by Laura Marney
‘Sorry about the swearing, hen,’ said Stan pointing backwards, obviously referring to the cursing in the shed.
‘Please, don’t worry, Stan,’ I said. ‘While you’re in Inverfaughie my home is your home. I’d like you to feel at home.’ I turned to one of the others. ‘Milk?’
‘That’s kind of you, hen, and by the way, you don’t need to call me Stan. You might as well call me Rudi.’ He leaned his head towards his men. ‘That’s what these yins call me.’
I nodded. It seemed rude to ask why; I already had a good idea.
‘The nose,’ he said, pointing to it, and then, more to the men than to me, he said, ‘not used to being around ladies. I’ll need to mind my Ps and Qs. I nearly said the fucking nose but then I …’
‘You just did,’ said Danny, halting Rudi’s nervous chatter.
Rudi stopped and reviewed his last few sentences then, mortified, he whispered, ‘Sorry.’
The men shuffled, staring at the floor and pinching the handles of their teacups awkwardly. No one spoke.
Now I realised how badly I’d misjudged how to play this. I’d thought running a B&B was all about impressing the guests with my best china and my pastel-coloured meringues. Now I saw that these guys would have been more comfortable with bacon butties and builder’s tea in a chipped mug. They must be dreading having to spend the next six weeks in this stuffy atmosphere. I tried to think of some way to put them at their ease.
‘I’ve heard worse swearing than that, Rudi, believe me,’ I said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Of course,’ I said, passing round the macaroons, ‘haven’t we all?’
The men nodded and smiled, apparently relieved. The genteel crockery must have given them the idea that I was some kind of sad, old-fashioned Highland spinster. Now they’d see I was as broad-minded as the next person. At last the tension was lessening; the atmosphere was beginning to thaw. Maybe we would all get along after all.
‘So,’ Rudi asked, ‘are you alright with the cunt word, love?’
Pinkie in the air and my cup poised at my lip, it was all I could do not to spray the parlour with tea. I didn’t know where to put myself. The rest of them fell about laughing.
There was no redeeming it; my posh tea party was a farce.
‘It’s the C word,’ Danny corrected him, giggling, ‘you’re supposed to say, are you alright with the C word?’
But by this time we were all laughing.
Chapter 20
No sooner had they come than they were gone again. Rudi ordered them to get their weapons and follow him up the hill for battle practice. It was raining slightly, a light smirr, but they didn’t even seem to notice. They didn’t come back for hours, by which time Bouncer and I were relaxing in the lounge in front of the telly. When they returned I went to leave, to give them the lounge to themselves, but they insisted we stay, all of them making a big fuss of Bouncer.
‘Leave him be, hen, he’s comfortable where he is. He’s a great wee dog,’ said Rudi.
The rest of them agreed, clapping him and tickling his belly.
‘Yeah, he’s charming,’ I conceded.
If they were going to share the lounge with me and Bouncer they’d better know what they were letting themselves in for.
‘Except when he’s eating his own sick or licking his willy,’ I added.
That got a laugh and no one demanded Bouncer leave the room. Now that we’d got the measure of each other I was going to get on fine with these men.
‘That’s a helluva fence next door,’ said Will.
I told them that Tony Ramos was staying there and how I hadn’t recognised him as a filum star but as the wee barman from Tennent’s. They all laughed. It turned out they knew him too. They had worked with him on The International Brigade and he had actually got them the gig on this movie. They were all great pals by the sounds of it.
‘Wee Tony’s stayin’ next door, eh?’ said Will, ‘I thought that was him when I saw the fence.’
I asked what he meant.
‘Press intrusion. Tony cannae be doing wi’ them peeking in his windae, rakin’ his bins,’ he said. ‘Och, well, he’ll no’ have far to go if he wants a game of poker.’
Poker? I wasn’t sure if I liked the sound of that, not with Rudi and his boozy red nose, they might be up all night drinking and carousing.
‘Where did you go for dinner?’ I asked.
‘We haven’t had our dinner yet,’ moaned Dave, ‘Rudolfo wouldn’t let us. I’m starving.’
‘I could maybe rustle something up for you, if you’ll take pot luck.’
I still had the chicken curry I’d made for Steven and Gerry. When they went home early I’d put the rest of it in the freezer; it would stretch at a pinch.
They loved it. They nearly licked the pattern off the plates. A few days later, after they had exhausted the restaurants in the village, Rudi came to me.
‘Trixie, we’ll have to square up with you for the lovely curry you cooked us the other night.’
My cunning plan had worked.
‘Your curry’s the best dinner we’ve had since we got here. Global Imperial gives us a subsistence allowance, you know, it’s quite generous. It would suit me to have all my lads eating dinner here together; gives us more time to rehearse. What do you say we come to an arrangement?’
We came to an arrangement. They would give me wads of cash, and I would give them dinner. All the more money for my flat deposit fund. The money would be great – the slightly ticklish bit would be the drinking.
Rudi’s men would want a drink with their dinner, a pint or maybe a glass of wine. It wasn’t unreasonable for them to want to relax after a hard day’s claymore wielding, but I was nervous. I didn’t know if I had the willpower to resist temptation. I was keen for us all to feel relaxed with each other; I just didn’t want them to see me lying slumped, paralytic in a chair, trying to sing ‘Flower of Scotland’.
Chapter 21
When I went into the shop, Jenny was busy serving a young girl, or what looked, from the back, like a young girl. Up close it was clear she was a rather more mature lady with an overperky boob job and lashings of botox. To complete the look she also had a fluffy wee puppy in her huge Dolce and Gabbana handbag. They were obviously discussing the pup, or at least the woman was. Jenny seemed, by her body language, not to give a toss.
‘And there are quite a few interesting crosses,’ the woman lectured Jenny, ‘a poodle and Labrador, that’s a labradoodle. A Bichon Frisé and Jack Russell, which I have to tell you is absolutely adorable, they’re called Jacky Frost. Isn’t it cute? I nearly got one of those but then I found my little Vivienne; she’s the best, aren’t you, darling?’ she said, pulling the dog out of the handbag. ‘She’s half-cocker spaniel and half-poodle. She’s my beautiful little Cockapoo.’
‘Eh?’ said Jenny, barely managing to keep a sneer at bay, ‘cock a what?’
‘Cockapoo. She’s a designer breed. I’m not sure if you’d have designer dogs this far north.’
‘We have a different name for them in the Highlands.’
‘Really?’ said the woman, dangling the Cockapoo above her face. ‘D’you hear that Vivienne? You have a Highland name. So what would you call her then?’
‘Ach,’ said Jenny, ‘we just call it a mongrel.’
She slapped an expensive brand of cigarettes on the counter and smiled sweetly. ‘Nine pounds thirty please.’ With a designer yelp Vivienne was shoved back in the bag, the cash was handed over and the woman flounced out of the shop.
I waited a moment and said, ‘Thank God I stopped smoking. Nine pounds thirty! Is that how much it costs for a packet of fags now?’
Jenny burst out her malicious tee hee laugh, ‘It is if you buy them here.’
I gave her a disapproving stare and then joined in with the tee heeing.
‘She won’t be back, you know.’
‘Pffff,’ said Jenny, ‘I’m the only place that stocks her fancy fags.’
&
nbsp; ‘You’re the one who told me we have to be nice to the visitors.’
‘She’s not a visitor, she’s filum company, can you not guess? And anyway, how else am I supposed to have any fun around here? Yes, can I help you, sir?’
A crowd of customers had come in. Jenny’s shop was going like a fair. I hung about in one of the aisles, pretending to be interested in her latest marketing wheeze, a ‘Brussel sprout event’, while she serviced the lunchtime rush.
‘And what exactly is a Brussel sprout event?’ I asked her, between customers.
‘Och, it’s just a bit of nonsense. For the tourists and filum people, it’s more what they’re used to. Posh shops don’t have a sale, they have an “event”.’
‘You mean like a blue cross event?’
‘Exactly. Except mine is sprout themed. D’you want a kilo? They’re 20 per cent off.’
‘Eh, no thanks.’
‘Nah,’ she said, making a face, ‘I can’t stand them either.’
While I lingered, customers came and went and in almost every case Jenny was able to extract information from them.
‘Are you still working on the old village up by the lochan?’ she asked some of the Global Imperial workmen. ‘Nice to be out in the sunshine. Och well, I hope this lovely weather keeps up for you,’ she chirped, ‘cheerio for now. Laters!’
When the men left and the shop was empty again Jenny began restocking her cold drinks fridge, a sure sign that she was ready to recommence gossiping.
‘Well, don’t torment me,’ she said, ‘who did you get for your B&B? Anybody famous?’
‘Six combat performers, but they seem nice enough.’
‘Handsome?’
‘Nah.’
‘Still, six fellas all to yourself. Your Jan will be getting jealous.’
I smiled, but I still wasn’t taking the bait. Time to change the subject.
‘I’ve walked Bouncer up to the wee lochan a few times and I’ve never seen an old village. Where is it?’
‘Well, it’s not a village any more, there’s only ruins now.’
‘D’you mean those oblong walls?’ I asked.
‘Aye, that’s it.’
‘I thought they were old-fashioned cattle pens.’
‘Nope.’
‘But, Jenny, I’ve seen those oblong pens other places in the Highlands,’ I argued, ‘they’re everywhere.’
‘Maybe they became sheepfolds after they burned the villagers out, but before that, they were family homes.’
‘So what are Global Imperial doing?’
Jenny rolled her eyes.
‘The magic of Hollywood,’ she sighed. ‘They’re recreating the village. They’re making a terrible mess up there. I hope they’re going to restore it but I suppose those lads will do what Global Imperial tells them. Like the rest of us.’
I wasn’t comfortable with Jenny’s bitter tone, not when Global Imperial were paying me enough to buy an exit visa and a flat in Glasgow. Another swift change of subject was required.
‘Why did you say “laters” to that workman?’ I asked.
‘Och, just a bit of banter. They’re good lads those workmen, and he’s from my old manor, Pimlico.’
‘Tell me more.’ Since she’d given up louche London years ago and returned to be buried alive in Inverfaughie, Jenny had lived her life through other people in the village, other younger, more exciting people. People like me. But London was always an excellent topic of conversation. She’d hinted darkly about her life there, in the fleshpots of Pimlico, and had claimed she wouldn’t die wondering. I shuddered at what kind of weird experimental sex that might mean. It was hard to imagine Inverfaughie’s postmistress in love beads and a mini, ash from a fat spliff dropping onto her naked breasts. Breasts that were now, and had been for years, safely encased within a dark blue polyester overall.
‘Och aye, in Pimlico I was a free spirit.’
‘Really? I thought you were the manageress of Woolworths.’
‘That was just my day job. By night I turned on, tuned in and, eh, what was it again?’
Still fixated on Jenny’s bosoms I sniped, ‘Drooped down?’
Chapter 22
During the day I hardly had time to be lonely. Every morning I walked Bouncer, cooked breakfast, washed up, changed sheets and towels, washed and cleaned, walked Bouncer again and popped down to Jenny’s before it was time to cook dinner, but something was missing.
‘Hi son,’ I said, trying to communicate a smile down the phone.
‘Who’s calling?’ said Steven, apparently for real.
‘How many mothers have you got?’ I joked.
He didn’t laugh.
Since our tiff over his boating incident I’d phoned Steven every day and always got a lukewarm reception. I wanted chummy conversation, a bit of light relief, but it became interrogation: me asking him question after question and getting nothing back. He was hiding in his dunno cave and nothing, not even that fact that I had a film star living right next door, would winkle him out. I was forced to continue as if my monologue was a dialogue.
‘The Claymores have worked with him loads; they all play poker together. They’re talking about having their poker nights here in Harrosie. That’s going to be a laugh, a house full of big rufty-tufty men and Hollywood stars. He’s a nice guy, dead down to earth. You know who Tony Ramos is, don’t you?’
‘Dunno.’
Steven had to have been impressed, it wasn’t everyone who had a film star next door, but he forced himself not to be.
‘Is everything alright, Steven?’
‘Quality.’
‘Is Gary still giving you all that overtime at the warehouse?’
‘Dunno.’
It’s simply a yes or no answer! I wanted to scream.
‘Because if you want to earn money, there’s plenty of work up here.’
Silence.
This was getting me nowhere; if I asked him any more questions he’d do his usual: start huffing and puffing and then say he had to go. The only avenue I had left to me was to give him my news and hope to sell him the wonderful benefits of living in Inverfaughie.
‘Talking of earning money, I’ve turned into quite the business-woman. I’ve even joined Faughie Council, well I had to really. D’you remember I told you about Betty Robertson?’
Nothing.
‘She was the one who came round for the inspection, you know, the one who got the rose bowl at the gala day?’
‘Please, I’m begging you, not the rose bowl story again,’ he said, ‘let it go.’ I ignored the impertinence; at least he was responding.
‘Well, she’s on the council. Betty says that with the movie in town we’re all going to be millionaires. There’s full employment in the village, lots of opportunity. Oh, and the big news is that a local girl got a part in the film.’ I tried to keep my voice light. ‘Morag Fenton, she’s playing Tony Ramos’s wife. I don’t know if you’ve met her yet?’
I hoped a reminder of the creamy-skinned, auburn-haired beauty might provoke a response, but he left this hanging in the air unanswered. At least he wasn’t denying it – that was a good sign.
‘Global Imperial want to give villagers work, put something back, that sort of thing, so if you were here for the summer you’d have your pick of jobs. Even acting, they’re looking for extras for the film. D’you not fancy trying your hand at acting? You could end up a big star like Tony Ramos.’
‘Nah … bsolutely.’
At last, I thought, an affirmative response!
‘Seriously, d’you fancy acting? I could speak to Jenny about getting you a part in the …’
‘Y … unlikely,’ he scoffed.
Steven sang this in such a tormenting taunt as to convey to me that I’d been duped by his earlier reply.
‘Even though I have a house full of cool Highland warriors and a film star next door; even though I’m up here all on my lonesome and missing you more every day, you still won’t come. Will you, Steven?’<
br />
Silence.
‘Steven?’
‘What?’
A ratty impatient ‘what’.
‘Nothing,’ I sighed.
After that there was a very long silence where we listened to each other’s angry breath.
Eventually Steven spoke. ‘That’s Gerry at the door for me, I have to go. Nice talking to you.’
‘Quality,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Let’s do this again soon.’
*
Jan contacted me, not for a dinner date, thank Jehovah, but to help out with the guitar group again.
I gladly agreed. It was another fundraiser, but this time the kids wouldn’t be playing their guitars. The parents had signed the contracts – Global Imperial were paying the guitar group big money for the kids as ‘supporting artistes’ in a big scene they were shooting and Jan had asked me to chaperone the girls.
The film company had already tried to recruit from the school but the headmistress had had to refuse on health and safety grounds. It seemed that although Global Imperial had plenty of supporting artistes, they were short on oldies and children. They were now specifically seeking vulnerable types and had sent scouts round the village picking off anyone who was limbless, toothless or glaikit-looking. Jenny teased Walter remorselessly about being targeted until the scout came for her. She saw him off with her broom and literally swept the guy out the shop. I was surprised that Walter was up for it; he was becoming increasingly anti-G.I., but he said he wanted to see at first hand ‘what the sneaky bodachs were up to now’.
I expected we would be taken up to the lochan and ruined village but the bus stopped at the bottom of the hill. Parked on both sides, creating a dark narrow canyon, were the mammoth production vehicles we had become so used to seeing around the village. Beyond, the road was single track, so the film company had set up base camp here, ferrying crew and equipment up and down in one vehicle. Although it was now nearly midnight and as dark as it was likely to get, the crew moved around at an industrious mid-morning pace, working like profit-share bees. Even the air was busy with the smell of hot electrical cables, fried food and hairspray.
