The Silver Lady and Harry Spy

by Carol Rogers

caroge@live.co.uk

I know people think I'm odd. (That funny Silver Lady in her silver rain-mac and matching hat.) But I'm British - I'm supposed to be eccentric; it's in the job description. It goes hand in hand with our other claims to fame, like drinking too much tea, then not having enough public toilets to allow for the fact that we all drink too much tea. Come to think of it, we all drink too much, full stop. A strange fact in itself when you consider the cold, rainy climate; it's not as if we're in danger of dying from dehydration in the heat. Terminal rust is far more likely.

And look how long it took me to get around to the subject of the British weather? (Yet another of our claims to fame.) Precisely thirteen and a half seconds. Mind you, when it comes to weather, Harry Spy next door is worse.

Harry Spy knows everything there is to know about snow because of all the time he spent in Russia, keeping an eye on vodka and whatnot on behalf of Her Majesty's Secret Service. (He's retired now.)

Of course, I never know whether or not to believe him about all that spying malarkey. He only moved into the house next door four months ago. It's an ordinary street of nineteen-thirties' semis in Chelmsford, Essex. Not the sort of place a retired spy would choose to live. Or is it?

He does seem able to speak Russian. Fluently, or so he tells me. Then again, how would I know? I do know that it sounds very sexy; his voice goes all gruff and sort of hungry. Even though he could just be reading the results of the 3.30 at Kempton Park, for all I know. Yet it makes me think of vast, snowy landscapes and chunky fur coats.

He has a certain twinkle in his dark brown eyes. I always feel as if he's teasing me. And at my age (sixty-seven) that's rather a nice bonus. One of life's little thrills. I like his company (in small doses). That is to say, I can tolerate his company in slightly bigger doses than I can manage with anyone else.

I'm not a people person. I prefer the Earth. That's why I'm trying to save it. Hence the silver clothes.

It's all a matter of reflection, in these times of global warming. Now that the polar ice caps are melting, there's a lot less whiteness on Earth to reflect back a proportion of the sun's rays. The less the Earth reflects back, the warmer things will become. So, I'm doing my bit, wearing silver. To reflect back my little portion of sunshine. Harry Spy says I look like a giant turkey ready for the oven, and should he baste me every now and then? (Though he didn't mind sharing my silver umbrella the other day when I saw him in the High Street.)

"Why silver?" he asked, as the rain pattered overhead. "When it comes to matters of reflection, why not white? Like snow?"

I told him; "You're obsessed with snow."

He invited me in for afternoon tea.

I refused, politely.

As I said, I can tolerate him, but only in small doses.

Yet, he did get me thinking about white. Come the Big Plan (on Salisbury Plain), white sheets pegged into the ground would be much simpler to handle than sheets of silver foil. Easier to purchase, too, in the quantity I'm going to need. So I've made a start. I spent part of this morning in one of our local charity shops, rummaging through the bedding section. I found a nice pair of almost-white single sheets. Maybe I'll knock at Harry Spy's and tell him I've given his white idea some serious thought.

*

Harry laughed when I told him about the sheets and my plan for Salisbury Plain. He said, "Have you been at the sherry?"

I said, "No. Why? Have you been at the vodka?" (His cheeks were looking a little flushed.) "I expect you got a taste for vodka in Russia?"

He said no. Spies - good spies, at least - don't drink, unless they absolutely have to in order to “fit in”. And they definitely try hard not to get drunk and lose self-control.

"Imagine how easily you could blow your own cover and forget who you are, or rather, who you are not," he said. His eyes were twinkling again. I just smiled and decided to humour him.

He made some tea and we toasted crumpets on the open fire in his little living room, and I managed a full two hours in his company before I felt a little... strained. I told him I had to go and get on with Project White.

He nodded and said something in Russian.

I felt a strange, warm tweak in my belly that went all the way down to a region of my body that I'd almost forgotten about. I hope I'm not sickening for something. I expect the butter on the crumpets was a bit too rich for me.

*

My sheet collection is growing fast; doubles, singles and a few king-sized. I've also been making some simple ground pegs out of wire, to fasten them down. And I've been practising by fixing the sheets to the lawn in my garden. But I've had a change of heart about Salisbury Plain. Too much military activity in that area (according to Harry Spy). So, instead, I've chosen Essex and the sloping downs near the old ruins of Hadleigh Castle, overlooking the Thames Estuary. Plenty of nice, south-facing grass and not too steep. Constable liked to paint up there.

When the day comes, I'll need to hire a van to carry all the sheets. I should really enlist some help but that would involve relying on other people, not to mention close proximity with all their moods and all their habits and needs and demands. No thank you. But maybe Harry Spy wouldn't mind a drive down to the coast? If he's not doing anything else important next week, like parachuting into Vladivostok.

Harry has agreed to come along. "As long as it's not snowing."

"Of course it won't be snowing. It's March," I said.

"March is not averse to snow," he said. "And if the spot you've chosen is covered in snow it will rather defeat your objective."

I told him; "Snow melts. That's the trouble with the polar ice caps. And, anyway, we won't go if it's snowing."

He asked me if I'd informed the press.

"No. Why would I do that?"

"Maximum publicity."

"I don't want publicity in advance. Only afterwards. If word gets out beforehand, they might stop me with some injunction or other."

"Good thinking," he said.

That proved it for me - he was never a spy. A spy would have thought of that for himself.

I've booked the van. I think everything is nearly ready.

*

Project White is going ahead tomorrow. The forecast is good: dry and bright, not too cold. The van is already loaded up with about seventy sheets. I've got the phone numbers of the local newspapers. When we've finished spreading the sheets out over the slopes, I'm going to ring them up for that “maximum publicity”. Start the ball rolling. Before we know it, the whole world will be covered in white sheets, or painted in white or silver paint - anything reflective. Every continent. Everyone involved. Saving the Earth from burning up in the sun.

*

We left at seven thirty a.m. By the time we started pegging out the first sheet it was just after nine. The estuary glinted silver below. I felt quite at home there. Very few people were about. One middle-aged lady with a dog stopped to ask us what we were doing. Harry Spy told her we were carrying out an official experiment on behalf of the Earth Climate Protection Fund. (Always use the word official, he told me afterwards. It gains you respect the world over. These are my official papers...)

"I like your silver coat," the lady said, and moved on.

A small herd of cows grazed contentedly on the lower slopes. The trains passing along the track down by the river were still quite full with commuters heading into London. I expect we gave them something interesting to look at.

Things were going very smoothly until we got to pegging out sheet number seven, when Harry Spy said; "You do realise, don't you, that if too great an area of the Earth's surface is white, it may reflect back too much light and the world could be plunged into the next ice age?"

For a long time, I couldn't speak. I just stared at him. The horror of it. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"It's only just occurred to me," he said.

I didn't believe him. I think he's been laughing at me all along. I gathered up the sheets and took them back to the van in the car park.

"You'd be happy if the world was covered in snow and ice," I snapped at him. "Just your sort of thing."

He helped me with the sheets and said, "Far from it. I detest the cold. Let's go home and toast some crumpets on the fire. We've had a nice little adventure. No harm's been done. Let's just smile about it."

He was smiling all the way home. I wasn't.

I kept thinking; what am I going to do with all these sheets? And, what next? For the Earth? How am I going to help save it from burning up?

As we unloaded the sheets in my garage, Harry said, "You will continue wearing your silver coat, won't you?"

"What's the point?" I was still feeling disconsolate.

"To do your little bit."

"Well, I suppose..." I shrugged.

He said something in Russian.

And I felt this strange, warm tweak...

©2008 Carol Rogers

Carol would love to hear what you think of her writing - email her now

BACK