For Faughie's Sake (8 page)

‘I hate to tell you this Jenny, but that guy’s not Tony Ramos.’

Jenny and I had just had a silent but vigorous elbow war at the kitchen hatch. I felt bad wrestling with a woman who had twenty years on me and possibly osteoporosis, but she was stronger than she looked.

‘I know that guy, he told me he’s here to work the season.’

‘Rubbish!’ Jenny puffed, squashing in beside me, ‘He’s come to personally cast the right girl. That’s how much of a pro Tony Ramos is.’

‘He’s a pro alright, a professional barman. A couple of years ago he regularly served me in my local pub.’

‘Yes, and now he’s a filum star,’ Jenny insisted.

‘But he looks nothing like Tony Ramos in
The International Brigade
.’

‘FFS, Trixie, he was playing a real-life character, it was a prosthetic nose, surely you knew that?’

I did not know that, and now I was starting to doubt my own argument. When my new neighbour had told me he’d come because of the filming I’d assumed he was, like the rest of us, cashing in on the gold rush, supping up the movie gravy.

Jenny tutted but never took her eyes from the serving hatch. ‘Hopeless: you’re living next door to one of the world’s highest grossing filum stars and you don’t even know it.’

Jenny moved aside to let me stick my face against the curtain.

‘Read any of the gossip mags; it’s well documented that Tony was a barman before he made it,’ she insisted.

My neighbour, the wee barman from Glasgow, was graciously receiving deferential greetings from Raymondo Land and his assistants. The girls were almost wetting themselves. Taking the mickey, I opened up Jenny’s couthy wee acronym and dramatised with long pauses like a hysterical boy band fan, ‘Help. Ma. Boab!’ I said, ‘Tony Ramos is my next-door neighbour!’

They began the audition process all over again, exactly the same as before. The director asked each of the girls to speak again, but this time it was Tony Ramos feeding them their line. Tony smiled and gave them a wee peck on the cheek as they came forward. He was very encouraging, thanked them when they were done and gallantly walked them back to their chair.

‘He’s every inch the gentleman,’ said Jenny, drooling. ‘I’m putting my money on number 3 getting the part.’

‘How much money?’

‘Fiver?’

‘You’re that confident?’

‘Och, alright then, a tenner, but I’m telling you, she’s a cert.’

After we shook on it, Jenny explained why she thought this girl was a shoe-in for the role of Tony’s young wife.

‘Morag Fenton, Bobby’s daughter. What you don’t know – amongst other things – is that although Morag’s only fifteen she’s the most experienced of the lot of them. She’s had training: Scottish Youth Theatre summer school, she goes every year. Costs her dad a fortune, and she’s the best looking.’

I couldn’t disagree. Morag, with her creamy skin, softly curling auburn hair and flashing green eyes, was certainly a beautiful girl, but I’d been more taken with number 5. I told Jenny this.

‘Och, away you go! She’s not even local. That one works in the Bayview round the coast. A nice enough wee girl but she’s not a Highlander.’

On the second run-through I had to admit Morag Fenton was a standout. As she came forward she didn’t appear to be starstruck
and silly like some of the others; she behaved professionally, standing calmly beside Tony as she prepared for her cue.

‘I must go,’ said Tony. ‘Not for self, but for country.’

I had pitied the actor, having to work with such poor material, but he soon made it clear why he was one of the world’s highest grossing stars. Tony’s delivery was so nuanced it didn’t matter how cheesy the dialogue was. He said it like he understood that these were high-minded words and he felt unworthy of saying them but still and all, they must be said.

‘For Scotland,’ he said humbly.

Jenny went a bit glassy-eyed.

Morag took Tony’s right arm with both of hers and pulled him gently towards her, as if she was preparing to physically prevent him.

‘Please. Don’t,’ she said.

There was pleading in her voice but no whining. She shook her head slightly, as if she was trying to deny the reality of her man leaving her. She turned her face from his to shield him from her tears. She was really crying. Real tears were flowing from her eyes. After a few seconds her grip on him slackened, as if she knew the futility of trying to persuade him. She turned back to him and smiled.

‘Go,’ she said, respecting his wishes, giving him her blessing, accepting what must be; loving him so much that she was prepared to let him go.

‘They’ll kill you,’ she whispered. She was smiling, nodding, as if she knew it for a certainty, but yet rebellious: as though the notion that death could separate them was ridiculous.

There was silence in the hall. No movement, no breathing: absolute silence. We were in the presence of pure transcendent love.

Applause broke out in the hall and Jenny and I joined in. No contest. Fair doos, she was amazing. When everyone had had their turn Morag was called forward to the desk. As the director spoke to her the others were discreetly let go.

‘That’s a tenner you owe me,’ Jenny gloated. ‘Oh, and by the way, the other thing you don’t know: Morag Fenton is currently your Steven’s main squeeze.’

Claymores, scabbards, shields, dirks, axes, bows, arrows, flags, bagpipes, spears, pikes, powder horns, muskets, kilts, belts, helmets. And six hairy Scotsmen.

They arrived in a minibus with a trailer for all the gear.

I went out to meet them at the gate, where I introduced myself and then delivered my wee speech. It was the professional thing to do.

‘Welcome to Harrosie, where we offer the very best in Highland hospitality. We hope your Bed and Breakfast experience will be a memorable and pleasant one. If there is anything that would make your stay with us more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask.’

A look passed from one to the other that made me nervous about what it meant. No one spoke. A burly bearded man with a big red nose took the lead. Oh dear, I thought, with that swollen conk he was obviously the type to take a right good drink. I didn’t want any trouble.

‘Stan McCauslan, Claymores Battle Director,’ he said, shoving a surprisingly small hairy hand in my direction. ‘We’ve been billeted with you. Have you somewhere we can store our equipment, love?’

‘Eh, I have a shed out the back,’ I said, stretching my lips, smile-like.

The Accommodation Manager told me I was being allocated combat performers but I never dreamed I’d end up with a shedload of medieval weaponry.

‘Lockable?’

‘Well, I’ve never needed to lock it before. It’s pretty safe around here.’

He looked at me through blood-shot boozy eyes.

‘But I could put a padlock on it. I think I have one somewhere.’

I didn’t want to lose my guests before they were even in the door.

‘Aye,’ he said, signalling to his men. ‘A lot of expensive kit here, hen.’

It took ages for them to put the stuff in the shed. With Red Nose barking orders at them, they unloaded everything from the trailer, carried it round the side of the house to the shed and then entered into a lengthy discussion about how to stack it all.

I had bundled Bouncer upstairs into my bedroom, I didn’t want him bouncing around while I was trying to get my guests settled in and I was looking forward to the welcome tea I had laid on. I’d dug out the best bone china: a full tea service, hand painted with tiny bluebell flowers, even inside the cups, so light and fragile they were translucent. Everything matched: cake stand, milk jug, sugar bowl, side plates; there was even a gorgeous set of silver sugar tongs with the bluebell emblem on the handle. I’d ordered sugar cubes from Jenny especially. Napkins, doilies, tiny silver teaspoons, one for each plate. I’d baked a Victoria sponge for the cake stand and, if I said so myself, the sponge was so light it was in danger of floating away. To fit on the side of the neat little saucers I’d baked dinky wee macaroons and cute button-sized meringues, all in pastel shades. Who knew running a B&B was going to be this much fun? It was so unbearably charming I was getting high off the cute rush.

The men still hadn’t agreed how to stack their stuff. It seemed their weapons were more precious than their personal belongings, which they had dumped in a heap at the front door. From the open kitchen window I could hear a lot of swearing coming from the shed as they cursed and joked with each other. The Battle Director looked up and caught me earwigging at the window. I grabbed the teapot and waved it at him.

‘Ewan, Colin, Dave, Will and Danny,’ he said by way of introduction when they all finally trooped into the lounge.

The six men were a homogeneous blur of the Highland warrior cliché: big, burly, beardy or bald. Stan and Ewan – beardy; Colin – baldy; Dave and Will – beardy and burly; Danny neither burly nor baldy but slightly beardy. They were of a similar mid-thirties to mid-forties age range, and could have been brothers.

‘Pleased to meet you, please do take a seat, don’t stand on ceremony,’ I said as I handed round cups and poured tea.

The rest of them took their cue from the boss, who didn’t seem to want to sit down, so they just stood around in a semicircle. No one spoke. As I handed them their teacups a few of them flapped; with the exception of Stan, their big sausage fingers were too unwieldy to curl inside the finely wrought handles. I served Stan first.

‘Milk?’

‘Please.’

‘Sugar?’

‘Three please.’

With something approaching euphoria I lifted the exquisite sugar tongs and plopped three perfect cubes into his teacup.

‘Sorry about the swearing, hen,’ said Stan pointing backwards, obviously referring to the cursing in the shed.

‘Please, don’t worry, Stan,’ I said. ‘While you’re in Inverfaughie my home is your home. I’d like you to feel at home.’ I turned to one of the others. ‘Milk?’

‘That’s kind of you, hen, and by the way, you don’t need to call me Stan. You might as well call me Rudi.’ He leaned his head towards his men. ‘That’s what these yins call me.’

I nodded. It seemed rude to ask why; I already had a good idea.

‘The nose,’ he said, pointing to it, and then, more to the men than to me, he said, ‘not used to being around ladies. I’ll need to mind my Ps and Qs. I nearly said the
fucking
nose but then I …’

‘You just did,’ said Danny, halting Rudi’s nervous chatter.

Rudi stopped and reviewed his last few sentences then, mortified, he whispered, ‘Sorry.’

The men shuffled, staring at the floor and pinching the handles of their teacups awkwardly. No one spoke.

Now I realised how badly I’d misjudged how to play this. I’d thought running a B&B was all about impressing the guests with my best china and my pastel-coloured meringues. Now I saw that these guys would have been more comfortable with bacon butties and builder’s tea in a chipped mug. They must be dreading having to spend the next six weeks in this stuffy atmosphere. I tried to think of some way to put them at their ease.

‘I’ve heard worse swearing than that, Rudi, believe me,’ I said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Of course,’ I said, passing round the macaroons, ‘haven’t we all?’

The men nodded and smiled, apparently relieved. The genteel crockery must have given them the idea that I was some kind of sad, old-fashioned Highland spinster. Now they’d see I was as broad-minded as the next person. At last the tension was lessening; the atmosphere was beginning to thaw. Maybe we would all get along after all.

‘So,’ Rudi asked, ‘are you alright with the cunt word, love?’

Pinkie in the air and my cup poised at my lip, it was all I could do not to spray the parlour with tea. I didn’t know where to put myself. The rest of them fell about laughing.

There was no redeeming it; my posh tea party was a farce.

‘It’s the C word,’ Danny corrected him, giggling, ‘you’re supposed to say,
are you alright with the C word
?’

But by this time we were all laughing.

No sooner had they come than they were gone again. Rudi ordered them to get their weapons and follow him up the hill for battle practice. It was raining slightly, a light smirr, but they didn’t even seem to notice. They didn’t come back for hours, by which time Bouncer and I were relaxing in the lounge in front of the telly. When they returned I went to leave, to give them the lounge to themselves, but they insisted we stay, all of them making a big fuss of Bouncer.

‘Leave him be, hen, he’s comfortable where he is. He’s a great wee dog,’ said Rudi.

The rest of them agreed, clapping him and tickling his belly.

‘Yeah, he’s charming,’ I conceded.

If they were going to share the lounge with me and Bouncer they’d better know what they were letting themselves in for.

‘Except when he’s eating his own sick or licking his willy,’ I added.

That got a laugh and no one demanded Bouncer leave the room. Now that we’d got the measure of each other I was going to get on fine with these men.

‘That’s a helluva fence next door,’ said Will.

I told them that Tony Ramos was staying there and how I hadn’t recognised him as a filum star but as the wee barman from
Tennent’s. They all laughed. It turned out they knew him too. They had worked with him on
The International Brigade
and he had actually got them the gig on this movie. They were all great pals by the sounds of it.

‘Wee Tony’s stayin’ next door, eh?’ said Will, ‘I thought that was him when I saw the fence.’

I asked what he meant.

‘Press intrusion. Tony cannae be doing wi’ them peeking in his windae, rakin’ his bins,’ he said. ‘Och, well, he’ll no’ have far to go if he wants a game of poker.’

Poker? I wasn’t sure if I liked the sound of that, not with Rudi and his boozy red nose, they might be up all night drinking and carousing.

‘Where did you go for dinner?’ I asked.

‘We haven’t had our dinner yet,’ moaned Dave, ‘Rudolfo wouldn’t let us. I’m starving.’

‘I could maybe rustle something up for you, if you’ll take pot luck.’

I still had the chicken curry I’d made for Steven and Gerry. When they went home early I’d put the rest of it in the freezer; it would stretch at a pinch.

They loved it. They nearly licked the pattern off the plates. A few days later, after they had exhausted the restaurants in the village, Rudi came to me.

‘Trixie, we’ll have to square up with you for the lovely curry you cooked us the other night.’

My cunning plan had worked.

‘Your curry’s the best dinner we’ve had since we got here. Global Imperial gives us a subsistence allowance, you know, it’s quite generous. It would suit me to have all my lads eating dinner here together; gives us more time to rehearse. What do you say we come to an arrangement?’

We came to an arrangement. They would give me wads of cash, and I would give them dinner. All the more money for my flat deposit fund. The money would be great – the slightly ticklish bit would be the drinking.

Rudi’s men would want a drink with their dinner, a pint or maybe a glass of wine. It wasn’t unreasonable for them to want to relax after a hard day’s claymore wielding, but I was nervous. I didn’t know if I had the willpower to resist temptation. I was keen for us all to feel relaxed with each other; I just didn’t want them to see me lying slumped, paralytic in a chair, trying to sing ‘Flower of Scotland’.