For Faughie's Sake

by Laura Marney

  ‘They usually throw in some food particles for free and, if I’m lucky, sometimes a nice chewy bit of phlegm.’

  ‘Right, that’s enough, Steven. I know you’re not an addict, I never said that. So if we’ve established that you’re not hooked on spit meth, why would your irresponsible behaviour be acceptable?’

  ‘Oh just leave it alone, Trixie, will you?’

  ‘Look, I have to live in this town. What are you going to do about the boat you stole? What you think is just a prank is also known as common theft; the owner could press charges. At the very least you’ll have to apologise and make good the damage.’

  ‘The boat is taken care of,’ he sighed. ‘Jackie towed it back from the island with us. I phoned him this morning to apologise and he said he’d returned it to Murdo with a set of oars he has spare. He said Murdo was alright about it, he just laughed.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what a hoot! You could easily have drowned in that drunken state. I could have coped with you drowning, Steven –’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘– but what would I say to Gerry’s mother?’

  ‘We were fine.’

  ‘So fine that you had to phone Jackie to come and rescue you.’

  My throat closed a little as I said his name. In a life-threatening crisis Steven had thought to phone Jackie instead of me. Jackie rescued him, Jackie supplied replacement oars, smoothed everything over with Murdo. I didn’t even know Jackie’s phone number. Steven had him on speed dial.

  ‘It was getting cold.’

  ‘Exactly; you could have died of hypothermia.’

  ‘Me phoning Jackie, that’s what’s really bugging you, isn’t it?’

  I had to walk out of his room.

  Steven stayed in bed most of the day. The next morning he and Gerry took the early train back to Glasgow. He wasn’t speaking to me. No gossip whatsoever on the burd he’d nipped; no sexual health or relationship advice sought or given, no vicarious thrills for mother. I didn’t even get the burd’s name, but at least Steven and Gerry had made it out alive – not drowned or dead from hypothermia. As a means of enticing Steven to spend his summer with me, the weekend had been an unqualified disaster. He was never going to come back.

  Chapter 17

  When Global Imperial’s Accommodation Manager asked me this time for my bank details I gave her my new Inverfaughie Credit Union account. This might be the ideal way to sneak it past the tax man.

  ‘Right,’ she said, sweeping her index finger across her iPad, ‘I’ve pinged a 30 per cent deposit across for you now. We settle in full on completion of the contract.’

  I laughed at how surreal this seemed. She had just contracted to pay me enough money for a deposit on a flat in Glasgow. All I had to do now was cook full Scottish breakfasts for a few weeks. That and start looking online at properties for sale in Glasgow. I could be back in the West End by October. I’d better get stocked up on full Scottish breakfast gubbins: tottie scones and the like.

  *

  They were beautiful, in the way that all young girls are beautiful, their faces blameless and rosy with expectation. Hardly a moment ago they had played with skipping ropes and dollies. Disenchantment hadn’t had time to weary them, yet, and so, in period costume, jeans or mini-skirts, they waited. Tall thin ones, small fat ones, and every other female body shape checked their appearance in compact mirrors, applied more make-up, fixed each other’s hair. The longer they waited the more their chatter and laughter increased. From the kitchen the sound made me think of a flock of seagulls that had lost its bearings and swooped down the chimney into the village hall. The girls were here to audition for a part in Freedom Come All of You. Jenny was a key holder for the village hall. She’d asked me to help her serve coffee and cake and wash up afterwards. It wouldn’t normally have been a very enticing proposition but when she told me it was for the movie I’ll admit I was nosey. When she showed me the net curtain she had draped over the serving hatch, I was in.

  ‘Obviously we won’t be in the hall when the auditions are actually taking place but – and here is where the net curtain reigns supreme –’ she said, ‘it’s as good as a two-way mirror. If we keep the hatch open and stay quiet we’ll see the whole show. Ringside seats.’

  ‘I always had you down as a Curtain Twitcher.’

  ‘This audition is what’s known in the biz as an open casting call – anybody can try; like the “X-Factor”. Global Imperial say they want to fully engage with the community, so they’re seeing local girls. It’s only four lines but it’s an important part: the wife of the hero, Tony Ramos. There’s to be a long lingering kiss between them. If he was ten years older I’d break him in for them myself,’ Jenny tittered, ‘although there’s no sign of Tony yet,’ she said, peering through the curtain.

  I took a turn at the old ladyish white lace net curtain. I had to admit, it was a pretty effective camouflage. The film director, Hollywood wunderkind Raymondo Land, sat with four Global Imperial staff at a long table at one end of the hall with the hopefuls at the other, corralled behind a plastic tape barrier. After we served the movie people their coffee – the girls were to be offered no such hospitality – Jenny and I returned to the kitchen. There we organised our own coffee and cake, made ourselves comfortable behind the net curtain and watched the drama unfold.

  The girls were called forward one at a time and asked to read just one line. It was dialogue between the hero and his wife, Raymondo Land explained. The wife was to beg the hero not to go into battle as he would surely die. The American man standing in for the Tony Ramos part, a tall thin bald man, mumbled his way through the lines, never looking at the nervous, faltering girls.

  ‘I must go not for self but for country for Scotland,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Please don’t go, they’ll kill you,’ the girls replied, with varying degrees of credibility.

  I wasn’t impressed with the script so far. If this was going to be the standard, Freedom Come All of You would probably go straight to DVD, Tony Ramos or not.

  Mr Land asked the young women to read in different moods. Sometimes he wanted them to say it sadly, or angrily, or as if they didn’t care. Then he got them to do it again, this time with their own interpretation. I would have thought the words indicated that this was a serious matter but some of the girls tried a jocular approach.

  ‘Please don’t go!’ one tall buck-toothed girl laughed maniacally, ‘They’ll kill you!’

  ‘That’s Maureen Templeton,’ Jenny whispered, circling her finger at her ear, ‘from Bengustie.’

  Isla McPhail was next: a gorgeous statuesque redhead wearing high heels, a tight-fitting black silky skirt with a split up the side and a red top that showed her heaving bosom to great effect.

  ‘Please,’ she wheedled huskily, running her open palm up the hero’s thigh, ‘don’t go.’

  Then she threw her leg, with great agility it must be said, up onto the shoulder of the confused, frightened man and smiled seductively, ‘They’ll kill you.’

  With this sexy display I nearly choked on my fruit scone. Due to the disapproving looks coming from Jenny I tried to do it silently but this only led me to an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. At this she tried to stuff a tea towel in my mouth. The afternoon was very entertaining. Some girls shrieked the line, some purred, some said it with conviction, and eventually the director whittled the crowd down to six.

  During a lull while Mr Land consulted his assistants, Jenny and I started tidying up the kitchen. As I was emptying the coffee dregs, we suddenly heard a commotion in the hall. To the sound of excited squeals from the remaining girls, Jenny rushed back to her look-out post by the serving hatch.

  ‘H.M.B., I knew it!’ she whispered. ‘He’s come at last. Tony Ramos is here in our wee village!’

  Chapter 18

  ‘I hate to tell you this Jenny, but that guy’s not Tony Ramos.’

  Jenny and I had just had a silent but vigorous elbow war at the kitchen hatch. I felt bad wrestling with a woman
who had twenty years on me and possibly osteoporosis, but she was stronger than she looked.

  ‘I know that guy, he told me he’s here to work the season.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Jenny puffed, squashing in beside me, ‘He’s come to personally cast the right girl. That’s how much of a pro Tony Ramos is.’

  ‘He’s a pro alright, a professional barman. A couple of years ago he regularly served me in my local pub.’

  ‘Yes, and now he’s a filum star,’ Jenny insisted.

  ‘But he looks nothing like Tony Ramos in The International Brigade.’

  ‘FFS, Trixie, he was playing a real-life character, it was a prosthetic nose, surely you knew that?’

  I did not know that, and now I was starting to doubt my own argument. When my new neighbour had told me he’d come because of the filming I’d assumed he was, like the rest of us, cashing in on the gold rush, supping up the movie gravy.

  Jenny tutted but never took her eyes from the serving hatch. ‘Hopeless: you’re living next door to one of the world’s highest grossing filum stars and you don’t even know it.’

  Jenny moved aside to let me stick my face against the curtain.

  ‘Read any of the gossip mags; it’s well documented that Tony was a barman before he made it,’ she insisted.

  My neighbour, the wee barman from Glasgow, was graciously receiving deferential greetings from Raymondo Land and his assistants. The girls were almost wetting themselves. Taking the mickey, I opened up Jenny’s couthy wee acronym and dramatised with long pauses like a hysterical boy band fan, ‘Help. Ma. Boab!’ I said, ‘Tony Ramos is my next-door neighbour!’

  They began the audition process all over again, exactly the same as before. The director asked each of the girls to speak again, but this time it was Tony Ramos feeding them their line. Tony smiled and gave them a wee peck on the cheek as they came forward. He was very encouraging, thanked them when they were done and gallantly walked them back to their chair.

  ‘He’s every inch the gentleman,’ said Jenny, drooling. ‘I’m putting my money on number 3 getting the part.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Fiver?’

  ‘You’re that confident?’

  ‘Och, alright then, a tenner, but I’m telling you, she’s a cert.’

  After we shook on it, Jenny explained why she thought this girl was a shoe-in for the role of Tony’s young wife.

  ‘Morag Fenton, Bobby’s daughter. What you don’t know – amongst other things – is that although Morag’s only fifteen she’s the most experienced of the lot of them. She’s had training: Scottish Youth Theatre summer school, she goes every year. Costs her dad a fortune, and she’s the best looking.’

  I couldn’t disagree. Morag, with her creamy skin, softly curling auburn hair and flashing green eyes, was certainly a beautiful girl, but I’d been more taken with number 5. I told Jenny this.

  ‘Och, away you go! She’s not even local. That one works in the Bayview round the coast. A nice enough wee girl but she’s not a Highlander.’

  On the second run-through I had to admit Morag Fenton was a standout. As she came forward she didn’t appear to be starstruck and silly like some of the others; she behaved professionally, standing calmly beside Tony as she prepared for her cue.

  ‘I must go,’ said Tony. ‘Not for self, but for country.’

  I had pitied the actor, having to work with such poor material, but he soon made it clear why he was one of the world’s highest grossing stars. Tony’s delivery was so nuanced it didn’t matter how cheesy the dialogue was. He said it like he understood that these were high-minded words and he felt unworthy of saying them but still and all, they must be said.

  ‘For Scotland,’ he said humbly.

  Jenny went a bit glassy-eyed.

  Morag took Tony’s right arm with both of hers and pulled him gently towards her, as if she was preparing to physically prevent him.

  ‘Please. Don’t,’ she said.

  There was pleading in her voice but no whining. She shook her head slightly, as if she was trying to deny the reality of her man leaving her. She turned her face from his to shield him from her tears. She was really crying. Real tears were flowing from her eyes. After a few seconds her grip on him slackened, as if she knew the futility of trying to persuade him. She turned back to him and smiled.

  ‘Go,’ she said, respecting his wishes, giving him her blessing, accepting what must be; loving him so much that she was prepared to let him go.

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ she whispered. She was smiling, nodding, as if she knew it for a certainty, but yet rebellious: as though the notion that death could separate them was ridiculous.

  There was silence in the hall. No movement, no breathing: absolute silence. We were in the presence of pure transcendent love.

  Applause broke out in the hall and Jenny and I joined in. No contest. Fair doos, she was amazing. When everyone had had their turn Morag was called forward to the desk. As the director spoke to her the others were discreetly let go.

  ‘That’s a tenner you owe me,’ Jenny gloated. ‘Oh, and by the way, the other thing you don’t know: Morag Fenton is currently your Steven’s main squeeze.’

  Chapter 19

  Claymores, scabbards, shields, dirks, axes, bows, arrows, flags, bagpipes, spears, pikes, powder horns, muskets, kilts, belts, helmets. And six hairy Scotsmen.

  They arrived in a minibus with a trailer for all the gear.

  I went out to meet them at the gate, where I introduced myself and then delivered my wee speech. It was the professional thing to do.

  ‘Welcome to Harrosie, where we offer the very best in Highland hospitality. We hope your Bed and Breakfast experience will be a memorable and pleasant one. If there is anything that would make your stay with us more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask.’

  A look passed from one to the other that made me nervous about what it meant. No one spoke. A burly bearded man with a big red nose took the lead. Oh dear, I thought, with that swollen conk he was obviously the type to take a right good drink. I didn’t want any trouble.

  ‘Stan McCauslan, Claymores Battle Director,’ he said, shoving a surprisingly small hairy hand in my direction. ‘We’ve been billeted with you. Have you somewhere we can store our equipment, love?’

  ‘Eh, I have a shed out the back,’ I said, stretching my lips, smile-like.

  The Accommodation Manager told me I was being allocated combat performers but I never dreamed I’d end up with a shedload of medieval weaponry.

  ‘Lockable?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never needed to lock it before. It’s pretty safe around here.’

  He looked at me through blood-shot boozy eyes.

  ‘But I could put a padlock on it. I think I have one somewhere.’

  I didn’t want to lose my guests before they were even in the door.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, signalling to his men. ‘A lot of expensive kit here, hen.’

  It took ages for them to put the stuff in the shed. With Red Nose barking orders at them, they unloaded everything from the trailer, carried it round the side of the house to the shed and then entered into a lengthy discussion about how to stack it all.

  I had bundled Bouncer upstairs into my bedroom, I didn’t want him bouncing around while I was trying to get my guests settled in and I was looking forward to the welcome tea I had laid on. I’d dug out the best bone china: a full tea service, hand painted with tiny bluebell flowers, even inside the cups, so light and fragile they were translucent. Everything matched: cake stand, milk jug, sugar bowl, side plates; there was even a gorgeous set of silver sugar tongs with the bluebell emblem on the handle. I’d ordered sugar cubes from Jenny especially. Napkins, doilies, tiny silver teaspoons, one for each plate. I’d baked a Victoria sponge for the cake stand and, if I said so myself, the sponge was so light it was in danger of floating away. To fit on the side of the neat little saucers I’d baked dinky wee macaroons and cute button-sized meringues, all in pastel
shades. Who knew running a B&B was going to be this much fun? It was so unbearably charming I was getting high off the cute rush.

  The men still hadn’t agreed how to stack their stuff. It seemed their weapons were more precious than their personal belongings, which they had dumped in a heap at the front door. From the open kitchen window I could hear a lot of swearing coming from the shed as they cursed and joked with each other. The Battle Director looked up and caught me earwigging at the window. I grabbed the teapot and waved it at him.

  ‘Ewan, Colin, Dave, Will and Danny,’ he said by way of introduction when they all finally trooped into the lounge.

  The six men were a homogeneous blur of the Highland warrior cliché: big, burly, beardy or bald. Stan and Ewan – beardy; Colin – baldy; Dave and Will – beardy and burly; Danny neither burly nor baldy but slightly beardy. They were of a similar mid-thirties to mid-forties age range, and could have been brothers.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, please do take a seat, don’t stand on ceremony,’ I said as I handed round cups and poured tea.

  The rest of them took their cue from the boss, who didn’t seem to want to sit down, so they just stood around in a semicircle. No one spoke. As I handed them their teacups a few of them flapped; with the exception of Stan, their big sausage fingers were too unwieldy to curl inside the finely wrought handles. I served Stan first.

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Three please.’

  With something approaching euphoria I lifted the exquisite sugar tongs and plopped three perfect cubes into his teacup.