by Laura Marney
The crowd burst into applause. This whole kerfuffle had been brought about by the manky old manuscript Walter had pulled out of the peat bog. I already knew, because Jenny had moaned so much about it, that he had taken it to a pal of his in Glasgow. What I didn’t know, until I heard it on the news, was the impact this prehistoric bit of lambskin was likely to have on life in Inverfaughie. Walter had taken it to his pal Professor McRitchie, who had immediately called upon the services of some of her colleagues at Glasgow University and was able to arrange for the document to be translated and carbon-dated. When the results were in, Walter and Professor McRitchie had set out on a whistle-stop tour visiting academics in the fields of science, law and history, in Brussels, Florence, Rome and finally London. Such was the authority the manuscript had acquired that on arriving in London, they were ushered into an immediate meeting with the Prime Minister and his advisors.
The best legal minds in Europe were in complete agreement: ‘The Faughie Accord’ as the manuscript was apparently called, legitimately established Faughie and the lands pertaining to it as a sovereign state. This agreement predated the Act of Union of Scotland with England by some fifty years. This meant that Faughie was independent of Scotland, and therefore independent of Britain. If this was the case, Faughie’s machair was not under Westminster’s jurisdiction.
Not surprisingly, the Westminster government took a different view. They couldn’t dispute the authenticity of the document, but the Prime Minister’s ministers argued that, within the prescription and limitations of Scots law, as Faughie had not operated as a sovereign state or even been recognised as such for many hundreds of years, the accord was unenforceable. Walter demanded on our behalf that the matter be referred for adjudication to the Court of Justice of the European Union.
No one in the shop knew yet what ‘Faughie and the lands pertaining to it’ might mean, but everyone had an opinion. Was it just the machair? Might it include Inverfaughie? But even if it extended as far as the entire Faughie river system, it could never survive as a sovereign state, could it? Independence for the wee village was a cute idea but it wasn’t workable, was it?
In between text communiqués from Walter and Jenny, playful discussion of what if scenarios broke out in corners of the shop. The notion that we could be standing in a country independent of any other seemed so absurd that few people seemed to take it seriously. If anyone was taking it seriously, and I suspected that Jackie and some others might be, they disguised it beneath flippant banter and jokes.
‘Oh, and this just in,’ said Betty, obviously enjoying her role as town crier, ‘this one’s from Walter. “We demand our entitlement to a fair hearing as laid down by Article 6(1) of the European Convention on Human Rights.”’
Everyone cheered. The mood was of good-humoured rebellion and every bulletin was met the same way.
‘He goes on to say,’ said Betty doing a pretty good impersonation of Walter, ‘I remind all Faughians that we are not, nor have we ever been, subject to the laws and control of the United Kingdom. Furthermore, conforming to Westminster rule may be misinterpreted as acceptance of such laws and control, and may be injurious to our case. Until we are able to establish our own fair and equitable legal system, I strongly recommend that all citizens of Faughie should recognise only one law: that of natural justice.’ Among the noisy clapping and yelling a woman at the counter asked Betty, ‘What does that mean?’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Betty, lifting her arms and lowering them slowly in an attempt to calm things down, ‘before anyone gets any ideas about looting and pillaging, it means that we should conduct ourselves in a reasonable and dignified manner.’
This appeal to our collective sense of decency had a sobering but not dispiriting effect.
‘Yes, but it won’t stop us celebrating,’ said Bobby Fenton, who no doubt saw this potential resolution to the machair dispute as a reprieve for his grass-hungry milkers. ‘How much does Jenny charge for a bottle of that champagne?’
‘I’ll happily sell you it, Mr Fenton,’ said Betty, ‘but you can’t open it in the shop, Jenny’s only licensed as an off sales.’
‘You heard what the man said, Betty. Walter told us to disregard UK law, natural justice: so long as I’m harming nobody I can do what I like. We all can. Everybody,’ Bobby yelled, ‘we can do what we like. Who wants to chip in for champagne?’
Chapter 48
Well, that was it. When Bobby popped the cork out of Spor’s Finest Premier Cru, the genie came fizzing out of the bottle. It made the TV news that night as a last, feelgood, comedy item: the quaint formerly law-abiding village flouting the law and apparently getting away with it. Inevitably, the story went viral. Within days news programmes around the world picked it up. Using Spaghetti Western angles and a suitably moody soundtrack, Inverfaughie was framed as a remote outlaw bolthole, with Faughie’s tidy white cottages as disreputable saloons.
But unregulated consumption of alcohol was the least of it. There were more important things happening: Knox MacIntyre had left for London, vowing to get the machair back. He maintained that the machair was legally his and that his plans for the polo resort were going ahead. When he left in his private helicopter, Jackie and some of the farmers turned out to give him a send-off of boos, whistles and jeers. Jenny tssked and said it was unseemly and bad for business. The cows were back on the machair and now sharing it with the film crew – Faughie Council had agreed a new deal – so long as G.I. toed the line. This was great news: I’d finally get paid and could put down a deposit on a flat in Glasgow.
While the case for independence was being tested in Luxembourg the sovereign country of Faughie was declared to be an area of nearly one hundred square miles encompassing the loch, the coastline and a few surrounding villages.
Walter announced that as Faughie was now beyond the control of the Scottish or Westminster parliaments, Faughie needed its own. As our sitting M.S.P. Malcolm Robertson was sadly deceased, Inverfaughie’s democratically elected councillors should act as a caretaker government. As a replacement M.S.P. was no longer necessary or indeed valid, an interim leader would be sought from amongst Faughie Council members. A ballot would be held as soon as it could be organised.
Surprise surprise, a few hours later Jenny announced that she was withdrawing from the M.S.P. election campaign with immediate effect and running as a candidate for interim leader of Faughie.
These were huge historical events for Inverfaughie, and for Britain, but the story was complex: too many strands and possible outcomes, too many unanswerable questions. The media continued to represent Faughians as lawless Mexican banditos – it was a simpler and more amusing narrative.
Independence for Faughie was hard for the people of Faughie to believe in. No matter how often Walter proclaimed it they were scared to believe it. It didn’t seem real. Everyone seemed wary and self-conscious, as though expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out and reveal the giant hoax. Everyone was bracing themselves for the reaction shot when they’d have to laugh sheepishly at themselves. Independence was a challenge to the imagination. If it was in a book it would seem too far-fetched, like something out of a Hollywood film. But like when the movie first came to Inverfaughie, everyone quickly got used to the idea and found ways to turn it to their advantage.
Walter insisted that as we were not British and needed to establish ourselves as such we should pay no further tax to the Westminster system. People were quick enough to take up that initiative, although Brenda strenuously encouraged everyone to open a credit union account and put money aside against future tax bills. The immediate effects were all positive. Business was brisk. Customers came from Inverness and further south to take advantage of the bargains. With no pesky tariffs like VAT or alcohol duty to worry about, sales of everything rocketed, especially salmon and whisky. Bobby Fenton’s first naughty spurt of champagne quickly became a torrent of unregulated liquor. With whisky production and sales now untaxed, Faughie was experiencing a liquid gold r
ush. After only two weeks the tweed mill had sold its entire stock and was once again running at full strength, three shifts working round the clock, barely keeping up with demand. Even Global Imperial were happy. Freedom Come All of You was famous before it was even released. As word spread, tourists from around the world added Inverfaughie to their essential Edinburgh–Loch Ness–Skye itinerary. The village was heaving. Inverfaughie, much touted by Jenny as the ancient capital of Faughie, was where, for a price, tourists could have their passport stamped in the official state capital passport office, which was, coincidentally, Jenny’s sub post office and shop.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a position to cash in, not right away at least. Of course if I didn’t have the firkin Claymores clogging up the house I could have turned my front room into a shebeen and made a fortune selling moonshine. The tourism boom was passing me by, but once the movie left town, I’d be able to hike my prices up and make a killing like everyone else.
Traffic now was a nightmare. With the increased tourism it was nose to tail in and out of the village all day every day. Bouncer and I were actually quicker walking down there but if I needed to pick up my order I was forced to take the car. Getting parked involved sitting like a mug in the motor for upwards of an hour until a space became available. Even then, boy racer tourists would sometimes screech forward, execute a handbrake turn and nick my spot.
Shopping had lost all its glamour. Gone were the days of the long lazy browse, the slow perusal of Jenny’s weird and wonderful stock, the sneaky read of her gossip mags while she was in the back, the bartering of news, gossip and advice, the occasional cuppa across the counter when the shop was quiet. The shop was never quiet now. Any time I went in there now I had to stand in a long queue and Jenny never had time to chat. She was too busy raking it in: selling tourist tat and stamping bogus passport visas. I wouldn’t have minded, but she never had any free time in the evenings either. The shop was now open till ten every night except when there were Faughie Council special committee meetings. Jenny had dropped hints that I might want to join the special committee but she hadn’t insisted. I managed to dodge that bullet.
I wasn’t impressed with the way things were going; what with the traffic and the drunks and tourists everywhere, independence wasn’t shaping up to be all that.
Chapter 49
Steven didn’t answer when I knocked on his bedroom door and then I heard him in the bathroom further down the hall. The door was wide open, he must be decent. I walked straight in.
Decent was not what was in there.
Steven sat on the toilet with his head hung low, repeatedly wiping his arms and hands. He had only a towel around his waist, still dripping from the shower. When I walked in he looked up, his expression quickly turning to hooded guilt.
‘Where’s Mag?’ I asked, suspicious.
‘What?’ said Steven.
He looked confused, shell-shocked.
‘Eh, he’s at home,’ he mumbled into the hand towel, ‘up at Ethecom.’
I opened my mouth to ask him what was going on when my attention was caught by the water lying in the bottom of the shower. There were wee blobs of dark red dancing in the water. Each of the blobs was surrounded by a watery pink halo. They were dissolving and colouring the water pink. I looked at Steven’s clothes, lying in a pile just to the side of the shower. His favourite baseball boots, his baggy jeans and top were all spattered with blood. Lots of it. My eyes frantically surveyed his body but there was nothing amiss. No cuts on him. I didn’t understand; that amount of blood must surely mean a nasty gash at the very least. Steven looked into my face.
‘We killed Micky Smith,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘We slaughtered him. It was kinda, I don’t know, satisfying.’
‘What?’ I repeated.
Steven doubled over laughing.
‘We didn’t slaughter that Micky Smith!’ he squealed in delight.
‘Well, how many Micky Smiths are there?’ I asked feebly.
‘Look,’ Steven said, his laughter subsiding, ‘not the humanoid Micky Smith, the goat Micky Smith. The one who butted you. Ha ha! You thought I’d murdered the humanoid!’
‘I never did! And anyway, why does the goat have the same name as the – humanoid?’
‘Mag names all the goats. He said that one looked like Smith: wee, fat and ugly. Take away the tomahawk and you can’t tell them apart. He got picked because his balls haven’t dropped, he’s useless for siring. I wish we had slaughtered the humanoid but we had to make do with the goat. We butchered him good. We dragged him into the shed to have his throat cut. He struggled, he knew it was coming.’
I felt my stomach heave.
‘Please Steven,’ I pleaded, ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Aye, you’ll want to know this: Brenda gave me a shoulder joint for braising. She said we could make curry, and she gave me the recipe. We’ve got a pressure cooker, haven’t we? Brenda says that’ll make it tender and energy efficient. I thought I’d cook it now for tomorrow night’s dinner, let it rest and soak up the curry flavours, the guys’ll love it.’
I lifted my head. A free meal and I didn’t have to cook. I was starting to feel better. ‘See?’ I said, trying to reinstate some sense of normality, ‘I told you you’d like it up here. You’d never get an experience like that in Glasgow.’
Steven nodded. ‘Fair doos, you’re right.’
And that was a first, Steven telling me I’d got something right.
‘Mag is training Jan and me. Jan is crap at it but Mag says I’m a natural,’ he continued, ‘he says by Christmas I’ll be slaughtering beasts on my own.’
‘Christmas? Do you want to come up for Christmas?’
I didn’t know how to break it to him, but by Christmas I’d be long gone, never to set foot in Inverawful again.
‘I’m not coming up,’ he said, ‘I’m staying.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m staying here, I’m joining Ethecom; I decided today.’
‘What? What about college?’
‘I’m not going to college.’
‘But didn’t you say you wanted to improve your options for uni?’
‘I’m not going to uni either.’
My mouth fell open. ‘Steven, what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I’m not going to sixth form college, or university. I’ll learn all the skills I want in Ethecom, I’ll learn more important stuff here. I’m becoming a member.’
‘No you are not. Your dad will have something to say about this. You’re going to uni like we all agreed.’
‘Mum, I’m sixteen, I can make my own choices.’
‘You’re not going to get yourself stuck in this wee backwoods village, I won’t allow it.’
‘They’ve offered me an apprenticeship.’
‘Ethecom are paying wages?’
‘A share of the profits.’
‘What profits?’ I screeched. ‘They don’t have any money!’
‘Mum, listen to yourself. You used to say money isn’t everything.’
‘I was only saying that because we didn’t have any! Money isn’t everything, but everything’s money, and if you don’t have it, you’re stuffed. You’ll learn that soon enough when you don’t have mum and dad to pay for everything.’
His face contorted as he spat the words at me, ‘I don’t want money. I want something better, something real, I want …’
‘Money’s the realest thing there is–’
Steven hunched forward on the toilet seat, flexed his fists and roared.
‘Will you just shut up!’
At such close quarters, in such an echoey bathroom, it was painful on the ears. I think it frightened us both. Steven had pumped himself up so much the towel around his middle was straining and threatening to come loose. With what seemed like a tremendous effort of will, he brought the volume down to a quiet murmur, which only made it more sinister.
‘Stop it!’ he whispered. ‘Just.
Stop. Trying to convince me. I’m joining Ethecom. I’ve made up my mind.’
Chapter 50
I wasn’t relishing the prospect of having to sit through yet another meeting but I knew Jackie would be there.
I got there early, I even managed to get a seat, and waited for the show to begin. I’d never been to a hustings before and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like it. Apart from Jenny there were three other candidates: Calum McLean, the fly fisherman from the last meeting, Dr Andrew McKenzie, our public-spirited GP, and – of course, she just had to get her oar in – housewife, committee member and rose-grower extraordinaire: Betty Robertson. Or as Walter was calling her, Mrs Elizabeth Mason Robertson.
Betty led off the husting and man, could that woman hust. She spoke for forty minutes, without notes, and the way Betty told it, we were all going to be millionaires. She’d had her hair done and wore a beautiful pale blue suit that she must have bought special. She spoke much slower than she usually did, which I found soothing and almost made me forget about the total hash she had made of the original machair negotiations. It was Betty Robertson who’d got us into this guddle in the first place. She had some cheek standing for Interim Leader.
Calum McLean was nervous; he kept forgetting his lines and having to stop and squint at his notes, but his policies seemed a lot like Betty’s in that he was keen not to let any foreigners into Faughie. Dr McKenzie was brief, informative and self-effacing; he hadn’t quite got the idea of politics and clearly wasn’t going to fare very well. Jenny was the popular candidate. When she stood up to speak everyone cheered, mostly because she was introduced by Walter as ‘Ms Jennifer Haddock Robertson’.
‘As is the tradition in Inverfaughie, I’m using my middle name to distinguish me from any other candidates who share the fine Robertson name,’ she said, nodding graciously to Betty.
‘My mother was a Haddock. From Peterhead,’ she said, with great dignity, ‘I come from a long line of Haddocks.’
