by Laura Marney
That had seemed to satisfy her and I forgot all about it until that evening, when, while the Claymores were playing their customary game of poker in the dining room and Jenny and I were sitting in the kitchen sharing the last of the tiramisu, Steven ushered Dinah in.
Chapter 58
‘Hello Dinah!’ I screeched and, to cover my embarrassment, ran to embrace her.
She had never come to my house before and as I hadn’t invited her, this was the last thing I expected. Jenny was sure to wonder what Dinah was doing rocking up here at this time of night.
I improvised, ‘Have you come for Mimi’s lead and collar? The one you left in the back of my car the last time we walked the dogs?’
With staring eyes I signalled to Dinah that she should play along.
‘Thanks for setting this up, really apreesh,’ she whispered, and then in a loud obvious voice she said, ‘Yes, I’ve just popped in to pick up the dog’s lead.’
‘Right, it’s hanging up in the hall, I’ll just get it for you,’ I said.
Then I realised that if I left the room they’d start talking and most likely find me out: I’d told Dinah I’d already asked Jenny – she’d soon discover I hadn’t and, much worse than that, Jenny would find out that I’d plotted with Dinah. Scared of what they were each likely to say, I couldn’t leave them alone together.
‘But there’s no rush is there?’ I giggled.
‘Eh, no, not really,’ said Dinah, fumbling to keep up.
‘Och no, I’m sure Lady Anglicus doesn’t want to hang about, give her the thing and let her get back home,’ said Jenny, with an almost imperceptible wink to me. All this nodding and whispering and winking was making me feel like we were in a bad soap opera. I had no option but to sprint into the hall, find a dog lead, and sprint back again before they had a chance to swap stories.
When I dashed into the hall, Bouncer interpreted my speed as enthusiasm and seeing me reach for his lead bounced around madly. When I made it back to the kitchen I was relieved to meet with no recriminations. Dinah and Jenny were getting along famously.
‘Lady Anglicus …’
‘Please, Madam Interim Leader, call me Dinah.’
‘Yes, of course, thank you, and you must call me Jenny.’
Dinah had produced a big folder from her bag and was leaning over Jenny, pointing at a graph.
‘As you can see, Jenny, the projection is to be comfortably into double figures by year two.’
‘Yes, it’s a compelling proposition, Lady … Dinah,’ said Jenny.
I made an effort to stop my mouth from gaping. This was not what I had expected at all. This was looking promising, very promising indeed. I had to suppress a yelp of joy when I considered the implications for me: Jenny would ask the Council to buy Faughie Castle, Dinah would sell me Harrosie.
‘This is a tremendous opportunity for investment,’ Jenny agreed, scrutinising the figures.
And I would buy my flat in Glasgow.
‘… I’m sure Faughie Council can help.’
Steven would come with me and go to university, yay!
‘… It’s in all our interests for this project to succeed,’ Jenny continued. ‘If we were able to defer payment until we could build on the revenue stream I’m sure the committee would …’
‘Can’t you source the finance?’
‘I’m sorry.’
The sweet music playing in my head was abruptly ripped from the turntable. Whoa! What just happened?
Dinah looked at me. I looked at Jenny. Jenny smiled sweetly.
‘But we’ll certainly do everything in our power to help you find a buyer.’
Dinah looked nonplussed by this. It had all been going so well.
‘I’d rather hoped that Faughie Council would purchase it from me.’
Jenny held the smile. ‘That would also be my fervent wish, but we simply do not have the funds at present. Why don’t you have your accountants speak to our accountants and see what they can come up with?’
‘But if you don’t have finance …’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Jenny.
Dinah’s smile faded as the reality sunk in. With a pathetic and transparently false chumminess, she said her farewells and left. I was relieved and keen to see the back of her before she grassed me up. An unpleasant quiver of guilty fear had shot up my back every time she’d opened her mouth. I was glad in a perverse way that Jenny wasn’t going to ask the council to buy Dinah’s castle.
Jenny let out a big exaggerated sigh as though she’d been holding her breath all night, which only made me feel worse.
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I confessed, ‘Dinah asked me to persuade you, that’s why she came round.’
‘Trixie,’ Jenny said gravely, ‘you should have come to me immediately.’
‘I know, I feel awful about it.’
She was so serious I lost my nerve and drew back from telling her the whole truth. There was no need now anyway.
‘I’m so sorry, Jenny.’
‘If we’d had more notice we could have pushed through authorisation for property sweeteners: rates rebates and such. We really need to keep her on side. If we recognise the Faughie Accord, and we have to for any hope of independence, we have to acknowledge that your pal Lady Dinah owns everything in this village – that’s your damn feudal system for you – and we’ll have to work with her. Her opinion is going to carry a lot of weight in Luxembourg. But you did well setting up this meeting, good call, thanks a lot.’
I wondered what Madam Interim Leader would think of me if she knew about the Harrosie pay-off, and felt my ears burn with shame.
‘Look at you. Blushing!’ she laughed. ‘You’re finally finding your political consciousness. Good on you, Trixie.’
Chapter 59
Later that night, just before she left, I remembered the flooding in Dinah’s fields and told Jenny.
‘Aw, FFS,’ she tutted.
But her eyes lit up when I suggested that this would be a great opportunity to get Dinah on side. Out of filial loyalty I didn’t cast any aspersions but Jenny was ahead of me.
‘I’d ask Jackie myself but since our wee fall-out we’re not on the best of terms. He listens to you, Trixie, could you not …’
‘No, he doesn’t!’
‘For Faughie’s sake, where’s that new political consciousness of yours, eh? Blood’s thicker than water and it’s not as if you’re asking him for yourself, it’s for the good of the village.’
And it was in exactly those terms that I put it to Jackie when I pitched up at his house the next morning.
‘Don’t know anything about it,’ he said, shaking his head and stirring his tea.
This was the first time I’d ever been in Jackie’s house. I’d hung about outside once or twice but I’d never actually been invited in. His garden was all trim lines of perfect vegetables and well-behaved flowers standing to attention. I’d half expected to find a dishevelled bachelor pad inside, an insight into the real Jackie. But the inside was like the outside, except even more regimented, if that was possible. I’d forgotten that Jackie had been in the Navy. That must have been where he’d learned such fastidiousness. Instead of the neglected threadbare country cottage I was expecting, everything was superclean and tidy and the décor was trendy and minimalist, which was even more of a surprise. A bit of clutter might have given it a lived-in feel but there was only a powerful atmosphere of stylish pristine loneliness.
‘No one is saying you did it, Jackie; I told Dinah it wasn’t you and I’m sure she believed me,’ I said diplomatically. ‘It’s in everyone’s interests to find a buyer but no one’s going to buy it while it’s under water. The environment agency can’t fix it; they don’t have watercourse maps for the area. You’re the only person who can rectify the situation quickly. Please, Jackie, I’m asking you, for Faughie’s sake, can you fix it?’
‘Maybes aye and maybes naw,’ he grudgingly mumbled into his tea.
‘It woul
d mean Faughie Council could find a new buyer, it’ll mean jobs and …’
‘But that doesn’t mean I did it.’
‘No, of course it doesn’t,’ I said, unable to look him in the face.
I noticed he couldn’t look at me either.
*
At dinner that night the Claymores were discussing yet another stushie in the village: a crowd of drunk lads had had a pitched battle with another group of boys down at the harbour. Street brawls and drunkenness were regular occurrences now. Yes, everyone was getting rich off the back of it, but Faughie was beginning to understand the real price of cheap unregulated alcohol. Walter had sent an email just the day before requesting that all alcohol suppliers sign up to a voluntary code of conduct. With no regular police presence in the village except for the occasional visit from a squad car from Inverness, drunks rampaged freely. It was pointless reporting it – by the time the police arrived they had usually sobered up and left the village.
‘Aye, but these guys weren’t drunk,’ said Rudi.
‘How d’you mean?’ I asked.
‘They were acting it. You can see it in their eyes,’ he said, waving two fingers in front of his own eyes, ‘those guys were stone cold sober.’
The village was a wild crazy place to be these days, especially after dark. Referendum fever had taken over. Every available wall space was covered in posters, pro-independence or pro-union. The campaign had now outgrown the small village hall and, seeing as the weather was good, a kind of unofficial Speakers’ Corner had been set up at the car park of the Caley hotel. When I drove past I could always tell by their flags and banners, either Union Jack or Faughie Tricolour, which side was currently pontificating.
Betty was tireless in her activism. Every day she held some kind of soap-box rally with celebrity guests flown in from London. Walter and the rest of the council were baffled as to where her funding was coming from but there seemed no limit to her budget. Betty’s nice dresses and ladylike demeanour played well to the old folk in the village, who were after all the biggest portion of eligible voters. Jenny was concerned about this but she was spitting mad about the treatment her own Yes campaign was getting from the media.
Every day the press reported another good reason why Faughie should remain within the United Kingdom. If the Yes campaign was to win, pensioners would lose their bus passes, their winter fuel allowance, their pension. Industry would pull out, unemployment would reign, crime would soar, taxes would be ginormous, mobile phone bills would be humungous. According to the News, an independent Faughie might be invaded by Russia. I could understand why the old dears might want to stick with the status quo. The court in Luxembourg had started hearing from Faughians. I was bored stiff with it all and the referendum was still weeks away. Other people were starting to get fed up with it as well; the initial excitement had worn off by now, reality had kicked in and people were sick of the hullabaloo. We were being force-fed a diet of political candy floss, point-scoring debates about what-ifs and maybes in avarious fantasy futures.
I didn’t care. Whichever way it went I’d be gone by then, set up in my new flat in Glasgow. Of course, I’d still see it on the news and I’d laugh and just be grateful that I’d managed to get the hell out of it.
Chapter 60
‘Mum, Mum!’ Steven yelled as he came running up the stairs.
That’s how I knew it was serious; he hadn’t called me Mum in weeks.
I was turning a mattress, a heavy one, but I let it fall and ran out to meet him on the landing.
‘What is it, son?’
‘They’ve set up a border!’
‘What border?’
‘Between Faughie and Britain.’
I laughed, ‘Don’t be silly, there isn’t one.’
‘There is. They’ve set up a checkpoint on the Inverness road, military police and everything. Walter was right, it actually worked! Non-compliance with Westminster legislation has turned us into what the UK government are describing as a “volatile region”, how cool is that? They’re saying they can’t guarantee the safety of British nationals and are recalling them to within a “safe” zone.’
‘And then what?’ I asked, still scoffing. ‘They release the dogs? I don’t believe you.’
‘Go downstairs and turn the telly on, it’s on every channel.’
‘Steven, there is no border, this is ridiculous!’
‘Go,’ he said, indicating like an air steward, ‘put the telly on.’
‘FFS! I’m sick of this drama. If it’s not the machair it’s Knox MacIntyre or firking independence and now there’s suddenly some fictional border?’
‘Let’s call it the Safe Zone, if that’s what you’d prefer. Faughie Council are advising everyone to remain calm and sit tight.’
‘Right, that’s it; I’ve had enough of this shite. Pack your bags, Steven, we’re getting out of this madhouse.’
‘Relax, Trixie, it’s a scare tactic. They’re not actually stopping anyone coming or going, they can’t, they’re trying to frighten us into leaving. The rumour is that if we get a Yes in the referendum then they can control who enters their borders – and so can we. Walter says it’s perfect. Even Westminster are acknowledging we’re separate. The Court in Luxembourg has to find in our favour now. Faughie Council are co-operating fully with the British security services.’
‘We’ll bunk up at Auntie Nettie’s until we can get our own place, unless you’d rather go back to your dad’s?’
‘Walter says we must do all we can to maintain a good relationship with our British neighbours.’
‘How soon can you be ready, Steven?’
‘Mum, do you not get it? Britain has just recognised our defined borders; this is huge, and you want to leave just when it’s all kicking off?’
‘I don’t care how or where or when it kicks off. I’m out of here, and you are too, if I have to drag you by the hair. Is this about Morag? You know, these holiday romance things …’
‘Morag?’
Steven did a good job of looking absolutely baffled.
‘I know she’s your girlfriend, I’ve seen you at the lighthouse as I’ve driven past,’ I lied, ‘and that’s great, really, I don’t mind. And of course she’s welcome to come and visit us any time in Glasgow if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Me? I’m not worried. You’re the one ranting about us running away to Glasgow like fugees.’
‘We’re not refugees, or fugees or whatever you want to call it. We’re Glaswegian, Steven, and we’re going home to Glasgow as soon as I can get the car started.’
‘You’re Glaswegian, Trixie, I’m not.’
‘You’re as Weegie as I am! Steven. Listen to me son, we’re not from here, we’re not Faughian and we never will be; we don’t share their weird wee Faughian ways. We’ve just had the misfortune to land in this fantastical dreamscape and the best thing we can do is get the firk out of here before it turns nasty. I’ve had enough now, this is too stressful. I just want to go home, and I want you to come with me. Please son, let’s go home now while we still can.’
‘I know you want to go, I get it, and that’s fine, and I’m sorry, Mum, I really am.’
‘Steven you’re only sixteen, you …’
He put his hand gently on my shoulder.
‘Mum, I’m sorry. I’m staying.’
Chapter 61
Except for the midgies, it was like the fall of Saigon. Near the helipad there was a gale force wind created by helicopters constantly taking off and landing, airlifting Global Imperial’s executives and film stars out of Faughie. Tony Ramos, when asked for a quote for the Inverfaughie Chanter, said, ‘Better to die on your feet than live on your knees’, which I seemed to remember a woman character saying in his film about the Spanish civil war. He was neither on his feet nor his knees but on his arse in a comfy seat in a helicopter.
There wasn’t room for everyone in the helicopters and they took to the sea. G.I. chartered every boat big enough to c
arry cameras and equipment through the loch and down the coast. On behalf of the newly instituted ‘Faughie Boat-owners Incorporated’, or F.B.I., Jackie brokered a deal for him and his mates worth humungous money.
The rest of the tax tourists, holidaymakers, campers, walkers, fishermen, mountaineers, seasonal European farm workers, hotel staff and film crew minions took the Inverness road to the checkpoint, which had been set up fifteen miles outside Inverfaughie. Ethecom volunteered their Routemaster, driven by Jan, to drop people at the checkpoint.
Coincidentally, G.I. had just finished shooting the film. This caused speculation in the papers and in the village about such convenient timing. Clearly the government had held off putting in their bogus border crossing until G.I. had finished – there was obviously too much money involved. Even so, what had taken weeks to assemble was going to take even longer to get out due to the congestion the panic had created. G.I. sought volunteers from amongst its staff to stay. They were tasked with dismantling sets and equipment and protecting it until such times as G.I. could uplift it. Rudi and his merry band of Claymores applied and got the gig, which dismayed me no end.
‘Are you mad?’ I asked them that night at what, after G.I. had paid me and all their bills had been settled, I’d jokingly referred to as The Last Supper. ‘Are you lads off your heads?’
Steven hadn’t come home yet, he was still up at Ethecom, so I was glad he wasn’t around to hear this nonsense. I’d hoped to use the Claymores as an example of people who were smart enough to get out of Dodge.
‘There won’t be much call for combat performers now the movie has finished.’
‘Are you kidding?’ said Rudi, ‘This is a wet dream for my men. We don’t need to perform any more. We’re doing it for real now.’
‘But how will you earn money?’
‘There’s plenty of work on the farms.’
‘But are you not frightened that you’ll be trapped here after the referendum?’
