For Faughie's Sake

by Laura Marney

  But the Claymores had to work. Another night shoot, apparently. Just as Rudi was shuffling the cards he got a phone call, so Steven told me. The men jumped in their minibus and headed off. Within five minutes the house was quiet again.

  Steven came and joined me in the kitchen.

  ‘Alright?’ he asked, while I stood over the sink impotently scrubbing a chilli stain on my stainless-steel pot.

  ‘Yeah, fine. You?’

  ‘Totes.’

  I wasn’t sure what ‘totes’ meant but it didn’t seem entirely negative. So he wasn’t in a huff.

  ‘That was an arse-scorching chilli there, Trixie.’

  The hot stink of adolescent insolence filled the air. I had to work to keep the disapproval off my face. It was beginning to dawn on me that if I wanted Steven to stay with me here I was going to have to put up with him swearing and showing off. He knew it too and, boy, was he exploiting it.

  ‘A total anus roaster.’

  His use of the word ‘arse’ I could just about tolerate but despite being more anatomically accurate, I found ‘anus’ distasteful. Button it, I reminded myself.

  ‘So what film did you get?’

  Oh dear. Steven had spotted the DVD box lying on the counter.

  ‘Och, just some old black and white thing.’

  ‘Quality. I’ve never seen a black and white movie, what’re they like?’

  ‘Eh, colourless. And Jenny only has arthouse films now, boring naked people.’

  Steven’s head came up like a meerkat.

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Pffff,’ I said, ‘naked men, mostly.’ And just in case that wasn’t enough, ‘Last one I saw was full of fat old geezers.’

  ‘Rank.’

  ‘Bits dangling right in your face. How is that artistic?’

  That was inspired. Sometimes I surprised myself.

  ‘Why don’t you go on Facebook?’ I suggested. ‘Catch up with your pals.’

  Steven pulled the DVD box open, ‘Passport to Pimlico. Says here this is a classic British comedy.’

  ‘Really? Jenny must have mixed the boxes up.’

  ‘Either that or you don’t want to watch it with me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Steven.’

  ‘Why did you even want me to come up here,’ Steven’s pitch had risen, ‘if you don’t even want to watch a poxy black and white film with me?’

  He was close to losing it.

  ‘I’m sorry, son, I think we got off to a bad start.’

  ‘You think?’

  The thing to do now was to sit down and talk to him; reassure him that I very much loved and respected him and wanted him with me here.

  ‘Let’s forget this arguing, put it behind us. We’ve not lived together for a while. It’ll mean a bit of re-adjustment. From the both of us.’

  At this last onerous point he tutted and drew me a sour look. This was going to take longer than I’d thought.

  ‘Look, I know this is difficult, Steven. Everything has changed and it’s a lot to take in at once.’

  As I sought to make sincere eye contact with my son, I spotted the clock on the kitchen wall. It was three minutes to seven. It was at least a twelve-minute drive to the Village Hall, if I didn’t get stuck behind a tractor.

  ‘I think we both could do with a wee breather. I tell you what, why don’t you watch the film and I’ll get out of your face. I’m going to pop out for a wee while to grab some air, give you your own space.’

  ‘Cheers, that’s thoughtful of you.’

  ‘And when I come back we’ll start again: as if you’ve just arrived and we’re pleased to see each other.’

  ‘Just start again as if nothing happened,’ he said, with the same optimistic tone I had used. I couldn’t work out if he was being sarcastic or not, but I had to work with it.

  ‘Yes. I’d like that,’ I said, as I draped my dishcloth over the oven door and looked for the car keys. The clock was ticking towards seven.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take Bouncer?’ Steven asked.

  Hearing his name mentioned, Bouncer rushed over to me, big wet eyes all expectant.

  ‘Maybe he could grab some air as well. Reflect on his behaviour. Take a long hard look at himself.’

  Well, that was that mystery solved: he was definitely being sarcastic.

  ‘Eh, no, it’s fine, I’ll walk him when I get back.’

  Bouncer turned away, crushed, and slunk back to lie at Steven’s feet.

  ‘You know it’s all crap, don’t you?’ said Steven, stroking the dog.

  I had no idea what he was talking about but I couldn’t be drawn in now. I found the car keys and pocketed them.

  ‘They’re all the same,’ said Steven, ‘all in it for what they can get; power, fame, money. Dodgy deals and sex scandals, they’re all corrupt. Anyone who’s involved in politics is not to be trusted.’

  ‘Politics?’

  ‘Aye. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it? The meeting about the machair? Jackie told me.’

  So he had already spoken to Jackie.

  ‘Check you out: rushing down there, fighting for your community, trying to make a difference. I’m disappointed in you, Trixie, you used to be so cynical.’

  Busted, I blushed, pride and shame reddening my face in equal measure. Pride that my son had assumed my motives were selfless, shame because they weren’t. But, I rationalised, I was doing this for him, if he only knew it.

  ‘I’m just being a good citizen, Steven,’ I mumbled as I headed out the door. ‘Just doing my bit.’

  Chapter 29

  I was nearly half an hour late but nobody noticed. The hall was heaving, standing room only. The whole village had turned out and I was lucky to squeeze in at the back.

  I just hoped to God I hadn’t missed the vote. If Jenny had somehow managed to convince anyone it was a good idea to give up their B&B income I’d have to come out fighting. I could barely hear the indistinct murmur of a voice speaking, but no matter how much I strained it was impossible to make out what was being said. The last thing I wanted to do was vote the wrong way.

  ‘Speak up!’ I said, a bit louder than I’d meant. ‘We can’t hear you at the back.’

  The people in front turned and gawped in my direction. We were too tightly packed for me to duck so I joined them in looking around for the culprit, staring accusingly at an old woman slightly to the left of me. I knew no one was fooled but for my own dignity I had to keep up the pretence.

  There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor and then a frisson rippled through the crowd, something was happening up the front. Through a gap between two red heads I saw Jenny suddenly grow four feet taller. She must be standing on the committee table. A flash flared and Jenny blinked. The flash pack screamed as it recharged and a man loaded down with cameras snapped a few more.

  ‘As most of you will know, I’m standing as an independent in the forthcoming Scottish parliamentary elections, but I believe the future of our village is far more important than any party politics and I personally will work with anyone – of any political persuasion or none – to resolve the situation. At 17:42 this evening I received an email from the offices of Global Imperial,’ she bawled, ‘which I’d like to share with you now.’

  She waved it around so everyone could see it, like Neville Chamberlain getting an email from Hitler. From her grim tone it wasn’t going to be a good email, but we waited while Jenny put on her glasses.

  ‘Dear Miss Robertson,’ she yelled, ‘thank you for your kind invitation, but regrettably Miss Yip has been detained on business in London today and is not expected back in Inverfaughie until the 12th. There is no legal representative of Global Imperial available to meet with you at this time.’

  People started booing.

  ‘However,’ said Jenny, ‘however …’

  She gave up trying to speak over the noise and waited, giving everyone who wanted it the opportunity for a good boo.

  I’d expected that we’d be voting,
like last time, but this was a rabble. G.I. must have packed Miss Yip off to London for her own safety, and no wonder. The way things were going, the mob would soon be outside G.I.’s portakabins with pitchforks and flaming torches.

  Once everyone got it out of their system, the booing died away.

  ‘However,’ Jenny continued, ‘with reference to your complaint I refer you to clause 5b of the agreement drawn up between the Faughie Council and Global Imperial as detailed below.’

  She stopped and cleared her throat.

  ‘Clause 5b states that during the period of rental of the machair pasture lands, neither party shall in any way damage or otherwise alter the appearance of said machair pasture lands and its environs. Any such damage shall result in breach of contract and preventative action being taken.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right!’ shouted a nearby voice, Bobby Fenton the dairyman. I looked around for his lovely daughter Morag but there was no sign of her. Like Steven, she was probably contemptuous of politics, but Morag also had a role in the film – did that make her the enemy?

  ‘But that was so only so they wouldn’t build anything on our machair,’ wailed Bobby, ‘that was for our protection; for the fodder. What’s clause 5b got to do with anything?’

  Jenny nodded sympathetically.

  ‘That’s what we all thought, but it’s how they’re defining damage. They’re trying to exploit a loophole, calling it a continuity issue.’

  ‘A conti what?’ shouted Bobby, but he wasn’t the only one who was confused.

  ‘Ok. Plenty of you have been extras so everybody knows how many times they shoot the same scene. And after they’ve dressed you up in a peasant costume they take a photo of you. Well, that’s so that when they film it again you’ll look exactly the same: same hair, same clothes and all that, as you did in earlier takes. So that when they put it together, the scene looks like it all happened with no breaks. That’s what they call continuity.’

  ‘But what the hell have peasant costumes got to do with my milkers?’ yelled Bobby.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jenny, ‘Global Imperial is maintaining that livestock presence on the machair is causing damage and they insist they’re entitled to prevent it.’

  ‘But my wee cows are only there to feed, how’s that damaging anything?’

  I thought Bobby made a good point. The cows weren’t organising a rave or setting fire to anything. Hoofs were no use for striking matches.

  ‘I know,’ Jenny said, the exasperation beginning to show in her voice, ‘but it’s a contractual loophole. Cows or sheep grazing is obviously going to flatten the grass a wee bit. Standing on it, tearing it up, eating it and then, well, quite frankly, shitting on it, is bound to alter the appearance of it. Global Imperial has been very underhand and I’m sorry to say we’ve been conned.’

  ‘I never agreed to that!’ roared Bobby.

  Lots of people joined in.

  ‘Me neither!’ seemed to be the consensus.

  ‘Who signed us up to that?’ a different male voice yelled, another angry farmer, I supposed.

  A figure appeared on the table beside Jenny. The camera again flashed and whirred at Betty Robertson holding up both arms and looking embarrassed.

  Well, well, well. The golden girl wasn’t so golden now.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she began.

  I didn’t hear the words but I saw the shapes her lips made and the taste they seemed to leave in her mouth.

  ‘I signed it. On behalf of the committee.’

  A hiss of disapproval snaked from the back of the hall to the front.

  ‘But I take full responsibility,’ she quickly added.

  The damage was done. Jeering broke out like loud burps directed into Betty’s face.

  ‘Who gave you the right to sign away our grazing?’

  ‘My milkers are starving, you stupid cow!’

  Things were starting to turn ugly. I began to feel something I would never have thought I could feel: sorry for Betty Robertson.

  It was delicious.

  Chapter 30

  Poor Betty. Poor, poor Betty. She was getting pelters; dog’s abuse as she was being mercilessly papped by the local newspaper. Bobby shouted into her face, spittle flying.

  ‘And does it say in the contract,’ yelled Bobby, ‘the contract that you signed,’ he jabbed an accusing finger at Betty, ‘that they can put up a fence?’

  ‘No!’ was the horrified response of most people, including me. I already knew about the fence but I was caught up in the atmosphere. Being part of a mob was an exciting new experience for me.

  ‘Aye,’ Bobby confirmed with a grim nod, ‘they put it up this afternoon; a big barbed-wire fence all the way round the machair. They’ve locked us out of our own property.’

  ‘Nothing a good pair of wire cutters couldn’t solve!’ Walter shouted from somewhere behind Jenny.

  Mob outrage, in broad agreement with the fence-cutting option.

  ‘We are getting right royally shafted and you just stand there, Betty Robertson, with your head up your arse!’

  Cue more booing. Betty Robertson didn’t have her head up her arse but that might have been safer. People were sneering at her, pointing and yelling. The hysteria grew, reaching a crescendo, when someone hurled a shoe. A welly, in fact. Luckily, Betty was quick enough to duck and it bounced harmlessly across the table.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled Jenny, but no one was listening. ‘Hey, hey! Don’t blame her. Betty signed the agreement on your behalf. With your approval. We voted on it, remember? You were all quick enough to take the money, weren’t you?’

  And then, when no one answered, she bawled, her face turning purple, ‘Weren’t you!’

  The noisy barracking faded to muted resentful muttering. We had voted in favour, accepted the cash, that was the inconvenient truth, and no one could argue.

  ‘But my milkers,’ pleaded Bobby, close to tears, ‘they need fresh grazing, what am I going to do with them?’

  Bobby went on to describe the horrible chain of events that would surely happen if the cows couldn’t graze. No grazing, no milk, no income, no feed. His herd would slowly starve. The hall fell silent as Bobby painted a grizzly picture of his famished cattle with their ribs showing, their bellies hollow, their big lips mooing their distress before they keeled over and died with their legs in the air. He was quite the storyteller and he grossly embellished the yarn with a vivid description of carrion crows pecking at the eyeballs and innards on the bloated corpses, tugging on a particularly stringy sinew.

  ‘Come on now, Bobby, it’s not that bad,’ said Jenny, ‘we’ll get it back in ten days’ time. We’re obliged to let them film their scenes, which we agreed was to take not more than ten days. That’s in the contract.’

  ‘Aye,’ said a familiar voice near the front, ‘I know for a fact, because I have a wee friend in the production office, and she told me they’re only scheduled to be on the machair four days. Barring bad weather, that is.’

  The voice was Jackie’s, no mistaking it. The mention of the wee friend, no doubt some silly woman whose head was turned by a handsome Highlander swinging his kilt, was no surprise either.

  ‘See, Bobby?’ said Jenny. ‘You’re panicking for nothing. It’s only going to be four days.’

  With the news that Bobby’s scenario of famine and pestilence wasn’t imminent, the tension in the hall eased. I felt and heard sniggering, shuffling of feet and a collective letting go of breath. I wouldn’t lose my B&B income after all. A flat somewhere in Glasgow still had my name on it. I would be kissing the Highlands goodbye at last. Thank you Jesus.

  ‘Could I just ask,’ said another familiar voice, this time a woman’s, ‘if the contractual ten days includes time taken to rectify damages or alterations?’

  Jenny looked to Betty.

  ‘Betty?’

  Still shocked from the welly-hurling incident, Betty stood open mouthed and glaikit.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ said Jenny, ‘we’ll get back to y
ou on that, Brenda.’

  So it was Brenda, from Ethecom. I hoped she wasn’t about to complicate things. The meeting was going just fine.

  ‘I’d like to volunteer my services,’ said Brenda. ‘This is an area where I might be of some help.’

  ‘Thank you, Brenda,’ said Jenny, her voice a bit clipped.

  Jenny probably thought that Brenda’s help would be in the art and crafts department. But Jenny, and most people in the hall, were completely wrong.

  Now I remembered that before ‘Fat of The Land’ and Ethecom, Brenda had been a corporate lawyer, a specialist in property law.

  ‘For God’s sake, Brenda,’ said Jenny when Brenda explained this, ‘why didn’t you tell us before? Please, everyone, let her through.’

  The crowd squeezed and shifted and I caught sight of Brenda wriggling her way to the front. Jenny and Betty tried to haul her up on to the table but they hadn’t the strength. My Jackie, gallant as ever, pushed through and came to the rescue. He tried lifting her into his arms, but there wasn’t room for that. Then he pressed his shoulder under her bottom and pushed upwards. Brenda making it onto the table was by no means certain; she wobbled a lot and, like a strongman lifting a truck, Jackie’s cheeks wobbled too. Everyone wanted to help. Many hands volunteered to support Brenda’s bottom until eventually she arrived on the table, red-faced and adjusting her underwear.

  Once she got her breath back, Brenda was impressive. If we could establish that we had been induced to enter the contract by misrepresentation, Brenda said, this would put us legally in a much stronger position. I noticed Betty nodding her head sadly at that. She suggested that Faughie Council call in the Environment Minister to assist in this dispute, after all, that was the government’s job, although she was confident that an amicable solution could be found. However, she had concerns about clause 5b. The clause apparently allowing ‘preventative action’ might mean that G.I. could stay on the machair – and keep us off it – indefinitely. It was in our own interests that the filming be achieved as soon as possible with no avoidable delays.