A Highland Christmas (12 page)

‘The drunk?’

‘Himself Maybe you could do something for me, Clarry. I’ve tried, God knows. I’m pretty sure he beats that wife o’ his. Go along there tomorrow and see if you can get her
on her own, and tell her she doesn’t need to put up with it.’

‘Domestics were never my scene,’ said Clarry, tearing off a hunk of bread and wiping the last of the soup from the bottom of his plate.

‘You’re a policeman,’ said Hamish sharply. ‘We don’t leave wives to be battered by their husbands any more.’

‘I’ll give it a try,’ said Clarry amiably. ‘Now when you’ve finished that, I’ve got a nice apple pie hot in the oven.’

Fergus drove over to Strathbane the following morning in the refuse truck. He was dressed in his only suit, a dark blue one, carefully brushed and cleaned by his wife. His
sparse hair was brushed and oiled over his freckled pate.

He could feel anger rising up in him against the villagers of Lochdubh. One of them must have reported him for something. He would try to find out who it was and get even.

And so he drove on, one sour little cell of blackness hurtling through the glory of the summer Highlands, where the buzzards soared free above and the mountains and moors lay gentle in the
mellow sun.

In Strathbane, he parked outside the square, concrete Stalinist block that was Strathbane Council offices. He gave his name at the reception desk and asked for Mrs Fleming.

A secretary arrived to lead him up the stairs to the first floor. Mrs Fleming had commandeered one of the best offices. Fergus was ushered in. His heart sank when he saw Mrs Fleming. Like most
bullies, he was intimidated by other bullies, and in Mrs Fleming’s stance and hard eyes and by the very way those eyes were assessing him, he recognized a bully.

‘Sit down, Mr Macleod,’ said Mrs Fleming. ‘We are to discuss the greening of Lochdubh.’

Fergus’s now sober brain worked rapidly. This woman was one of those Greens. Very well. He would play up to her.

‘I’m aye keen of doing anything I can to protect the environment, Mrs Fleming.’

‘Splendid. Why then, however, did you not collect the rubbish piled up outside the church hall?’

‘If you take a look down from your window, missus, you’ll see my truck. It’s one o’ thae old ones with the sliding doors at the side.’

Mrs Fleming walked to the window, and he joined her. ‘Now, I hae to lift all the rubbish into that myself. No help. I’m getting treatment for my back. I can manage fine if I keep to
the collection day, which is Wednesday.’

Mrs Fleming scowled down at the old truck. Not photogenic.

She strode back to her desk. ‘Sit down, Mr Macleod. That truck will not do. I plan to make an example of Lochdubh.’ From beside her desk she lifted up a black plastic box.
‘Boxes like these will be given to each householder. Waste paper, bottles and cans will be put into these boxes and not in with the general rubbish. Wheelie bins will be supplied.’

Fergus thought of those huge plastic bins on wheels. ‘I couldnae lift those,’ he protested.

‘You won’t need to,’ said Mrs Fleming triumphantly. ‘Your new crusher truck will have a mechanism for lifting the bins in. We will also put large containers on the
waterfront at Lochdubh. One will be for wastepaper, the other for cans and the third for bottles.’

‘But if they’ve tae put the cans and bottles and stuff in the black boxes, why will they need the extra bins?’

‘So that they have no excuses for not separating their rubbish if they’ve got extra stuff. The hotels and boarding houses will need to use the larger bins.’ She leaned forward.
‘We are going to put Lochdubh on the map, Mr Macleod. How much do you earn?’

Fergus told her. ‘We will double that. You are now promoted to Lochdubh’s own environment officer. What do you wear while working?’

‘Overalls and old clothes,’ said Fergus.

‘No, that won’t do for the television cameras.’

‘Television cameras?’ echoed Fergus.

‘Yes, when you have succeeded in making Lochdubh a model village, I will come with the provost and various dignitaries. Press and television will be there. You must have an appropriate
uniform.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Now, if you will be so good, I would like you to wait here. I have a meeting with the other members of the council.’

Clarry, with his broad pink face sweating under his peaked cap, ambled up to Fergus’s cottage. He knew Fergus had four children because Hamish had told him, and because
it was the school holidays, he expected to see them playing around. There was a baby in a battered pram outside the door. He waggled his fingers at the baby, who stared solemnly back. Clarry
knocked at the door.

Martha answered it and stepped back with a little cry of alarm when she saw his uniform. ‘Just a friendly call,’ said Clarry. ‘Mind if I come in?’

‘I’m just getting the children their lunch.’

The children – Johnny, ten years old, Callum, eight and Sean, four – were sitting round a table. They looked at him as solemnly as the baby had done.

‘What are they having for lunch?’ asked Clarry, his mind always on food.

‘Baked beans on toast.’

Martha looked so tired and white and the children so unnaturally quiet that Clarry’s heart was touched. ‘You all need feeding up,’ he said. ‘You just wait here.
I’ll do the lunch for you.’

‘But that’s not necessary . . .’ began Martha, but with a cheery wave, Clarry was moving off with the lightness and speed which makes some fat men good dancers.

He returned after half an hour carrying two heavy shopping bags. ‘Now if you’ll just show me the kitchen.’

Martha led him into a small narrow kitchen. ‘Off you go and watch telly,’ said Clarry ‘Food on the table in a minute.’

Martha switched on the television and the children joined her on the sofa. Clarry beat sirloin steaks paper thin and tossed them in oil and garlic. He heated garlic bread in the oven. He tossed
salad in a bowl. He chopped potatoes and fried a mountain of chips.

Soon they were all gathered around the table. ‘There’s Coca-Cola for you lot,’ said Clarry, beaming at the children, ‘and Mum and I will have a glass o’
wine.’

The children gazed at this large, expansive, friendly man. Johnny thought he looked like Santa Claus. They ate busily.

‘I’m afraid we’re costing you a lot of money,’ said Martha.

‘I put it on my boss’s account,’ said Clarry.

Under the influence of the wine and good food, Martha showed ghostlike signs of her earlier prettiness. But all the time, she was dreading her husband’s return. Clarry talked about his
days of policing in Strathbane while the children listened and Martha began to relax. Her husband could hardly make a scene with a policeman in the house.

After lunch, the children settled down in front of the television set again. ‘No, no, that won’t be doing at all on such a fine day,’ said Clarry. ‘Mum and I’ll do
the dishes and then it’s outside with the lot of you.’

‘Why did you come?’ asked Martha, as Clarry washed and she dried.

‘Just to say that if your man is beating you, you should report it,’ said Clarry.

‘He’s not beating me,’ said Martha. ‘Besides, say he was, I couldn’t support the children. They’d be taken away from me.’

Clarry looked down at her fragile figure. ‘That would not happen for I would not let it happen, lassie. That’s the lot. Now let’s see if we can give those kids of yours some
exercise.’

Clarry improvised a game of rounders with a broom handle and an old tennis ball. The children ran about screaming with laughter. Martha felt tears welling up in her eyes. When had she last heard
her children laugh?

‘So that’s settled then,’ said Mrs Fleming triumphantly as the members of the council looked back at her, feeling as if they had all been beaten and mugged.
In vain had they protested at the cost of the proposed scheme. Mrs Fleming had bulldozed her way through all their objections.

She returned to her office where Fergus was waiting patiently. She took a tape measure out of her drawer. ‘Now I’ll just measure you for that uniform.’

Fergus felt bewildered. He had double the salary, and not only that, he had a chance to bully the villagers. Not one can or bottle or newspaper should make their appearance in the general
rubbish. He began to feel elated. The good times were coming. The thought of a drink to celebrate flickered through his brain, but he dismissed it. As Mrs Fleming measured and made notes, he felt
increasingly buoyed up by his new status.

He, Fergus Macleod, was now an environment officer.

Martha, from the position of her cottage, could see part of the winding road that led into Lochdubh. She also knew the sound of the rubbish truck’s engine.

‘Dad’s coming!’ she shouted.

Clarry thought that it was as if the game of rounders had turned into a game of statues. The children froze in mid-action. The sound of the truck roared nearer. Then they crept into the house.
‘You’d better go,’ said Martha to Clarry.

‘Remember, lassie,’ said Clarry, ‘I’m just down the road. You don’t need to put up with it.’

She nodded, her eyes wide and frightened, willing him to go.

Clarry ambled off and turned the corner to the waterfront just as Fergus’s truck roared past.

Fergus parked the truck. Martha went out to meet him. Her husband’s first words made her heart sink. ‘We’re going to celebrate tonight.’

Celebration usually only meant one thing. But Fergus was more eager for his new job than for any drink. He carried a box of groceries into the kitchen. There was Coke and crisps and chocolates
for the children. There was an odd assortment of groceries – venison pâté, various exotic cheeses, parma ham, bottled cherries and cans of fruit. Martha thought wistfully of
Clarry’s offering of steak.

‘What are we celebrating?’ she asked timidly.

‘I am Lochdubh’s new environment officer,’ said Fergus. He proudly told her of his increased salary, of the new truck, of the greening of Lochdubh.

For the Macleod family, it was a strangely relaxed evening. Martha prayed that the children would not mention Clarry’s visit, and, to her relief, they did not. They had become so wary of
their father’s rages that they had learned to keep quiet on all subjects at all times.

For the next few weeks it seemed as if success was a balm to Fergus’s normally angry soul. He even chatted to people in the village. Clarry felt obscurely disappointed.
He had been nourishing private dreams of being a sort of knight errant who would rescue Martha from a disastrous marriage.

Martha had never known Fergus to go so long without a drink before. She was still frightened of him, like someone living perpetually in the shadow of an active volcano, but was grateful for the
respite.

Then one morning, flyers were delivered to each household in Lochdubh announcing a meeting to be held in the church hall to discuss improvements to Lochdubh.

Hamish, along with nearly everyone else, went along.

Mrs Fleming was on the platform. She was wearing a black evening jacket, glittering with black sequins, over a white silk blouse. Her long black skirt was slit up one side to reveal one stocky,
muscular leg in a support stocking. She announced the Great Greening of Lochdubh. Villagers listened, bewildered, as they learned that they would need to start separating the rubbish into various
containers. New bottle banks and paper banks would be placed on the waterfront on the following day.

‘What’s a bottle bank?’ whispered Archie Maclean, a fisherman.

‘It’s one o’ thae big bell-shaped metal bins, like they have outside some of the supermarkets in Strathbane. You put your bottles in there.’

‘Oh, is that what they’re for,’ said Archie. ‘Oh, michty me! Waud you look at that!’

Mrs Fleming had brought Fergus on to the platform. The other members of the council had suggested that a uniform of green overalls would be enough, but Mrs Fleming had given the job of designing
the uniform to her nephew, Peter, a willowy young man with ambitions to be a dress designer.

The audience stared in amazement as Fergus walked proudly on to the platform. His uniform was pseudo-military, bright green and with epaulettes and brass buttons. On his head he wore a peaked
cap so high on the crown and so shiny on the peak that a Russian officer would kill for it. He looked for all the world like the wizened dictator of some totalitarian regime.

Someone giggled, then someone laughed out loud, and then the whole hall was in an uproar. Fergus stood there, his long arms hanging at his sides, his face red, as the gales of laughter beat upon
his ears. He hated them. He hated them all.

He would get even.

The following day Hamish strolled down to the harbour to watch the work on the new hotel. Jobs were scarce in the Highlands, and he was pleased to see so many of the locals at
work.

‘Hamish?’

He swung round. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe stood there. He felt for a moment that old tug at his heart as he watched the clear oval of her face and the shining bell of her hair. But then he said
mildly, ‘Come to watch the rivals at work, Priscilla?’

‘Something like that. It worries me, Hamish. We’ve been doing so well. They’re going to take custom away from us.’

‘They haven’t any fishing rights,’ said Hamish easily. ‘That’s what most of your guests come for – the fishing. And you don’t take coach
parties.’

‘Not yet. We may have to change our ways to compete.’

‘I haven’t seen a sign of the new owner yet,’ remarked Hamish.

‘I believe he’s got hotels all over Europe.’

‘Any of your staff showing signs of deserting?’

‘Not yet. But oh, Hamish, what if he offers much higher wages? We’ll really be in trouble.’

‘Let’s see what happens,’ said Hamish lazily. ‘I find if you sit tight and don’t do anything, things have a way of resolving themselves.’

‘How’s your new constable getting on?’

Hamish sighed. ‘I thought the last one, Willie Lamont, was a pain with his constant cleaning and scrubbing and not paying any attention to his work. One new cleaner for sale and he was off
and running. Now I’ve got Clarry That’s the trouble wi’ living in Lochdubh, Priscilla. At Strathbane, they say to themselves, now which one can we really do without, and so I get
Clarry Oh, he’s good-natured enough. And he’s a grand cook, but he smells a bit and he iss damn lazy.’ Hamish’s accent always became more sibilant when he was upset.
‘If he doesn’t take a bath soon, I’m going to tip him into the loch.’