by Ray Timms
‘Och, aye, at least five English soldiers escaped. They think they can outrun our dogs, but, we’ll catch em, then they will face good old-fashioned Scottish Justice.’
‘What do you mean by that Mayor McClusky? Should you not hand them over to the authorities?’
‘Och aye, and we will, but not before they spend a little time in the town’s stocks. The villagers need to see the faces of the men who did this to our lovely town. Did you know that Bonnie has won the Prettiest Village in Scotland competition three years in a row?’
Kelvin said. ‘I wasn’t aware of that, no, but congratulations on that. Can I ask you Mayor McClusky, how many villagers, last night, were actually killed and injured in this battle?’’
Boyd thrust the microphone back into the mayor’s beard.
‘It is too early to say,’ McClusky said with a sad shake of his head. ‘The town Doctor, Thomas Knapp, who would usually tend the wounded, is up in the hills having to sort out a sheep with a breech birth. I did hear that Mrs Paisley, who is eighty-one years old, and only two weeks ago had a hip replacement operation, collapsed at the news. I also heard that Kenneth Mulchie, who is on tablets for a urine infection took a turn for the worse.’
‘So, did anyone actually die, or get seriously injured?’ Kelvin Boyd persisted.
‘As I said Mr Boyd, it’s a little too early to say.’
Kelvin Boyd, the wind whipping his fair hair around moved off down the road. The cameraman, and soundman were walking backwards when Kelvin said, ‘I will now show you what is left of the famous Bonnie Bridge.’
They came around a bend in the road and the cameraman zoomed in on the destruction of the bridge. Boyd imagined that many of the millions of TV Scottish TV viewers listening to this shocking report would have gasped and some might even be weeping at the sight. Boyd turned to face the camera.
‘I have with me, Professor Lars Gustav of Glasgow University who is an expert on historical structural renovation… Professor…’ The cameraman found Gustav.
‘Professor Gustav, is it possible these historic Scottish landmarks could ever be repaired?’
‘Not a cat in hells chance,’ Lars Gustav said with a shake of his head. ‘This is sacrilege Mr Boyd… I say, this is sacrilege… wanton destruction. I could weep.’
The camera on him again, Kelvin said solemnly. ‘There you have it… the Professor has expressed the sadness that we all feel… as he said: “we could weep.”
The camera then swung about to take in the scene of four tractors, belching fumes, dragging the British tank up Bonnie’s High Street. Hurrying, Boyd caught up with one of the tractor drivers and shouted up at him.
‘Can you tell the viewers where you are taking this tank?’
Farmer, Seamus McGivney, five generations owner of Stone Cross farm where the town’s GP was at present enjoying a very large fried breakfast, cooked by Seamus’s wife, in gratitude for saving the lives of a Ewe and its lamb during the night, yelled down from his cab.
‘We are keeping it in case the English should try and attack us again.’
Turning back to the camera, Kelvin Boyd held one finger to his earpiece. His face expressed the news that just came in.
‘I have just heard. There has been another English atrocity. Out in the North Sea a British Destroyer attacked and sank a Scottish fishing trawler. The number of dead and injured in that attack are not yet known. The names of the victims will be withheld until their next of kin has been informed.’
Putting on a sad clown face, the famous news reporter said. ‘This is Kelvin Boyd – in the town of Bonnie – on a sad day for Scotland – signing off.’
Off-camera after checking his microphone was switched off Boyd turned to his cameraman and said. ‘What a load of cobblers.’
A little after ten that morning, in the Scottish Parliament Building, Scottish MSP’s and members of the public, packed in like sardines, were waiting for Scotland’s First Minister to stand up and announce the government’s response to these English atrocities. Mary Dewar had her IT techies; rig up huge TV screens in the Assembly Chamber so that in silent rage, her audience could watch Kelvin Boyd’s report. The first video clip showed a shot of a heap of rubble strewn with flowers and single stemmed thistles.
Someone in Bonnie must have thought it a good idea to have the local Am-dram group show up with a handful of children to act like weeping townsfolk, who on cue started sobbing on their knees over the rubble of the cross. When asked by the TV reporter to describe what happened they appeared to be too distressed to talk. Inflamed local men, more vocal than the women, many with red beards, swore revenge on the invaders. The next news clip showed the captured Centurion tank that was parked up outside Bonnie’s Town Hall. Atop its turret a group of young men were shown waving the Scottish flag. Finally, on the TV screens, the audience saw five wet and bedraggled fishermen, wrapped in foil blankets, being led to a fleet of ambulances. A chorus of gasps echoed round the chamber when the TV screens went black.
In condemning the actions of the English the Scottish First Minister said.
‘These unprovoked attacks by the retreating English forces shall not go unpunished. This act of war can only serve to inflame the hearts and minds of the Scottish Nation. The English must expect reprisals.’
Later that morning in a hastily assembled meeting of the Scottish Cabinet, it was agreed that Mary Dewar should call Sir Roger Bottomley on the telephone and insist that he explained the actions of his troops, pay substantial recompense to the people of Bonnie, pay to have the bridge and the Celtic cross reinstated and he must also pay for a new trawler and pay the boat’s owners compensation and then make a full and frank public apology.
When the call came through to, Sir Roger Bottomley Terry Beaumont was sitting in his office.
‘Whatever you do, don’t admit to anything,’ his SA insisted. ‘You tell her that you are not prepared to make any comment until a full and frank enquiry has looked into the facts… can you manage that?’
‘I am not entirely stupid Beaumont.’
With the speakerphone on Terry listened in.
‘Sir Roger Bottomley,’ Mary barked down the phone, ‘you bumbling fool. This time you have gone too far. You can expect swift reprisals for these cowardly attacks on the Scottish people.’
‘Good morning First Minister,’ the PM said cheerily giving Terry the thumbs up sign. ‘Sorry Mary, but I haven’t a clue what you are on about! What attacks?’ The Prime Minister winked at Beaumont’s grin.
‘Are you serious?’ Mary fumed. ‘It’s all over the news, and don’t even think about denying your complicity in these barbaric attacks. We have all the evidence we need to prove it was your troops that almost destroyed the town of Bonnie. We also have proof it was your navy, acting on your orders, that sunk a Scottish trawler.’
‘We did no such thing.’ Bottomley said and gave Beaumont another wink. Terry nodded his approval. ‘This is a scam Mary, a set –up, that is intended to inflame the situation just to get the Scots to back your stupid UDI nonsense, that is never going to work. I am no fool Mary. You staged this entire thing just to defame and embarrass me.’
‘Defame you…’ Mary said exasperated. ‘Bottomley, you don’t need my help in that department. You are a walking embarrassment. It is hardly surprising your own MP’s want you gone. Now, enough of this waffle, this is what, you will do: You will replace the trawler that your Destroyer sank and recompense the trawlermen… furthermore, you will pay to have the bridge and the Celtic cross repaired and pay substantial compensation to the townsfolk of Bonnie… and then before you interrupt me, you will go on the TV and you will make a full and unequivocal apology.’
Bottomley looked round at Beaumont who shook his head.
‘Mary, as I said, until the full facts have been examined by a public enquiry, I am unable to make any comment other than to insist we didn’t do it.’
‘Right.’ Mary snarled. ‘In that case Bottomley, you can expect Scotland to c
arry out swift and decisive counter-strikes.’
‘Oh,’ said the PM, sitting bolt upright in his chair, ‘are you threatening to wage war against us, because if you are, you might like to reflect on the fact that Scotland has nothing to wage a war with, because we took all your weapons… how do you like them lemons Dewar?’
In Mary’s office, surrounded by her Minsters, the conversation was played out on the intercom. Enraged and exasperated by Bottomley’s attitude, Mary slammed her hand down on the table. She growled.
‘I know what this is about Bottomley,’ Dewar fumed. ‘You can’t fool me. This is a ploy to distract the media from the mess that you made of Brexit and our Independence. Well, like it or not, Scotland is now free of you and your snobbish yobs in Westminster and there is not a thing you can do about it… how do you like them onions, Bottomley?’
‘Them onions are just find Mary,’ Bottomley sneered.’ Because I happen to know you cannot govern Scotland… you cannot pass a single law, not without the Queen signing off your bills, and I can categorically assure you she will never do that. How do you like them potatoes Mary?’
Mary hadn’t intended showing her hand quite yet. She hadn’t planned on telling Bottomley that she had a workaround to the problem of Royal Assent but he got her so mad… ‘Well, let me tell you, you big fat slob. Scotland now has a King. Which means he will sign off our bills… how do you like them bananas Bottomley?’
Sir Roger stared at the phone in his hand now gone dead. ‘She hung up on me Beaumont.’
Terry was looking worried… deeply worried.
‘What is it Beaumont?’ Sir Roger said.
‘Did you not hear what she just said? She said Scotland has a King!’
With a wave of his hand Bottomley dismissed Terry’s concern. ‘Take no notice dear boy. It’s all waffle. More of her claptrap.’
‘Sir Roger,’ Beaumont said sternly, ‘If Scotland has indeed become a monarchy and has got itself a King we are in dead trouble. He will be able to sign off their laws and there is not a thing we can do about it.’
‘Really, it’s that’s serious Beaumont?’ Sir Roger said.
Terry was just thinking that at least the PM was taking the matter seriously when he then said.
‘What did she mean, how do I like them bananas? Has she gone mad?’
Beaumont shook his head. He had better go talk to the people in the legal department. In the doorway, Beaumont paused to look back at Bottomley. ‘Mary, mad! Quiet possibly, Sir Roger.’
After ending the call, Mary Dewar, addressing her Ministers barked.
‘Right. I want all of you out. I have some important business to attend to. In due course I will get back to you individually with a plan of action.’
Alone in her office, after locking her door, Mary picked up the phone and made a call.
When the phone in Thomas Stickly’s new and empty office rang, he and his staff in Scotland’s newly acquired, Ministry of Defence HQ, were busy unpacking boxes, removing the wrapping from new tables and chairs and setting up their computers.
The newly appointed wet-behind the ears Scottish Defence Minister had only just worked out where the tea bags were being kept and the shortest route to the toilets when he rushed into his office and standing by the window took the call.
‘Thomas,’ Mary said. ‘As my new Defence Minister, I am making you responsible for ensuring Scotland is protected from further attacks by the UK armed forces. What ideas do you have?’
Stickly motioned with his hand that his secretary should listen in on the speakerphone.
‘With respect First Minister,’ Stickly said. ‘I have only been in post three days and I haven’t had time to catch my breath, what with me having to help unpack boxes…’
‘Stickly, I didn’t make you Defence Minister just so you could play at being happy families.’ Mary shut him up. ‘If you can’t come up with a plan, fine, I will give you one: You are to seize, by force if necessary, a building, or some landmark that the English prize. We will use that as a hostage. When they demand that we give it back we tell them ok, but only if you return the weapons that you stole from us.’
‘First Minister…’
‘Do it Stickly or I will have you replaced.’
Click. The line went dead. Stickly stared at his secretary.
‘Good luck with that.’ Mrs Fotheringay said with a grin.
Chapter Fifteen
Balmoral Castle.
For the past twenty-seven years John Brown has been in charge of the day-to-day running of Balmoral Castle the Queens favourite Scottish home. In all that time he has never had the slightest problem with the locals, which wasn’t that surprising seeing as most of them were employed at the Castle.
It was a matter of misfortune and inconvenience that the Queen happened to be in residence when two rather noisy, smoke billowing, Centurion Mk11 tanks, relics of WWII, flying the flag of Scotland on their radio aerials blocked the north and the South entrances to Balmoral Castle.
From an upstairs window, housemaid Candace Ogilvy, when she saw the two tanks roll into position and then aim their guns at the Castle, gasped and then ran down the stairs.
‘Mister Brown… Mister Brown!’
Coming out of the dining hall to see what all the fuss was about, he bumped into the young housemaid.
‘Now then, now then.’ John Brown said, glowering down at the young girl. ‘What is all this fuss about Candace? You know I’ll not have all this shouting and running in the castle.’
Gulping in air, Candace curtsied to him. ‘Yessir, Mister Brown… Sorry, Mister Brown.’ Brown’s beard bristled. This calmed the young woman. ‘Now, what drama have you brought me this time? I do wish you wouldn’t spend quite so much time watching all that rubbish on the television. Downton Abbey is not real you know.’
‘If you’ll excuse me Mr Brown, I thought that you should know there are a couple of tanks blocking both the Castle roads. And a young man wearing a kilt and waving a white flag is walking down the driveway heading towards the house.’
From a third floor balcony, John Brown could see Candace Ogilvy hadn’t imagined it – a couple of ancient tanks were indeed blockading both roads that led off the estate. When he recognised the young man struggling down the South Road carrying aloft a white flag attached to a stick John Brown growled. The Master of the house hurried down the stairs and before the young man could ring the doorbell he was standing on the front porch, feet apart and with his arms folded across his barrel chest.
‘What do you want Fergal McLeish?’ Growled John Brown who was known to take his hands to unwanted visitors.
Keeping a safe distance from the gruff Houseman, Fergal, feeling sweaty in his battle fatigues and with his lungs wheezing from the long trek said.
‘I am very sorry to bother you Mr Brown, but the Colonel has instructed me to offer you our terms of surrender.’
John Brown’s bushy eyebrows formed an arch. He glared at the young infantryman.
‘Before I listen to your terms of surrender, young Fergal, perhaps you’d be kind enough to inform me what exactly it is, that I am expected to surrender?’
Private McLeish cleared his throat and read from the piece of paper that was in his shaking hand: “Ahem, Balmoral Castle, being on Scottish soil, is hereby declared to be the rightful property of the Scottish Crown. Notice is hereby given to the occupants of the castle and its estates. You are to leave without delay and should we meet any kind of resistance… any kind at all, even bad mouthing us, we will not be responsible for the consequences.” Fergal looked back up the hill, He could see the tank in the distance. He looked back at the Houseman and then took a step back.
When John Brown lifted his chin it doubled the effect of his beard bristling trick. In a stiff breeze, his heavy kilt swung between his hairy thighs.
‘And should I decide not to accept your terms of surrender, young Fergal, does it say on that piece of paper what the consequences are?’
F
ergal turned the paper over.’ Oh,’ he read: “Should John Brown give us any trouble, any sort at all, we reserve the right to use proportional force.”
‘Goodness Fergal, did you pen that?’
‘Gosh no, Mr Brown, it was the Colonel who wrote it.’
‘And which colonel would that be, if it’s not a military secret Fergal?’
‘Oh er, Colonel Appleby sir.’
‘And would that be Jamie Appleby?’ John Brown enquired. ‘Who only last week was lance corporal Appleby?’
‘Yes sir,’ Fergal said glancing back up the long driveway and not looking forward to the long trek back. ‘Jamie was promoted. He is now a Colonel, Mr Brown.’
‘In that case, would you pass on my congratulations to young Jamie Appleby and be sure to tell him that that you have spoken to John Brown and that Balmoral Castle will not be surrendering. Also, can you tell the Colonel that if he doesn’t move those thundering heaps of scrap iron off the estate immediately, I shall come up there and box his ears. Can you manage that Fergal?’
Like many things in life, the siege of Balmoral followed a string of consequential happenings, occurrences if you will. It all started with Mary Dewar’s idea that her new Scottish Defence Minister should pay a bedside visit to the Aberdeen hospital where the crew of the Merry Boson were being kept in for observation.
After a staged photo-shoot, Thomas Stickly hurried from the hospital and found his driver Brenda Stewart waiting by his government car.
‘Thank you Brenda,’ Stickly said to his driver who was holding the rear door open as he climbed in the back of the car.
Once out on the open road, Brenda called back over her shoulder.
‘Where to, boss?’
‘I am starving. Can we go someplace quiet, maybe a village pub? I believe you know this area, so I’ll let you choose.’
The driver thought about that for a moment and then said.
‘ I have somewhere in mind. It’s very quiet and the food is to die for. Have you ever been to the town Baldinnet?’