century?” I said, “Most people. And more importantly, the one person we need to convince we’re worth giving tons of money to. A man who probably has aFuck the Systembumper sticker on his Porsche doesn’t connect with church fundraisers and family-friendly party games. He wants something—and I use this term knowing full well how dated it actually is—rock ’n’ roll.”
From the look in her eyes, I couldn’t tell if Barbara Clench thought I was having a moment of brilliance or a complete break from reality. “What would be a more rock ’n’ roll alternative to the Beetle Drive?” she asked.
“Well,” I stalled, “the Beetle Drive is quite a sedate evening in a nice venue with a sit-down dinner and non-threatening entertainment, so I suppose the more rock ’n’ roll alternative would be…sort of the opposite of that?”
Barbara Clench raised an eyebrow. “So a high-energy,overcrowded day in a terrible venue with no food and threatening entertainment?”
“Yes?” I wince-replied.
“You mean, something in a field with a lot people and very loud noises?” suggested Rhys Jones Bowen.
I nodded.
“Like the Battle of the Somme?” piped up Alex.
“Hopefully nottoomuch like that,” I told him. “I don’t think ‘Come sit in mud and let us shell you’ will be a great pitch, even for the earl.”
Alex frowned. “Pity. After all, beetlesdohave shells.”
