For Faughie's Sake

by Laura Marney

  ‘Can you play the new grade eight piece for us, Mag, please?’ Jan asked diplomatically.

  He did, faultlessly. It should have been romantic to eat a candlelit dinner while being serenaded by beautiful guitar music, but it wasn’t. Mag’s excruciating expression of concentration, which made him look constipated, put paid to that.

  Chapter 6

  As we left, Brenda discreetly pressed a small wrapped parcel into Jan’s hand.

  Jan wasn’t moving to the Ethecom community for another week so I offered him a lift back to the village. I’d made the mistake of telling him about my ‘wee detox’, and to encourage me, Jan and his friends put a cork in their home-made elderberry wine. It was a more abstemious affair than I was used to, but despite not drinking and being, probably for the first time in my life, the designated driver, I felt relaxed. Of course it couldn’t last.

  Within a few minutes a dreadful guff began to soak up the air and poison the available oxygen in the car. It smelled like pond slime, or putrefied rodent. Or putrefied rodent lightly drizzled in pond slime.

  Maybe Jan was a little too relaxed. He wasn’t even embarrassed and made no move to open a window. It might have been the scent of muck spreading from the fields but it didn’t smell like the light sweet manure odour I had gradually come to enjoy. This was a heavyweight stench and getting stronger by the minute. Why was Jan not reacting to it? Surely he didn’t think it was me? I tried to take shallow breaths but my gag reflex kicked in.

  ‘It’s pretty strong, ja?’ said Jan, at last rolling down the window.

  I was by this time parked outside Jan’s house. I’d cut the engine, I’d even unclipped my seat belt, all he had to do was invite me in.

  He removed the parcel off the dashboard and held it at arm’s length out the open window.

  ‘I think it was getting too hot on the dashboard.’

  ‘Oh, is that what’s stinking? What the hell is it?’

  ‘It’s a goat cheese,’ said Jan. ‘Ethecom encourages everyone to pay where possible with goods or services, like a barter system. Brenda gives me cheese for Mag’s guitar lesson. Although it smells pretty strong, it’s really delicious. Would you like to try some? I can give you half to take home.’

  Jan began hauling his arm, and the howfing cheese, back in the window.

  ‘No, no, you’re alright.’

  To grab a breath, I rolled down my own window, turned my head sideways and sooked up two lungfuls. I wanted Jan to put the moves on me but I was also trying not to yack. Ok, he wasn’t the handsomest, he was actually quite ugly: big jaw, big nose, scowly face; but outsized features looked better on a man, I always thought, and anyway, what made Jan irresistibly attractive to me was his rarity. But despite being the only available man in downtown Inverfaughie, if he was going to invite me in and jump my bones, he’d better be ready to wash his hands. It would take the full four-minute surgical scrub to get that honk off him.

  When I turned back, Jan was suddenly much closer to me, right up against me. By the hurt on his face I realised that, at the moment he’d sidled over, I’d turned away. He’d made his move and I’d missed it, inadvertently dodging his kiss.

  Jan slid defeated back to his own side. The atmosphere, which might earlier have been described as sexually charged, was now ripe with mortification and the stench of nanny goat.

  Our timing was all wrong.

  Crestfallen, Jan made his excuses and left. Which, I later reflected, was just as well.

  If there had been any bone jumping, it would have been for one night only. Jan was a decent man. He was looking for a long-term relationship, a nice girlfriend who was going to stick around. I was only looking to get out of this dreich waiting-room of a town.

  I had to get B&B certification. I’d spent a week, and a small fortune, preparing for the licensing board inspection; there was a lot riding on it. All the rooms had fresh new bedding and towels, the bathrooms stocked with upmarket soap, shampoo and shower caps. I’d even bought a 500 pack of Jenny’s seals that read, ‘hygienically cleaned and sealed for your protection’, and stretched them across the toilet lids. The toilets weren’t sealed, obviously; a thin strip of plastic had limited powers when it came to preventing germs, but it looked professional. Business was all about the customer’s perception. In my previous life as a medical sales rep that was always a key point at sales training. With the customer’s, and more importantly the Inspectorate’s, perception in mind, I folded the toilet roll ends into a wee point. I drew the line at leaving chocolate on the pillows. That reminded me too much of my previous life. So many times after falling into my hotel bed drunk at a conference I’d woken up with an After Eight stuck to my face.

  On the morning of the inspection the house squeaked with cleanliness. If the Inspectorate wiped a white glove across any of my surfaces he would find not a speck. The doorbell rang at 10:57, three minutes early, but I was ready for him.

  Chapter 7

  I had envisioned a council employee, an official in a suit with a measuring tape and a clipboard, but I opened the door and there stood Betty Robertson, the blowsy bitch who’d stolen my rose bowl. Two weeks earlier I’d won that trophy fair and square, but fair and square wasn’t a concept that was familiar to the judges of the Inverfaughie Gala Day Flower Show. Nepotism; out and out Robertsonism was much more their line. My roses had been the obvious standout winners, admired by everyone who came into the marquee; a blind man with a head cold knew that.

  ‘She only won because her name’s Robertson like the rest of them,’ said Steven when he’d phoned, trying to cheer me up, ‘that way they don’t have to get it engraved, and anyway, they probably can’t spell any other names.’

  Betty Robertson was held up to be a pillar of the community, though you wouldn’t know it after the way she’d comported herself at the ceilidh: throwing her head back and showing everyone her fillings; throwing her legs wide and showing everyone what she’d had for breakfast. She was a fine one to be inspectorating anything. And there was someone else with her.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t my old friend Jenny,’ I said, smiling sweetly. I was using the word ‘old’ to mean geriatric, not long-standing. ‘Please do come in.’

  I indicated towards the front lounge where I had put in a trendy new rug and curtains, but they swept past me and headed straight for the kitchen. By the time I caught up with them Betty Robertson had her head in my freezer. What was she so frantically searching for? Body parts? She would find nothing more damning than a multipack of Magnums and half a Black Forest gateau. A girl had to have some pleasures. Betty Robertson emerged looking disappointed and slightly snow-tinged.

  ‘Now, as the appointed representatives of the licensing board,’ she began.

  ‘In a voluntary capacity, you understand,’ interjected Jenny.

  ‘Thank you, Jenny,’ said Betty, ‘Miss Robertson and myself have been instructed to undertake an inspection of your premises to ensure that they meet the minimum criteria for the issuing of an accommodation licence and to ascertain the appropriate number of thistles you may be awarded.’

  I assented and Miss Robertson and Mrs Robertson then worked their way through every room in the house, inspecting. Or, to be more accurate: having a right good nosey. They were very thorough. They were inside pillowcases, under mattresses, I half expected them to strip search me. And then the dog.

  ‘I’ve laid out the tea things in the lounge, ladies.’ I said, once they’d exhausted their rummaging. ‘If you’d like to follow me through.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Betty. ‘We can’t accept refreshments of any kind.’

  She made it sound like an inducement when I had only been trying to be hospitable.

  ‘It could be interpreted as undue influence,’ she explained. ‘The committee takes a very dim view.’

  I found this suggestion of bribery offensive. I was annoyed after all the trouble I’d gone to, making such extravagant cup cakes. I’d done a double batch and had planned to gi
ve them a box each to take home. Still, they wouldn’t go to waste.

  Their resolve weakened when they actually saw my cakes. Jenny was salivating. After the sell-out success at the gala day, my home baking had already gained a reputation in the village. I’d pushed the boat out and finished these with butter cream, fresh strawberries and chocolate shavings.

  ‘Och, I think we can make a wee exception,’ said Jenny. ‘Trixie’s cakes are mouthgasmic, Betty, you should try one. Box those up for me would you, dear?’

  As they left, with their cake boxes under their arms, I enquired as to whether Harrosie had passed muster.

  ‘Oh, we have to present our findings to the committee,’ said Betty loftily. ‘I’m afraid I can’t predict the outcome, but it is by no means certain.’

  *

  Four days later and not a dickie bird from the licensing committee. New B&Bs, restaurants and cafes were opening on a daily basis. Everyone was soaking up the rich gravy that was sloshing around the village, everyone except me. I wasn’t going to ask Jenny, I wouldn’t beg, I had my dignity.

  Day five and another van rocks up next door, this time it’s a removals van. There are three guys squashed together in the front. The driver, a fat guy, gets out, unlocks the gate in the fence and drives the van inside. That fence; not only had it destroyed my view over the loch, it also meant I couldn’t see a damn thing that was going on next door.

  An hour later the van emerged and drove off, this time with only two guys in it. One of them must be in the house. Next thing my front door was being chapped.

  ‘Hello, I’m Tony, pleased to meet you. I’m going to be staying next door, thought I’d introduce myself.’

  ‘Oh hello, I’m Trixie. Come away in, I’ll get the kettle on.’

  He was a young guy, a Glaswegian, thank you Jesus. He said he’d rented next door for the summer. I didn’t want to ask too many questions too soon, didn’t want to scare him off, I’d have all summer to interrogate him. And anyway, Bouncer, who was as starved for company as I was, got a bit excited. He started what I sometimes called his mad half-hour: dashing from one end of the house to the other. He’d rush up to Tony, jump up to lick him, and then bound off again. It was difficult to sustain a conversation when a furry bullet blasted through the kitchen every few seconds.

  ‘Calm down, Bouncer, get a grip! Sorry about this, he likes you.’

  ‘He’s a great wee guy. He’s got plenty of energy, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Oooft,’ I agreed, ‘he could run from here to Byres Road and back again if he’d forgotten his keys.’

  Even just sharing a wee joke and the memory of Byres Road with a fellow Weegie was cheering me up. Tony laughed and said, ‘Are you from Byres Road? I thought I knew your face.’

  ‘Funnily enough, you look familiar to me too.’

  That was one of the things I missed about Glasgow and particularly the West End: the ability to see people on the street on a regular basis without them having to know all your business. Byres Road had the feel of a village but the anonymity of the city.

  Tony stared hard at me and then suddenly snapped his fingers and pointed.

  ‘Double vodka and diet coke, no ice. Right?’

  ‘Absolutely spot on. How did you know that?’

  ‘I used to work in Tennent’s, years ago. I can’t remember customers’ names but I never forget an order.’

  ‘Double vodka diet coke no ice’, that had been my tipple of choice back in the good old days. In the good old days, I used to drop by Tennent’s for a sly drink after a hard day’s medical repping. From this distance they still seemed like the good old days. How I longed for a double vodka now.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Not specifically, but you look familiar.’

  Tony shrugged. He was a good-looking guy but he was only about twenty-five, a bit young for me. Put that tiddler back in the water, I thought, probably wouldn’t see much of him anyway. He’d probably be working round the clock in one of the hotel bars. There was plenty of money to be made now that the film company were coming to town. Americans were famously good tippers.

  ‘Have you come up because of the filming?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ll be working your arse off, the whole town will. Probably not see much of you then.’

  ‘Probably not, but it’s got to be done.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got something for you.’ I fumbled in the kitchen drawer for the keys Polly had left with me. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tony, surprised, shoving them deep into his pocket, ‘cheers. Wouldn’t want the paps getting their hands on these.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I smiled and passed him his tea.

  Chapter 8

  Shockaroonie on the front page of The Inverfaughie Chanter. Malcolm Robertson M.S.P. for Inverfaughie and district had keeled over and died. Heart Attack, no warning; sitting eating Chicken Tonight and boom. I phoned Jenny but she seemed disinclined to gossip and could only manage funereal platitudes.

  ‘A sad loss to this community,’ she mumbled through her hanky.

  ‘How’s Walter feeling?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s sad, Trixie,’ she said, somewhat coldly. ‘Obvs.’

  Even I was a little sad, Malcolm had seemed a nice man, a bit boring but still; if he hadn’t prematurely gone with the angels he might, in the fullness of time, have become my friend. He was an M.S.P. after all; he probably got invited to loads of parties. It wasn’t as if I had pals to spare. But, as sometimes happens, one friendship portal closes and another opens up. That very day I met someone new.

  In the grassland that ran down to the beach, the place the locals always referred to as the machair, Bouncer spotted something and bounded away from me. Usually the machair was heaving with sheep and cows roaming freely, making it out of bounds to dogs, but that day there were none so I’d thought it was safe enough to let Bouncer off the lead.

  Hah.

  I eventually caught up with him down near the water’s edge sniffing at another wee dog. More than sniffing, actually. He had wrapped his back legs around the wee dog’s head and was thrusting back and forth in a familiar rhythmic motion.

  ‘Bouncer, stop that right now!’ I shouted.

  ‘She might be more receptive at the other end, old chap,’ said a calm voice.

  A woman lay sprawled in the long grass, her face tilted to the sun, blowing cigarette smoke in an upward stream like a steam engine. I was thinking how strong her lungs must be when she suddenly exploded into a strenuous coughing fit. With the effort she was putting in she’d be lucky if her underwear didn’t get at least a wee bit damp.

  I didn’t recognise her from Inverfaughie. She must be a tourist. By her clothes and hair and thread-thin figure she seemed young, but up close she had what used to be known as a ‘lived in’ face. She should have been pretty, she had nice regular features, but whoever had lived in her face had obviously trashed the place. Instead of the usual crinkles and laughter lines there were deep trenches round her eyes and mouth giving her the look of a hunted animal, probably from all that extravagant coughing. When it finally subsided she seemed relaxed, or maybe exhausted. She sat up on her elbows, stubbed out her ciggie and squinted at the dogs.

  ‘I think she rather likes it, actually,’ she said in an aristocratic accent. ‘Mimi, you’re such a little tart.’

  Mimi, a beautiful little King Charles spaniel, seemed to resent this remark. She wriggled free of Bouncer and ran off along the sand. Taking this as a come-on, Bouncer gave chase.

  ‘Bouncer, come back here this minute!’ I yelled in my how-dare-you voice, and then turned to the woman, ‘I’m so sorry about this.’

  This posh lady might not be so relaxed when my grubby mongrel impregnated her pedigree pooch.

  ‘Oh, leave them to it. Don’t worry on Mimi’s behalf. She’s a flirtatious little bitch, she enjoys letting dirty dogs run after her. But the
n, we girls are all the same, aren’t we?’

  She smiled at me, a leering all-girls-together smile, which, out of politeness, I returned, rolling my eyes for good measure. I hear you sister, my rolling eyes said. The woman rose to her feet and stuck out her hand.

  ‘Dinah. Pleased to meet you.’

  She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a hip flask.

  ‘Snifter?’

  I was so surprised I didn’t say anything. It really was a beautiful hip flask, silver or maybe pewter, and all engraved with a fancy coat of arms on the front. Dinah took my hesitation for acceptance and thrust it towards me.

  ‘It’s Auchensadie,’ she said, nodding her head towards the village and the distillery beyond, ‘good stuff.’

  ‘I really shouldn’t,’ I mumbled.

  The flask had a wee silver cup attached as a lid. I poured a teaspoonful, just to be sociable, and necked it. It burned all the way down. The breeze on my face suddenly felt exhilarating. As I handed the flask back I was about to tell her my name when Mimi leapt between us and up into Dinah’s arms. Bouncer wasn’t far behind and, in his enthusiasm to get at Mimi, he nearly pushed the anorexic woman over. Almost as quickly as they’d come, the dogs were off again, this time with Mimi chasing Bouncer. Dinah might be right about her wee spaniel, but it was clear both dogs were enjoying themselves.

  ‘It’s lovely to see them having such fun, isn’t it?’ she said, as she poured herself a large one and sipped at it.

  We stood and watched the dogs romp around on the sand before they came tearing towards us again. Luckily Dinah had put the flask back in her pocket. This time she was ready for Bouncer and grabbed him by the collar.