For Faughie's Sake (6 page)

The meeting moved on. Andy Robertson reported to the meeting on Faughie FM’s appeal,
Visit a Veteran
, to find volunteer ‘friends’ to visit old people who lived in outlying districts. I’d heard him talk it up on the radio. The idea was to phone them, visit them, maybe even invite them to lunch occasionally. I could see this would be good PR for a community radio station but obviously doomed to failure: who in their right mind would voluntarily spend time with cantankerous oldsters? God knows I’d done my time with my own mum. But Andy dumbfounded me. He was pleased to report that Faughie FM had identified twenty-three volunteer visitors for the elderly and he was now requesting the disbursement of funds to pay travel expenses. A ripple of approval went round before it went to a vote. Betty was staring at me with one eyebrow almost meeting her hairline.

‘Do you intend to vote, Trixie, or would you prefer to abstain?’

‘Eh, sorry,’ I bleated, as I raised my hand.

Bringing joy to the lonely lives of local coffin dodgers, this was important work we were doing here. I sneaked a glance at my watch and wondered what time I’d get home; there was a good film starting soon.

‘Support for this and our other outreach projects has only been made possible due to a very generous endowment from our
funding partners, Global Imperial. And today I’m delighted to welcome their representative, Miss Jacqueline Yip,’ Betty said, a full curtsey in her voice.

I followed Betty’s fawning expression up the table where it rested on a young woman. Miss Jacqueline Yip was a tiny wee thing, no more than a child really. In her exquisitely cut suit, top-knot hair-do and designer specs, she had all the accessories of an expensive corporate lawyer. She reminded me of a toddler in her mum’s high heels but when she slowly bowed her head in receipt of Betty’s tribute, Miss Yip displayed the delicate mannerisms of an Oriental princess. She was delightful.

‘We have another application to the welfare fund,’ said Betty, ‘and I believe we are to have a presentation from Ethecom. Brenda?’

All eyes on Brenda, whose lips were closed.

‘Eureka!’ shouted a voice from the back of the hall.

People recoiled in fright.

‘Who famously said that?’

‘Archimedes,’ piped up Walter, like the class swot, ‘Greek scholar and mathematician.’

‘Correct,’ said Mag, Brenda’s weird kid, as he wheeled the tea trolley to the table.

People tutted, perhaps because of the loud theatricality of the presentation or perhaps because, like me, they had no idea what the hell Mag was on about.

‘What has this to do with your funding application?’ asked Betty, glaring at Brenda while her glance alternatively flicked towards Miss Yip.

Brenda, probably mortified by Mag’s shenanigans, made an apologetic face.

‘He famously ran through the streets naked but he also invented the Archimedes screw,’ said Mag, scrunching two fingers into inverted commas, ‘a machine for transporting low-lying water to irrigation ditches. I’ve made a model.’

On the tea trolley he had rigged up two basins of water, one six inches higher than the other on top of a cardboard box. Bridged between the basins was a plastic spiral glued round a wooden stick.
He turned the stick and, sure enough, water was transferred from the lower basin to the higher one.

Some people stood up to get a closer look.

‘This principle has been established for hundreds of years, but only very recently did we experiment with reversing it.’

Mag stopped turning the stick and tilted the top basin slightly. Water now began pouring through the screw in the opposite direction into the lower basin.

‘But what alchemy is this? As the water falls, the weight of it pushes on the flights and rotates the screw. With a generator connected to the main shaft, the rotational energy can be turned, not into gold, ladies and gentlemen, but electricity.’

Mag went on to explain, in his hammy stage-magician style, how he had designed a hydrodynamic turbine to put on the weir on the River Faughie. This would provide electricity for Ethecom’s domestic and farm use. He’d obviously done his homework because he easily batted away every objection: a middle-aged man wearing a canvas hat decorated with colourful fly-fishing hooks who introduced himself as Calum McLean was worried that a hydro-turbine would kill the fish.

‘Not this kind, Mr McLean,’ said Mag, dropping the theatricality and becoming pragmatic, ‘Archimedes screws are fish friendly. Think of it as the luge in the Winter Olympics,’ he said curving his hand to demonstrate. ‘It lets the fish, even the big ones, safely pass down the screw. As the water passes through the turbine it gets churned and oxygenated, improving the water quality and, subsequently, the quantity of fish. Until, of course,’ he said in a quieter voice, ‘they get hooked and yanked out.’

I was impressed with his nerve; Mag was probably Steven’s age, sixteen. He was weird but there was no doubt he was smart.

‘We work hard at Auchensadie to create the right atmosphere for our visitors to enjoy a little piece of Highland magic,’ said Mrs Henderson, ‘a Scottish idyll, if you will.’

It was true: Auchensadie distillery was immaculate, the gardens so scrupulously tended there wasn’t a leaf out of place; oak barrels, sherry casks and antique equipment artfully placed around the
courtyard, buildings so white they hurt your eyes. It was perfect, a whisky paradise. It occurred to me then that if drug dens were this appealing, lots of people might switch from alcohol to heroin. Drug dealers simply hadn’t worked hard enough at getting the marketing right.

‘I’m a little bit concerned that the turbine will be, well, I’m sorry, there’s no nice way of saying this – an eyesore,’ continued Mrs Henderson, ‘and for that reason,’ she said, apparently mistaking herself for a dragon out of
Dragons’ Den
, ‘I’m out.’

‘Hang on,’ piped up one of the farmers, ‘I’ve got sheep up that way. What happens if one of my animals falls into your screw? It’ll get all chewed up; that’s not exactly going to enhance the tourists’ experience!’

The farmers all laughed at that one, clearly tickled by the image of live minced lamb.

Brenda now found her voice and chipped in.

‘We can put a guard over the turbine so that nothing can fall into it.’

‘I don’t see a costing for a guard,’ said Betty, reading from the application form. ‘What do you think, Miss Yip?’

Miss Yip leaned forward to see and be seen by everyone around the table. She was obviously dying to get her oar in and had just been politely waiting to be asked.

Although she looked lighter than a soap bubble, Miss Yip’s opinion was heavyweight.

‘Members will be wise enough to make their own decisions,’ she began respectfully in a gentle but firm American accent, ‘but if I understand your objectives correctly, Faughie Council desires not only to be performing good works but also to be seen to be performing those good works.’

‘You understand our objectives perfectly,’ Betty simpered.

‘Perhaps this project,’ Miss Yip continued, ‘as it is located outside the main village, is not quite visible enough.’

‘Not visible enough to whom?’ asked Mag.

No one answered him.

Again he made a good point. Miss Yip was hinting that Global
Imperial had given the council funds to spend however they pleased – so long as they did what Global Imperial wanted. So long as it made them look good.

‘Now,’ said Betty with an exhausted exhalation, ‘are we finally ready to vote?’

‘Point of order, please, Mrs Chairperson,’ said Miss Yip. ‘With great respect: as it’s owned by Faughie estate, the River Faughie is not within the purview of the council. It is Global Imperial’s assertion that to place anything on the river would require permission, along the lines of a fishing permit, from the laird.’

‘Ah, thank you, Miss Yip, so we can’t vote on it anyway?’ said Betty, giving Mag a withering glance. ‘I’m sure Lady Anglicus will give this project all the attention it deserves, now please, can we move on?’

What a waste of my precious time. That film had probably started by now. I should never have got involved in these petty small-town politics; when were they going to get around to granting me my licence?

Next up was extended licensing hours for hotels and from there it got progressively more esoteric: fishery reports, approval for a proposed wind farm, wholesale milk prices, slurry pits, manure management. Manure management indeed. My shoulders drooped and my lips were struggling to maintain an upward curl. The Faughie Council meeting appeared to have entered the fifth dimension; time had slowed to a trickle while the forces of gravity were getting much heavier. Dear God let it end soon.

‘Well that brings us to the end of our agenda items,’ said Betty.

Thank you Jesus.

‘So this might be the time to give you all some very exciting news,’ she continued. ‘Global Imperial has kindly offered us – free of charge - the services of one of their fitness coaches and, right here in this hall, we are going to have our very own …’

At this point Betty beat her forefingers on the table to create a drum roll. ‘First. Ever. Weekly. Genuine …’

She stopped drumming.

‘Zumba class.’

Inaudible crash of cymbals. Gasps of delight from the women. Quizzical expressions from the men.

‘The ladies know what I’m talking about and don’t worry gentlemen, there’s something for everyone. I’ve negotiated a nice little windfall that I think you’re going to love,’ Betty added smugly.

‘What time is the Zumba, Betty?’ asked Mrs Henderson.

‘Don’t worry, Moira, you can make it. Thursday 7 till 8. That’s when most of the ladies in the village can make it.’

Moira gave a big theatrical sigh of relief.

‘May I be the first to congratulate you, Betty, on your procurement of such valuable services,’ said Walter quietly.

‘Thank you, Walter,’ said Betty dismissing him with a gracious nod.

But he wasn’t finished.

‘And may I raise another point of information: the hall is already booked on a Thursday evening with my Scottish history class. This term, as we have a film being made on that very subject, the curriculum will include the Highland Clearances. I will of course give way to the ladies and move it to another night, should that be the wish of the committee.’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t another night, Walter. We’re booked solid with rehearsal space for Global Imperial, I’ve had to suspend the mother and toddler group and even cancel a few pensioner lunches. A Thursday evening’s no use to those groups so I thought we might as well have the benefit of …’

‘In that case, I must insist that my booking stand.’

‘But Walter, you don’t have a booking, there’s nothing in the diary.’

‘Betty, you know fine that Walter runs this class every year,’ said Jenny, trying, and failing, to keep the anger out of her voice.

‘Of course I do, but no booking was formally made and now the slot’s been taken, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry, Walter, really I am, many of us are making short-term sacrifices for the good of the community.’

‘Which community?’ said Walter, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. He may have been softly spoken but there was no doubting his indignation. ‘Our community that fundraised for years to build this hall, or the Global Imperial corporate community?’

It wasn’t clear to me if the guttural rumble that had gone around the room was disapproval for Walter’s outburst or Betty’s ruthless scheduling, but the mood of the meeting had turned darker.
Betty shook her head sadly. Andy Robertson, superstar DJ and Inverfaughie’s most gallant man, stepped into the fray and threw Betty a lifeline.

‘Betty, you mentioned something about a windfall?’

She grasped it with both hands.

‘Yes! The machair, the cash bonus! Thank you, Andy, I nearly forgot. As you all know, we were all delighted – and jealous,’ she quipped, ‘– when Murdo’s low field was chosen as the spot for one of the large-scale battle sequences in the film. But the film crew have hit a problem getting all their trucks and equipment down there. The field is lying fallow at the moment and apparently it’s far too soft. The trucks will churn it into mud before shooting even starts, so, Miss Yip has put together a very interesting proposal. Now, some of you are shaking your heads, but please, just hear me out. Our machair has the unique advantage of having a better turning circle for heavy vehicles and its views of the mountains across the loch are unsurpassable.

‘The machair belongs equally to each and every one of us. Obviously there are grazing rights, but we all have a stake and therefore we all have a say in the decision. Global Imperial are offering every household in Inverfaughie a very generous fee of 240 pounds, as well as a separate agreement for everyone with grazing rights. Although technically we’ll be temporarily waiving our access rights, apart from while they’re actually filming, our use of the machair will not be affected. So long as we fulfil the conditions, everything will carry on as normal.’

‘Will our visitors be allowed to walk on the machair?’ asked an anxious Moira.

‘Absolutely, except obviously when filming is taking place, and when they’re filming that fight scene, my goodness, won’t that be the biggest tourist attraction of all? I wouldn’t be surprised if we got the television cameras up here from Edinburgh. It’ll put our wee village on the map.’

Most people seemed to agree and were excited about the filming on the machair. Like me, most of them were probably already plotting how they were going to spend their 240 quid.

‘And what about those of us with grazing rights?’ asked one of the farmers, ‘how much are we getting?’

‘No, hold on a wee minute,’ said another one, ‘I’m short on grazing as it is this year. I don’t want compensation. I want my grazing.’

‘But it isn’t compensation,’ said Betty, the soothing balm of her voice like calamine lotion. ‘You won’t lose any grazing and you’ll still be paid the honorarium.’

‘How much?’

‘That very much depends on the size of your flock and the shooting schedule. Miss Yip has kindly drawn up some figures. I’m afraid there wasn’t time to have them copied but if you’d care to look.’

‘I’ll need to see them as well before I agree to anything,’ said yet another farmer.

‘Yes, of course, you’ll all have your chance.’

Jenny raised her hand and was given the floor.

‘We can hardly expect anyone to make a decision if they haven’t seen the figures. I propose a break. That’ll let the lads see how much they’re getting before we vote on these two important matters.’

‘Two matters?’ said Betty.

‘Aye. The machair agreement and the Thursday night history class,’ said Jenny, ‘that’s yet to be sorted to the committee’s satisfaction. Nobody leaves this hall until it is.’