Where Have All the Boys Gone? (17 page)

Iain pulled up in his nice car. ‘Good to see you dressed up,’ he said.

‘It’s
radio,’
said Katie crossly, getting in. ‘What happens, they throw me out if I don’t look like a model?’

‘No, they won’t have time after they make you sing the unaccompanied song…I’m
joking.
Jings, you really are nervous about this, aren’t you? I thought you city girls weren’t frightened of anything.’

‘We aren’t. Just urban foxes and, um, going on the radio,’ mumbled Katie.

‘Don’t mumble like that! They’ll never hear you.’

‘Oh God.’ Katie turned her face and looked out of the window. The hail was bouncing off the wing mirrors.

Iain fiddled with the radio, and tuned in to the right station.

‘And you’re listening to Radio Ullapool, and tonight we’ve got a woman who’s made a full-sized replica of Michelle McManus out of liquorice allsorts, the mother who’s raised eleven children and nineteen baby lambs side by side, and golf lover, Cady Watson. Great, I love a nice wee bit of golf. So, we’ll be discussing tee-offs and birdies in a wee bit. But first, here’s the latest from Fifty Cent–…’

Iain turned the volume down hastily.

‘Is that supposed to be me?’ said Katie. ‘I’m the golf lover?’

‘You know, they don’t have a lot of time to do their research. And Fergus McBroon, well…’ He made swigging motions with his hand.

‘He likes milk?’

‘He likes something,’ said Iain. ‘Allegedly. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Now all you have to do is explain you’re not a golf lover, in fact, you hate it and what it’s doing to our lovely environment…’

‘What about all the golfers who’ve heard that trailer and decide to tune in and tell their mates to listen for golf tips?’

‘Great,’ said Iain, a desperate tone creeping into his voice. ‘It just means more listeners, doesn’t it? Ah, here we are!’

They swung into the parking lot of a small grey building, with a placard cheerfully proclaiming RADIO ULLAPOOL! on the wall with lots of eighties’ graphics.

The reception was completely deserted, although they could hear the station coming over the air.

‘And, coming right up, we have Margaret MacNamee, who loved her idol Michelle McManus so much that she started building…ah, hang on there just a wee minute. No, folks, I’ve heard we’re just about to play another record. And here’s Chingy, with “Right Thurr”.’

As he was speaking, an extremely harassed man dressed in black with a clipboard burst out of the plain door ahead, which clearly led to the studios. He was accompanied by a very young teenager following behind him, a gigantic burst of screeching noise and, oddly, a small flock of sheep.

‘I KNEW IT!’ this man was shouting. ‘Didn’t I say that eleven children and six million liquorice allsorts were a recipe for disaster?’

‘Mm,’ said the teenager. As soon as the heavy door shut, all the noise ceased, except for one of the lambs, which was crying.

‘And would you get these damn sheep out of the way!’

‘Uh, sheep…come this way…’ said the teenager gormlessly, clapping his hands.

‘They’re not
actually
children,’ said the older man scornfully. ‘They were
brought up with
children. And as the children in question are actually
feral,
that doesn’t really count for much…who are you? Are you Cady?’ he asked, coming towards Iain. ‘I’m Nigel, the producer.’

‘Uh, no,’ said Iain, who was trying to fend off the sheep, who had circled around him and were bleating furiously at him.

‘These sheep really like you. Do you know them?’

‘Uh, no,’ said Iain again, trying to back away. Katie stared at him in disbelief. He looked at her imploringly.

‘Can I throw you my jacket?’

‘Why?’

‘It’s got a banana in the pocket…I think that’s the problem.’

‘Lambs love bananas,’ nodded the older man authoritatively.

‘Why have you got a banana in your pocket? I thought you were just…’

‘Yes, yes, pleased to see you, I know. Here.’

He took it out and hurled it at her. The sheep, however, completely ignored the projectile and continued to advance.

‘So, where’s Cady?’ asked the man bossily.

‘Actually, I think you mean me,’ said Katie, swallowing nervously. ‘I’m Katherine Watson. Most people call me Katie.’

The man stared at her rudely. ‘Do they? So, you’re a female golf expert then?’

‘Not really. I’m here to speak out against the new golf course.’

‘Help!’ shouted Iain, gently collapsing onto a small table, and beginning to sink beneath a wall of sheep. Katie rushed towards him, just as the door to the studio opened again and a cascade of the filthiest children Katie had ever seen thrust through the opening in a torrent. The noise was unbelievable.

They dashed towards the lambs, panicking them instantly, then the entire group of mixed-up, overexcited lambs and small boys with liquorice over their faces cascaded out into the car park on a wave of noise.

There was quiet.

‘Are you cowering?’ asked Katie finally.

‘No,’ said Iain, hastily standing up and dusting himself down. ‘I’m fine and I wasn’t scared a bit.’

‘Not a bit?’

‘Yes. A bit. Those things nip!’

‘I thought you were going to get pawed to death. By softness.’

‘Country girl now are we?’

‘Come on, come on, we’re late,’ said the man, hustling them through.

There were two rooms beyond with a huge glass window between them. It was gloomily lit and filled with blinking lights on heavy black equipment. The cheap brown carpet was covered in coffee stains.

‘You stay with me here,’ he indicated to Iain one side of the glass, where there was a huge mixing desk and lots of twiddly buttons. ‘And
you’re
in there,’ he gestured to Katie.

In the other room, a man in headphones, presumably Fergus McBroon, was patting a woman on the arm whilst Usher played quietly in the background. The woman appeared to be crying. There were liquorice allsorts all over the floor.

‘Put on the headphones, and you can talk to any of the callers coming through. Go, go! And be quiet!’

He pushed Katie into the studio.

The woman got up out of the chair, snivelling and shovelling handfuls of liquorice into the pockets of her capacious cardigan. ‘I’ve never been so…so…humiliated in all my life,’ she sobbed, stumbling out through the door.

Fergus McBroon looked up and gave Katie a tightlipped grimace of welcome, indicating the rather sticky pair of headphones next to the chair. The music faded out and Fergus leaned into the microphone. An ominous red light came on in the middle of the studio. Katie caught the fumes from Fergus’s breath as she sat down.

‘And that was Ice-T there with
Motherfumph the police, neegaz.
And we’d just like to say thank you to our guest Margaret there, with the, um, somewhat unscheduled demolition of the world’s first ever full-sized liquorice allsorts Michelle McManus. But surely not the last. And now, in our studio we have golf professional Cady Watson…a girl and not a boy, which is not what Nigel had down on the card, but hey ho.’

From behind the glass, Katie could see Nigel’s face curl up in a snarl.

‘So, Cady…’ Fergus leered at her. ‘What would make a pretty young lady like you become a professional golfer?’

Katie felt hypnotised by the big red light, glaring away in front of her. She swallowed down every sweary impulse in herself and steeled herself to speak, but the silence held. Fergus wasn’t even looking at her for an answer, he was shuffling pieces of paper about on his desk and pressing buttons. Nigel, behind the glass, was making furious gestures, presumably designed to get her to talk. Her gaze shifted to Iain. He was standing with three thumbs up
…how could that be? Belatedly, she realised that one of the thumbs was a banana. She smiled, and relaxed a bit.

‘Well, Fergus. Actually, I’m not a golfer. I’m against golfers completely. That’s why I’m here. A golfing consortium is trying to buy
Coille Mhòr
forest, and I’m protesting against it. It’s a beautiful natural habitat for wildlife, it’s been part of the local area for a long time, we’re already knee-deep in golf courses and I don’t think we should overdevelop the environment.’

‘Super,’ said Fergus. ‘Now, we’ve got our first caller on line four.’

In fact, the voice could be heard all over the studio, leaving Katie craning her neck around to try to see where it was coming from.

‘Uh, hello thair,’ said a voice. ‘My name’s Angus and I’m calling frae Lochinver. And my question is: what is the proper grip for a broomhandle putter?’

Katie tried not to sigh audibly. ‘No, what I’m saying is, there’s too much golf, and we should protect the trees instead.’

There was a massive ‘pffff’ on the other end of the line, and then the sound of Angus hanging up.

Fergus took another sip from a polystyrene cup which might have held tea and might have held something else.

‘Did they just hang up? Cady, maybe you’re not giving the best advice here lassie…who says women know about golf! And another caller please.’

‘What?’ said Katie, but before she could properly respond, another voice was overhead, deep and rumbling.

‘Hullllo. This is Gordon, frae Ullapool. And whit ah wanna know is, if you drive the green on a par four and are putting for eagle, is your drive considered in the “fairway” for statistical purposes?’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, I can’t even
play
golf!’ shouted
Katie. ‘I don’t know! I’m sorry! I’m here to urge everyone to oppose the building of a new golf course in
Coille Mhòr
forest. We want
less
golf, not more.’

‘It appears to be hysterical woman night here tonight, listeners!’ said Fergus, belatedly realising things weren’t quite going according to plan and trying to tackle it by adopting a jaunty tone. He started fiddling with buttons.

‘Are they building a golf course in
Coille Mhòr?’
asked Gordon.

‘They’re trying to,’ said Katie.

‘Och, it’ll be quite nice to play golf in the forest, ken. I used to go there as a young lad.’

‘You can’t play golf in a forest, Gordon,’ said Katie. ‘They have to chop it all down.’

‘Oh. Och ah see. Och, that would be an awful terrible shame now, wouldn’t it?’

‘YES!’

‘And now, it’s Mister Puff D with “Lick her up and down All Over”,’ said Fergus, fading the music up quickly and making a guillotine gesture to Nigel. Instantly Gordon disappeared. Fergus swivelled his fat arse around in the chair he was sitting in to face her. He had horrid wiry hair coming out of his nose and ears.

‘Sorry, who the hell are you and why are you trying to sabotage my programme?’

‘I’m Katie Watson and I was booked on your programme to defend bloody nature around here.’

‘So how come I’ve been trailing it as a fucking golf slot all fucking day? Jeez, what’s up with you women – all on the blob?’

‘You don’t know many women, do you?’ said Katie.

‘Nobody does up here love.’ He took another slug from his cup. ‘Fucking Nigel, you fucking fucker, you’re fucked this time.’

Nigel’s voice was suddenly heard in the studio. ‘If you think you can find three interesting people a night, five nights a week all by yourself, please do go right ahead.’

The two men glowered at each other.

‘Well, what the fuck do you fucking expect me to do now?’ growled Fergus. He clearly had absolutely no problem turning on his on-radio swearing radar.

Nigel shrugged.

‘Why don’t you interview me about our fight to protect our local forests?’ said Katie. ‘Call me crazy, but you never know, someone might be interested.’

‘Well, I’ve got forty-six callers lined up to ask you questions about golf.’

‘Well, they might just learn something,’ snapped Katie.

Fergus and Nigel gave each other a look as the music came to a halt.

‘And that was the great P-Diddy, a personal friend of mine, and the time’s coming up to 7.34. Forecast for tomorrow’s weather; there’ll be a light scattering of showers followed by heavier showers, with, uh, just snow on the upper slopes, so we know that spring is finally getting here. Now, on the show tonight, we were taking your golf questions, however our guest has informed us that she hates golf…’

‘I don’t
hate
golf,’ interjected Katie.

‘Do you play golf?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know what golf is?’

‘I know that putting down a golf course in
Coille Mhòr
forest will cause five hundred red squirrels to die out,’ said Katie. She didn’t, of course, but that sounded quite impressive.

A light blinked on the console.

‘And we have another caller…line three.’

A man cleared his throat on the line and started to talk in a gruff voice. ‘My name is…uh, my name is Harry Farm…Farmsworth from Braeside, and I just want to say that I was a really keen golfer, but when I found out they were planning on cutting down our beautiful forest I was so angry I broke all my clubs over my knees!’

Fergus looked at Katie, who was doing her best to swallow her grin. Oh, bless Harry’s heart. Not a natural actor by any means, but he was certainly trying his best.

‘Well, I’m sure you’d like to hear about some of the ways you can help our campaign,’ said Katie.

‘Yes, I most certainly would.’

‘Well, you can write to your local MP protesting, or to the planning department, which is Mr Willie Willson, 25 Cumberland Road, Perth, you can buy a ticket to come to our big protesting party in July, you can join our tractor sit-in or,’ Katie was running a little short of ideas. ‘Or, erm, you can paint your arse blue and expose it as a sign of protest.’

‘No, you can’t do that,’ said the caller. ‘No arse painting.’

‘You CANNOT say ARSE on the radio!’ shouted Fergus suddenly, his face going puce. ‘I mean,
that word.
I’d just like to apologise to all our listeners there for ah, having to put up with that when you were hoping for a nice golf chat, and…’

Nigel gestured furiously from behind the glass.

‘And no, we are NOT taking another call. We’re playing “Suck ’em and See” by Nelly!’

Nigel gestured on regardless. Meanwhile, Fergus started making signs to Katie to get up and leave, and started the music.