For Faughie's Sake

by Laura Marney

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘– you up.’

  ‘Thank you, Steven, I get the idea.’

  ‘Well, you did ask.’

  ‘Yes,’ I was forced to admit. ‘But it’s not true, is it?’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘It’s not true in your case. You’re an only child, as far as I know. You don’t have a big brother.’

  I was being pedantic but I couldn’t halt my tongue.

  ‘As far as I know, that’s true,’ said Steven putting down the dish towel, ‘but there’s always Jackie. He’s a bit like a big brother, isn’t he?’

  ‘I think that’s stretching it a bit far, Steven, even for you.’

  ‘Well, just because you can’t get on with him doesn’t mean I can’t.’

  Ouch. He must have read the pain on my face.

  ‘What?’ he asked, smiling innocently, his arms extended in a mock surrender. He leaned towards me and moved his head, snake-like, in an ugly taunt.

  ‘I said get on with. Not get it on with. That would be inappropriate.’

  I was stunned into horrified silence. As I watched Steven’s peachy arse walk out the kitchen I realised that I’d bred a monster.

  Chapter 37

  I was back at Dinah’s place.

  Not to drink, to stop her from drinking. She had called me at 8 am, crying, and havering disjointed nonsense about her half-brother having died from some recessive gene syndrome.

  ‘Isn’t Knox MacIntyre flying in today?’ I asked her. ‘I heard that on the radio.’

  ‘The marriage was consanguineous, you see,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Dinah, make yourself a strong pot of coff–’

  ‘Robin, my beautiful brother, I miss him so much.’

  ‘Ok, I’m coming over.’

  In 50 minutes Dinah was due to personally walk Knox MacIntyre around the estate. The state she was currently in she couldn’t walk the length of herself. I made her drink a mug of coffee that I brewed to rocket fuel strength and then stood over her while she changed her clothes, washed her face and brushed her hair. I was running around emptying ash trays and throwing wine bottles in a black plastic bag when the line of Range Rovers processed slowly up the drive.

  Me and Bouncer and Dinah’s dog Mimi scooted out the back, through the servants’ entrance, before Knox MacIntyre arrived. The rain had stopped, although there were plenty of dark clouds and there was a bracingly fresh wind off the loch. I let the dogs off the lead and they ran around while I waited.

  I heard Dinah’s signature hacking cough before I caught sight of her between the gorse bushes walking towards me. Dinah acted surprised, smiling and waving. I’d promised her I’d be here for her if it all got too much with MacIntyre. I told her to bring him down and I’d do what I could to take the heat off her. I was a trained medical sales rep, I reassured her, I knew how to handle businesspeople.

  She introduced me to the small dark-haired man.

  ‘This is Trixie, my friend from the village.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the wee man, ‘we can give her a job.’

  Or at least that’s what I thought he said. He spoke in an American accent and pronounced the word as jaab. Confused, I looked at Dinah. What had made him say that? Dinah laughed, whether at my confusion or to cover her own embarrassment, I wasn’t sure.

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind,’ she said. ‘Trixie, this is Mr MacIntyre.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr MacIntyre.’

  It was all I could do not to curtsey. What a thrill to meet him like this. I felt my breath come in short gasps. Not because I was excited to meet someone famous, the famous were ten a penny in Inverfaughie these days, and not because he was rich, either. True, he was the richest person I’d ever met, a billionaire, rich beyond even winning the lottery. Nor was it because he was powerful; he had the power to change life in Inverfaughie forever, but that didn’t impress me much. No, I was excited to meet him because I could not wait to tell Jenny.

  As the three of us stood there in the damp windy field with the dogs running around our feet, I tried to take in as many details about Knox MacIntyre as possible. While Dinah and I were talking he held a pair of expensive-looking binoculars to his eyes, pointing them at the loch and the hills above. He was quite a small man, barely five feet tall, and up close his hair was very obviously dyed a blue-black colour but there was something else odd about it. He had an extreme comb-over beginning at his right ear. He had grown the rest of his hair long and it seemed to be swirled on top of his head like steel wool. He was pleasant enough looking; even on a cloudy day like this he had two rows of the most sparkling gnashers I’d ever seen. As I was committing to memory his country gent ensemble – green wellies, waxed coat, tweed waistcoat – at the edge of my vision I noticed something. Gusts of wind shook the gorse and alerted me to four men at various points around us, at a distance of about fifty feet, very much focused on us. We were surrounded.

  ‘Dinah, those men …’

  ‘Mr MacIntyre’s security.’

  Of course, these must have been the people in all the cars.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Dinah, ‘they’re here to protect us. I’m just showing Mr MacIntyre round the estate. Mimi, stop that!’ she said, and laughed, a high-pitched embarrassed spurt.

  Mimi had her front paws on my knees and her nose at my jacket pocket. Dinah’s clever little dog knew that I usually kept dog treats in that pocket but I’d been in such a foul mood when I’d left the house I’d forgotten to replenish my supply. I clawed out the small broken bits of biscuit that were left and offered them to the dogs.

  Mimi forcefully stuck her wet nose in my curled palm.

  ‘There you go girl,’ I said, patting her.

  When she realised it was just a couple of old broken Gravy Bones that had been gathering fluff in my pocket, she turned up her nose. Bouncer similarly sniffed and turned away.

  ‘You dogs are fussy today,’ I said, embarrassed by the slight.

  ‘What you need is some of these bad boys,’ said Mr MacIntyre, abruptly joining us.

  He thrust a small clear plastic bag of what looked like bran flakes towards me. ‘Something we’re working on right now. My own dogs love ’em,’ he said as he threw a few flakes into his mouth.

  He swallowed them and then showed the bag to Dinah. She smiled her approval, although it was obvious, at least to me, that she was as baffled as I was.

  ‘Slimming aids for dogs,’ he said. ‘Now, don’t laugh.’

  Dinah flashed me a pleading look.

  ‘It’s a problem we have in the States these days. A third of us are clinically obese and our best friends are also suffering. Here, try one, they’re delicious.’

  He offered the kibble to Dinah and she delicately took one flake from him. Next he was holding them out to me.

  ‘They won’t spoil your figure, you’ll actually lose weight eating them. They’re negatively calorific, a simple fat-binding molecule teamed with a great bacon flavour.’

  I tried to think of a way out of it. Pretend to be allergic? But to what? I didn’t actually know what was in them. Before I had the chance to change my mind I took one and popped it in my mouth.

  The taste hit my tongue like a bullet. Although it was only the size of a bran flake, I felt it was only polite to make a show of eating it so I chewed for a bit, then I chewed some more, and finally I swallowed.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘they’re delicious.’

  Dinah put her hand to her mouth, coughing, perhaps discreetly spitting it out but she nodded enthusiastically.

  Knox MacIntyre laughed, ‘See? I’m calling them Bacon Flakes until the ad agency comes up with something better. Three key selling points: veterinary medicated canine weight loss, a tool for motivation and discipline, and a great-tasting treat. Can’t lose, huh?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dinah.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed.

  Knox MacIntyre dropped his voice and with a mischievous look he bent hi
s knees. As he crouched on his haunches at dog height we got a bird’s eye view of his elaborate hairdo.

  ‘Let’s see what these little guys think of them, shall we?’

  The little guys thought they were great: Bouncer and Mimi gobbled them greedily. They barked and bounced and jumped on Knox MacIntyre, shouldering each other out of the way to get at the treat. He laughed and tormented the dogs by letting them have some and then lifting the bag out of range. As the dogs fought to reach them, a strong gust of wind blew the bacon flakes out of the bag and swirled them into the air. At the same time, as if in slow motion, the wind picked up MacIntyre’s comb-over. His hair lifted and stood momentarily at the side of his head as if it was hinged, before flopping impotently to the other side to sweep his shoulder. What happened next was no one’s fault, an elemental force of nature.

  Mimi and Bouncer went feral. A pack mentality set in. A feeding frenzy had been unleashed in them that would not be quelled by a gust of wind or the fact that the biscuits were now landing in his hair and on his naked scalp. To get the remaining treats, those delicious fat-binding miracles of modern science, the two dogs rushed him, knocking him off his feet. Dinah and I watched, speechless, as the four security men rushed towards Knox MacIntyre, laid flat out on the wet grass, mud spattered up his country gent outfit, while Mimi chewed on his fuzzy hair curtain and Bouncer slobbered and licked bacon flakes from his cold baldy head.

  Chapter 38

  ‘Well that takes the firkin biscuit, it really does,’ said Jenny, ‘excuse my language.’

  I had expected her to laugh at this story but she wasn’t in the mood. Of course I’d asked her right away how the meeting with the minister had gone but she didn’t want to talk about it. That suited me; I just wanted paid. I couldn’t be bothered getting bogged down in all the political machinations. This long drawn-out tussle over a field was getting really boring now and, comparatively, my Knox MacIntyre story was fascinating.

  ‘That big fat titan of capitalism actually feeding people dog food,’ said Jenny, shaking her head.

  ‘He didn’t feed me, he invited me to try them. You’re making it sound like chunks of braised horse, it was only a toatie wee biscuit. You wait, all your fancy customers will be in here asking for them.’

  ‘I’ll not be stocking them.’

  ‘And he didn’t look like much of a titan lying in the mud.’

  ‘Och, away, I don’t believe you. You’re only saying that to cheer me up.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Jenny, he was lying in the mud while Bouncer licked his baldy head; I doubt Mr MacIntyre will be offering me a job now.’

  ‘Och, that’s all he’s good for, that one. He’s been going around saying that to everyone. He thinks Highlanders are that desperate we’ll sell our dignity and work for anybody. He’s offered to employ all the mill workers.’

  ‘Well, is that not good news?’

  Jenny looked at me as though she was about to say something and then, shaking her head again, turned back to filing her paperwork. I’d popped down to the shop directly after breakfast to give her the skinny. The hilarious comb-over malfunction/dog-slobbering incident I was offering was gossip gold, but she didn’t seem interested. She carried on sorting her papers and making notes. Why had I even bothered coming down here?

  ‘Oh and I can exclusively reveal,’ I said, by way of a teaser, ‘that I’ve been invited to Brenda’s place for lunch.’

  That should prick up her ears. The last time I visited the Ethecom hippies Jenny was gagging to hear the details. But that was back when she didn’t know Brenda. Now that they were working closely on resolving the machair issue, Jenny had, no doubt, already discovered all of Brenda’s secrets.

  ‘She’s networking on Mag’s behalf. She suggested that I come over for lunch and bring Steven. A kind of playdate thing. I think the boys are a bit old for that, but Steven’s getting cabin fever sitting about waiting.’

  Jenny shot me a look and then went back to her work.

  ‘He’s pissed off about not getting a job on the filum and he’s fallen out with me again. We had a ridiculous argument about his trousers.’

  Still no response, was Jenny even listening? Normally she loved hearing about Steven.

  ‘You know he wears those baggy jeans?’

  I carried on – the way young people dressed was a pet peeve of Jenny’s.

  ‘Now he’s threatening to get a tattoo. He’s only saying it to wind me up. Then he said he was going to get the lyrics of some song tattooed on his hip. I don’t know it: “Avanti Popolo”, is that what it’s called? Something like that. Anyway, I says, well that’s quite a long title, and he says, not as long as “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”. So I says, and you’ll like this, that would be something quite atrocious.’

  Jenny finally broke her silence.

  ‘Saw that coming,’ she sighed.

  ‘Och, lighten up, Jenny. What’s wrong, have you and Walter had a lover’s tiff?’

  ‘He’s in Glasgow; he’s down there visiting one of his professor pals. He’s obsessed with that manky old manuscript he found in the peat bogs.’

  ‘Aha! So that’s why you’re so down in the mouth; you’re missing him.’

  ‘Indeed I am not.’

  ‘You’re worried that he’s off in Glasgow snogging some other woman.’

  ‘Believe me,’ she said wearily, ‘I wish that was all I had to worry about.’

  ‘Och, spit it out woman! Get it off your chest, for god’s sake, you’ll feel better for it. I’ve never seen you so miserable.’

  Jenny gave me another of her intense looks and then came out from behind the counter, walked right past me, closed the door and flipped the Open sign to Closed. Jenny never, but never, closed the shop during business hours.

  With a grim expression she walked towards me and I braced myself. I felt sure she was about to give me some dreadful news: she had the big C, it had to be something like that. It was inoperable, late stage, too late for treatment.

  As I saw her, my lively, funny, wee friend, walk towards me, I wanted to embrace her; to tell her that I’d suddenly realised how important she was to me, how grateful I was for her friendship, and how much I was going to miss her. But I knew I couldn’t. That wasn’t in the rules.

  ‘Trixie, I’m afraid I have dreadful news.’

  The rules were that you had to obtain permission for that kind of self-indulgent uncontrolled weeping. I’d have to hold it together. I took a big breath and pulled myself up.

  ‘We’ve lost the machair.’

  ‘Jenny, I’m so sorry, I … What?’

  ‘You can’t tell anyone, but it’s a done deal. We’ve lost it. We’re announcing it at the public meeting tonight.’

  ‘You’ve lost the machair?’

  ‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘I haven’t lost it, we’ve lost it. Westminster has sold it from under our feet.’

  Chapter 39

  This was all off the back of the council meeting with the minister: not confident of dealing with international shysters like Global Imperial all on their own, the voluminously trousered Scottish Labour M.S.Ps had called on their big brothers in Westminster. Either that, Jenny surmised, or Westminster had spotted the opportunity and muscled in. The London-based minister Tobias Grunt had helicoptered in and, at a big press conference, assured everyone that he had a put together a package that would have the situation resolved within the day.

  He met immediately with Brenda and Jenny, inviting them to join him for a power breakfast in the conference facility, also known as the lounge bar and function suite of the Caledonia Hotel. The meeting was apparently very successful, with Tobias, ‘please, call me Toby’, listening intently to everything Jenny and Brenda were able to tell him before paraphrasing it back to them, checking and double checking that he’d got everything right. Toby invited them to stay to lunch, where they sat down with Miss Yip and some other G.I. heavy-hitters that had flown in from stateside.

  But it was
all just window dressing.

  It soon became apparent that Toby Grunt had very little interest in Global Imperial and none whatsoever in Faughie Council. He now held secret meeting after secret meeting, except that, in Inverfaughie, nothing was a secret for long. Behind closed doors he started the horse trading with Global Imperial and, enter a new player, Mr Knox MacIntyre.

  Global Imperial was not really important in this deal, except for public relations purposes; they were spending money but not a huge amount, and they’d be gone in a matter of weeks. In the scheme of things they were, as the minister had put it, ‘small beans’. On the other hand, Mr MacIntyre had been ready to invest billions of dollars.

  The construction of his proposed hotel and polo complex would provide employment for the whole town and beyond. Local people would take up hospitality roles but additionally there would be sought-after jobs in tack cleaning, horse grooming, and manure shovelling. The council argued that there was an abundance of space for multiple polo fields to be located elsewhere on the Faughie estate, but, countered Mr MacIntyre, the machair, once it was flattened and levelled out, would be an ideal size and shape for polo. The international players and spectators, while stomping the divots between matches, would be able to enjoy the views of the Scottish loch and hills beyond. This was the charm of Faughie Castle, and the machair was the unique selling point, the cherry on the cake. Without it, the resort wasn’t a viable option for Mr MacIntyre. Even if the polo fields were to be located elsewhere, he believed it would be unseemly for his guests to look out of Faughie Castle and be forced to witness the vulgar spectacle of cattle grazing. Sheep and cows were unsightly. ‘Jeez’, he was widely quoted as saying, ‘those things go to the toilet everywhere!’

  Jenny and Brenda were relieved to discover that Tobias Grunt was horrified, but not for the reasons they imagined. Over and above the inequitable tax advantages they dished out to sporting estates, the government had spent years wooing Mr MacIntyre, visiting him in the US, showering him in bogus honours and blandishments and cajoling him to invest in Great Britain. They were not about to give up on him now, especially as the latest news was that MacIntyre Holdings had acquired a similarly picturesque area of land – with full planning consent – in New Zealand.