No Wonder I Take a Drink

by Laura Marney

  The women were hanging off the edge of their chairs.

  It was plain that Jenny didn’t get out much. She was being very naughty, tourists provided a living for nearly everyone in the Highlands, it was an unwritten rule never to be rude to them.

  ‘About fifteen miles along the coast road, ten minutes after the turn-off to Dressar, there’s a road on the left marked ‘Quarry’. Up that road about three miles you’ll find an unmarked shop. From the outside it just looks like a hut but from the inside, oh, from the inside there are all the wonders of Marks at a fraction of the price. You just have to be in the know. Ask for Big Wullie, it’s code, show them your card, tell them you’re Fanny and that you’re looking for Big Wullie.’

  Jenny turned to me, ‘Daphne, get our coats please, we must get home, mother will be worried.’

  *

  We had a run of glorious sunsets every night for a week. An old couple in a green Audi with a German registration plate began parking outside Harrosie every night as the sun went down. The first time I spotted them I got comfy so’s I could watch the fun. It was going to be a laugh watching these pensioners running around, slapping and scratching, trying to beat off the midgies. But this was obviously not their first visit to Scotland.

  The Germans were fly for it, they didn’t get out of the car. Every night they sat with the electric windows locked, cocooned in their luxury vehicle. Every night they sat entwined, not speaking or even looking at each other, just looking out to sea, watching the big red ball slide down behind the island, not kissing or any funny business, just her nuzzling his neck and him stroking her hair, both of them watching my sunset.

  That was something I’d noticed since the tourists started arriving, the amount of hugging that went on. It seemed that as soon as they unpacked and pulled on their holiday leisure wear, they started pawing one another. You could hardly go anywhere but there were couples clasping and squeezing each other, and not just the young ones, the Old Marrieds were just as bad. Long term spouses embracing openly on the street, it was hideous.

  Three nights of the green Audi lieblings was enough for me. I considered painting a no parking sign but Roger next door would probably go mad. I wasn’t brave enough or daft enough to go out and confront them. I got the idea from a Roadrunner cartoon.

  The annoying thing was that I never found out whether it worked or not. I expected to hear at least one loud bang as their tyres burst on the nails I’d dropped in the parking bay. But to my great disappointment, the Audi pulled away smoothly. They never came back but maybe that was the end of their holiday anyway.

  *

  I went down to the shop to get the stuff for the traybakes.

  ‘Och now, I didn’t tell you did I?’ says Jenny, ‘Ali and his wife are having a… och now, what do you call it again?’

  ‘A baby?’ I said, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s over forty, she hasn’t the eggs!’

  I didn’t think that was very nice but that was Jenny for you.

  ‘Och, what’s wrong with me, I can’t remember the word.’

  I could see she was struggling but I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘I’m having one of my Senior Moments again,’ she said, annoyed with herself. ‘I think I’m coming down with that CRAFT disease.’

  She said this as she wandered into the back shop. I could hear her ripping up boxes and muttering to herself.

  ‘What’s CRAFT disease?’ I shouted through, I thought I better ask.

  She poked her head through the plastic fringe curtain and said, ‘Can’t Remember A Fucking Thing.’

  Always the joker. Jenny was a cheeky swine but she could always make me laugh.

  The bell rung on the shop door and it was Ali himself.

  ‘I was going to make the posters for the ceilidh,’ he said.

  ‘Och yes yes, the ceilidh, I was just telling Trixie all about it. Ali’s going to run a ceilidh for the gala day, just to round it off.’

  ‘But I don’t know how to spell it!’

  Poor Ali had to stand there like a schoolboy while Jenny gave him a row about his inability to spell in Gaelic. I knew all about Ali from Jenny. She had filled me in on almost everyone in the village. Calley Ali, as everyone called him, bought the hotel three years ago. Jenny says that at the time there were a few in the village that weren’t pleased.

  The previous owners, the Dougal family had owned the Caledonia hotel for generations but they couldn’t make a living from it. It was too big and they didn’t have the capital to maintain it. The place was falling apart when Ali bought it. He put money in, renovated the bedrooms, modernised the restaurant and brought in the Folk Club. He got a deal with the continental tour companies. Even when they didn’t stay at the Calley, the tour buses stopped there for lunch and spent money in the village. Ali could have halved the staff, cut his costs, maximised his profits, but he kept everybody on. Some people in the village owed their living to the Calley hotel and everyone else benefited from it.

  Jenny wasn’t long in taking over the poster production. She shooed Ali out of the shop telling him she would sort it out. The minute he was out the door she was scribbling on the side of her paper bags. I gathered up all my flour and glace cherries and the like and attempted to pay her.

  ‘How much is that I owe you Jenny?’

  ‘It’s for funds for the wee one’s trip isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Jan’s taking them to Glasgow for a concert.’

  ‘He’s a nice man, for a foreigner. He thinks you’re a nice lady.’

  ‘And so I am! What’s the story with Jan, has he not got a wife? Is he gay?’

  ‘No he’s not gay, there’s no poofs in the Highlands. That’ll be eleven pounds please.’

  ‘Eleven quid for all this stuff? That’s not right Jenny, you’re doing yourself.’

  ‘I’m not charging for the baking stuff, that’s for the children. Eleven pounds for your box of wine, please.’

  ‘Och, thanks very much Jenny, that’s awful good of you. I’ll be sure to tell Jan about your donation.’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell a soul, they’ll all be round here looking for handouts.’

  All the while she spoke to me, Jenny was still scribbling on the paper bags. She had her hand cupped round what she was writing but when I went up on my tiptoes I could make out ‘cheildi’, ‘cielihd’, ‘cielidh’.

  ‘It’s c.e.i.l.i.d.h.’ I said.

  ‘I know it fine!’ she said, ‘I was only practising for writing on the posters.’

  Chapter 27

  Rebecca and I worked like demons, baking till we dropped, for the gala day cake stall.

  We made apple, coconut and cherry flap jacks. We made tablet, coconut ice, brownies, almond slices, snowballs, and millionaire’s shortbread. By way of an experiment I baked two massive slabs of sponge.

  It was a qualified success, the one in the top shelf of the oven was fine but the lower shelf sponge sagged like a hammock in the middle. Not to worry I thought, as I set about performing a bit of cake first aid, I’ll just layer it. I spread raspberry jam on the saggy one, filling the crater with extra jam and then I spooned thick white icing sugar on top of the nice flat one.

  We made so much stuff that Rebecca was actually fed up licking the bowls. I went for a pee and came back to find her letting Bouncer have a lick. He thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Even though she’d stuffed her face all day with cake mixture, Roger insisted that Rebecca go next door for her dinner. The man had no sense of fun. When she came back her face was tripping her.

  ‘Trixie, will you give me a lift to the gala day?’

  ‘Of course I will Pet, but are your Mummy and Daddy not coming?’

  ‘Our car is broken. Daddy got nails in two of his tyres last night. He says we have to wait till he gets paid before he can get new ones. But he says that about everything. He hasn’t been paid for ages.’

  ‘Go and tell your Dad that I’ll take you all
to the gala day, it’s no bother. Rebecca, hold on a minute.’

  I quickly filled a tin with a selection of cakes and gave her them to take next door. It was the least I could do.

  ‘Mum and Dad say thank you very much for the cakes,’ said Rebecca when she came back

  ‘Are they coming to the gala day?’

  ‘Yes, Mum and Dad are very much hobliged and I’ve to ask you what time you’re going.’

  ‘Well I’ll have to get down there early before it officially starts, so will you if you’re going to help me with the stall, but if your dad comes with us he can bring the car back here, it’s insured for any driver. That way they can come whenever they want.’

  ‘Oh it’s going to be brilliant!’

  ‘Hey, hey! Calm down!’

  Rebecca was jumping around the kitchen, Bouncer was starting to get excited too. I was nervous that the cakes, which filled every available space on the worktops still cooling or in various stages of preparation, would get damaged.

  ‘Trixie, can I use that ball of tartan string you have?’

  ‘If you like, what d’you want it for?’

  ‘We can tie the cakes with it and sell them to tourists for double the price.’

  I had to admire the eight year old’s business acumen.

  ‘D’you think it will work if we tie some around Bouncer? think he’s going to win Best In Show?’

  ‘He’s definitely going to win Smelliest In Show unless we get him in the bath.’

  Getting him in the bath was trickier than I had anticipated. Although Bouncer was always keen to explore the muddiest bogs he could find, he refused point blank to sit in the bath. He started his bouncing malarkey, nearly throttling himself with every upward bound as I held him rigidly by the collar.

  ‘For God’s sake Rebecca, scoosh him now!’

  She did her best but it’s a difficult thing to scoosh a moving target never mind a leaping one. Much easier to scoosh the person holding the target.

  ‘Get him!’

  Bouncer’s rhythmic yelps were punctuated by our random squeals whenever we caught a ricochet. After five minutes I gave up and let him go, I was soaked from head to foot, the bathroom mat was saturated and Rebecca was dripping. Bouncer was barely moist.

  ‘Don’t let him in the kitchen!’ I screamed, but it was too late.

  Stuck for space, I’d moved the iced sponge slab down from the table on to a chair while I cut and clingfilmed the coconut ice. By the time I got to him Bouncer had the iced sponge pinned down with a soggy paw, ready to devour. His feet were wet, not from Rebecca and my efforts, but from contact with the wet bathroom floor. When he realised that jumping wasn’t going to deter me from throwing him out, he dragged his arse along the floor until we reached the garden.

  ‘Oh no Trixie, it’s ruined! He’s slebbered all over it and there’s a big dirty paw mark on it! Bad, bad dog!’

  It was true. First aid wouldn’t do it this time; the cake was too far gone. Damn my foolish generosity I thought, I should never have given Roger and Polly all those cakes. I had expected to get at least sixteen slices out of the sponge. Now it was contaminated with dog germs, unfit for human consumption. I was going to be short of stock for the stall. And yet.

  I asked Rebecca to stay in the garden and give Bouncer a good scrub with his brush. While she was gone I rubbed a wee drop of bathroom cleaner cream bleach onto a jay cloth and scrubbed at the white icing, removing a thin layer and all evidence of dog slebbers and paw prints.

  *

  Roger was genuinely grateful for the loan of the car.

  ‘This really is very kind of you,’ he said, as we drove down to the gala.

  ‘Not at all, anytime Roger. The car’s insured for any driver, I hardly use it, except to nip down to the village for my messages or when my son’s visiting. Please, use it any time you need it. Here, that’s the spare key, why don’t you keep a hold of that for the moment? Then you can take the car when you need it.’

  ‘I must say, I’m rather overwhelmed by your generous offer Trixie, you’ve already been so good to us. We do appreciate you taking Rebecca to guitar class, she thinks the world of you, don’t you Darling? I’m afraid I misjudged you Trixie, and for that I apologise. We got off to a bad start and I dare say Polly and I haven’t been the best of neighbours.’

  ‘Och, you’re not the worst.’

  I hardly knew where to put myself. If Roger knew the half of it.

  ‘The fact is, Polly’s not very well. We need our car just to escape occasionally. The children love Inverfaughie but we find the Highlands…’

  We were just coming down the hill into the village. Laid out before us in vibrant blues, purples and greens was the magnificent vista of loch, sea, mountains and hills.

  ‘We find it quite oppressive sometimes.’

  That was the first time I felt truly sorry for them.

  In the fields on the lochside which had been set aside for the gala, white marquees dwarved the red and white striped tents dotted around them. The brightly painted kiddie rides and bouncy castle were set up opposite the areas that had been squared off with rope for the races and dog shows. The unmistakable smell of smoked mackerel wafted across the fields from a roughly improvised barbecue pit. This is going to be brilliant, I thought.

  Jan spotted us driving in the gates and directed us to our stall. We had a good pitch right next to the entrance to the main marquee. Rebecca went with her Dad into the marquee for a look round, this was where the guitar competition would be judged. When they came back Roger kissed her and left saying he’d bring her Mum and Michaela down in plenty of time to see her play.

  ‘Trixie, you have baked many cakes, this is wonderful!’ said Jan.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t have done it without my lovely assistant Rebecca.’

  This was the first time that I’d properly looked at Jan, or looked at him in a certain light. In a certain light he was actually quite ugly: big jaw, big nose, scowly face, but he was ugly in a manly kind of way, it suited him. But maybe I just thought that because I knew he liked me. Maybe I was so lacking in attention from the opposite sex that I was automatically warmly disposed to any man who might fancy me. Living in the Highlands was making me less picky.

  Jan was well organised, he had prepared a cash float for us and bought a programme so we all knew when our own events were scheduled. He’d worked out a rota so that all the kids in the guitar group got a turn of serving at the stall. Even with the help of Jan and Rebecca’s friend Ailsa who turned up, it took us three quarters of an hour to lay out the stuff and write the price tags. Considering all the excitement, Bouncer was very well behaved. After he had a good sniff, he was happy just to lie down under the table and enjoy the sunshine.

  We had only just finished getting ready when we heard the pipe band come along the road from the town. Villagers and visitors walked behind and when the band came through the gates, the gala officially started. The locals, aware of the cupcake bargains they were getting, flocked to our stall. We sold half our stock in the first fifteen minutes. After that, trade slowed dramatically.

  ‘Trixie, you will need time to get your dog ready for the competition, it will begin soon. Ailsa and Rebecca and I can manage here.’

  ‘No, I’ve done everything I can with that dog, which isn’t much, he’s as ready as he’ll ever be but I wouldn’t mind nipping over to the flower show tent, I want to enter my roses.’

  I carefully removed the flame orange stems from the tin foil and showed them to him.

  ‘Oh they are beautiful! Beautiful roses, wonderful cakes, you are a woman of many talents Trixie.’

  He was a silver tongued devil that Jan.

  I was the last entrant and so I didn’t get a very good display spot, but the other entries didn’t unduly worry me. It wasn’t until I looked at them that I realised just how lucky I had been with my roses. My leaves, stems and petals were in peak condition.

  Having never entered a flower show before, I didn�
��t really know what they were looking for, but I assumed leaves stems and petals were important along with size and colour of the blooms. As I wandered along the aisle checking them out, I began to feel a bit sorry for the other entrants. Although they had been expertly trimmed to hide the worst, most stems showed some evidence of bug blight. Some colours were dreich, looking more like a boilwash accident than nature’s paint box. One or two just looked knackered.

  ‘Harold, look at these,’ I heard an American woman say to her husband, ‘aren’t they just the prettiest, I love that orange colour!’

  I smiled at her in what I hoped she would recognise as bashful pride but she looked right through me.

  ‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure whether to enter them or not,’ I said, directly to her.

  ‘Oh, are these flowers yours? They’re gorgeous, I just love that shade, it’s so exotic!’

  I nodded shyly.

  ‘Well, we do our best here in the Highlands.’

  The American couple, hand in hand, apparently superglued to one another, moved off.

  ‘Aye, I would be proud of them myself,’ I voice behind me said.

  My face flared as I realised that the voice was Jackie’s. He had caught me showing off, bumming my load, talking cheesy nonsense to tourists and taking the credit for his ancestral roses.

  ‘Hi Jackie,’ I said with a high pitched laugh, ‘have you entered any flowers yourself?’

  ‘Och no, the competition is too fierce,’ he said, but his smile was kind.

  He was a bit embarrassed as well I think. He hadn’t contacted me since we’d been out in his boat.

  ‘Are you enjoying our wee gala day?’

  ‘Aye, it’s great.’

  ‘I suppose it’s not what you’re used to in Glasgow.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’