by Laura Marney
I’d managed to chuck the fags, I could do it with drink.
As soon as I’d made the decision I felt better. This was my Last Ever Hangover. Two paracetamol and a sports bottle of Irn Bru later, I began worrying about going back to Glasgow. They didn’t allow pets in rented property, and Bouncer was not the most discreet of beasts. Even if I found somewhere that would take us, I’d have to leave him all day when I went to work. They didn’t allow dogs in doctors’ surgeries either.
It was a surfeit of Irn Bru and the thought of repping again that made me vomit. As it slowly crept into my consciousness, self disgust at my performance last night overwhelmed me. I retched and retched till I could retch no more. I felt like bubbling, a good greet would do me the world of good but I refrained, I didn’t deserve the luxury.
As I got washed and dressed other things occurred to me. Rented property in Glasgow didn’t usually come with a garden. The phone rang again.
‘Trixie! How the hell are you?’ said Jenny. ‘How’s Inverfaughie’s very own Jackanory?’
‘Terrible. I made a total arse of myself. I said about Rosie dying of the drink, that’s the bit I feel worst about.’
‘Och you didn’t name names, don’t be so hard on yourself! If it makes you feel any better it’s a bit of an open secret, everything is in a town this size.’
‘Jenny, I was an absolute disgrace.’
‘Och, you weren’t the worst.’
‘Oh come off it, what’s worse than slagging off the whole town to their faces, outing your alkie granny and denouncing your dad?’
After a thoughtful silence Jenny replied.
‘You’re right, I can’t think of anything that tops that, but I’ve got another good one. There was a fight. It’s not a proper ceilidh unless there’s a good fight. Betty Robertson gubbed that American bit of stuff on the dance floor.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Said she was sick of her standing on her toes.’
‘I wouldn’t get sick of standing on her face.’
‘Indeed. And there’s more good news, you’ll never guess.’
‘What?’
‘Anthony Ramos is coming to town,’ she giggled, ‘and we’re all going to be rich!’
‘Sorry?’
‘Anthony Ramos, the star of The International Brigade is coming to Inverfaughie.’
‘No, I’m sorry Jenny but he’s not.’
She must have Alzheimer’s after all, I thought; the old woman’s depraved sexual fantasies were starting to impinge on real life.
‘And I’m telling you he is. I heard it on Twitter last week, it’s in all the gossip mags this week. I googled and true enough, they’re making a movie in Inverfaughie, I’m on the site right now. It’s a “historical drama that appraises Scottish independence,” it says. Some kind of Braveheart thing, and Anthony Ramos is to star. Look at that, they’ve even got The Caledonia Claymores!’
‘What’s that?’
‘Battle re-enactment enthusiasts, nerds the lot of them – a bunch of grown men behaving like wee boys. They’re advertising for local people to be “supporting artists” as well, I think that means extras. They pay more for redheads. Why do they think all of us Highlanders are redheads? Racist gits. This town is going to be crawling with film people throwing money around and they’ll be here for months. Inverfaughie’s ship has finally come in. I’ve already emailed the production company, they want to put something back in to the local economy, it’s only right that I should be their preferred supplier. Woo hoo! It’ll be a licence to print money. I’ll give you the production manager’s email, you’ll need to get that B & B of yours up and running Trixie. And your cakes! Get on to the catering manager right away as well, these arty-farty types lap up all that stuff, they’ll want all the cupcakes they can stuff in their cake holes, they’ll want dozens every day.’
‘That’s a helluva lot of cakes.’
‘Och that’s nothing to a master baker the likes of yourself!’ says Jenny.
And with that she was gone.
I didn’t have the chance to tell her that I was supposed to be packing up and moving back to Glasgow. How much could I make from cakes? I wondered. There was the raw materials, the electricity and my time. Maybe I could do tablet as well and Jenny could sell it at the shop. She was a preferred supplier after all. Or maybe not.
I stood and looked out the window, it was another cracking day. Everything looked the way it did yesterday, fresh and wild, beautiful.
‘D’you want to move to Glasgow Bouncer?’
Bouncer was noncommittal.
The phone rang for the third time.
‘Okay Steven, I’m up! I’ve been up for ages! I’ve forsworn bevy. Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine!’
‘Hello Trixie, it is Jan.’
I never expected to hear from him again.
‘Hello Jan.’
He didn’t say anything else and so I had to ask,
‘…Was there something you wanted?’
‘I just… I just wanted to pass you this phone number. They are trying to rent property in town for a movie they are making, they will pay a lot of money, I eh… I just wanted to let you know.’
‘Yeah, I know thanks, Jenny told me, but that was kind of you.’
‘Oh, okay…And… I called to see if you are well. You sound good.’
‘Yes I am, thanks… I’m really sorry Jan. I said some nasty things at the ceilidh, I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry I let you down.’
‘You did not let me down. You were angry, you have been hurt, I could see that. I didn’t want to leave you last night, but, because you were…’
He was obviously avoiding the phrase ‘paralytic drunk’
‘…vulnerable, I didn’t want…’
What a gentleman Jan was.
‘But I enjoyed our dancing Trixie.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Did you mean it when you said you will come to Glasgow with us for the concert next week?’
‘Yes, I will, if you still want me.’
‘Yes, I still want you. Of course. I will call you to tell you when the bus will leave.’
‘Okay.’
I should have told him I was moving back to Glasgow.
After I poured all the whisky and wine down the sink, I went upstairs to find my suitcase. I was distracted. From the back window I could see that the garden needed tidying up. It wouldn’t take more than an hour or two but weeds sprang up overnight at this time of year, you had to be ever-vigilant to stay on top of it.
I went into my bedroom and looked out at the loch and the mountains, the islands and the town. This was the view that Mum had loved. This was the life she had wanted. I watched the ferry come chugging up the loch, rocking the wee boats as it passed, into Inverfaughie looking, as ever, tidy and serene. I should pack, I thought.
Pouring away the drink had finally cleared my head. I had always been a big drinker. I had never thought anything of it. Now I knew it was that bad boy alcoholic gene that made me drink, technically I was off the hook. It was a sickness: it wasn’t me who had humiliated herself in front of the community, it was the alcoholism; it wasn’t my fault. So why didn’t I feel off the hook?
People with the gene for alcoholism didn’t have to be alcoholics, it wasn’t compulsory, maybe it would be hard but it was a choice. Jackie had given up, if that yellow-bellied craven coward could do it, how hard could it be?
I didn’t drink all the time but on reflection since I’d moved here I’d pretty much had a drink every night, I’d pretty much had to: there was nothing else to do up here. I wondered what it would be like to go without it. It was a scary thought. Before the withdrawal symptoms, the craving and slavering, kicked in I had to change the subject, think about other things. Maybe I should phone the film production office and give them my B & B details, tell them about my cupcake artistry; not commit to anything, just throw my hat in the ring. These bedrooms would need a lick of paint
if they were ever to be let out. No doubt movie people would expect things to be of a certain quality, even in the Highlands. And the garden needed sorting too, but I had no time for that right then, Rebecca would be in the back door soon and we’d be taking Bouncer out for our afternoon walk. Yes, there were a few things I had to do before I thought about packing.
THE END
Coming soon
The Answer, My Friend, is Blowing up Your Kilt….
Trixie, a lifelong boozer, has finally given up the drink. ‘I’ve forsworn bevy. Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine!’ she tells her teenage son Steven, and she’s sticking to it.
Hollywood has come to Inverfaughie; the sleepy Highland village has become the backdrop to a big-budget movie, Tartan – a historical drama that appraises the contemporary debate on Scottish independence. The film depicts the romantic Victorian craze for tartan, which was developing while the Highland Clearances were forcing people off the land. The director wants cinema verité, and with the participation of the locals and extras he arranges a large-scale improvisation of the Clearances, with chaotic results. The star is Anthony Ramos, a Scottish actor and international heartthrob. He certainly makes the local postmistress Jenny’s heart throb, as well as other parts of her anatomy. With the arrival of the huge cast and crew, the village is bursting with activity and scandal, and even Trixie gets roped in.
Trixie is now in the Bed-and-Breakfast business and accommodates the Caledonian Claymores, a group of battle re-enactment enthusiasts engaged on the movie as sword-wielding extras. Davy, the leader of the Claymores, is passionate about history and the struggle for Scottish independence, and Trixie finds his brooding masculinity thrilling. The way she feels about Davy is less about breakfast and a lot more about bed – but does Davy feel the same?
The villagers are at first pleased to welcome the film crew and the income the movie brings, but with the changes the two cultures clash in unexpected ways. Can a new perspective on history change the future, and will Inverfaughie ever be the same again?
Reading group questions
Why did Trisha and Bob split up?
Is there a chance that their relationship could be rekindled?
What events affect the way Trisha feels about Bob?
What are the points on which Trisha and Bob agree?
How does Trisha respond towards Bob’s girlfriend, Helga? Does this change?
What is Trisha’s approach to pharmaceutical companies, her colleagues and her job?
What are Trisha’s first impressions of Highland life?
Through the course of the novel Steven is growing up. What are the signs of his growing maturity?
Jackie goes from hero to zero, from hunk to punk in Trixie’s eyes. She accuses him: ‘Oh aye, you’re all avuncular with Steven but you won’t even answer the door to me.’ How could Jackie’s behaviour towards Trixie be described? Is it justified?
Vikki tells Trisha, ‘They say that if you last two years in the Highlands you’re going to make it.’ Is it difficult for ‘incomers’ to live in the Highlands? Is there evidence for this?
When living in Glasgow surrounded by colleagues, Trisha says, ‘Fags were my only friends’. Is she more lonely or less lonely when she’s living in Inverfaughie?
‘He’s a friend of mine from Inverfaughie,’ she says of Jackie. ‘That sounded like I had loads of friends in Inverfaughie.’ What does Trixie want her family to think of her life in the Highlands and why?
Trixie is keen to make a friend of Jenny: ‘We were getting on like a house on fire now and I was relieved. If I was going to live here I was going to have to make friends.’ How much effort does Trixie put into making friends and how successful is she?
Nicknames, changed or truncated names are a feature of Highland life: Jock/Jackie, Spider, Keek, The Bell Boy, Calley Ali, etc. Why does Jenny rename Trisha ‘Trixie’?
Are all the friends that Trixie makes also outsiders?
Does Trixie’s quality of life improve by moving to Inverfaughie? How does Bouncer create problems for her? Does he also create opportunities?
What new skills does Trixie discover? How involved in community life does she become?
How does Jenny help Trixie become accepted into the community? Does Jenny show more loyalty to Jackie than to ‘incomer’ Trixie? Does Jenny act in Trixie’s interests or her own? How complicit is Jenny in Trixie’s drinking?
In your opinion, is Trixie an alcoholic? What impact does it have upon Trixie to realise the genetic link between herself and Rosie? What evidence is there that she will be able to overcome this genetic inheritance?
Should she stay or should she go? What is there for Trisha in Glasgow? What potential is there for her in Inverfaughie?
No wonder I wrote No Wonder…
LAURA MARNEY EXPLAINS THE INSPIRATION FOR THIS NOVEL.
The story of No Wonder I Take a Drink grew from a horrible accident I had whilst on holiday in the West Highlands, and the themes were inspired by personal fears generated by the culture I grew up in.
As a skint single parent, I couldn’t afford to take my kids on expensive foreign holidays. The best I could manage was a house swap: We bunked up in a damp, cramped, Highland cottage while the owner got the keys to our cosy Glasgow tenement. My kids loved it and instantly became friends with the village youngsters, leaving mum to sit in the cottage on her lonesome. This wasn’t much of a holiday for me. I wanted company. I was bored stiff and developing a bad case of cabin fever. I needed to get out, but the Highland summer weather was an unrelenting cycle of heavy rain followed by thick mist, light showers, low-hanging cloud, persistent drizzle, sea haar, cloudburst, ground fog, a five-second glimpse of sun, partial cloud cover and then more rain. They say that in the Scottish Highlands you can predict the weather just by looking out of the window: If you can see clouds, it’s about to rain; if you can’t see clouds, it’s already raining.
I could stand it no longer; I grabbed the car keys and went out for a drive. I was in no hurry to get back, so I wasn’t driving fast. I saw a gang of sheep at the side of the road, and they saw me, they all moved off to the side and as I carefully approached they all stood back out of my path, except one.
One sheep waited until the last second and then threw itself under my wheels. I’d heard suicide was a problem in the Highlands, but I never knew it extended to sheep.
An unwilling accomplice, I could not halt the car’s unstoppable progress over the sheep’s back. Though my foot crunched hard on the brake pedal, I felt the deranged animal beneath me, its springy wool covering stringy muscles, the snap of its spine. As I got out of the car I was amazed to discover the sheep without a scratch on it. Its eyes were open and it was bleating loudly. Thank you Jesus, I hadn’t killed it, but a few moments later I really wished I had.
As I approached I saw the dread in the sheep’s eyes. I was its nemesis. It bleated and its mouth gaped red. In terror it tried to escape. I knew from watching Casualty that spinal injuries shouldn’t be moved. Paramedics put people on boards and clamp their necks but I had no idea if this applied to livestock. I begged the sheep to stop moving, who knew what damage it was doing, but it persisted in hauling its useless back legs away from me, dragging its belly along the ground in a grotesque swimming motion.
Up ahead on the road I spotted a farmer in a Land Rover and tearfully ran to him, begging for help. He was gentle and softly spoken and promised to help me ‘just as soon as I’ve taken care of this wee staggie.’
My attention being so completely taken up with the sheep, I hadn’t noticed the deer. Just a few feet from where we stood, sitting upright and majestic in the roadside ditch, was a fully grown Monarch of the Glen. The stag had a full head of horn, antlers sturdy enough to hold a dozen wet duffel coats. For whatever reason he was unable to move but he looked calm and comfortable. I was thrilled to be so close to such a magnificent beast. Unfortunately, I realised too late what the farmer meant when he’d said he was going to ‘take
care of’ the stag. From the back of the Land Rover he produced a rifle…
Once I’d got the hysterical sobbing under control, and wiped off the blood and brains, and picked the bone shards out of my hair, I realised the farmer had turned towards my sheep.
I pleaded that surely something could be done for it, maybe an ovine wheelchair, if there was such a thing. The farmer tried to stand the sheep on its back legs but once, twice, thrice it collapsed in a woolly heap. I argued that it could still be regularly shorn, could still contribute to society, but the farmer would not be convinced. He smiled sadly, cocked his rifle and performed another summary execution. That day my impression of the Highlands changed. No longer was this place a slow-paced rural idyll: in my mind it would forever be these blood-spattered killing fields.
When I got back to civilisation and told friends the story, more exaggerated with every telling, they told me their own Highland horror stories. I began to write a series of anecdotes connected by the hapless Trixie, a thinly veiled version of me. It was only when I had written lots of Highland stuff that I began to think about how she got there. Effectively, I wrote the book backwards, writing the beginning of the book last. The Glasgow section was only supposed to be an introduction to the Highlands, an explanation of how she ended up there, but it kept growing. Most of the anecdotes, including mine about the stag and the crippled sheep, never made it to the final draft. The story just took off in a different direction.
But whatever the story was going to be, whatever characters were going to be in it and wherever it took place, I knew what I really wanted to write about.
My father was an alcoholic, as were some of the parents of my friends. As a small child I’d play around the living room while my dad lay unconscious on the couch in a drunken stupor. Every weekend in our house there were rowdy drunken parties, a heady cocktail of unrestrained drinking, singing, swearing, dancing and fighting. As a young teenager my friends and I would ridicule the pathetic states our parents got themselves into, but before long we were aping them.
