For Faughie's Sake (19 page)

I wasn’t relishing the prospect of having to sit through yet another meeting but I knew Jackie would be there.

I got there early, I even managed to get a seat, and waited for the show to begin. I’d never been to a hustings before and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like it. Apart from Jenny there were three other candidates: Calum McLean, the fly fisherman from the last meeting, Dr Andrew McKenzie, our public-spirited GP, and – of course, she just had to get her oar in – housewife, committee member and rose-grower extraordinaire: Betty Robertson. Or as Walter was calling her, Mrs Elizabeth Mason Robertson.

Betty led off the husting and man, could that woman hust. She spoke for forty minutes, without notes, and the way Betty told it, we were all going to be millionaires. She’d had her hair done and wore a beautiful pale blue suit that she must have bought special. She spoke much slower than she usually did, which I found soothing and almost made me forget about the total hash she had made of the original machair negotiations. It was Betty Robertson who’d got us into this guddle in the first place. She had some cheek standing for Interim Leader.

Calum McLean was nervous; he kept forgetting his lines and having to stop and squint at his notes, but his policies seemed a lot like Betty’s in that he was keen not to let any foreigners into Faughie. Dr McKenzie was brief, informative and self-effacing;
he hadn’t quite got the idea of politics and clearly wasn’t going to fare very well. Jenny was the popular candidate. When she stood up to speak everyone cheered, mostly because she was introduced by Walter as ‘Ms Jennifer Haddock Robertson’.

‘As is the tradition in Inverfaughie, I’m using my middle name to distinguish me from any other candidates who share the fine Robertson name,’ she said, nodding graciously to Betty.

‘My mother was a Haddock. From Peterhead,’ she said, with great dignity, ‘I come from a long line of Haddocks.’

This was met with good-natured laughter; she already had everyone on side. She went on to remind us that she had been the councillor to open a dialogue with the Scottish government, she had been in negotiations with the Westminster minister; as council representative she had gone with Walter and spoken to the world’s media about Faughie’s newly established independence. She had proven credentials as an international stateswoman.

There was then a debate. Between the candidates and the audience there was no shortage of raucous and passionate banter. I had no idea politics could be so much fun. It was obvious to everyone who was going to win. Despite a feisty performance from Betty, Jenny gently and respectfully wiped the floor with her. It was like putting a girl guide up against Nelson Mandela. I should have brought popcorn. Then they took the vote. We put our hands up and Jenny won hands down. Even Dr McKenzie voted for her.

‘Cheers for voting for me, everyone,’ she said, by way of an acceptance speech, ‘I’ll do my best. So, it’s quite simple: to win our independence we have two tasks: convince the European Court of Justice, and convince the people of Faughie. Some of us will be called to Luxembourg to give testimony: you farmers, businesspeople, ordinary members of the community, Ethecom. I’m counting on everyone to stand together to present our case but we can only prove that it’s the will of the people if we ask the people. And it has to be legally binding. The world will be watching and we have to be squeaky clean. We have to be seen to be scrupulously democratic. I move that we organise a full and formal referendum asap.’

When the meeting ended, I had to ram my way through the crowd, apologising as I rammed, to get to the door before Jackie left.

‘Hi Jackie!’ I yelled, still trapped behind two particularly mulish farm wifies.

‘Trixie,’ he replied, his head down, but he waited for me.

‘Good meeting, eh?’ I said.

‘Aye.’

Outside the hall we stood and looked at each other; or rather, I looked at Jackie while he stared at the ground. After a few moments of this Jackie slowly moved off and, not knowing what else to do, I followed. He was escorting me to my car. This was sweet and gentlemanly but I realised that once we got to the car, having done his duty, he would excuse himself. There was no time for pleasantries; I had to dive right in.

‘Steven says he’s going to join the Ethecom community.’

Jackie didn’t say anything at first, perhaps expecting me to continue, but when I didn’t he spoke.

‘Is he now?’

I was pleased and relieved to hear a note of disapproval in his voice.

It had occurred to me that Jackie might not necessarily be on my side. He might selfishly think it was a good idea for his only grandson to live nearby: a family member to look out for him when he got old, but thankfully that didn’t seem to be the case.

‘He’s been invited to join as an apprentice. They’re not even paying him a wage.’

Jackie screwed up his face, disbelieving, ‘Huh?’

The concept of working and not being paid was obviously as alien to Jackie as it was to me.

‘I know!’ I said, ‘it’s exploitation. They want a strong young lad for the heavy lifting. If the Ethecom hippies want to farm medieval style, well, that’s their business. Let them break their own backs but my son is nobody’s donkey. Steven has a place in sixth form college to go to in September and next year he’s off to university.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Jackie, in what sounded like agreement.

‘So you’ll back me up?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘If you could speak to him, Jackie, remind him that there’s a wider world out there. Tell him not to squander his life here.’

Jackie stopped when we reached my car.

‘Is that what you think I’ve done? Squandered my life?’

‘No! I … Look, Steven’s clever, he’s got the chance to go to university, to have a career in whatever he fancies, a few weeks ago he was talking about studying architecture. It’s different for you, Jackie, you were born here, you didn’t know any different.’

Jackie sighed heavily, gutted probably by my impression of him as a small-town hick. I made a mental note, once I got home, and in the privacy of my own bedroom, to kick my own head in. I really should have learned by now that insulting people wasn’t an effective way to win them over.

‘Sorry,’ I gushed, ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘But I
did
know different. You’re forgetting my years in the navy. I’ve seen the wider world out there. That’s why I came back to Inverfaughie.’

‘Yeah, but at least you got to see it, you got to make the choice. Steven has hardly seen the end of his nose yet.’

‘True,’ he conceded.

We stood in silence at the side of my car for a few moments. Anyone passing would have thought we’d lost the keys.

‘So you’ll talk to him?’

‘What difference would it make?’

‘He looks up to you, Jackie.’

He nodded and didn’t try to deny it.

‘Yes, but we must respect his wishes.’

‘No,’ I said, my face flushing, ‘we absolutely must not. It’s our job to respect Steven’s best interests, not his latest mad notion.’

‘Stevo’s his own man,’ Jackie said, shrugging in the helpless fatalistic way Steven and his pals often did.

‘Stevo?’ I sneered angrily, that’s all I needed: Jackie getting down-with-the-kids. ‘When did he become Stevo? You just don’t want to do the hard part, Jackie, the thankless task of being a boring sensible grandparent. You only want to be the cool dude big brother figure he admires.’

‘I don’t think …’

‘I’m not saying it’s your fault, Jackie. I know you’re new to it, but to be an effective grandparent you need to – to grow up.’

Jackie laughed, chortling away to himself. I smiled anxiously, for such a horribly tactless blurt he seemed to be taking it well.

‘Good night, Trixie. Safe home,’ he said, as he walked away still laughing.

Jan had a new job. As well as being the postie, and the guitar tutor, he was now the village bus driver. Ethecom had bought an old Routemaster at auction and were running a bus service to Inverness. Since the village had got so horribly busy they were trying to reduce pollution and traffic congestion.

They’d converted the Routemaster engine to run on filtered chip pan oil and set up deals with hotels around the coast. The tourists loved it; they were always jumping onto the road to take pictures of it and sniff up the smell of fried haddock it left in its wake, but second-hand vegetable oil wasn’t the only thing Ethecom were converting. They were obviously using this new service for proselytising. Once they had people trapped on the speeding bus they’d be preaching to the captive audience about their wonderful home-grown, hand-knitted, solar-panelled, eco-gadget, electric-shoe lifestyle. They were becoming a cult; trying to control everything, to run every aspect of village life. I for one was beginning to resent their intrusion into Highland traditions, even if Highland traditions were wasteful and toxic. They had no right to intrude, especially on my family. They were brainwashing my son and I needed help.

The Claymores were no use at all. When I asked Rudi to speak to Steven he shied away.

‘None of my business,’ he muttered, ‘that would be a family matter.’

He was right, of course, it was a family matter, one I wasn’t keen to get into with Steven’s dad. Bob would blame me and he’d probably be right too. If I hadn’t insisted that Steven come and spend the summer with me he’d never have got involved in Ethecom’s groovy flower-power love-in.

I phoned Jenny expecting to get her ansaphone and I did. Since she had become Interim Leader she was far too busy to talk to the likes of me. She didn’t have time for my problems. No, nowadays it was all committee meetings and infrastructure and tax raising. She’d even delivered a speech about how funding essential services had to be our priority; I was lower down her priority list than ever. I was missing my wee pal. I missed her practical help and sensible advice; most of all I missed her patter. I didn’t even bother leaving a message, what was the point?

Two seconds later my phone rang.

‘Trixie?’

‘Is this what’s it’s come to, call screening?’

‘We are currently experiencing a high volume of calls.’

‘You are so full of …’

‘I’m not screening
you
. I called you straight back, didn’t I?’

‘S’pose.’

‘So. What can I do you for?’

‘A chinwaggle.’

‘Chinwaggle?’

‘Aye, you know, you used to be a past master at it.’

‘Past mistress, actually, and post mistress, but we’ll let that one go. Is it Steven?’

‘Och, but with affairs of state and what not, you’re far too busy to take time out of your busy schedule …’

‘Can you pop round tonight?’

This put the brakes on my sarcasm.

‘What time?’ I asked, my eagerness all too obvious.

‘Well, I can’t until at least after nine. No, better than that: can you turn up dead on nine? That way I can get rid of them. Oh, and
can you pick up fish and chips from the Caley on your way? My treat. I’ll be too knackered to cook by that time of night.’

I was coming out of the Caley with a steaming bag of two fish suppers – Ali made them extra large but no extra charge: friends in high places – when who should I see lurking in the car park but Dinah.

‘Contraband,’ she said, ‘tax-free ciggies, I’m waiting for a delivery.’

‘You’ll stunt your growth,’ I said, and walked on with a cheery wave. I didn’t want to hang about, the chips would get cold and the fish batter soggy if I stopped. I was already gunning the engine when she stuck her head in my window.

‘Mmmm,’ said Dinah, filling her nostrils with the aroma, ‘that smells jolly good! You having a night off?’

‘Yeah, something like that,’ I said, smiling, ramming the gear stick into reverse.

‘Going anywhere nice?’

‘I’m just popping up to Jenny’s.’

‘It’s lovely that you’re such good friends,’ she said, a wee bit wistfully it seemed. ‘Well I can see you’re in hurry so I won’t keep you, but I wondered if you and Bouncer wanted to come over to the castle again some time?’

‘I don’t know, Dinah, I’m trying not to drink.’

‘No, I didn’t mean … We could just walk the dogs, good healthy fun, any time that suits.’

‘Ok, I’ll see.’

I pulled out past her and gave her the slow arm-in-the-air salute.

‘See you tomorrow then!’ she yelled after me.

‘Perfect timing,’ said Jenny, when she opened the door. I tried to hand her the bag with our dinner in it but she flitted it away.

‘No,’ she whispered, ‘that’s part of my fiendish plan. I’ll make myself scarce. You go straight through and plunk yourself down in amongst them. Hopefully you’ll embarrass them out the door.’

As I walked into the living room I spotted the first flaw in her plan. There were no spare seats. Every available chair, stool and bit of couch was occupied by wild-eyed coffee’d-up committee members who fell into a shocked hush when they saw me. I smiled and nodded hello to Moira Henderson the distillery guide, Brenda from Ethecom, Andy the superstar DJ, Walter, and everyone else who, unlike me, had been drafted into this elite cabinet. They smiled back and stared until Walter was gallant enough to give me his seat. I sat with the flagrantly fragrantly steaming bag in my lap. People sniffed and looked away. Awkward silence then ensued, during which I noticed the absence of Mrs Elizabeth Mason Robertson.

‘No Betty tonight?’ I asked, but no one was inclined to answer. They looked, with shifty glances, one to the other. Something was afoot but whatever it was, they weren’t telling. I obviously hadn’t had security clearance. I wasn’t going to let them cow me into silence so I carried on regardless. ‘Is this the flag then?’ I asked, somewhat obviously.

Draped across the dining table was a huge yellow, pink and green tricolour. I knew from the incessant emails Brenda sent out every day that they’d run a competition amongst the schoolkids to design a flag for Faughie. Michael Robertson’s design had won. I remembered that the green colour represented the fertile fields and yellow the broom flowers the area was known for. The acid yellow blossom always made me imagine Inverfaughie as an old lady wearing a vibrant party dress.

‘What does the pink stand for then?’ I asked and caught Moira’s eye.

‘Eh, no reason,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but it’s a lovely colour, isn’t it? Nice.’

‘We chose pink because we couldn’t find another national flag with pink in it,’ Walter added.

‘Yes, that too,’ agreed Moira.

‘The Anglicus Coat of Arms is obviously what they expect, but it’s so obsequious,’ said Walter, and everyone nodded. ‘The triband flag design dates back to the sixteenth century. Due to its associations
with liberty, republicanism and indeed even,’ he lowered his voice to a mischievous whisper, ‘
revolution
, it’s perfect for us.’

No one had anything to add to this so there was another round of nodding until the haar of silence again descended and settled on us. I almost asked about the cardboard box full of rosettes made up in the Faughie colours, but I didn’t want Walter to go off on one again so I shut up and let the fishy chippy smell do its work.

‘Well I suppose we must call it a night then,’ said Walter, his disappointment obvious, ‘and let you get your dinner.’

As Moira put her tartan cape on, the others took the hint and prepared to leave. Now that she’d heard movement, Jenny came back into the room to find Moira pumping everyone’s hand, thanking everyone profusely, even me. I smiled graciously and accepted her thanks. I’d learned that afternoon, from another email update from Brenda, that the committee had successfully agreed a deal with the distillery. Moira and her co-workers’ jobs were now safe.

The distillery owners, a multinational corporation, had reported a ten-fold increase in sales, which obviously pleased them, but they were concerned about the effect Faughie’s ‘political instability’ might have on their supply lines. They had calculated that even if all arable land in Faughie were to be converted to barley production for their exclusive use, it would still be nowhere near enough for the amount of whisky they wanted to produce. They would have to import it. The owners, no doubt nobbled by Westminster, had temporarily shut down production and laid off the staff. A delegation led by Brenda had made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Faced with compulsory purchase of the plant and remaining stock, the distillery decided that not only were they happy to retain ownership and restart production, but they were delighted to contribute appropriately by paying a levy on all the water they used.

As Brenda reasoned in her follow-up email, if they could produce Scotch whisky anywhere else in the world, they would have done so long ago. The distinct qualities of soft Scottish water, (peat, mineral content and so forth – I skimmed that part of the
email) were what gave Scotch whisky its distinctive taste. I was of course too modest to mention my own personal contribution; perhaps my humble alimentary ejaculation had played a part. But the distillery was open again, the staff kept their jobs and a lucrative slice of whisky profits would now come directly into Faughie council’s coffers. The sovereign state of Faughie was going to be pure minted.