Sign of the Times

by Susan Buchanan

  “Are you still entering as many competitions?” Maggie asked.

  “Yeah. I spend half my day filling out postcards to win holidays or cars. Imagine, me with a car. I don’t think I’d remember how to drive, it’s been so long.”

  “You’d manage. Have you won anything yet?”

  “A few things. A CD wallet, a pair of spyglasses, don’t ask!”

  “OK, have you won anything useful?”

  “No, although I did win a makeover session in London.”

  “You’re not going are you?” Maggie was horrified.

  “When would I have the time?”

  “That’s true, but you know it’s all a con to make you part with more money?”

  “Well, I suppose so, but you do get a makeover and a photo of the newly improved you.”

  “Yes, but trust me, it’s a scam.”

  “This sandwich is great,” Jennifer changed the subject. “What did you get?”

  “Chicken tikka. It’s not bad, but it’s expensive in here for sandwiches. £5.95. How many loaves can you buy for that? You could probably buy a couple of chickens too.”

  Jennifer almost fell off her seat laughing.

  “Well, you can get enough for a meal for four for seven quid and cafes want six quid for the paltry slice on your sandwich.”

  “Good point,” concurred Jennifer. “Anyway, when do you start back at Three Monkeys?”

  “Tuesday. I told my boss I wanted a few days off first. I’ve so much to sort out. The flat’s a bombsite.”

  “I know how you feel,” said Jen, as Maggie concealed a smile. Jennifer’s house was spotless. She spent so much time in it, it had to be, or she’d go stir-crazy.

  “So what are you up to for the rest of the afternoon?” Jennifer asked her friend.

  “I thought I’d go shopping.”

  “Oh. Asda or Tesco?”

  “No, clothes shopping.”

  “Clothes shopping? What’s the occasion?”

  “I’m just fed up with the same old same old. I fancy something bright.”

  “Red?”

  “Perhaps, or maybe green or yellow or purple.”

  “Good for you. Top, shirt?”

  “Not sure. I’ll just see what jumps off the rail and says Buy Me.”

  “There was a nice purple three quarter length shirt in Oxfam the other day,” suggested Jennifer, “might still be there.”

  “No. Today I’m opting for chain stores.”

  “Are you feeling OK?”

  “I need a change of image. I’m going to go and get this mess sorted out too,” Maggie pointed at her hair.

  “Right, what have you done with my friend? Bring her back,” Jennifer kidded.

  “Do you want another drink?” Maggie asked, as the barman weaved his way towards them. Looking at her watch, Jennifer sighed and said,

  “Better not. I need to get back.” Reaching down she picked up her bags and taking ten pounds from her purse, handed it to Maggie.

  “I’ll give you a call soon, OK?”

  “OK, good to see you.”

  “You too. Bye.” Jennifer disappeared through the swing doors.

  Chapter Twelve

  A week later

  “Same again Maggie,” a regular at Three Monkeys slid his pint glass down on the bar. Maggie laid down the dishcloth she had been washing in soapy water, rinsed her hands and grabbing a glass from below the gantry, placed it under the pump. She angled the glass at one hundred and thirty five degrees and the tawny liquid flowed into it. She changed the angle, stopped approximately an inch from the top and put a frothy head on it, before passing it to Tam.

  “There you go. Who’s next?”

  There had been an unexpected rush today. Sadie had called in sick and apart from the hour’s overlap with Leo, Maggie had been on her Jack Jones. She hadn’t managed to carry out half the tasks she’d meant to; cleaning the gantry, washing the glasses shelves, taking a stock check. Three Monkeys had character all right but it wasn’t computerised, so everything had to be done manually. Maggie wondered, not for the first time, why so many men were in the pub at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon. She’d barely had time to serve them and wash glasses, never mind clean tables.

  Maggie was glad she was finishing at eight and had agreed to go to her mum’s. She hadn’t seen her mum in ages. She’d gone to see her the day she’d met Jennifer for coffee, but she was out. Maggie found it difficult even now spending time with her mother, as no more than half an hour would go by when she would bring up Michael, no matter that thirteen years had passed. Her mother had been Michael’s number one fan. When he and Maggie announced they were getting married, she’d been delighted. She couldn’t get over their break up and would never understand why it had been necessary and how much pain it had caused them.

  “Hi Maggie. It’s busy in here tonight,” Leo lifted the hatch leading behind the bar. Relieving himself of his jacket said, “Where’s Sadie?”

  “Sick.”

  “Bollocks. So, you’ve had this lot to cope with on your own?”

  “Yep.”

  “Great. That means I’m in for more of the same. Any reason why nobody was called in to cover Sadie?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Maggie replied.

  “So, how come so busy?”

  “Bowling club’s closed for refurbishment.”

  “Ah,” said Leo. The bowling club was the only place in the area which sold cheaper drink than Three Monkeys, unless you counted the trendy new gastro-pubs, which had sprouted up all over the place. But the more mature clientele of Three Monkeys didn’t hold much truck with that type of establishment. As Leo started serving customers, Maggie dashed out from behind the bar and scrambled around wiping tables and collecting dirty glasses. She then sped back around gantry-side and started washing the glasses in the specially designated sink. That done and the stock take begun, Maggie left instructions with Leo of what was still outstanding and headed for the door.

  Maggie rang her mother’s doorbell, listening reluctantly to the melody of Greensleeves, whilst she waited for her to answer. Mrs McWhirter was a sixty five year old member of the blue rinse brigade, who fussed terribly over her daughter, on the rare occasions she let her. She had too much time on her hands, despite being chairperson of the Woman’s Guild, an avid Rotarian and constantly manning stalls at the Salvation Army bring and buy sales.

  “Why didn’t you use your key?” her mother asked, embracing her.

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  Truth was, she didn’t like entering her mother’s house without warning. She hadn’t lived there for more than twenty years. It didn’t feel right to barge in, even with her mother’s permission.

  “I’ve got your favourite warming in the oven.”

  Good old Mum. Maggie could almost taste the stovies, as she followed her mother. The aroma wafted through the kitchen door to meet her and Maggie realized just how hungry she was. The heat emanated welcomingly from the oven, as her mother removed the casserole dish containing the sausage, potato and onion speciality. Maggie’s mouth watered as her mum spooned a generous helping onto her plate.

  “Is that enough?” Maggie drew her mum a look. It would have fed about six people.

  “Thanks Mum,” Maggie was desperate to wolf down the delicious meal.

  She felt at home here, in this familiar kitchen. Her father was no longer there. Her parents divorced when Maggie was ten; perhaps one of the many reasons Maggie was the rebel she was. Yet, the warmth of the kitchen and the companionship of her mother were balm to her soul. This would always be her home. No matter what happened she could always come back here. Somehow it was nice to know that. She munched away, unaware of her mother’s concerned expression. Jean McWhirter thought her daughter looked tired. There didn’t look to be the age gap between them that there was. Yet she knew better than to ask Maggie outright. She was also learning not to mention Michael. Such a pity about Michael and the babies. Her poor daught
er and of course, she herself would have loved to be a grandmother, but it wasn’t to be.

  “Do you remember Mrs Lawson?” Jean asked Maggie.

  “No,” Maggie looked up from her munching.

  “You do. She taught music at Ayr Academy and had the poodle with the permanent limp.”

  “Oh yeah. I remember the dog. Wasn’t it called Fopsy or something?”

  “Flopsy,” her mother corrected.

  “Funny thing to do, giving a dog a rabbit’s name.”

  “So, what are you up to at the moment?”

  “This and that,” Maggie was evasive.

  “Well, what kind of this and that? Have you been on any more demos recently?”

  “There’s one planned for next Saturday up in Glencoe, protesting against the proposed visitor centre?”

  “Oh yes. I heard about that. That would be awful. No doubt it would be the first of many, if this one goes ahead.”

  “Exactly. That’s why we’re out to stop them.”

  “So have you scheduled time off?” Jean asked.

  “Yes. They owe me a couple of Saturdays from last time. I’ve told them I’ll settle for all of next weekend off and then we’re even.”

  “Good. Don’t let them take advantage of you.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Anyway, I was telling you about Mrs Lawson.”

  “I gather she died.”

  “Who told you?” Jean was surprised.

  “You did.”

  “No I didn’t. I was just about to.”

  “I know, but as you only ever finish your ‘Do you remember such and such’ stories with, ‘he/she died on Tuesday and the funeral’s on Friday,’ I worked it out.”

  Maggie’s mother looked put out, “I was only saying. I just like to keep you up-to-date with what’s going on in the town. You’re not here very often,” she finished huffily.

  Maggie softened, “I know and I appreciate it. So tell me, who’s had a baby or got married recently?” Maggie feigned interest as her mother spewed forth on her other two favourite subjects, births and marriages.

  Later in bed, she couldn’t help but think her mother would do well working for the Announcements section of the Ayrshire Post. She certainly knew everything that went in the paper before it was printed.

  “Jennifer?”

  “Maggie. How you doing?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Ah, fair to middling.”

  “What are you doing on Saturday?”

  “Mmm. Let me think. Usual round of Lidl and the pharmacy. Why, do you want to meet in Caprice again?”

  “No, better than that. I’m going to Glencoe to campaign against this state of the art visitor centre. I thought maybe you’d like to come. We could go to the Aonach Inn after the demo and we can camp, so it won’t be expensive.”

  “Camping?”

  “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mum.”

  “Ah. Well I think I may have a solution to that. So, do you want to come? You deserve the break.”

  “I could certainly do with it,” Jennifer sighed audibly. “So, what’s your solution for Mum?”

  “Mum,” Maggie said, re-entering the kitchen, where Jean stood baking.

  “Did you get Jennifer?”

  “Yes. Listen, I need a favour….”

  Maggie rang Jennifer back, who was delighted to hear that Jean, an ex-nurse at Ailsa Hospital, had agreed to look after her mum whilst they were away. Their mothers had met only once, but Jennifer felt her mum would be fine. She was glad hers wasn’t one of those whiny, hypochondriac, fetch me this, that and the other mothers. She would be more than happy that her daughter was able to go and have fun for once. Her mother felt a burden to her. The only qualm she would have about this coming weekend would be guilt at the thought her daughter needed to arrange for someone to sit with her. It was a shame they had no family to speak of; otherwise the burden could have been shared. They ironed out the details, then Maggie rang off to make their travel arrangements and Jennifer went through to her mother’s bedroom to break the news.

  Chapter Fourteen.

  Maggie was relieved her shift was over. There had to be more to life than this. She didn’t know if she could be bothered doing bar work until term started and although she was interested in geography, what was it all going to achieve? With that contemplative thought Maggie set to finishing off the placards.

  ‘Save our Glens,’ ‘No to Commercialism,’ ‘Beauty not Profit’.

  The remaining days until Saturday flew by and Maggie was picked up from her mum’s house in Jeremy’s Renault Espace. Jeremy was the nominated driver when any of their campaigns were outwith mainstream public transport distance. Plus it was easier transporting banners and placards by car than walking about with them before the demo. It gave the game away to the police, too, not to mention earning them glares from fellow passengers. Jeremy chatted to Maggie until they reached Jennifer’s. Maggie jumped out to rap on Jennifer’s door, but just then the door shot open and Maggie’s mother was there. She stepped aside to let Jennifer past and told them to enjoy themselves.

  “Save our Countryside! Down with commercialism! No to the Visitor Centre!” the thirty-two strong group of protestors chanted. Apart from Jennifer, their group of six consisted solely of ‘professional protestors’. The remainder were mainly locals. Others milled around, offering their support, but didn’t get actively involved. Theirs wasn’t quite the placard brandishing level of commitment. Probably too concerned about the possibility of being lifted for breach of the peace. The Black Watch centre had seen better days and yes, it needed a lick of paint, but it was the centre of the Ballachulish community. Throwing up a multi million pound visitor centre ten miles north in Fort William wasn’t going to help the village one bit. Rumour had it a well-known property developer was earmarked for the land. Maggie incited the crowd to rally behind them and not to give in to the capitalists trying to turn their village into a ghost town, by taking the heart out of it.

  Maggie’s rich, resonant voice carried across the glen, as she outlined why they should fight for this centre, what it signified. If they tore the centre down, tourism in the immediate area would fall, heading instead to the new visitor centre in Fort William. Local jobs would be lost. It would set an unwelcome precedent. If the developers won this battle, where would it end? They would encroach on other unspoilt villages and bring about their ruin too. The crowd cheered as Maggie came to the end of her speech. Suddenly silence fell like a blanket over the crowd. The thunderous noise of a JCB could be heard coming ever closer. Maggie told everyone to hold hands and spread out in front of the centre. Those with placards shook them angrily at the driver of the wrecking ball. On Maggie’s cue, they chanted, ‘We will not, we will not be moved,’ interspersed with ‘Down with the Visitor Centre! Save Black Watch!’ The JCB driver pulled at his skip cap and nervously scratched the back of his head. He looked down at his foreman who was striding into view, looking very unhappy and waving a piece of paper in front of him.

  “Look, you’ve said your piece. Now let us do our jobs.”

  “No way.” Maggie stood firm.

  “Look, I’m sorry it means so much to you, but it’s been decided.”

  “Over our dead bodies,” Maggie said. She was sure she heard the foreman mutter something along the lines of, ‘fine by me’, but when she glared at him, he acted dumb.

  “We’re not moving,” Maggie was defiant. “You can take your bit of paper and go tell them that.”

  Despairing, the foreman tried another tack. “Look love, it’s already been authorised, nothing’s going to change that now.”

  Maggie folded her arms, splayed her legs and literally dug her heels into the soft earth. It was bad enough that Black Watch was closed temporarily due to all this malarkey, but to allow them to tear it down would be unthinkable. An approaching siren could be heard over the idling of the
JCB.

  ‘Shit!’ thought Maggie.

  The patrol car pulled into the lay-by adjacent to the Black Watch and two officers got out, donned their hats and walked over to Maggie.

  “What’s going on?” the older policeman’s gruff voice enquired.

  “We’re protesting against the Black Watch centre being pulled down.”

  “Name?”

  “Maggie McWhirter.”

  “Address?”

  “46 The Quays, Glasgow”.

  “Not exactly your neighbourhood.”

  “No, but it doesn’t mean I can’t support the cause. I’ve been coming here for years and many of these people,” Maggie flung her arm out in a wide arc, to encompass her companions, “are residents and don’t want to see the soul ripped out of their community.

  “I understand that,” said the policeman, trying to adjust the buttons on his jacket to better accommodate his girth, “but these men have work to do. It’s not their fault. They’re just following orders.”

  By this point, the Lochaber News had turned up and were busy snapping away and interviewing bystanders. The younger policeman tried to disperse the crowd and persuade the press that there was nothing to see, but everyone remained rooted to the spot, although they ceased to link hands.

  “We’re not moving until someone from the Planning Dept gets down here and realises what a mistake they’ve made.”

  “If you don’t move, I’ll need to arrest you,” the policeman asserted.

  “Well you’re going to have to carry me, because I’m not moving.”

  Annoyed at her lack of cooperation, the policeman walked towards his younger colleague. They conferred for a few minutes and then returned to where Maggie was standing. The younger one started to read her her rights.

  “Maggie McWhirter, I’m arresting you for breach of the peace.” As he tried to slide the handcuffs on, Maggie pulled away, “and for resisting arrest.” The sergeant helped the constable load Maggie into the back of the car, where she sat silently fuming. An appalled Jennifer tried to speak to Maggie, but the constable headed her off.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “Fort William police station.”