For Faughie's Sake

by Laura Marney

  ‘Ah, thank you, Miss Yip, so we can’t vote on it anyway?’ said Betty, giving Mag a withering glance. ‘I’m sure Lady Anglicus will give this project all the attention it deserves, now please, can we move on?’

  What a waste of my precious time. That film had probably started by now. I should never have got involved in these petty small-town politics; when were they going to get around to granting me my licence?

  Chapter 14

  Next up was extended licensing hours for hotels and from there it got progressively more esoteric: fishery reports, approval for a proposed wind farm, wholesale milk prices, slurry pits, manure management. Manure management indeed. My shoulders drooped and my lips were struggling to maintain an upward curl. The Faughie Council meeting appeared to have entered the fifth dimension; time had slowed to a trickle while the forces of gravity were getting much heavier. Dear God let it end soon.

  ‘Well that brings us to the end of our agenda items,’ said Betty.

  Thank you Jesus.

  ‘So this might be the time to give you all some very exciting news,’ she continued. ‘Global Imperial has kindly offered us – free of charge - the services of one of their fitness coaches and, right here in this hall, we are going to have our very own …’

  At this point Betty beat her forefingers on the table to create a drum roll. ‘First. Ever. Weekly. Genuine …’

  She stopped drumming.

  ‘Zumba class.’

  Inaudible crash of cymbals. Gasps of delight from the women. Quizzical expressions from the men.

  ‘The ladies know what I’m talking about and don’t worry gentlemen, there’s something for everyone. I’ve negotiated a nice little windfall that I think you’re going to love,’ Betty added smugly.

  ‘What time is the Zumba, Betty?’ asked Mrs Henderson.

  ‘Don’t worry, Moira, you can make it. Thursday 7 till 8. That’s when most of the ladies in the village can make it.’

  Moira gave a big theatrical sigh of relief.

  ‘May I be the first to congratulate you, Betty, on your procurement of such valuable services,’ said Walter quietly.

  ‘Thank you, Walter,’ said Betty dismissing him with a gracious nod.

  But he wasn’t finished.

  ‘And may I raise another point of information: the hall is already booked on a Thursday evening with my Scottish history class. This term, as we have a film being made on that very subject, the curriculum will include the Highland Clearances. I will of course give way to the ladies and move it to another night, should that be the wish of the committee.’

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t another night, Walter. We’re booked solid with rehearsal space for Global Imperial, I’ve had to suspend the mother and toddler group and even cancel a few pensioner lunches. A Thursday evening’s no use to those groups so I thought we might as well have the benefit of …’

  ‘In that case, I must insist that my booking stand.’

  ‘But Walter, you don’t have a booking, there’s nothing in the diary.’

  ‘Betty, you know fine that Walter runs this class every year,’ said Jenny, trying, and failing, to keep the anger out of her voice.

  ‘Of course I do, but no booking was formally made and now the slot’s been taken, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry, Walter, really I am, many of us are making short-term sacrifices for the good of the community.’

  ‘Which community?’ said Walter, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. He may have been softly spoken but there was no doubting his indignation. ‘Our community that fundraised for years to build this hall, or the Global Imperial corporate community?’

  It wasn’t clear to me if the guttural rumble that had gone around the room was disapproval for Walter’s outburst or Betty’s ruthless scheduling, but the mood of the meeting had turned darker. Betty shook her head sadly. Andy Robertson, superstar DJ and Inverfaughie’s most gallant man, stepped into the fray and threw Betty a lifeline.

  ‘Betty, you mentioned something about a windfall?’

  She grasped it with both hands.

  ‘Yes! The machair, the cash bonus! Thank you, Andy, I nearly forgot. As you all know, we were all delighted – and jealous,’ she quipped, ‘– when Murdo’s low field was chosen as the spot for one of the large-scale battle sequences in the film. But the film crew have hit a problem getting all their trucks and equipment down there. The field is lying fallow at the moment and apparently it’s far too soft. The trucks will churn it into mud before shooting even starts, so, Miss Yip has put together a very interesting proposal. Now, some of you are shaking your heads, but please, just hear me out. Our machair has the unique advantage of having a better turning circle for heavy vehicles and its views of the mountains across the loch are unsurpassable.

  ‘The machair belongs equally to each and every one of us. Obviously there are grazing rights, but we all have a stake and therefore we all have a say in the decision. Global Imperial are offering every household in Inverfaughie a very generous fee of 240 pounds, as well as a separate agreement for everyone with grazing rights. Although technically we’ll be temporarily waiving our access rights, apart from while they’re actually filming, our use of the machair will not be affected. So long as we fulfil the conditions, everything will carry on as normal.’

  ‘Will our visitors be allowed to walk on the machair?’ asked an anxious Moira.

  ‘Absolutely, except obviously when filming is taking place, and when they’re filming that fight scene, my goodness, won’t that be the biggest tourist attraction of all? I wouldn’t be surprised if we got the television cameras up here from Edinburgh. It’ll put our wee village on the map.’

  Most people seemed to agree and were excited about the filming on the machair. Like me, most of them were probably already plotting how they were going to spend their 240 quid.

  ‘And what about those of us with grazing rights?’ asked one of the farmers, ‘how much are we getting?’

  ‘No, hold on a wee minute,’ said another one, ‘I’m short on grazing as it is this year. I don’t want compensation. I want my grazing.’

  ‘But it isn’t compensation,’ said Betty, the soothing balm of her voice like calamine lotion. ‘You won’t lose any grazing and you’ll still be paid the honorarium.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘That very much depends on the size of your flock and the shooting schedule. Miss Yip has kindly drawn up some figures. I’m afraid there wasn’t time to have them copied but if you’d care to look.’

  ‘I’ll need to see them as well before I agree to anything,’ said yet another farmer.

  ‘Yes, of course, you’ll all have your chance.’

  Jenny raised her hand and was given the floor.

  ‘We can hardly expect anyone to make a decision if they haven’t seen the figures. I propose a break. That’ll let the lads see how much they’re getting before we vote on these two important matters.’

  ‘Two matters?’ said Betty.

  ‘Aye. The machair agreement and the Thursday night history class,’ said Jenny, ‘that’s yet to be sorted to the committee’s satisfaction. Nobody leaves this hall until it is.’

  Chapter 15

  As soon as I got home I phoned Steven to tell him the good news.

  ‘Well, my bum was numb by the end of it, but they finally gave me the licence.’

  ‘Quality!’ Steven yelled.

  ‘So, you’ll be arriving into your luxurious three-star B&B this weekend, or three thistles, I should say.’

  ‘I’ve never stayed in a hotel before, I don’t think Gerry has either.’

  ‘Gerry’s coming?’

  It was out before I managed to rein in the sharpness in my voice.

  ‘I told you he was. You said.’

  I’d lost so many battles over the years when, in an unguarded moment, and just for some peace, I’d said.

  ‘Yeah, ok, but this is the last. Once I’m properly up and running as a hotel Gerry will have to pay like
everybody else. And I don’t want you two doing your usual: out all night drinking.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he quipped, ‘That would be treating the place like a hotel.’

  *

  He’d been in a strange mood since they’d arrived. When I’d picked him and Gerry up at the station Steven wasn’t full of his usual cheeky banter. He wasn’t even interested in my new Glaswegian barman neighbour. A peck on the cheek and an ‘alright Trixie?’ was as much as I got.

  He sat in the back of the car with his head bowed low, his knees wide and his two thumbs a blur working across the screen. I could imagine how much fun this was going to be for me: silently watching Steven stab at his phone all weekend. I didn’t want to get on at him in front of Gerry so I asked cheerfully, ‘Are you still playing Grand Theft Auto?’

  He screwed his face up. ‘What? I’m not playing a game. Leave me alone. Mind your own.’

  Unjustly chastised, I left him alone. I minded my own. I didn’t speak again the whole way to Harrosie, nobody did. The only sound in the car was the imaginary noise of hot steam being forced out of my ears. How dare he speak to me like that. If he wasn’t playing a game he must be texting, which showed how little interest he had in spending time with me.

  I didn’t normally wait up for them but I felt something wasn’t right. When 3 am came and went, I knew it. Even the Caledonian Hotel’s lock-ins didn’t go on this late. They were probably at a party somewhere in the village, ‘an Empty Hoose’, that was to say a hoose empty of parents but paradoxically full of drunk sex-crazed teenagers. I really hoped that’s where they were.

  I heard a diesel engine climb the hill out of Inverfaughie and stop outside, the van’s engine ticking as I rushed to the front door. It was Jackie, he had him, he had Steven in a fireman’s lift, slung over his shoulder, slack as a sack of turnips. I rushed forward and threw my arms around Steven as he lay slumped on Jackie’s chest and immediately felt the wetness. I jumped back to stare at my hands.

  ‘What is that? Oh God! What is it?’

  ‘Stop panicking woman, it’s only water,’ said Jackie, the first words he had spoken to me in weeks.

  He strode past me into the lounge and laid down my precious son. The care he took with him, placing his head gently on the cushion, made me realise how precious he must be to Jackie too. Steven was pale but he was breathing, his eyes were closed but he wasn’t unconscious. When I stroked his face he moaned and curled into a ball.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ Jackie said gently. ‘He fell asleep in the van.’

  It might have been relief that Steven was safe but I felt a gush of warmth towards Jackie. The memory of him lying on that very same couch a few weeks ago, half asleep like Steven was now, reminded me of how I’d felt about him then. When I remembered how I’d tried to kiss Jackie, and how he’d reacted, I felt another gush, this time of black mortifying shame.

  Steven stirred.

  ‘See?’ said Jackie, ‘he’s fine. He’ll have a hangover in the morning but nothing a sick bucket and a couple of paracetamol won’t fix.’

  I turned and looked at Gerry.

  ‘Would you like to tell me what the hell happened tonight?’

  Gerry remained mute, standing behind Jackie, trying to look invisible. His clothes were soaked too, and he was dripping on my new rug.

  ‘I’m sworn to secrecy but you might as well tell her,’ Jackie said to Gerry.

  ‘Yes, please do, Gerry.’

  ‘She’ll only keep going till she twists it out of you.’

  With both of us badgering him, Gerry looked as if he might cry.

  I hadn’t seen Jackie for ages; he always scurried away if he saw me in the distance. We hadn’t been on speaking terms since before the ceilidh, but now here we were working together; playing good cop/bad cop with Gerry.

  ‘But I have to warn you,’ Jackie continued, ‘Trixie’s not much good at keeping secrets. She has the terrible affliction of blabbing other people’s business to the whole town.’

  No, my mistake, we weren’t working together. Jackie was using the occasion to have a go at me.

  My rage was swift and overwhelming. I turned and pushed my snarling face into his.

  ‘Oh for god’s sake get over yourself!’ I roared.

  Jackie backed out of the room and as I followed I realised I could still hear the diesel engine running. He had obviously intended to dump Steven quickly and be off. His snipe at me was an unexpected extra, for both of us.

  ‘Get out!’ I shouted redundantly.

  I was gratified to see he was taking my advice, scrabbling to get into the cab of his van.

  ‘Yeah, go on: flee, that’ll solve everything. Fleeing’s all you’re good for, you pathetic flee-er!’

  But he had fled.

  Enraged by Jackie’s talent for escapology and outstanding cowardice, I marched back into the house. This wasn’t over.

  Gerry was halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Not so fast young man. Get down here; you’ve a bit of explaining to do.’

  It could have waited till morning, but with that amount of adrenaline buzzing through my system, I hadn’t vented enough yet, not nearly enough. I pointed to a chair. Gerry meekly trotted over and sat down, perching on the end of the chair trying not to soak it with his wet jeans.

  ‘We just went for a few drinks in the Caley then we went to Shona’s.’

  ‘Shona’s?’

  ‘Yeah, one of the girls from the village, she had an empty.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, that was it.’

  ‘Where was this house, at the bottom of the sea? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Gerry, but you’re both soaking my suite.’

  He shifted awkwardly as if he’d netted a crab in his pants.

  ‘Me and Stevo went out to the island.’

  ‘At this time of night? Did Jackie take you out there fishing? I’m going to report him to – somebody. I’ll …’

  ‘He didn’t take us there. He brought us back. He helped us, we were stuck.’

  ‘Well, how did you get out there then?’

  ‘We took a boat.’

  ‘You stole a boat?’

  ‘We were going to put it back but when we landed on the island Stevo forgot to stow the oars. They must have floated away. We nearly lost the boat as well. It was funny at first, but it got really cold.’

  ‘Why didn’t Steven phone me?’

  Gerry shrugged, ‘Jackie’s got a boat.’

  I had no boat. No argument. I had nothing.

  ‘Why go to the island in the middle of the night? Who d’you think you are, Tom Sawyer?’

  ‘It was Stevo’s idea. He nipped a wee burd early doors but she bolted.’

  ‘Steven nipped a burd?’

  As far as I knew he’d never had a girlfriend; Steven had always been shy around girls. This probably explained his earlier huffiness, but I was concerned about the bolting. I didn’t want my son’s first encounter with the opposite sex to be humiliating. God knows he’d have ample opportunity for humiliation during the rest of his life.

  ‘And you say she bolted?’

  ‘Aye, she didn’t want to go home, she was well into Stevo, but she had to get up early to milk cows. It was still early and we just wanted to … I don’t know, do something mad.’

  ‘Well, you certainly achieved that. Didn’t you, Steven?’

  At the mention of his name Steven stirred. This was the burd-nipping Lothario who had stolen a milkmaid’s heart and then gone on a drunken boat-stealing rampage. Sweet sixteen, he was still so cute, so vulnerable.

  ‘Help me get him upstairs,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not going to phone my mum,’ pleaded Gerry, ‘are you Mrs McNicholl?’

  Chapter 16

  Of course I didn’t phone Gerry’s mum – Steven would never have spoken to me again – but I grounded them for the rest of the weekend. I think it suited them, it gave them a chance to eat off their hangovers, scoffing every cake on the premis
es, but house arrest hardly made for the fun family weekend I’d planned.

  I took Steven up a cup of tea to his room. He lay on the bed in his T-shirt and boxers, spread-eagled and face down, ignoring the tea.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

  ‘Quality,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of mattress.

  ‘Steven, why are you being so snarky with me? Have I done something to upset you?’

  He sighed, ‘No.’

  I stood awaiting further revelation but there was none. I looked at him lying there. Steven was blessed with a strong healthy young body, his hair shone and his skin was flawless. How did I ever manage to produce such a magnificent creature? And at the same moment I was burning with fury that he would so casually jeopardise this magnificence; throw away his beautiful young life, in a moronic boating misadventure.

  ‘Oh not again,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, ‘I know what you’re checking for.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Do you indeed, and what’s that then?’

  ‘Tired and irritable, check. Decrease in appetite, check. Poor personal hygiene, check. Dark shadows under the eyes, check.’

  I knew now what he meant, and dreaded what was coming.

  ‘Puncture marks or bruising on the body.’

  At this point he rolled over and held his arms open wide, a Christ figure, showing me his mercifully unbruised, unpunctured arms.

  ‘Not check.’

  I honestly hadn’t been looking for tracks on his arms but he must have seen the relief on my face.

  ‘Ah, but I’ve fooled you. I actually am a hopeless addict.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve decided to go down the slightly more alternative route of spit meth addiction.’

  ‘Just stop it, Steven.’

  When I’d been a medical rep part of my job was to visit pharmacists. While chatting in the back shop I’d seen plenty of heroin addicts being given their dose, knocking back the little cup of bright green methadone under supervision, but I was shocked to discover what some of them did with it next. Instead of swallowing there and then, some of them walked out the shop, spat it out into another cup, and sold it on for a fiver to someone even more desperate than themselves. It was me who had told Steven about this disgusting spit methadone practice, not for laughs, but to warn him of the indignities of addiction; to frighten him. And now he was trying to frighten me.