‘Titanic Toni?’ Margaret said.
‘I don’t know,’ MacAskill said. ‘Whoever it was, I didn’t see much of her. The Skye fellows were all standing up and shouting and the guys from Lewis were singing along with the singer on the CD.’
‘Who was the singer?’ Margaret said.
‘Murdani Mast,’ MacAskill said.
‘Aye-aye,’ Margaret said. ‘What happened next?’
‘Tanya and Tamara came out,’ MacAskill said, ‘and they put on a . . . umh, show.’
‘What is a “show”, Mr MacAskill?’ Margaret said.
‘God!’ MacAskill said. ‘You know, it was a show with two women together.’
‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said. ‘Tell me what it was like. Is it something I’m missing?’
‘Well,’ MacAskill said, ‘Murdani was giving the “Anchor Bar” song big licks and they had this big tub on wheels full of mud. And the women jumped in and started to wrestle.’
‘They just wrestle?’ Margaret said. ‘Men pay money to see that?’
‘Ms MacCorquodale,’ MacAskill said, ‘they didn’t have a stitch of clothes on.’
‘Okay,’ Margaret said, ‘now I’m hearing you. The women are stark naked.’
‘I didn’t actually see that much,’ MacAskill said. ‘I was sitting at the back, near the door, you know? They were naked. I saw that much.’
‘You want to be careful,’ Margaret said. ‘Some fine night I’ll get drunk and I’ll give Mary a ring and tell her you’re never away from Dearest Dacha in Strumore.’
‘It was research I was doing,’ MacAskill said. ‘Well, what’s the next step? What do you think?’
‘I don’t know enough about this business yet,’ Margaret said, ‘to do much thinking.’
‘There’s some kind of tie-up,’ MacAskill said, ‘between them and guys from Uist.’
‘We’ll see,’ Margaret said. ‘First of all, I’m going to speak to the designated tenant of the croft – Kirsty, daughter of Angus, son of Allan. She’s in Trianaid just now. I’ll take my grand-aunt Jean along with me when I go to visit her tomorrow.’
Margaret opened the passenger door, stepped nimbly out and closed it with a sharp bang.
MacAskill started the engine. He wound down the passenger window. ‘Margaret?’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you mind,’ MacAskill said, ‘if I say something to you?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Not only are you very attractive,’ MacAskill said, ‘but you’ve also got a very high opinion of yourself.’
‘I know,’ Margaret said, ‘and I don’t mind you saying so at all.’
7
Old age comes not alone
In Carnish, North Uist, there is a residential home for the elderly called ‘Trianaid’. On Saturday morning Margaret and Jean, a bent old woman using a walking stick and with too much make-up on her face, spoke with a nurse.
‘She’s in the lounge, is she?’ Margaret said. ‘Oh, I see her now. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ the nurse said. She turned and walked away.
‘Come on, Jean,’ Margaret said, ‘till we say hello to Kirsty.’
‘Don’t fancy this place much,’ Jean said. ‘And I don’t like Kirsty either.’
‘We won’t stay long,’ Margaret said.
‘That’s good,’ Jean said, and when she arrived at the chair where the old woman was slumped she roared, ‘Kirsty! I’m so glad to see you. How are you, darling?’
‘I’m at death’s door,’ Kirsty said. ‘Who do I have here anyway?’
‘Jean, Wee Lachie’s daughter from Kallin,’ Margaret said. ‘You used to be neighbours at one time.’
‘Kallin?’ Kirsty said. ‘I can spit further than that. And who are you?’
‘Alasdair, son of Donald’s daughter,’ Margaret said.
‘The Factor,’ Jean said.
‘Don’t know him,’ Kirsty said.
‘Sure you do,’ Jean said. ‘It’s to him you pay the annual rental for your croft.’
‘I don’t pay a penny now,’ Kirsty said.
‘How? Margaret said.
‘ “Can’t get blood from a lump of peat”,’ Kirsty said. ‘That’s what the boy from South Uist told me to say if anybody wanted money from me.’
‘The boy from South Uist’s a lump of peat?’ Jean said. ‘Who called him that?’
‘Never mind the peat, the pair of you,’ Margaret said. ‘Who’s this fellow from South Uist that’s become your adviser, Kirsty?’
‘All I ever call him is Tiny,’ Kirsty said. ‘His surname’s MacCormack, I think.’
‘MacCormack?’ Jean said. ‘That’s a funny name.’
‘Now, Jean,’ Margaret said, ‘why don’t you let me speak to Kirsty?’
‘Miss Macdonald and Miss Maclean won’t let you speak in school at all,’ Kirsty said.
‘Huh?’ Margaret said.
‘I know,’ Jean said. ‘When I was going to Carnish School I used to be a right chatterbox and Miss Maclean sat me between two brothers from Claddach Baleshare . . . Camerons they were, if I remember right . . . And I used to just gaze at them in horror and wonder why they weren’t speaking at all . . .’
‘You haven’t changed much, Jean,’ Margaret said. ‘Now, shut up for a minute until I find out about Tiny.’
‘Oh, he’s very nice,’ Kirsty said. ‘He came to get my autogram in the spring, and I don’t care that he’s Catholic . . . The truth is, he showed me more kindness and love than . . .’
‘Some of them are fine right enough,’ Jean said. ‘I remember one boy from Eriskay I used to know before I got married – Iagain was his name. Went to sea. Gosh, he was handsome . . . black hair and brown eyes . . . and when he smiled he was as shy as a young boy . . . red lips framing large white teeth, and you’d see his plump tongue whenever he licked his lips . . .’
‘We all know, Jean,’ Margaret said, ‘that you went through the men like . . . like . . . like a lawnmower. Now, let Kirsty tell us about the South Uist man.’
‘If you do get married, girl,’ Kirsty said, ‘make sure you pick a kind of ugly man. Ones that are half goodlooking, they think their piss is wine.’
‘Shame on you!’ Margaret said. ‘Stop talking about men. The right one hasn’t been born yet.’
‘My Tiny is a proper man, though,’ Kirsty said.
‘Why was he wanting your autogr– umh, autograph, Kirsty?’ Margaret said.
‘He wanted proof,’ Jean said, ‘that she went to school, I suppose – that Miss Maclean taught her how to write, when she used to go to Carnish School.’
Margaret opened her handbag and began to rummage through its contents.
‘What are you raking for in that bag of yours, girl?’ Kirsty said. ‘Are you looking for your autogram book?’
‘Paracetamol,’ Margaret said. ‘Ah, here they are.’ She snapped off the lid of the container and gulped and gasped as she tried to choke down a number of tablets.
‘Well,’ Kirsty said, ‘are you two going to sit around here all day like members of a jury in Lochmaddy court? That’s it. Clear out of my sight. I’ll not put my name to paper for anybody but Tiny. You’d better go before Miss Maclean comes back.’
‘Come on, Jean,’ Margaret said, ‘I haven’t the foggiest notion what she’s on about.’
‘There you go, Kirsty, dear,’ Jean said, and she gave Kirsty a violent, wet kiss. ‘It saddens me to be leaving you, parting is so painful . . .’ She burst into floods of tears. ‘I’m utterly dejected . . .’
‘That’s enough, Jean,’ Margaret said. ‘You’re making me irritable.’
‘What else is new?’ Jean said.
‘Stop this quarrelling,’ Kirsty said. ‘Miss Maclean doesn’t like squabbling in school.’
‘We’ll be seeing you, Kirsty,’ Margaret said. ‘I’ll tell Tiny you were asking for him, when I see him.’ She lowered her voice to a mere whisper. ‘And certainly I’ve a feeling I’ll be paying
him a visit very soon.’
They left and in less than a minute they were outside the nursing home.
‘You know what, Margaret?’ Jean said. ‘I enjoyed my trip very much.’
‘Well,’ Margaret said, ‘I didn’t.’
‘That place isn’t bad at all,’ Jean said. ‘If I had said to you ten years ago, “Hey, how would you fancy, girl, taking a run to Carnish for a chat with the old folks?” you’d have thought I was cracked. How times have changed, eh?’
‘No, Jean,’ Margaret said, ‘they haven’t. I’ve always thought you were cracked. And I still do.’
8
Davy enjoys the good life
There is a depleted quarry, halfway between Daliburgh and Frobost, in South Uist. In the darkness Duncan MacCormack drove the Lexus carefully inside, lights on high beam. He stopped the car beside a caravan that had been painted yellow. The windows of the trailer were curtained. He saw light glowing behind them.
Duncan shut off the lights and the engine. He walked stiffly to the door of the caravan and knocked four times. On the edge of his vision he noticed a motorbike parked at the far end of the trailer.
Davy opened the door and chuckled. ‘Duncan, my very good friend, come on in.’
Duncan followed him inside and found himself in a very cosy, compact living space.
Davy opened two cans of beer and gave one to Duncan.
‘Cheers, Davy,’ Duncan said. ‘I really like the place . . . the, umh, “Camper” you’ve got for yourself.’
‘Modified Winnebago,’ Davy said. ‘Modified Winnebago is the name of this rig. I’m leasing it.’
‘Excuse me,’ Duncan said. ‘It’s nice. And you’re looking better too. Love the baggy combats, and the sports top. CK?’
‘Calvin Klein,’ Davy said, a hint of pride in his voice.
‘Poor people’s clothing,’ Duncan said. ‘Very popular gear that is . . . in the South Bronx and . . . in Possilpark. I see you’ve got yourself a motorbike too.’
‘Suzuki Bandit,’ Davy said. ‘Five fifty from a tink in Inversneckie. Goes well, though.’
‘Things’re goin’ a little bit better,’ Duncan said.
‘Things’re a lot better,’ Davy said. ‘I was out last night, me and this girl, and I had a place to go to and wheels to take her to the place. It’s really neat.’
‘You look a lot happier,’ Duncan said, ‘and that’s good.’
‘Certainly is,’ Davy said.
‘You don’t look like somebody’s just run over your dog with a tractor,’ Duncan said. ‘So whose land are we on just now?’
‘Who the hell knows?’ Davy said. ‘Some teacher in Glasgow or somewhere like that. He’s left the tenancy of the croft – you can see the old ruin outside in daylight –when his grandfather’s brother dies, and he won’t come back home until he retires and, in the meantime, I’m the sub-tenant. Those folk at the Crofters’ Commission couldn’t care less.’
‘They’re pretty sloppy right enough,’ Duncan said. ‘I can vouch for that myself.’
‘That’s right,’ Davy said. ‘I always wondered how you got that croft in North Uist . . . where the Russian girls . . . where my wife . . . Tamara – the bitch – does all that aromatherapy stuff . . . if that’s what you call it.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Duncan said. ‘What are you up to, Davy?’
‘Well,’ Davy said, ‘I was goin’ to talk to you about that, if you came down, you know?’
‘The house in Strumore’s terribly busy,’ Duncan said.
‘Some woman or other . . . the Factor’s daughter in North Uist . . . has been pretty busy too, I’m hearing,’ Davy said.
‘She’s into “aromatherapy” too?’ Duncan said.
‘No,’ Davy said, ‘she’s a lawyer in Edinburgh. But her father’s not keeping well, it seems, so she’s been helping her mother at home. She’s been visiting this old woman in Trianaid pretty often, asking her questions and writing down everything she says.’
‘Maybe she’s making a documentary for television,’ Duncan said. ‘You know, one of these boring programmes we get all the time? Looking Back or Bygone Days . . . that kind of rubbish.’
‘I don’t think that’s what she’s doin’,’ Davy said. ‘She’s not a foreigner. She’s got plenty Gaelic.’
Duncan burst out laughing. ‘Did you hear about the programme that’s coming out this winter? Let’s Go Back? Starts at two o’clock in the morning, finishes at half past one.’
‘I’m just telling you what I’ve heard,’ Davy said. ‘We don’t have to be worried about this woman, do we?’
‘No, indeed,’ Duncan said, ‘the only thing that concerns me is the major companies that are actively pursuing me.’
‘What companies?’ Davy said.
‘MasterCard, Visa, American Express,’ Duncan said.
‘Oh . . . I see,’ Davy said. ‘This is debts you had, is it?’
‘Och, I paid them off a long time ago,’ Duncan said. ‘They’re in a frenzy to offer me credit.’
‘Lucky you!’ Davy said. ‘That’s the thing I wanted to talk to you about, you come down, you know?’
‘What thing?’ Duncan said.
‘I was wondering,’ Davy said, ‘you got anything else in mind?’
‘Jesus, Davy, I don’t know,’ Duncan said. ‘You fancy getting married again, eh? What a stud you are!’
‘Me and that big, ugly freak aren’t married,’ Davy said. ‘I was thinking, the reason everything went so smooth and clean the last time was that you’re really terrific at setting things up.’
‘Something’s been festering at the back of my mind right enough,’ Duncan said.
‘I’m up for anything,’ Davy said.
‘Are you any good at impersonating folk?’ Duncan said. ‘Well, women in particular?’
‘You know this, Duncan?’ Davy said. ‘One fine day I’m going to break your jaw for you.’
‘Take it easy, boy,’ Duncan said. ‘You don’t have to be all dressed up like a woman . . . though it might help if you were in full drag . . . what I’m looking for is somebody who can speak in a woman’s voice.’
Davy spoke in a soft falsetto. ‘You want me to talk like this?’
‘Well,’ Duncan said, ‘maybe with a little training . . . some half-wit might think you were female. That is, if he’d just spent ten years in St Kilda. Doesn’t matter. You’d be on the phone anyway.’
‘I’m to be chirping on the phone?’ Davy said. ‘Who am I goin’ to be talking to?’
‘People are obsessed by youth nowadays,’ Duncan said. ‘Know who’re being ignored?’
‘No,’ Davy said.
‘Old men,’ Duncan said.
‘Old men?’ Davy said.
‘Old men still like to be titillated by women,’ Duncan said. ‘It’s just that they don’t get the chance any more. We should have fun chat-lines for old men.’
‘And, if some dirty old man phones up frothing at the mouth,’ Davy said, gulping his words, ‘I’ve got to chat to him?’
‘Both of you would be doing it,’ Duncan said. ‘Deerhunter able to do a woman’s voice?’
‘I never asked him, to tell the truth,’ Davy said. ‘That was never a question that ever came up between us. But anyway, Calum’s off. Him and the North Uist boy he’s killing stags with. When he gets his money in Germany he’s goin’ to buy . . . gear in Amsterdam.’
‘He’ll make a fortune off of that,’ Duncan said.
‘Maybe he will,’ Davy said, ‘and maybe they’ll grab him as soon as he starts to sell the stuff in the pubs around Uist. He’ll have more people watching him than Huw Edwards. That’s a very dangerous trade. Think I still prefer the phone. I don’t have to talk dirty, do I?’
‘No, of course not, my friend,’ Duncan said. ‘You’ll have a script. All you have to do is read it . . . in a woman’s voice.’
‘That’s easy enough for you to say,’ Davy said. ‘What if I’ve got a script and the old man
has a different script?’
‘You’ve got to trick them,’ Duncan said. ‘While the pair of you are talking, you keep control of the conversation. Like, the old man will have a feeble, croaky voice. Like this: “Who’s this? Is this Conversation Without Bounds?” ’ Duncan pitched his voice much higher. ‘ “Yes, it is, love,” the woman will say.’ Duncan reverted to the old man’s voice. ‘ “Well, I’m sitting crouched over the fire, and I haven’t got a soul to talk to.” ’ Duncan did his female voice. ‘ “Do you want me to come over? I’ll hold your hand.” The old guy will get excited. “Oh,God! Yes!” ’ Duncan assumed the woman’s voice again. ‘ “Then, I’m going to take your jersey and tuck it round your shoulders so you don’t get a draught.” The old guy will get very excited. “Oh, God! Yes, yes!” ’ Duncan imitated the woman. ‘ “And then, I’m going to talk to you about the Second World War, the whaling in South Georgia and how the Politician went aground on Eriskay.” At this point the old man is absolutely ecstatic. “God have mercy! Keep going, keep going. Don’t stop.” ’ Duncan spoke in his normal voice. ‘It’ll be easy money for you, Davy.’
‘This is starting to appeal to me, Duncan,’ Davy said.
‘Mind you, you won’t get the money in one big lump sum this time,’ Duncan said. ‘You’ll be paid according to the hours you work, you understand?’
‘Just as long as the odd bit of change is coming in regularly,’ Davy said. ‘It’s funny this kind of thing. Like the last thing we did, you can tell right off you’re goin’ to get a result. I had a good feeling about Dearest Dacha and I’ve a good feeling about this.’
9
Watch it, MacAskill!
‘He’s a fool,’ Margaret said. ‘He’s cunning all right, but he’s still a fool.’ She and MacAskill were seated inside the Land-Rover on a wet, stormy night outside Clachan na Luib Church, in North Uist.
‘I’m pretty devious myself at times,’ MacAskill said. ‘You can’t be straight with people all the time.’
‘Oh, I know, Mr MacAskill,’ Margaret said. ‘And so will your wife Mary know if you don’t keep your hands on the steering wheel.’
Dearest Dacha Page 3
