For Faughie's Sake (4 page)

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 then, 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.

‘Good boy,’ she said enthusiastically, as she fondled his ears.

I took my cue from Dinah and patted her little dog. Mimi was adorable, with a cute wee squashed face and dangly ears.

‘Oh, her fur is so soft!’ I cried in surprise. Not like Bouncer’s shag-pile coat.

‘Yes, and she makes an excellent foot warmer,’ said Dinah. ‘Oh crumbs, what have we here? I’m afraid your little chap has a tick.’

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

‘Just here, behind his ear. See? They get them all the time in this long grass.’

I peered down while she held Bouncer’s collar and separated his fur.

‘Oh my god, it’s moving!’

Something was embedded in his skin, something alive with flailing limbs and tentacles.

‘Sheep tick. Don’t worry, it’s easily removed,’ said Dinah evenly, reaching into her other back pocket and producing a green plastic thing that looked like a miniature crochet hook. ‘This is what I use when Mimi has one, I swear by ’em. Now, it’s important to get the whole of the little beggar, head and all, so slide it in like this, twirl it round, pull upwards and, there!’

Dinah held up for my inspection the blood-bloated beastie, head and all.

Not sure how to respond, I nodded. Dinah scraped the tick off the hook with her boot and ground it into the sand where it left a faint pink stain. She held out the small green hook for me to take.

‘Now that you know how to use it,’ she said, ‘keep it for next time he picks one up.’

‘Oh,’ I blustered, baffled by this casual kindness, ‘that’s kind of you but …’

‘Oh, don’t be silly, I have another one at home and it’ll save you a fortune in vet bills.’

‘I’m hopeless with that kind of thing. I’ve never had a dog before. Sorry, I meant to say, my name’s …’

Somewhere deep in her clothes Dinah’s phone began to ring. She smiled an apology and stuck her hand down the neck of her jumper.

‘Trixie, pleased to – meet you…’ I tailed off.

Dinah fumbled and jiggled until she located the phone and immediately opened it.

‘Sorry, I have to take this. Here,’ she whispered, thrusting the tick-winkling tool into my hand.

I stood for a few minutes while she shouted into the phone.

‘Oh Georgie, please, you know I can’t do that. There must be another option,’ she wailed.

Dinah turned away out of the wind and remained with her back to me, intermittently shouting and pleading with her caller. I wasn’t sure what to do. Which was more rude: listening in to her private business or leaving without saying goodbye? Slowly I began to realise that she didn’t expect, or indeed, want me to wait, but by then I had foolishly lingered too long.

‘Oh for goodness’s sake,’ she yelled, ‘I’m back in London tomorrow. I’ll do it then.’

So she was just a tourist, then, a high plains drifter, just passing through. That was a shame, we could have walked our dogs together, maybe got together socially. The main reason I’d given up drinking was because I’d had no one to drink with, and I’d never been comfortable with what they say about people who drink alone. She was kind. It was frustrating.

Now I began to understand a little of what the locals felt about the tourists. What was the point of getting to know them? Why even bother learning their names? They were only here for the weekend, they were free to leave any time they liked, they had a life to return to.

I dragged the toe of my walking boots through the wet sand and scraped out ‘thank you’. She was still shouting down the phone and didn’t even notice. It was an intense conversation and it looked like it might be a long one. Her mind was probably on the glamorous life she lived in London. By tomorrow Inverfaughie would be a memory, nothing more, but I hoped she’d at least see my pathetic little sand message before the tide came in and washed it away.

Bouncer and I came home to discover a canvas shopping bag that had been stuffed through the front door. It was from Ethecom, a free gift for everyone in town apparently. The bag was of untreated calico, not exactly a fashion item, but it looked like it could hold a few kilos of potatoes and it had a certain rustic charm. The hippies were always coming up with ideas to make Inverfaughie more green. Last week they had set up a stall in the village and offered home-made sweets for the kids and a free compost bin for every household. They even gave demonstrations on how to compost. Their philosophy seemed to be that there was no such thing as rubbish, everything was recyclable.

Brenda, bless her heart, had popped a small goat’s cheese into my canvas bag, thereby rendering the bag useless, at least until it had been through a boil wash. This time the cheese wasn’t wrapped in hygienic plastic, but in recycled paper with a note scrawled on it. ‘Lovely to meet you, Trixie, hope we’ll see you at the meeting tonight?’

One of Ethecom’s latest projects was the setting up of a credit union. A meeting was planned in the village hall to introduce the idea to Inverfaughie. They had talked about it at dinner that night but I hadn’t paid much attention. Before ‘Fat of the Land’ had changed their lives forever, they’d all been IT programmers and
bankers. Brenda had been some kind of corporate lawyer. Between them they had now devised an online local bank. It was a wee night out. God help me, I was so stuck for a social life I was actually looking forward to spending my evening at a talk on personal finance.

The village hall smelled of damp tweed and Scotch broth, a reminder of the pensioner lunches that were held there. I had expected to see Jan there too but there was no sign of him and I was relieved. The turnout wasn’t great, but those who had come seemed prepared to give it a fair hearing. Three different speakers outlined what the credit union offered: current and savings accounts, cheap loans, insurance, mortgage advice and help with budgeting. It was going well until someone raised the question of cash. I had assumed that we’d be able to get money the usual way – from the mobile bank that trundled round the village three times a week but no, the Inverfaughie Credit Union was to be a virtual bank. There would be no bank building, not even an office. Everything was supposed to happen online. Cash could be deposited and withdrawn only once a week here in the village hall between the hours of 5 and 7 pm on a Friday. The atmosphere changed after that. People started whispering amongst themselves and rumfling in their pockets, digging out car keys, impatient to go. When the presentations were over the crowd quickly thinned out.

Jenny caught my eye and made her way towards me against the traffic of people exiting.

‘Take-up is low. Disappointing,’ she said, shaking her head.

There was only a handful of people filling in the application forms. I was surprised that Jenny would be supportive of this initiative; I had only ever heard her disparage the hippies as incomers, them and their free love.

‘I think people prefer the convenience of getting cash from the mobile bank,’ I said.

‘They prefer the convenience of buying pirate DVDs from Hamish, more like.’

‘No way! Hamish sells pirate videos out of the mobile bank?’

‘Hah! And the firkin rest,’ said Jenny, still shaking her head, ‘excuse language.’

I used the mobile bank all the time. Hamish had never even hinted at the offer of dodgy DVDs. Another sign, if I ever needed one, that I’d always be an outsider in this distant town.

‘He’s killing my rental business. I’ve a good mind to report him to his superiors.’

‘Why don’t you then?’

‘I know, but – then we’d have no bank at all.’

For a bit of banter I said, ‘I see you’re sporting Inverfaughie’s latest fashion accessory. You’re really working that eco look.’

Jenny laughed and struck a modelling pose. I thought she would scoff at the plain canvas bags, but she had one casually slung over her shoulder.

‘D’you know how much I’ve paid that cash and carry for poly bags over the years?’

‘No, how much?’

I was impressed that she had such a handle on costs.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, disappointing me, ‘but it’s a lot. I’ve kept this town in free bin liners for years. It’s time we were all doing our bit for the environment. From now on if anyone wants a poly bag in my shop I’ll be charging them 5p.’

‘That seems a bit steep.’

‘If it’s good enough for Marks it’s good enough for me. The free poly bag gravy train stops here.’

After exchanging pleasantries with Brenda, Mag and some of the others from Ethecom, I joined the small queue to sign up for the credit union, more out of solidarity with my fellow outsiders than anything else, but I was pleased when Jenny fell in behind me. Her motives were probably more of a protest against Hamish’s contraband but at least we were making up the numbers. It was only as we were leaving the hall that Old Thistle Knickers herself, Betty Robertson, wafted past us. I wasn’t about to ask her about
my application to the licensing committee, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Jenny at least had been tactful enough not to mention it, but Betty volunteered the information, or rather, the lack of it.

‘Hello Mrs McNicholl. The Inverfaughie Council sub-committee are yet to deliberate on your case,’ she said, making me sound like a criminal. ‘You’ll be informed of our decision.’

She was so obviously enjoying her game of bait-the-incomer. I would rather appear on ‘Embarrassing Illnesses’ than let Betty Robertson humiliate me like this, but what could I do?