by Jane Renshaw
‘Don’t do it, Dad,’ Max muttered, getting up to replace his guitar in the corner by the bookcase.
‘I thought it was good,’ Phoebe asserted virtuously. ‘You kind of sounded Scottish.’
‘Och aye.’ Bram stood, striking a pose. ‘I’m a Hieland laddie now, you ken!’
When everyone else was in bed, Bram settled in the armchair next to the ‘wireless’ in the Walton Room, the 1930s vibe spoilt somewhat by the laptop open on his knee.
His blog, Our Highland Home, had gained a few followers – they now numbered two hundred and forty-nine, although most of them were friends and family. And there were twenty-six comments on this morning’s post, which didn’t surprise him given its content. There was no point doing a blog, in his opinion, unless it was warts and all, so he’d described the happenings of yesterday – the dead crow on the whirly, Bertie being shot at and the vegetable patch weedkilled.
He scrolled down the comments, pausing now and then to add quick replies: Thanks, yes, we’re all fine or The police are pretty sure it’s just kids, which is borne out by what the neighbours have told us about hi-jinks going on in the woods a while back.
The first comment from ManOnAMission was about halfway down.
Yeah. Okay. Your out-of-control animal rips its side on a barbed wire fence trying to get to a field of sheep (should sue the farmer – dear Bertie has every right to worry sheep if he so chooses). And, surprise surprise, you can’t grow aubergines outdoors in Scotland. But no – someone ‘shot Bertie’ :-( :-( :-( and ‘poured weedkiller on the vegetable patch.’ :-( Sheesh.
There were a couple of replies from Jan and Freddie, two friends from London, telling ManOnAMission where to get off, and then a reply from someone called Red:
There ain’t no cure for stupid, Man. Fucking wee hipster arsewipe.
Red had left his or her own comment further down. Just two words.
You people!
Bram snapped the laptop shut and sat for a moment, his fingers spread out on top of it, as if to contain what he’d just read safely inside. You people… What on earth was that about? You people as in what? Incomers? Londoners? Liberal-minded New Age lunatics? Had they got it all wrong? Had Bertie actually torn his shoulder on barbed wire trying to get into a field of sheep – had one of the locals seen it happen? Had the veg died from incompetence-stroke-overconfidence, from Bram’s ignorance of the Scottish growing conditions? Were these trolls rightly indignant that the Hendriksens’ default had been to blame local kids and call the police on them?
Well, even if that were the case, it was an honest mistake.
There was no excuse for trolling.
He’d warned Max and Phoebe often enough about cyber bullying. He’d never expected to be on the receiving end himself.
Just walk away, he always told them.
He stood, and set the laptop down on the chair, and literally walked away, across the room to the windows looking out onto the darkened verandah. The sky wasn’t black, it still had a blue tint to it – the summer dusk this far north was late and slow – but it was dark enough to obliterate whatever was out there, the windows throwing back only his own reflection, an average Joe dressed in a vintage 1950s chocolate and beige polo shirt, navy M&S jeans and polished leather shoes, standing with arms dangling at his sides.
Fucking wee hipster arsewipe.
Bram wasn’t ‘wee’; he was five foot ten. And he wasn’t a hipster. He was too old and he didn’t even have a beard. Okay, the vintage polo shirt – but M&S jeans, for God’s sake!
Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was twitching the curtains closed across all the windows and frowning at the four panes of glass in the upper section of the door, and asking himself why they hadn’t thought to put up a door curtain.
6
If Bram was being honest, which he wasn’t – ‘Looks like a nice place,’ he’d smiled as they’d parked up – the Inverluie Hotel was the kind of hostelry that showed to best advantage in the rear-view mirror. It had once, he supposed, been charming, a Victorian coaching inn by the side of the main road to Grantown, but uPVC window salesmen and lax planning regulations had done their worst. The bar was now housed in a hideous extension that resembled a public toilet.
‘It used to be where all the cool kids hung out,’ Kirsty told him, taking his arm as they walked from the car to the ramp at the door. ‘The ones who had their own transport.’
Inside, the place smelt of spilt beer and stale cigarettes – how was that even possible when smoking in pubs had been banned in Scotland in 2006? The walls were covered in a shit-coloured atrocity that looked like laminate flooring gone wrong. There were garish plastic flowers in baskets on the windowsills, and ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ was blasting from speakers mounted on brackets near the ceiling.
Not surprisingly, only one table was occupied, but the far door, which seemed to be the fire exit, was propped open and there was smoke filtering through it from the unseen punters presumably standing just outside in order to have a fag, explaining the ash tray ambience of the place. At the occupied table sat an older woman and four young lads, all staring at the blank TV screen to one side of the bar.
The man behind the bar shook his head at Bram and Kirsty as they approached. ‘TV’s on the blink.’
The two men sitting on stools at the bar didn’t look round.
‘That’s okay,’ said Kirsty. ‘We’re here for the banter.’
The barman raised his eyebrows a millimetre. He was in his sixties, Bram guessed, a wiry little man with a head of thick wavy grey hair.
‘Out on the razz,’ Bram added.
‘My brother’s minding the kids and we’re off the leash and running.’ Kirsty’s voice shook, just a little, with suppressed laughter. ‘I’ll have a white wine, please.’
‘A bitter lemon for me.’
On the rare occasions they’d gone out for the evening in London, usually to friends’ houses or the cinema, Max would babysit Phoebe. But when they’d suggested this arrangement for tonight, Phoebe hadn’t been happy. ‘Max won’t be able to defend us,’ she’d whispered to Bram. And so Fraser had been parachuted in. As far as Phoebe was concerned, Uncle Fraser was the ultimate tough guy, and he’d preened when she’d demanded to see his party trick of bending cutlery with his bare hands – not just teaspoons, but dinner knives and ladles and mashers. Bram had noticed Max surreptitiously trying and failing to bend a fork.
‘I’m Kirsty and this is Bram.’
‘Willie,’ the barman reciprocated. ‘You’re the folk who’ve bought the Taylors’ plot?’
Kirsty grinned. ‘I’d forgotten how effective the bush telegraph is around here.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Willie, grimly pouring bitter lemon into a glass. ‘No chance of keeping your private life private in this place.’
The two men on the barstools were shooting glances at Kirsty. She looked a million dollars in a stone-coloured linen dress, her hair loosely braided from the temples and pinned back behind her ears. With her cheekbones and tan and smoky eye make-up, and those striking green eyes, she was channelling Cleopatra, Hollywood-style. When he went out with Kirsty, he was well aware that people looking at the pair of them must be wondering what the hell she was doing with an ordinary bloke like him.
‘Dog got shot,’ one of the barflies muttered suddenly.
‘Oh, um, yes.’ Bram opened his wallet. ‘Well, we think he was grazed by an airgun pellet. Or possibly he ripped his shoulder on barbed wire. Bit of a trauma, but he’s going to be fine.’
Willie grimaced. ‘Long as the wound doesn’t get infected. Once sepsis sets in…’
‘The vet gave him antibiotics, so he should be fine.’
‘And what about the dead crow, eh, and the weedkiller? Someone’s got it in for you folks and no mistake.’
‘The police think it’s just kids.’
Willie shook his head.
‘Although…’ Bram fished out his phone. Willie probably knew everyone with
in a ten-mile radius. Maybe he would be able to identify the trolls. ‘We could have it all wrong. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for it all. I’ve had some comments on my blog to that effect.’
‘Trolls,’ said Kirsty. ‘Bram, I don’t think Willie wants to see–’
Too late. ‘Aye, go on, then.’ Willie took the phone and narrowed his eyes at the screen. ‘Jesus. Some right nutters out there, eh?’
‘You don’t recognise these names? ManOnAMission and Red?’
Willie shook his head. ‘I don’t do social media, and this is a good example of why not.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘The small-town mentality around here is shocking, let me tell you. And the xenophobia that comes with it. If I didn’t have to work in this bloody bar I’d be off like a shot to Glasgow, or Edinburgh, or maybe London.’
‘But why do you have to work in the bar?’ Bram was genuinely interested.
Willie was counting out his change. ‘Numpty of a brother owns the place.’ As if this explained everything. ‘What possessed you to leave London… for this?’ He gestured around him.
Bram saw that the group at the table had transferred their stony gazes from the TV to him and Kirsty. He smiled at them. ‘Hi.’
They continued to stare but remained mute, as if Bram were talking another language – or no, it was more as if he and Kirsty were animals in a zoo with which it wasn’t even possible to communicate.
‘Well, my family are here,’ Kirsty told him. ‘And it is home, when all’s said and done.’
‘And it’s an absolutely gorgeous part of the world,’ Bram enthused. ‘You have to admit. London seems like a different planet. If I had to go back and live there now, I think I’d go crazy. I don’t think I could cope with the hustle and bustle. It’s amazing to wake up in the morning and hear birdsong drifting in at the window. And not another single sound.’
‘Aye, granted.’ Willie nodded. ‘I like nature myself.’
Kirsty smiled. ‘You say that as if you’re confessing to some terrible addiction.’
‘My name’s Willie and I’m a forager,’ he said, deadpan.
Bram practically jumped up and down. ‘You forage for wild food? Oh, wow! That’s exactly what I want to do once we’re properly organised with the house. What kind of things do you forage for? Salady stuff? Mushrooms?’
‘Aye, and pignuts, elderflowers, blaeberries… Best stay away from the mushrooms if you don’t know what you’re doing. Pick the wrong one and you could end up giving your whole family organ failure. Something like death cap, there’s no antidote, right? Get that in your system and hello kidney dialysis for life, if you’re lucky.’ He swiped a cloth along the bar and gave a huge sigh. ‘I suppose I could come over and show you the basics. Show you the safe ones you can’t mistake for anything dangerous.’
‘Well, that would be very kind of you, but I don’t want to put you out.’
‘It’s no trouble.’ Willie’s tone was heavy with sarcasm.
‘Right. Well, thank you very much.’ Bram felt bad now, as if he’d badgered the man into agreeing to teach him how to forage for mushrooms. But playing the conversation back, he was pretty sure that wasn’t how it had gone. He’d ask Kirsty later if she felt he’d been a bit pushy.
But Kirsty was no longer at his side. A new group of people had entered the bar, five or six women about their own age, and Kirsty was talking to them as they slung their bags over chairs and shrugged out of jackets. As Bram watched, Kirsty flung back her head and laughed, uninhibitedly, rather raucously.
Good. He’d hoped there might be people here she’d know.
They’d all been on edge since Bertie had been shot, and the revelation about David’s conviction for assault had obviously hit Kirsty hard. She’d had a brittle quality to her these last couple of days, a closed-off look he knew all too well. He’d decided she needed to let off steam and she’d seemed keen on the idea of a night out, although when it had come to the point of leaving the house they had both hesitated, until Max had laughed: ‘Go! What on earth do you think’s going to happen with Uncle Fraser standing guard?’
The implication being that Fraser was a more effective ‘guard’ than Bram himself.
Fair point.
He joined the group of women at the table and tried to relax into it, nursing one soft drink after another as Kirsty knocked back the booze. The large, Marilyn Monroe-esque blonde called Isla keep trying to ply Bram with alcohol, no matter how often he repeated the mantra, ‘I’m driving.’
‘Oft, we’re all taxiing. We can drop you two back. Go on, Bram, live a little!’
‘Thanks, but no, we don’t want to be too late. Kirsty’s brother is babysitting.’
‘Fraser? How is Fraser these days? Last I heard, he was at it with Graham Coull’s missus.’
‘Uh.’ Bram realised that he had no idea about Fraser’s love life. If he had thought about it at all, he supposed he had assumed just that sort of dubious arrangement. ‘I suppose you all know each other from school?’
‘Oh aye, thick as thieves!’ Isla slapped her phone on the table in front of Bram as Kirsty, on the other side of the table, suddenly screamed with laughter, grabbing onto one of the other women, who was similarly red-faced with mirth. ‘The gang.’
The image filling the screen was a throwback photo of a group of boys and girls in their early teens, the girls dressed rather inappropriately, Bram couldn’t help thinking, in flimsy tops and very short skirts or cut-off jeans. They were in a park, against a backdrop of swings and a climbing frame, piling into the photo with wide-open mouths as they all shouted at whoever was taking the picture, obviously horrendously drunk. Some of them were holding cans, and there were bottles of cider and vodka visible on the grass behind them.
‘Off out on the town!’
‘You all look very young.’
‘Thirteen, fourteen. There she is. There’s Kirst.’ She tapped a pink talon of a fingernail on the screen, on a face he only just recognised as Kirsty’s. She was in the centre of the group, heavily made up, her babyish cheeks caked in foundation, her mouth shiny with bright pink lip gloss. Confident, happy, popular.
A different person entirely from the young woman he had known at uni.
‘And that’s Fraser.’ The talon tapped at a muscly boy with his shirt off. Bram barely recognised Fraser with that mop of hair. ‘And Scott was eye-candy even then.’ Scott was, of course, playing it cool, in jeans and white T-shirt, smiling enigmatically, one arm round Kirsty.
‘Andrew Taylor. Andrew Taylor!’ the woman on the other side of Isla leant over to shout at Bram. Mhairi, he thought her name was. She had ruthlessly styled auburn hair and was very petite. Presumably the alcohol had affected her more quickly than the others.
‘Uh, right?’
‘Man who sold you the plot?’
‘Yes, I–’
‘Tosser!’
Bram’s shock must have shown on his face, because Isla cackled: ‘Not you, Bram, not you!’
‘Andrew Taylor is a tosser,’ Mhairi clarified.
‘Ah. Okay. Is he? He seems a nice enough guy.’
Mhairi slumped over the table, the better to bring her face nearer to Bram’s. ‘Fully certified tosser. Decides what Grantown needs is a fancy-wanky “fine dining” experience – that’s what he calls it on the website, a “fine dining experience”! These wee teuchters need educating about what food is, right, they need weaned off their nuggets and chips. Calls it The Tappit Hen. On the High Street?’
‘Uh, yes, I’ve walked past the place.’
‘Aye, you’ve walked past it, like everyone else!’ laughed Isla.
Bram had in fact contemplated suggesting that the family go there for a meal, in the interests of good neighbourly relations. He’d stopped to examine the menu. There had been what looked like nice vegetarian options, and he had particularly fancied the ‘supergreen soup with toasted almonds and artichoke toast’, but then he’d seen that one of the other starters was ‘pâté de foie gr
as with samphire and pain de campagne rondels’. He’d been meaning to talk to Andrew about that. Okay, to be honest, he’d been plucking up the courage.
‘The place is going down the toilet,’ said Mhairi with satisfaction.
He wasn’t surprised. Whenever they passed, no matter the time of day, the restaurant was empty, or close to it.
‘Aye, but what does he care?’ said Isla. ‘It’s just a wee hobby for the man. They’re rolling in it.’
Oh, well. If the restaurant was going under, maybe Bram shouldn’t bring up the pâté de foie gras thing. Or should he? The place might limp on for months. Years, even, given that it seemed it was just a vanity project. Yes. He definitely needed to print out some stuff about how cruel the foie gras production process was, how they force-fed the poor birds, and give it to Andrew to peruse at his leisure.
‘The Taylors seem like perfectly nice people,’ he said stoutly.
The women blinked at him.
‘Well of course they do,’ said Mhairi at last. ‘Of course they’re all over you, rich bastards from London? No offence!’
Five minutes later and Bram was desperately thinking of excuses to leave. Maybe he could say Fraser had texted them and there was some sort of problem with the kids? Actually, it was possible Phoebe hadn’t settled. He excused himself and went outside, past the smokers to a quiet corner of the car park to make the call.
‘Aye, Bram, everything’s hunky-dory, don’t you worry, pal,’ said Fraser. ‘I’ve not even had a beer. Stone-cold sober, I am.’
‘Right. Well, that’s great. Thank you for doing this, Fraser. I just wondered how Phoebe was? She’s not been settling at night, since Bertie…’