For Faughie's Sake (11 page)

It was all about percentages. G.I. had paid me 30 per cent of the contract up front – 100 per cent of the contract, plus 100 per cent of what I earned feeding the Claymores, might, if I was very lucky, amount to a 10 per cent deposit on a flat in Glasgow, but if I didn’t get paid I’d be stuck forever in Inverfaughie, 100 per cent miserable. If Jenny was going to make this radical proposal I’d have to vote against it. Thank god I was a council member with full voting rights.

As I drove past the helipad there was a row of six black Land Rovers parked nose to tail. The smoked glass windows made it impossible to see anything, but whoever was inside must be important. Maybe the American president had come to Inverfaughie. That’s what it looked like: one of those convoys of armoured vehicles I’d seen on telly, where the American Secret Service jog alongside wearing suits and sunglasses and talking into their sleeve.

When I got back to Harrosie there was a visitor waiting for me.

I walked in to find Steven wrestling with Bouncer. When they saw me they both exploded in enthusiastic greeting. Steven pulled me into a bone-crushing hug – he even kissed me, mushing his lips on my cheek till it was painful.

‘Steven! Nice to see you too,’ I said, struggling to break free. It was lovely that he was being so affectionate, lovely but weird.
‘How did you get here?’

‘Train to The Sneck and then hitched.’

‘The Sneck?’

‘The Sneck, Inversnechty, that’s what us locals call Inverness, surely you knew that Mum. How long have you lived here?’

Mum.

Hugs and kisses and Inversnechty and actually being called Mum. It was all a bit overwhelming. I hadn’t even seen Steven for such a long time without his conjoined pal Gerry.

‘No Gerry?’

‘Gerry’s working.’

‘I didn’t know he had a job.’

‘He does now. I got Gary to give him mine. Everybody’s happy.’

‘You gave up your job at the warehouse? Nettie won’t be best pleased at that. You did tell her, didn’t you? Your Auntie Nettie knows you’ve chucked your job?’

Steven gave an exasperated, ‘Yes.’

‘And your dad?’

‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me, Mum. I thought you wanted me to come up here for the summer, spend some “family time”.’

‘I did. I do. Honestly, this is brilliant,’ I said, as I collapsed yawning into the sofa, ‘I’m overjoyed.’

We both laughed.

‘Sorry, I was up all night. Not what you think. Don’t worry, I’m still on the wagon.’

The relief on his face told me that was exactly what he’d been thinking.

‘I worked last night on the film.’

‘Really? You’re in the movie? Quality!’

‘Och, believe you me, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds, I’m knackered.’

‘D’you think I can be in it?’

‘I don’t see why not, they’re always looking for extras.’

I hoped this machair spat wouldn’t stop Steven getting work.

‘Are those weapons in the shed from the movie?’

‘Don’t you touch those weapons. They’re not toys. They don’t
belong to you and they’re dangerous.’

‘They’re not dangerous,’ he scoffed, ‘they’re for dummy fighting, all the blades are blunt.’

‘It doesn’t matter. If you drop one of those things you’ll lose a toe. Please Steven, promise me you’ll stay away from those weapons, they’re scary.’

‘Keep your wig on, Trixie, I was only looking at them.’

And with that he stormed off to his room.

So I was back to being Trixie. Mum didn’t last long.

It was probably my fault, these things usually were. I might have been a bit short with him but I was worried about being paid and the meeting and getting dinner ready for the Claymores. I didn’t really have time to run up to Steven’s room with a conciliatory cup of tea and a flapjack. I’d done enough of that the last time. He’d have to understand that he couldn’t just pitch up here any time he wanted stealing other people’s boats and historical weaponry. As his mother it was my job to make him understand that. But of course Steven had me over a barrel. He knew I’d have to introduce him to the Claymores and that I’d want to play happy families. It would be too embarrassing not to.

I had missed my son so much I’d forgotten what living with him was actually like: the constant boundary testing, brinksmanship, power plays, the hard-fought negotiations – bickering, reasoning, begging. With a heavy heart I took a tray up.

He was, as I’d guessed he would be, open to arbitration but exploitative. Steven graciously accepted the tea and flapjacks and, after he outlined my heinous crime: doing my usual of treating him like a baby, he heard my confession and my tight-jawed apology. As the balance of power currently stood, if he’d wanted me to apologise for global warming I would have had to. What else could I do? In exchange he agreed not to touch the Claymores’ equipment without their knowledge and approval. This meant I’d have to do a bit of double dealing with Rudi – get him to promise not to let Steven near the weapons – but in the end a deal was done. When I asked him to come down to dinner and meet everyone he nodded beneficently. I knew he was gagging to meet them but
we both kept up the charade that he was doing me a big favour.

When I took him into the dining room the Claymores gave Steven a warm welcome. Following Rudi’s lead they all shook his hand and introduced themselves before sitting down to dinner. As they sat round the table talking about football and discussing the new signings for Celtic they included Steven in their silly jokes and listened respectfully to his comments. Once dinner was on the table the football chat died away as everyone concentrated on eating. I scoured my mind for a topic that might be of interest. I wanted Steven to see how well I got on with the Claymores, and not just because I was their landlady. The lads treated me with respect and affection, like a big sister.

In my eagerness to stimulate conversation I very nearly blurted the gossip: the machair being closed and the public meeting Jenny had called to protest. Just in time, I remembered that the Claymores worked for ‘the enemy’, as Jenny had put it; best to keep my mouth shut, loose lips and all that.

‘Did anyone see the big black cars at the helipad?’ I asked.

‘I saw them,’ said Danny. ‘I ran past them.’

‘How fast were you running?’ joked Dave. ‘The limit’s only 30 in a built-up area. You know his nickname’s Insane Bolt, don’t you, Trixie?’

‘I made a speed camera go off but I was only jogging. You cannae touch me for it,’ Danny quipped.

‘Where did the cars go?’ I persisted.

‘They seemed to be heading round the loch to the big house.’

‘I know the woman who owns that big house,’ I told them. ‘Dinah, she’s a friend of mine.’

‘Well, she won’t own it much longer,’ said Rudi. ‘It’s up for sale. There’s talk of it being turned into a hotel; they’re planning to build polo fields on the lochside. That’s what the papers are saying anyway. And guess who’s in town to make an offer? That guy, you know, the billionaire businessman Knox MacIntyre.’

So Dinah had found a buyer. Lucky dog. The sour taint of jealousy had stolen my appetite.

I cleared the plates and stayed in the kitchen tidying up. I could hear sporadic bursts of laughter from the dining room. It was great that Steven was getting on so well with the lads. With a bit of luck they would set up the table for one of their regular poker nights and invite him to play. Then I could sneak out to the meeting.

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.’

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.