For Faughie's Sake (26 page)

Dinah left the next morning. To maximise the chances of her accepting the offer, or at least supporting independence when she met the judges, Jenny insisted that we all see her off. Standing there in a line, nicely turned out in smart clothes, smiling obediently, the casual observer might have mistaken us for Dinah’s faithful staff: Walter as the butler, Jenny the housekeeper and the rest of us as below-stairs lackeys. That’s what we looked like. Dinah was gracious, waving at us like the Queen of England, but determinedly non-committal on the subject of her support. Jenny put a brave face on it but from take-off her hopes seemed to be fizzling out, the fizz evaporating with every whirl of the helicopter’s rotor blades. I had offered to look after Mimi while Dinah was in Luxembourg, but Dinah politely declined, taking the dog with her. Another bad omen.

Two days later Dinah wasn’t greeted with the jubilatory flag-waving that Jenny and co. got when they’d come back, because Dinah didn’t come back. It was reported that she had gone straight to her home in London. There was no word from her about the offer.

‘Back to being an absentee landlord,’ proclaimed Walter, ‘the very people who sold Scotland to the English the first time around.’

That evening Walter and Brenda spent six hours on Skype with the legal team in Luxembourg trying to prevent the case from collapsing. Dinah was chief landowner, and without her support an independent Faughie wasn’t judged to be viable. Walter pleaded with them: we hadn’t had the referendum yet, so how could they make a decision without knowing what the people of Faughie wanted?

As I let the chickens out the next morning, Brenda told me, with tears rolling down her face, that the dream of independence was over. With Dinah’s collusion, Westminster had managed to convince the world, and more importantly, Luxembourg, that Faughie was being held by a minority of lawless rebels. I sat her down and made her a coffee but I had to turn off the radio. It was full of upbeat commentators – and some Faughians – saying how delighted they were with the ruling. I didn’t see anyone delighted. Westminster wasted no time. That afternoon a party of three ministers – Tobias Grunt had conveniently been replaced – requested a meeting with the committee and were helicoptered in.

‘Coming to offer baubles and shiny trinkets to the natives,’ said Walter’s bitter tweet.

The ministers came with a ‘no hard feelings, let’s kiss and make up,’ attitude, gracious in victory. To heal wounded pride and prevent any festering sores, they declared an amnesty on all legal and licensing infringements. Under the UK Disregard Regulations, tax revenue was discounted, and normal tax-raising powers were reinstituted. Everyone could keep the money they had made, tax-free, up to this point. When the council special committee attempted to argue, the ministers gently explained that they were not here to negotiate, they had no power to do so, they were simply delivering the message. They smiled, shook everyone’s hand and left.

‘I have to open this meeting with a heartfelt apology,’ said Walter, standing on a table in the Caley’s function suite, the only place big enough to hold everyone. ‘I’m so sorry we’ve let you down, but, in our struggle for independence, we may have come to the end of the road.’

There was silence. Everyone had already heard it on the radio and telly of course, but until Walter said it I don’t think we really believed it.

‘They can’t shut us down just like that,’ shouted Jackie, ‘if independence is what we want, what’s that got to do with London or Luxembourg?’

‘But Jackie,’ said Walter with a humourless laugh, ‘we haven’t yet been able to establish that independence is what the majority of Faughians want.’

‘It isn’t!’ yelled Betty Robertson to applause from some of her camp.

‘To be fair, that hasn’t been established yet either, Betty,’ Walter replied. ‘The advice we’ve had is that, sadly, the referendum is no longer material to the case.’

This didn’t go down well.

‘Mr Speaker please?’

Minding her manners this time, La Robertson asked permission and was given the floor.

‘What would be the point of a referendum when the legal case has already been decided?’ Betty asked in her deep-toned reasonable voice. ‘All that time, effort, and money expended; what would it realistically achieve?’

There was a surprising amount of support for this point of view, and I could understand why. People were fed up with all this pointless political wrangling; they just wanted to go back to normal life. It would mean fewer meetings, that was for sure.

‘Nevertheless,’ Walter continued, ‘the committee met again today and we have come to a decision. Whatever the legal situation, however material to the case it may or may not be, the fact remains that you voted for a chance to decide your future and we promised you a referendum. We’ve decided to bring forward the date of the referendum by one week and make good our promise to you. I would beseech anyone who has yet to register to vote to do so immediately. Please come to the front and we can get your details. Remember, we’re not only deciding our own future here but that of future generations. It is crucial that each and every one of us
takes part, whichever way you vote.’ He spoke slowly and carefully to let the weight of what he was saying sink in. ‘Please be aware of the consequences: if we vote No we accept the Luxembourg ruling. If we vote Yes,’ and here he took a long pause, ‘another Faughie is possible.’

A defiant cheer went up.

Betty Robertson and the No Campaigners remonstrated, of course, and both sides tried to drown the other out, though they seemed equally matched. One of the Claymores, Will, started thumping a bass drum to a battle-ready rhythm. Somewhere behind me a primal heeeuch split the air. I recognised that heeeuch, and turned round to see it fly from my Steven’s mouth. He and Mag were doing some kind of Highland fling war dance.

All day I’d nursed the hope that this defeat might finally winkle Steven out of Inverfaughie. I’d planned a lovely dinner of roast pork to soften him up followed by home-made tablet and ice cream but that heeeuch told me everything I needed to know about Steven’s plans. I shook my head and found myself simultaneously shaking my head and tapping my toe to the rhythm of the booming drum.

Steven and the Claymores were still at the meeting banging the war drums, so before I started dinner I had a quick look at my emails. One of them, I couldn’t believe: I had to read it three or four times to get the sense. It was from Tennyson and Cosgrove, a firm of London solicitors acting on behalf of Lady Anglicus. How did they even know my email address? They were offering me, at a reasonable price, the conversion of Harrosie from leasehold to freehold. Who knew what kind of market I’d find for it now, but still and all, I’d easily swap a successful eight-bedroomed B&B here for one in Glasgow.

I had a fleeting dilemma about the morality of taking the bribe – Dinah obviously believed I’d been working on her behalf – but I could be certain in myself that I hadn’t sold out, that Jenny and Brenda had begged me to help. And anyway, the Anglicuses had made a fortune from the sweat of Robertsons through the centuries – this was a wee bit of payback. But if Steven was set on staying in Faughie, should I sell? And what about Jackie? I knew, because he’d grudgingly told me, that he was glad me and Steven were here, keeping Harrosie in the family.

Steven and the rest of them still hadn’t come back from the meeting. I needed a good think and Bouncer was whining at the front door. Walkies.

The hills were a lonely place to be on your own. On the news it was always dog walkers who discovered raped and mutilated bodies. If I threw a stick for Bouncer to fetch, I always worried that he’d come back with a decomposing human hand in his mouth, so I always tried my hardest to keep up with him. I was peched out. We had been out for a good hour and a half and as I turned to walk back down the hill I almost ran into Keek cycling up the path towards me. What the hell was he doing up here? I’d never seen anyone up here with a bike before, the ground was too rough.

‘Hey, keep your dog under control!’ he yelled at me.

Bouncer was the most surefooted dog I knew; he’d given the bike a wide berth as he’d passed.

‘I nearly came off my bike there!’ Keek insisted.

I was too dumbfounded to be angry.

‘What the hell are you talking about? The dog was nowhere near you.’

‘That dog should be on a lead!’ he screamed, one skelly eye on Bouncer, the other halfway up the hill. He was hysterical. And then he leaned in and mumbled something down the front of his anorak.

‘Sorry?’

I was starting to worry. I was alone on a hillside with this nutbar.

‘Tonight. Tell them tonight.’

‘Ok,’ I said, scuttling past him.

I wound Bouncer’s lead round my fist into a knuckleduster ready to swing it into Keek’s face. As I galloped down the hill I heard the bike getting closer behind me. I set my jaw and waited to be ravished. I would go down fighting.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled again, ‘I didn’t mean tell them tonight, I meant it’s happening tonight. Will you tell them? Don’t use your phone. Please, Trixie?’ And then he loosened his grip on the bike brakes and skited off down the uneven path, his bum lifting off the saddle with every bump.

Jackie answered the door at Walter’s house. He ushered me immediately into the kitchen. Walter and Jenny were at the table having a pow-wow, eager to hear what Double Agent Keek had said to me. Nobody seemed surprised when I told them.

‘Good old Keek, I knew he’d come up with the goods,’ said Jenny, ‘too glaikit-looking to show up on their radar as a spy threat; what a secret weapon that lad has been for us.’

‘It’s the Bay of Pigs all over again,’ said Walter, ‘or Batalla de Girón, as it’s more properly known, the amphibious invasion undertaken by the CIA against Cuba in 1961. We’re about to witness history, as it so reliably does, repeating itself. They’re coming to liberate the poor downtrodden Faughians, that is to say, Betty and her ilk, and deliver them from the tyranny of dangerous communists, that is to say, us. And, as they’re not legally required to recognise our sovereignty, they’ll claim it’s a law-enforcement issue. Like the Bay of Pigs, they’ll come by sea, in the dark, with no witnesses. Put simply, they want to get the jump on us, reassert control before we can establish a mandate for self-rule.’

‘Walter, this is scary, what’s going to happen?’

To my amazement, Jackie, who sat across the table from me, reached over and took my hand.

‘It’s ok, Trixie, there’s nothing to be scared of,’ he said gently.

‘If the invasion is successful they’ll overthrow the committee, they’ll probably arrest us, but I doubt they’ll actually shoot anyone, that wouldn’t play well,’ said Walter, not exactly reassuring me. ‘But it won’t be successful, we’re prepared. Don’t worry, there’s nothing to fear.’

I burst out crying, bawling like a wean. I couldn’t really work out why I was crying: probably the thought of a terrifying invasion, but it might have been a subconscious appeal to my dad. This was a side of Jackie I’d never seen, this gentle paternal side.

Jenny put the kettle on while I cried out every tear I could muster. Jackie moved to sit beside me, patting me on the back and briefly letting me cry on his shoulder.

‘Sorry, Trixie,’ Jenny apologised, ‘we have a lot to organise. Slightly caught on the hop, we didn’t expect it to be this soon.’

Suddenly everyone was bustling about, my tears forgotten.

Walter and Jackie went into the front room and I took this moment alone with Jenny to make my confession.

‘Jenny, I need to explain what happened.’ I blurted before I had the chance to change my mind. ‘Dinah’s paying me a bribe. When she was desperate to sell she asked me to nobble the committee.’

‘Huh! You didn’t work very hard for your money. As I remember, we had to talk you into coming with us.’

‘I didn’t want to do it, you know I didn’t, but Dinah doesn’t know that so now her lawyers have offered to sell me Harrosie freehold. I feel …’

‘Hang on, Walter has to hear this.’ Jenny rushed into the living room and rushed back with Walter and Jackie.

‘Tell them what you’ve just told me.’

I hung my head.

‘Tell them, this is important. It’s ok, go on.’

I was forced to admit my black burning shame all over again, this time in front of Jackie.

The three of them looked at each other across the table.

‘I’m so sorry. I don’t really know how it happened, I just got caught up in it, I’m so sorry I–’

Walter interrupted me, ‘Do you have the money to buy it?’

Oh god, this was awkward. How could I tell them that I’d salted away every penny, that I’d spent every waking hour dreaming up ways to make more money so that I could buy my way out of Inverfaughie?

‘Eh, yes, I think so.’

‘Right,’ said Walter, ‘This is an absolute gift – well, a literal gift for you, Trixie, but it gives us just the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. Ho ho! The architect of her own undoing!’ said Walter, rubbing his hands. ‘A small blundering step for Anglicus, a giant leap out of feudalism for Faughie. This sets a precedent for us to buy the town, one property at a time.’

‘If we win,’ said Jenny.

‘Aye, sure, if we win,’ repeated Walter.

‘You’re not angry with me?’

‘Well, all’s well that ends well, I suppose,’ said Jenny, somewhat grudgingly. ‘Whatever happens tonight, win, lose or draw, they’re going to write books about this.’ She cleared her throat, always a sign that she was about to make a speech.

‘We know what the past has given us and, based on hundreds of years of experience, what it’ll keep on giving us. This is our chance to rip up the old heraldic rulebook, transform the way we do things around here, make our own social democracy. This is the most exciting moment in our lifetime. I don’t care what anybody says about you, Trixie, och, you’re selfish like most folk, and you’re a bit annoying, but when it comes down to it, you’re actually not a bad sort.’

Despite the selfish/annoying dig that Jenny couldn’t resist, I was so relieved to hear her say this, I rushed at her like an enthusiastic dog. Another enthusiastic dog joined in and we both nearly knocked wee Jenny off her feet. I clung to her and sobbed my gratitude. I didn’t deserve these people.

‘We’d better make a move, Jackie,’ Jenny said, as she forcibly removed my arms from around her. ‘You go out the front, I’ll go out the back.’

‘Trixie,’ said Jackie, trying to take the heat off Jenny and let her make her escape out the back way, ‘you did the right thing. I’m proud of you.’

I rushed him too. I sensed his embarrassment and, trying to be a little less selfish and annoying, I released my grip on him. Jackie gathered up his stuff, put on his bicycle clips, voluntarily returned to give me a lovely hug, and then made to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked but he didn’t answer. I trotted after him, out the front door, but Walter hauled me back inside.

‘What’s he going to do? Be careful, Jackie!’ I shouted after him.

‘Shhh!’ said Walter, quickly closing the door.

Bouncer jumped up and rested his head in Walter’s lap as we sat at the kitchen table sipping tea.

‘Why did I have to shoosh?’

‘ScanEagles,’ said Walter pointing his finger straight up, ‘drones gathering information. Jackie’s gone to make arrangements for tonight.’

‘Is Steven mixed up in this?’

‘Steven and Mag have volunteered to play their part.’

I felt sick. ‘Please Walter, no. He’s only sixteen.’

‘Calm down, Trixie, he’s in no danger, they’re not on the front line. Stevo and Mag are very much our backroom boys, but they’ll play a vital role nonetheless, absolutely vital.’

‘Why, what are they doing?’

‘Providing the energy to power the lights. We can get round the shortage of diesel by using Mag’s water and wind turbines.’

‘The lights?’

‘And the cameras. For the action. Very important to capture everything, to provide a record of what’s really happening here. The boys will power the generators for the Outside Broadcast Units. The world will be watching. Everyone else will film whatever they can on their phones. This revolution will be televised.’

‘What revolution? Walter, what the hell are you going to do?’

‘We’re going to meet the invaders and resist them.’

‘But how can you possibly resist them?’

‘Och, not for long, just long enough to get the votes in and counted.’

‘You’re still going ahead with the referendum?’

‘We most certainly are,’ said Walter with his old chirpiness, ‘and this is where you come in.’

‘Oh no.’

I put my hands up.

‘I don’t come in anywhere.’

‘Ethecom have kindly donated their Routemaster as a mobile polling station. Jan will drive. You, if you agree, will accompany him round the farms and cottages. There is an international legal precedent for this; they did it in the Falklands when they had their referendum. While we hold them off on the loch, or at least prevent them from landing for as long as we can, Jenny’s cohort will set up a decoy polling operation in the village hall. Brenda and her cohort will man the real polling station, in the kitchen of the Caley. Are you with me thus far?’

‘No.’

Undaunted, Walter carried on, ‘It is important that you ask people to enter the bus to cast their vote, not on their doorstep and certainly not inside their homes. To strengthen the legality of the ballot, voters must voluntarily attend the polling station, do you understand?’

‘But Walter …’

‘Here’s a map and a list of eligible voters. Do not come back to the village until you have been round all of them. Do not use your phone. When you see the Faughie flag flying from the Caley flagpole, and only when you see the flag flying, enter the hotel kitchen from the back door. Guard that ballot box with your life.’

‘No chance.’

‘Ok,’ he relented and switched to a less dramatic tone, ‘you don’t have to guard it with your life. Just make sure that you give the box only to Brenda.’

‘Walter, there are two sides to this. There was a lot of grumbling at that meeting. I don’t know if you noticed but people are getting fed up with this. That Luxembourg ruling knocked the stuffing out of everyone. You heard them, they’re saying we don’t have the skill or experience to run things and we’re too small to make it on our own.’

‘Ok, let’s take that point by point. Point one: Lesley Riddoch tackled this in her book
Blossom
. She said that if we believe in our
own capability we can rebuild from the ground up, because it can’t be transformed from the top down. From here on the ground in Faughie, to quote the cliché, “the only way is up”. Point two: in terms of acreage, Faughie is small, but with the technology available to us – global markets and communication and what have you – those limits are mostly in our minds. Small is beautiful, each person’s vote is a greater percentage of the whole; it carries more weight. Sorry to keep coming up with quotes, Trixie, but I’ve just thought of another beezer: Alasdair Gray said in
Lanark
, “the vaster the social unit the less possibility of true democracy”.’

‘The quotes are great, Walter, honestly, I’m impressed that you can carry all that around in your head, but the bottom line is: what if people vote against independence? You’ve got to admit, the odds are stacked against it, there seems no point now. You can do all this running around, quote all the quotes you like, but what if the box comes back full of No votes?’

Walter stopped and thought about that for a moment as he stroked Bouncer’s head. Then he smiled and shrugged. ‘Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. Maybes aye, maybes naw,’ he said, ‘that’s democracy for you.’