For Faughie's Sake (7 page)

As soon as I got home I phoned Steven to tell him the good news.

‘Well, my bum was numb by the end of it, but they finally gave me the licence.’

‘Quality!’ Steven yelled.

‘So, you’ll be arriving into your luxurious three-star B&B this weekend, or three thistles, I should say.’

‘I’ve never stayed in a hotel before, I don’t think Gerry has either.’

‘Gerry’s coming?’

It was out before I managed to rein in the sharpness in my voice.

‘I told you he was. You said.’

I’d lost so many battles over the years when, in an unguarded moment, and just for some peace, I’d
said
.

‘Yeah, ok, but this is the last. Once I’m properly up and running as a hotel Gerry will have to pay like everybody else. And I don’t want you two doing your usual: out all night drinking.’

‘Oh no,’ he quipped, ‘That would be treating the place like a hotel.’

He’d been in a strange mood since they’d arrived. When I’d picked him and Gerry up at the station Steven wasn’t full of his usual cheeky banter. He wasn’t even interested in my new Glaswegian barman neighbour. A peck on the cheek and an ‘alright Trixie?’ was as much as I got.

He sat in the back of the car with his head bowed low, his knees wide and his two thumbs a blur working across the screen. I could imagine how much fun this was going to be for me: silently watching Steven stab at his phone all weekend. I didn’t want to get on at him in front of Gerry so I asked cheerfully, ‘Are you still playing Grand Theft Auto?’

He screwed his face up. ‘What? I’m not playing a game. Leave me alone. Mind your own.’

Unjustly chastised, I left him alone. I minded my own. I didn’t speak again the whole way to Harrosie, nobody did. The only sound in the car was the imaginary noise of hot steam being forced out of my ears. How dare he speak to me like that. If he wasn’t playing a game he must be texting, which showed how little interest he had in spending time with me.

I didn’t normally wait up for them but I felt something wasn’t right. When 3 am came and went, I knew it. Even the Caledonian Hotel’s lock-ins didn’t go on this late. They were probably at a party somewhere in the village, ‘an Empty Hoose’, that was to say a hoose empty of parents but paradoxically full of drunk sex-crazed teenagers. I really hoped that’s where they were.

I heard a diesel engine climb the hill out of Inverfaughie and stop outside, the van’s engine ticking as I rushed to the front door. It was Jackie, he had him, he had Steven in a fireman’s lift, slung over his shoulder, slack as a sack of turnips. I rushed forward and threw my arms around Steven as he lay slumped on Jackie’s chest and immediately felt the wetness. I jumped back to stare at my hands.

‘What is that? Oh God! What is it?’

‘Stop panicking woman, it’s only water,’ said Jackie, the first words he had spoken to me in weeks.

He strode past me into the lounge and laid down my precious son. The care he took with him, placing his head gently on the
cushion, made me realise how precious he must be to Jackie too. Steven was pale but he was breathing, his eyes were closed but he wasn’t unconscious. When I stroked his face he moaned and curled into a ball.

‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ Jackie said gently. ‘He fell asleep in the van.’

It might have been relief that Steven was safe but I felt a gush of warmth towards Jackie. The memory of him lying on that very same couch a few weeks ago, half asleep like Steven was now, reminded me of how I’d felt about him then. When I remembered how I’d tried to kiss Jackie, and how he’d reacted, I felt another gush, this time of black mortifying shame.

Steven stirred.

‘See?’ said Jackie, ‘he’s fine. He’ll have a hangover in the morning but nothing a sick bucket and a couple of paracetamol won’t fix.’

I turned and looked at Gerry.

‘Would you like to tell me what the hell happened tonight?’

Gerry remained mute, standing behind Jackie, trying to look invisible. His clothes were soaked too, and he was dripping on my new rug.

‘I’m sworn to secrecy but you might as well tell her,’ Jackie said to Gerry.

‘Yes, please do, Gerry.’

‘She’ll only keep going till she twists it out of you.’

With both of us badgering him, Gerry looked as if he might cry.

I hadn’t seen Jackie for ages; he always scurried away if he saw me in the distance. We hadn’t been on speaking terms since before the ceilidh, but now here we were working together; playing good cop/bad cop with Gerry.

‘But I have to warn you,’ Jackie continued, ‘Trixie’s not much good at keeping secrets. She has the terrible affliction of blabbing other people’s business to the whole town.’

No, my mistake, we weren’t working together. Jackie was using the occasion to have a go at me.

My rage was swift and overwhelming. I turned and pushed my snarling face into his.

‘Oh for god’s sake get over yourself!’ I roared.

Jackie backed out of the room and as I followed I realised I could still hear the diesel engine running. He had obviously intended to dump Steven quickly and be off. His snipe at me was an unexpected extra, for both of us.

‘Get out!’ I shouted redundantly.

I was gratified to see he was taking my advice, scrabbling to get into the cab of his van.

‘Yeah, go on: flee, that’ll solve everything. Fleeing’s all you’re good for, you pathetic flee-er!’

But he had fled.

Enraged by Jackie’s talent for escapology and outstanding cowardice, I marched back into the house. This wasn’t over.

Gerry was halfway up the stairs.

‘Not so fast young man. Get down here; you’ve a bit of explaining to do.’

It could have waited till morning, but with that amount of adrenaline buzzing through my system, I hadn’t vented enough yet, not nearly enough. I pointed to a chair. Gerry meekly trotted over and sat down, perching on the end of the chair trying not to soak it with his wet jeans.

‘We just went for a few drinks in the Caley then we went to Shona’s.’

‘Shona’s?’

‘Yeah, one of the girls from the village, she had an empty.’

‘And?’

‘And, that was it.’

‘Where was this house, at the bottom of the sea? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Gerry, but you’re both soaking my suite.’

He shifted awkwardly as if he’d netted a crab in his pants.

‘Me and Stevo went out to the island.’

‘At this time of night? Did Jackie take you out there fishing? I’m going to report him to – somebody. I’ll …’

‘He didn’t take us there. He brought us back. He helped us, we were stuck.’

‘Well, how did you get out there then?’

‘We took a boat.’

‘You stole a boat?’

‘We were going to put it back but when we landed on the island Stevo forgot to stow the oars. They must have floated away. We nearly lost the boat as well. It was funny at first, but it got really cold.’

‘Why didn’t Steven phone me?’

Gerry shrugged, ‘Jackie’s got a boat.’

I had no boat. No argument. I had nothing.

‘Why go to the island in the middle of the night? Who d’you think you are, Tom Sawyer?’

‘It was Stevo’s idea. He nipped a wee burd early doors but she bolted.’

‘Steven nipped a burd?’

As far as I knew he’d never had a girlfriend; Steven had always been shy around girls. This probably explained his earlier huffiness, but I was concerned about the bolting. I didn’t want my son’s first encounter with the opposite sex to be humiliating. God knows he’d have ample opportunity for humiliation during the rest of his life.

‘And you say she bolted?’

‘Aye, she didn’t want to go home, she was well into Stevo, but she had to get up early to milk cows. It was still early and we just wanted to … I don’t know, do something mad.’

‘Well, you certainly achieved that. Didn’t you, Steven?’

At the mention of his name Steven stirred. This was the burd-nipping Lothario who had stolen a milkmaid’s heart and then gone on a drunken boat-stealing rampage. Sweet sixteen, he was still so cute, so vulnerable.

‘Help me get him upstairs,’ I said.

‘You’re not going to phone my mum,’ pleaded Gerry, ‘are you Mrs McNicholl?’

Of course I didn’t phone Gerry’s mum – Steven would never have spoken to me again – but I grounded them for the rest of the weekend. I think it suited them, it gave them a chance to eat off their hangovers, scoffing every cake on the premises, but house arrest hardly made for the fun family weekend I’d planned.

I took Steven up a cup of tea to his room. He lay on the bed in his T-shirt and boxers, spread-eagled and face down, ignoring the tea.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

‘Quality,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of mattress.

‘Steven, why are you being so snarky with me? Have I done something to upset you?’

He sighed, ‘No.’

I stood awaiting further revelation but there was none. I looked at him lying there. Steven was blessed with a strong healthy young body, his hair shone and his skin was flawless. How did I ever manage to produce such a magnificent creature? And at the same moment I was burning with fury that he would so casually jeopardise this magnificence; throw away his beautiful young life, in a moronic boating misadventure.

‘Oh not again,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, ‘I know what you’re checking for.’

I had no idea what he was talking about.

‘Do you indeed, and what’s that then?’

‘Tired and irritable, check. Decrease in appetite, check. Poor personal hygiene, check. Dark shadows under the eyes, check.’

I knew now what he meant, and dreaded what was coming.

‘Puncture marks or bruising on the body.’

At this point he rolled over and held his arms open wide, a Christ figure, showing me his mercifully unbruised, unpunctured arms.

‘Not check.’

I honestly hadn’t been looking for tracks on his arms but he must have seen the relief on my face.

‘Ah, but I’ve fooled you. I actually am a hopeless addict.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘It’s just that I’ve decided to go down the slightly more alternative route of spit meth addiction.’

‘Just stop it, Steven.’

When I’d been a medical rep part of my job was to visit pharmacists. While chatting in the back shop I’d seen plenty of heroin addicts being given their dose, knocking back the little cup of bright green methadone under supervision, but I was shocked to discover what some of them did with it next. Instead of swallowing there and then, some of them walked out the shop, spat it out into another cup, and sold it on for a fiver to someone even more desperate than themselves. It was me who had told Steven about this disgusting spit methadone practice, not for laughs, but to warn him of the indignities of addiction; to frighten him. And now he was trying to frighten me.

‘They usually throw in some food particles for free and, if I’m lucky, sometimes a nice chewy bit of phlegm.’

‘Right, that’s enough, Steven. I know you’re not an addict, I never said that. So if we’ve established that you’re not hooked on spit meth, why would your irresponsible behaviour be acceptable?’

‘Oh just leave it alone, Trixie, will you?’

‘Look, I have to live in this town. What are you going to do about the boat you stole? What you think is just a prank is also known as common theft; the owner could press charges. At the very least you’ll have to apologise and make good the damage.’

‘The boat is taken care of,’ he sighed. ‘Jackie towed it back from the island with us. I phoned him this morning to apologise and he said he’d returned it to Murdo with a set of oars he has spare. He said Murdo was alright about it, he just laughed.’

‘Oh yeah, what a hoot! You could easily have drowned in that drunken state. I could have coped with
you
drowning, Steven –’

‘Cheers.’

‘– but what would I say to Gerry’s mother?’

‘We were fine.’

‘So fine that you had to phone Jackie to come and rescue you.’

My throat closed a little as I said his name. In a life-threatening crisis Steven had thought to phone Jackie instead of me. Jackie rescued him, Jackie supplied replacement oars, smoothed everything over with Murdo. I didn’t even know Jackie’s phone number. Steven had him on speed dial.

‘It was getting cold.’

‘Exactly; you could have died of hypothermia.’

‘Me phoning Jackie, that’s what’s really bugging you, isn’t it?’

I had to walk out of his room.

Steven stayed in bed most of the day. The next morning he and Gerry took the early train back to Glasgow. He wasn’t speaking to me. No gossip whatsoever on the burd he’d nipped; no sexual health or relationship advice sought or given, no vicarious thrills for mother. I didn’t even get the burd’s name, but at least Steven and Gerry had made it out alive – not drowned or dead from hypothermia. As a means of enticing Steven to spend his summer with me, the weekend had been an unqualified disaster. He was never going to come back.

When Global Imperial’s Accommodation Manager asked me this time for my bank details I gave her my new Inverfaughie Credit Union account. This might be the ideal way to sneak it past the tax man.

‘Right,’ she said, sweeping her index finger across her iPad, ‘I’ve pinged a 30 per cent deposit across for you now. We settle in full on completion of the contract.’

I laughed at how surreal this seemed. She had just contracted to pay me enough money for a deposit on a flat in Glasgow. All I had to do now was cook full Scottish breakfasts for a few weeks. That and start looking online at properties for sale in Glasgow. I could be back in the West End by October. I’d better get stocked up on full Scottish breakfast gubbins: tottie scones and the like.

They were beautiful, in the way that all young girls are beautiful, their faces blameless and rosy with expectation. Hardly a moment ago they had played with skipping ropes and dollies. Disenchantment hadn’t had time to weary them, yet, and so, in period costume, jeans or mini-skirts, they waited. Tall thin ones,
small fat ones, and every other female body shape checked their appearance in compact mirrors, applied more make-up, fixed each other’s hair. The longer they waited the more their chatter and laughter increased. From the kitchen the sound made me think of a flock of seagulls that had lost its bearings and swooped down the chimney into the village hall. The girls were here to audition for a part in
Freedom Come All of You
. Jenny was a key holder for the village hall. She’d asked me to help her serve coffee and cake and wash up afterwards. It wouldn’t normally have been a very enticing proposition but when she told me it was for the movie I’ll admit I was nosey. When she showed me the net curtain she had draped over the serving hatch, I was in.

‘Obviously we won’t be in the hall when the auditions are actually taking place but – and here is where the net curtain reigns supreme –’ she said, ‘it’s as good as a two-way mirror. If we keep the hatch open and stay quiet we’ll see the whole show. Ringside seats.’

‘I always had you down as a Curtain Twitcher.’

‘This audition is what’s known in the biz as an open casting call – anybody can try; like the “X-Factor”. Global Imperial say they want to fully engage with the community, so they’re seeing local girls. It’s only four lines but it’s an important part: the wife of the hero, Tony Ramos. There’s to be a long lingering kiss between them. If he was ten years older I’d break him in for them myself,’ Jenny tittered, ‘although there’s no sign of Tony yet,’ she said, peering through the curtain.

I took a turn at the old ladyish white lace net curtain. I had to admit, it was a pretty effective camouflage. The film director, Hollywood wunderkind Raymondo Land, sat with four Global Imperial staff at a long table at one end of the hall with the hopefuls at the other, corralled behind a plastic tape barrier. After we served the movie people their coffee – the girls were to be offered no such hospitality – Jenny and I returned to the kitchen. There we organised our own coffee and cake, made ourselves comfortable behind the net curtain and watched the drama unfold.

The girls were called forward one at a time and asked to read just one line. It was dialogue between the hero and his wife, Raymondo Land explained. The wife was to beg the hero not to go into battle as he would surely die. The American man standing in for the Tony Ramos part, a tall thin bald man, mumbled his way through the lines, never looking at the nervous, faltering girls.

‘I must go not for self but for country for Scotland,’ he mumbled.

‘Please don’t go, they’ll kill you,’ the girls replied, with varying degrees of credibility.

I wasn’t impressed with the script so far. If this was going to be the standard,
Freedom Come All of You
would probably go straight to DVD, Tony Ramos or not.

Mr Land asked the young women to read in different moods. Sometimes he wanted them to say it sadly, or angrily, or as if they didn’t care. Then he got them to do it again, this time with their own interpretation. I would have thought the words indicated that this was a serious matter but some of the girls tried a jocular approach.

‘Please don’t go!’ one tall buck-toothed girl laughed maniacally, ‘They’ll kill you!’

‘That’s Maureen Templeton,’ Jenny whispered, circling her finger at her ear, ‘from Bengustie.’

Isla McPhail was next: a gorgeous statuesque redhead wearing high heels, a tight-fitting black silky skirt with a split up the side and a red top that showed her heaving bosom to great effect.

‘Please,’ she wheedled huskily, running her open palm up the hero’s thigh, ‘don’t go.’

Then she threw her leg, with great agility it must be said, up onto the shoulder of the confused, frightened man and smiled seductively, ‘They’ll kill you.’

With this sexy display I nearly choked on my fruit scone. Due to the disapproving looks coming from Jenny I tried to do it silently but this only led me to an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. At this she tried to stuff a tea towel in my mouth. The afternoon was very entertaining. Some girls shrieked the line, some purred, some said it with conviction, and eventually the director whittled the crowd down to six.

During a lull while Mr Land consulted his assistants, Jenny and I started tidying up the kitchen. As I was emptying the coffee dregs, we suddenly heard a commotion in the hall. To the sound of excited squeals from the remaining girls, Jenny rushed back to her look-out post by the serving hatch.

‘H.M.B., I knew it!’ she whispered. ‘He’s come at last. Tony Ramos is here in our wee village!’