For Faughie's Sake (22 page)

And so I started volunteering with Ethecom three afternoons a week. Steven huffed a bit at first, telling me to get a life. When I replied that I had a very nice life thank you very much, he said, yeah, I mean one of your own, stop muscling in on mine. Charming. Brenda, on the other hand, was pleased to see me. To avoid anything that was too back-breaking, tedious or smelly I volunteered to look after the chickens.

As part of my undercover mission for queen and country I had to pretend I thought chickens were cute. In real life I was terrified of them, especially when they flapped, at which point I usually freaked and ran away. During the day the hens and roosters were let out to run around the yard but at night, to keep them safe from foxes, they were locked up. The hardest part of my job was getting them all back into the coop. As I was so scared I couldn’t approach them and the chickens were so stupid they hid in bushes, this was a nearly impossible task. Thank the good lord for Jan. If it hadn’t been for him helping me catch the chickens, at night the air would have been thick with the chicken-flavoured burps of local foxes.

Brenda said it was unadvisable to give the chickens names, I might get emotionally involved. That was highly unlikely, but to keep up my cover I called them ‘it’ or ‘that one’ or ‘hey you’. Jan and I developed a system where I would point to the bush where
a hen was hiding, he would approach from behind, frighten it and sweep it towards me. This was where our system was flawed. If the hen did run towards me I’d hold my ground for as long as possible while Jan chased it and rugby-tackled it. If the bird got too close to me I’d panic and run away screaming. The other Ethecom members and volunteers, while peacefully undertaking their pastoral tasks, were sometimes treated to the spectacle of a screeching woman being chased by a squawking chicken being chased by a laughing man. This was exhausting for all three of us and so I began to slowly conquer my terror. Soon I was catching more chickens than I fled from. It all made for a satisfying end to my day’s volunteering.

My week fell into a pleasing rhythm: when I wasn’t cooking or baking for my Claymores I was walking over to Ethecom with my co-worker Steven, catching chickens and having a laugh with Jan. Either that or I was entertaining a friend at my place.

I’d stopped eating every night with the Claymores and ate instead with Jenny a few nights a week. I knew she didn’t have time to cook and I was worried she was burning herself out. Not only was she trying to keep Faughie afloat and Westminster off her back, she was now having to contend with vigorous opposition from Betty and, though she’d never admit it, it was wearing her out. Jenny was getting too thin and scrawny for my liking. She refused my hospitality at first, saying she didn’t have time, but I insisted.

‘You’ve got to eat, haven’t you?’

She couldn’t argue with that.

‘Once you’re finished all your meetings, come to my house and I’ll give you a light late supper. You could be doing with some home-cooked food inside you. It’s not charity; call it my contribution towards the Faughie independence campaign. And anyway, painfully thin isn’t a good look, not at your age,’ I said kindly. ‘No one wants a scraggy-arsed First Lady.’

It was all going swimmingly; I was planning pasta carbonara for supper when Dinah phoned.

‘Hello, Trixie darling, just wondering if you’ve had the chance to speak to Jenny yet? Time is quite pressing on this deal,’ she said.

The truth was I couldn’t bring myself to do it. A few times I’d
danced around the subject and then quickly backed off before Jenny had rumbled me. I knew I wouldn’t fool Jenny, I wasn’t a good enough liar. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted the chance to buy Harrosie from Dinah, of course I did, I just didn’t want Jenny to think of me as some snivelling corrupt lobbyist. She’d think that inviting her to eat with me had been part of the plan. Maybe it had started that way but now it was the part of my day that I most looked forward to.

‘Yeah, we’ve chatted about it a bit, but I don’t think Jenny’s terribly interested,’ I lied, ‘her priority is paying salaries. She’s worried about being able to pay Joe, the lollipop man, amongst others.’

That much was true. I remembered this from when the rest of the committee had been so excited about the whisky water tax.

‘Really?’ shrieked Dinah, so loud I nearly dropped the phone, ‘but does she realise the revenue potential to be had from running the estate as a resort? Even a golf resort. With investment in infrastructure, the estate could be an absolute gold mine. I can bring my agent in and we can show her some of the projections. In the first year alone it is predicted to …’

‘Ok, I’ll ask her again.’

‘Oh golly, that would be terrific! When?’

‘When what?’

‘When will you see her again? Are you seeing her tonight?’

‘Eh, yes, I am. Oops, there’s my kitchen timer. I’ve got to go, Dinah, I’ve got a cheese soufflé due out of the oven, I’ll get back to you.’

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.

‘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.’

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 would 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.