Flotsam and Jetsam (2 page)

‘Pah! It is no good. I concede this hole Lachlan. Why did you have to mention that man’s name?’

‘Dr Dent?’ Lachlan returned with mild surprise. ‘Have you a problem with him, Kenneth? Why he seems a decent enough chap to me. He must be the world’s foremost expert on the midge. In fact, I am planning to go to hear him talk tonight. He is doing a short spot on that Scottish TV show that they are shooting on the island over the next two weeks.
Flotsam & Jetsam
it is called. I was going to suggest that you come along?’

‘Ah yes, that antique and junk show with the tanned chappie with the world’s worst wig and the glamorous partner. I have seen an episode or two when they came to Inverness. So what is my university’s famous entomologist doing on this show?’

Lachlan tapped his pipe out on the blade of his putter and
grinned. ‘Explaining about midges, would you believe?’

The Reverend Kenneth Canfield smiled back. ‘In that case I wouldn’t miss him for the world.’

But Lachlan noted the tinge of sarcasm in his voice that belied the smile.

Fergus Ferguson was used to being recognized. Camera-shy he definitely was not. In fact, he felt totally at home in front of a lens, which undoubtedly had something to do with his great success as a TV presenter. Although he thought it a bit of a mouthful, he revelled in being known as the doyen of the antique and bric-à-brac world. Yet this particular camera lens was causing him some agitation.

‘Why doesn’t he bloody well answer?’ he said to Chrissie, his attractive, long-blonde-haired partner and co-host on the popular
Flotsam & Jetsam
TV show. ‘I’m sure I can see him sitting watching us from behind those lace net curtains.’

‘Shush, Fergie!’ she whispered. ‘You might be right, but it’s hard to say from this distance. But if he’s there then he’ll be able to hear you on this intercom. Now don’t swear.’ She raised her hand to cover her eyes and looked admiringly up at the house. ‘It’s a fantastic place that he has here. And a fabulous view over his own stretch of beach.’

He straightened up from the stone pillar with the intercom and camera beside the radio-controlled iron gates that barred entry to the long drive. It zigzagged up through sand dunes to a large two-storeyed building that seemed to be more windows than brickwork. And all of them were covered with net curtains or blinds. He screwed his eyes up and pointed. ‘Look,
in that bay window. I’m sure he’s sitting there watching us.’

‘Maybe he only talks to people he recognizes?’ she suggested.

He stared at her as if she had said something outrageous. ‘In which case he’s bound to recognize us, isn’t he? Fergie and Chrissie from
Flotsam & Jetsam.
Half of Scotland watches us every night.’

‘Maybe he’s part of the other half of Scotland, my love.’

Despite himself he grinned at her. When Chrissie smiled like that men fell in love with her. When she smiled like that at him, he wanted to make love to her. He raised an eyebrow and flicked his eyes in the direction of the countless sand dunes that ran the length of the coast.

She immediately recognized the expression on his handsome, deeply tanned face and giggled. ‘This is business, Fergie. Behave yourself. Now try again. They told us that he’s just about a recluse and that we’d be lucky to get him to let us in.’

Fergie sighed and bent down to jab a well-manicured finger on the intercom button.

‘Hi there,’ he intoned in his jingle-jangle Scottish TV voice. ‘This is Fergie and Chrissie here from
Flotsam & Jetsam
. We’d like to have a chat with you, maybe do a bit of business and invite you on to our TV show.’

‘Maybe he’s deaf, Fergie? Or maybe he’s just not interested.’

‘You look into the camera, darling. Maybe a sight of you will get him to open up.’

Chrissie gently barged him aside and smiled at the lens. But before she could say anything the intercom crackled and a distant tinny voice rang out.

‘No hawkers, sales-folk or onion Johnnies, thank you.’

Fergie stared in disbelief. ‘Hawkers! Onion Johnnies!
Doesn’t he know—?’

The intercom crackled again. ‘Please move on or I’ll be telephoning the police.’

Fergie scowled and jabbed the button again. ‘Now look here! I am Fergie Ferguson from the Scottish TV program
Flotsam & Jetsam
and I have—’

The voice from the intercom interrupted. ‘Please move on. I do not like my privacy being invaded. I am phoning the police now.’

‘Come on, Fergie,’ said Chrissie, pointing to their parked Mercedes.

A motor engine sounded and they looked round to see a cream and blue mobile shop van that was also emblazoned with the logo of the Royal Mail appear round the bend of the rough track. It drew to a halt beside their car and a postman got out. He was a wiry fellow with a shaven head that made prominent ears stand out even more. He was wearing shorts and trainers and was almost as tanned as Fergie.

‘Hello, folks,’ he said with a grin. ‘Are you trying to get to see our famous artist-cum-beachcomber? I have to say you’ll be lucky.’ Then his jaw dropped as he recognized the duo.

‘Crikey! You are – er – Thingy and Chrissie, aren’t you?’ He snapped his fingers with embarrassment. ‘I mean Fergie and Chrissie. The wife and I are planning to come and see the show tonight.’

‘That’s excellent,’ Fergie replied with a show-biz smile that completely hid the chagrin he felt at being called
Thingy
. ‘And we are trying to see Guthrie Lovat.’

‘Without luck,’ added Chrissie.

‘He only really lets me and my wife in these days,’ the newcomer explained. ‘I am Alec Anderson, by the way. I am the local postie and mobile-shop proprietor. You’ll see me
tootling all over the island at some stage or another.’

‘Alec, do you think you could do us a favour?’ Fergie asked, with an ingratiating grin. ‘Could you get us in to see the old boy? We wondered if we could entice him on to the show, or maybe let us feature some of his work. It could be good for his business.’

Chrissie put a hand on Alec’s arm. ‘We could make it worth your while.’

Alec pursed his lips. ‘That could be tricky. He’s a cantankerous old so and so. Maybe I could put a word in though. It would be a matter of picking my time.’

‘We are doing the show every night Monday to Friday this week and next,’ Chrissie said. She gave him one of her presenter smiles. ‘Is there anything that we could do to help you?’

A sparkle came into Alec Anderson’s eye. Ever ready for a business opportunity he replied eagerly, ‘The wife and I are dab hands at supplying refreshments at public meetings. If you like, we could have tea, coffee, rolls and sweets for your audience. Just like at the cinema.’

‘No problem, Alec,’ said Fergie with a wink. ‘You scratch our backs and we’ll scratch yours. Just give Geordie Innes, our producer a ring.’ He pulled out a card from his breast pocket and wrote a number on top.

‘That’s fine; I’ll do that for you, Mr Ferguson. But maybe you could give me a day to sort it. He’ll have been watching us and he’ll be fair chuntering. He’s a suspicious so and so and I’ll need to let him get used to the idea.’

‘It would be great to get him on the show,’ Fergie went on. ‘Celebrated local artist and all that. Good for West Uist too.’ He produced a pair of sunglasses and put them on. ‘So you have my card. Phone Geordie to arrange your refreshments, then
Guthrie or you can phone me any time’

‘You’ve been a great help, Alec,’ said Chrissie, wrinkling her nose as she turned to go.

Her gesture seemed to have the desired effect, for Alec blushed.

He stood tapping the card against his teeth as he watched them get into the Mercedes and set off. He waved.

‘But I think you’ll be lucky to get Guthrie on TV,’ he mused to himself as they disappeared round the bend of the track.

He pressed the intercom. ‘It’s Alec, Mr Lovat. I’ve brought your supplies and your post.’

He went back to his van and started up the engine. Then he pressed the zapper that opened the gates and once they had swung free he set off up the zig-zag drive.

‘But who knows. Maybe the old goat would like to be a TV star. I think he would like that Chrissie.’

Bruce McNab never really liked taking more than two clients out on the river at a time. For one thing it was hard enough trying to teach two people the intricacies of fly-fishing. And for another it was potentially unsafe, according to the faceless wonders in Health and Safety who were forever trying to put a stranglehold on folk such as himself. It was a continual worry whether the insurance company would pay up if anything did go wrong. Yet his main reason for keeping his numbers so small was because he was not one known to hold his tongue. If he thought someone was acting like a fool he would tell them, no matter how rich, powerful or titled that person might be. In his mind he was the expert on all types of hunting and game
fishing and that was just the way it had to be. Give him three folk and he knew that there would be one clown among them.  

In this trio of clients he just knew that there was an idiot of the first order. He just wasn’t sure which of them it was.  

‘The skill is in the way that you make your fly react,’ he said as he stood thigh deep in the waters of the Corlinspey River about fifty yards down from the Cauldron Pool. It was called that because the waters tumbled over a ledge at the edge of the Corlins into a foaming vortex before they cascaded down a series of mini rapids and the river meandered peacefully on. The three clients stood on the bank looking down at him each dressed in brand new sporting clothes and waders, with their rods at the ready.  

‘The trout is an intelligent fish. He has a good idea where he is going to get a tasty insect meal. He seems to know a real insect from a poorly disguised metal hook that is going to hoik him out of the water.’ He turned and thrust out his bearded jaw challengingly. ‘He will not be fooled by a galoot who fancies himself as a fisherman.’  

He flicked his rod and cast his line at a deft forty-five degree angle to land in the Corlinspey.  

‘So you have to make it behave like a proper insect. You see? Easy!’ He played the rod and line and this time didn’t bother looking round. ‘So what are you, gentlemen? Galoots or fishermen?’ This time he turned and smiled, challenging them to either get cross or buckle down. He was in his early forties, but was proud of his physique, having kept himself in trim since his shinty-playing days. He had broad shoulders, a
good-looking
, well-weathered face with a full red beard and mane of hair. He looked every inch the gillie, and he was confident that he could handle himself with anybody if they decided to cut up rough. It had not yet happened in his career.

He grinned as he saw that all three were too busy wafting the air to fend off the odd midge.

‘Och! I think you will find that I know how to fish well enough, Jimmie,’ said the shortest of the three, a paunchy, middle-aged fellow with a Dundee accent. ‘I have fished the length of the Tummel and the Tay.’

Bruce nodded, although he was not convinced. He tended to assess his clients on the basis of social status and sporting prowess. He had already tagged Dan Farquarson, a well-to-do businessman, as a B or a C grade.

‘And what about you, Mr Thompson?’ Bruce asked Dan Farquarson’s associate. It was a rhetorical question as far as he was concerned, since he had already scored him as a low D or high E.

‘I’m no so sure about my fishing ability, boss,’ the man who had been introduced to him as Wee Hughie replied in a guttural Glaswegian brogue. It amused Bruce that Wee Hughie replied not to him, but to Farquarson. Clearly he was in thrall to the little man. Yet the epithet was not entirely right, for there was nothing obviously small about Wee Hughie Thompson. He was well over six feet in height and with the build of a weight-lifter. The image of the proverbial brick toilet sprang to Bruce McNab’s mind.

‘See, the only fishing I ever did was at the Glasgow Fair down on the Green. I wis about ten, I think. They gi’ed me a cane wi a loop and I had tae fish out a plastic duck from a rotating pond thing.’

Dan Farquarson made a throaty chuckle then immediately cursed as his hand went to scratch his thinning grey hair. ‘You are a card, right enough, Hughie. Well I am betting that you’ll catch a few bites today. Mind you they might just be midge bites, like these.’

‘How about you just let us get in the river and we’ll see how we do?’ said the third member of the group with a flurry of impatience.

Bruce eyed him dispassionately. It was the impatient tone of someone used to getting his own way. He had already recognized the long-blond-haired young man as none other than Sandy King, the Scottish footballer of whom all the newspapers were expecting great things from in the future. On that basis Bruce had already graded him as at least an A minus on his system.

‘Be my guests,’ he said, indicating for them to step down into the water. ‘Take care of your first few steps. The water bed can be gie slippy and you do not want to fill your waders with water. I cannot stress that enough. It can be very dangerous.’

He stood back and watched them all get in. Then he pointed downriver. ‘I suggest that you each select a spot twenty yards apart. That way you will be out of range of each other’s cast and you will all get a decent shot at the fish.’

And indeed, with him wandering back and forth between them, giving little pointers according to their level of ability, they soon had two decent fish in their net. Dan Farquarson and the footballer had both surprised Bruce McNab.

Wee Hughie had been reprimanded three times, once by Dan Farquarson and once by Bruce for keeping up a flow of inane chatter. When he started to give them another commentary on how he was going to go for the big catch, Bruce determined to silence him.

‘Mr Thompson,’ he said, trying to relax so that his ire did not show too much. ‘If you want to catch anything at all, you will need to keep quiet. Fish can see you and they can hear every—’

He did not finish because from the bank behind and above them someone started to laugh.

‘Don’t believe him, my friend. Fish don’t have ears to hear with. Don’t believe this gillie.’