For Faughie's Sake

P
RAISE FOR
L
AURA
M
ARNEY’S PREVIOUS NOVELS
:

“A gently humorous take on an incomer’s life in the West Highlands.”
G
UARDIAN

“A shot of adrenalin… Hard-core romance for the bitter and twisted.”
I
NDEPENDENT
,
50 B
EST
S
UMMER
R
EADS

“At last, a funny novelist with guts.” H
ENRY
S
UTTON
,
M
IRROR

“Biting wit, brilliant characterisation and hilarious antics – whether you are 16 or 60, you’ll be rocking in your chair.”
D
AILY
R
ECORD

“Endlessly witty and good-natured… Marney has introduced a darker tinge to her writing without relinquishing an ounce of her charm…Do not miss out on Laura Marney.”
G
LASGOW
H
ERALD

“Marney shows rare insight into the human condition, and her unique style and wit have the reader laughing out loud one moment and incredibly sad the next. She manages to offset the gruesome reality with some sparkling banter. A real breath of fresh air.” J
ACQUELINE
W
ILSON,
B
RISTOL
E
VENING
P
OST

“Laura Marney in dizzying form. Effortless prose and solid characterisation… an honest, rounded and enviably simple novel that feels wholly organic in its unfolding.”
T
HE
L
IST

“Divine comedy… a joyous celebration of human imperfection.” L
OUISE
W
ELSH

“The pacing has an engaging confidence, a comic brio which comes from completely inhabiting her narrator’s character… She’s a natural comedy writer.”
S
COTSMAN

“The word on Laura Marney is that she’s Scotland’s best-kept literary secret, and for once, the goods live up to the fanfare… A sparkling black comedy with guaranteed out-loud laughs.”
Y
ORK
E
VENING
P
RESS

“Insight, compassion and a rollicking, earthy humour… If you suffer from giggle incontinence, beware!” Z
OË
S
TRACHAN

Hollywood had come to the Highlands. Not the widescreen, surround-sound, 3D Highlands. Or the misty moors of Scotchland: the wee deoch an doruis, granny’s hielan kailyard, heuchter-stick-it-up-your-teuchter Highlands.

No, the actual Highlands.

Filming of the blockbuster
Freedom Come All of You
had already begun around the village. It wasn’t glamorous like I’d thought it might be, just inconvenient. Traffic tailed back behind convoys of location vehicles: long trucks full of lighting and camera equipment and endless snaking coils of greasy black cables. The steep-sided trucks parked on the grass verge and hung there at such an alarming angle I worried they might keel over in a strong wind.

To recreate the Highlands of yesteryear, informative road signs were taken down, and not replaced, and roads were often closed without notice or explanation, incurring four-mile detours. I wondered when, or indeed if, they had permission to close roads like that, but it was Global Imperial, they had bought the town; they could do anything they wanted.

As I drove down to the village, Faughie FM was playing
Freedom Come Aw Ye
, the song by Hamish Henderson from which the film had taken its title. As DJ Andy Robertson played this song in heavy rotation, I was unable to stop tapping my toe and humming
along. Despite this constant reminder of the film title, I’d overheard people in the village giving it the nickname
Brigadoom
.

Driving past, I noticed that the new helipad was nearly finished. The tarmac had set and two men were rolling a paint cart to form a huge white H inside the circle. That had not taken long. It was strangely exciting to think that anything urgent enough to warrant a helicopter could happen in Inverfaughie. In the three months I’d lived here the most urgent thing I’d ever seen was a tourist jump out of a moving coach and sprint to the public toilets.

The village was bustling with activity now, and everyone was making money, lots of residential homes had suddenly become B&Bs and people were out tidying their gardens or polishing their windows. Taxis were dropping off and finding new fares within minutes. The influx wasn’t just the usual Berghaus-clad climbers: intelligent dafties who spent their days humfing expensive kit up the north face and their evenings boasting about it in the Caley Hotel. No, these visitors were snappy dressers with sports cars. Audis, Subarus and Mazdas were everywhere. It actually took me a few minutes to find a parking space.

Global Imperial’s production office was a Portakabin, but inside it was remarkably plush: thick carpets and thick curtains, behind which thick wads of cash were being exchanged for accommodation contracts. Jenny had already told me to insist on a block booking, and advised me on the going rates.

‘I can’t ask for that kind of money, they’ll chase me,’ I’d told her.

‘You’d be a fool not to. That’s what everybody’s charging. You don’t want to undercut everyone else, Trixie. Giving Global Imperial a reason to drive the price down won’t make you popular.’

She was right; I didn’t want to be even less popular than I already was.

‘Highlanders don’t get many opportunities,’ she’d lectured me, ‘we have to grab them when they come along.’

Pleased to meet me, the Accommodation Manager ushered me straight in. Her assistant had apparently been delighted with my B&B facility. She didn’t quibble about the price, didn’t bat an eye. She wanted to reserve all six double rooms for the duration.

‘If you let me have your bank details, Mrs McNicholl,’ she said in a lovely American accent, ‘I’ll ping the deposit over to you now. Oh, and may I take a copy of your Accommodation Licence?’

This was the first time I’d actually met a Member of the Scottish Parliament. I’d expected a sharp-suited, thrusting, handsome charmer, but Malcolm was more of a baggy-arsed, corduroy pantywaist. As I’d come to appreciate since moving here, life in the Highlands was replete with disappointments. I smiled politely and folded my arms. This was going to be a long night. Jenny Robertson, the local postmistress and shop owner, had invited me round to her house for what she’d billed a ‘soiree’. We weren’t exactly contemporaries: Jenny had at least twenty years on me. I would have put her in her early sixties but she had all the energy of a spider monkey and the nous of a city fox. She was skinny and a bit wrinkly, though you could see she’d been a good-looking woman in her day. And nosey? Jenny’s nosiness knew no bounds, but I, a recent incomer, had no other friends. Never having been invited to a soiree before, I’d accepted immediately, but if I’d known that ‘soiree’ was Jenny’s word for a night of envelope stuffing and political chat, I’d have politely declined. I had more important things to think about.

‘It doesn’t matter how small you are,’ Walter tried to inculcate us, ‘if you have faith and a plan of action.’

Worried that I’d giggle, I tried not to look directly at him. Walter had his passionate face on: his head tilted heroically, his eyes bright with visionary gleam. This would have been moving if it wasn’t for the cake crumbs that were trapped in the creases round his mouth.

Malcolm snorted, looking to Jenny and me for support.

‘Not
my
words: but Fidel Castro’s,’ Walter continued, holding his hands up to demonstrate his lack of influence with the Cuban revolutionary. ‘Fidel Castro’s, who – just to remind you – took on the United States of America.’

Walter pushed the pile of
Vote for Malcolm Robertson
leaflets to one side, leaned right into Malcolm’s face and whispered, ‘And won.’

‘We couldn’t do it even if we wanted to,’ scoffed Malcolm. ‘We don’t have the resources.’

‘That’s the problem with you LibDems,’ Walter retorted, his nostrils flaring, ‘no ambition, no imagination. You’re a shower of lily-livered Jessies.’

Jenny hooted and so, taking her lead, I laughed too.

When I’d helped her get the tea things earlier she’d assured me that this was just good-natured banter between the lads. From their spirited debate, Walter appeared to despise everything the other guy stood for, and yet here he was, Malcolm Robertson’s official campaign manager. And here I was, stuffing envelopes to help Malcolm retain his seat. This wasn’t what I’d come for. I needed to ask Jenny’s advice on something but now that we were bogged down in this tedious debate there was no opportunity.

‘We’re easily self-sufficient,’ Walter argued relentlessly, ‘we’ll not be eating many mangos but we have all the crops and livestock and dairy we need.’

‘So we won’t starve, but what about creating wealth?’ countered Malcolm.

‘What do you want, Malky?
Opum furiata cupido
.’

Right, that’s it, I thought, Walter’s started with the Latin, I’m out of here.

‘What is this frenzied lust for wealth? I’m talking about transformational politics,’ Walter boffed on, ‘egalité, fraternité, liberté: education, health care, housing. We create the wealth the same way we always have, from our exports: salmon, fish, whisky, green energy, fresh clean water. The only difference is that we get to keep the revenue. Open your eyes, man, we’re rich beyond the dreams of avarice!’

We looked to Malcolm for a comeback.

‘Maybe,’ he said meekly, ‘but apart from the, eh, wealth, and equality, fraternity and um, oh yeah, the liberty, what else have we got?’

Walter sighed heavily and slammed his head down on the table. After all his rhetoric, he was finally defeated by Malcolm’s complete lack of an argument. But I had bigger problems.

I didn’t want to be here any more. Not here, in Jenny’s living room. Not here living in this small suffocating Highland town. I needed to get back to civilisation. How could two old geezers having an abstract argument about independence fix that for me? It was patently such airy-fairy nonsense. That’s what annoyed me about politics: it never went anywhere, never solved anything. I’d been offered no alcoholic refreshment whatsoever, not so much as a small sweet sherry. Having had no advice from Jenny, I still had the same problems I came in with, only now I was bored, frustrated and still sober.

I didn’t have the head space for politics, I had my own troubles: my only neighbours had vanished and an ugly fence had gone up around their property. The Accommodation Inspectorate was due any day and the fence might mean I’d never get my Bed and Breakfast licence. No licence, no accommodation contract; no money, no exit route. I’d never get out of Inverfaughie. I’d die alone here in the damp mist, encased in cobwebs and wispy white mould.

Action was what was required, not pointless political sparring. As I made my apologies and got my coat, I decided that in future I should steer well clear of politician types, so much balloon juice only wound me up. I’d concentrate on solving my own problems and leave the politics to those with nothing better to do.